and I only required a couple of hundred. Unfortunately, poochies are solitary creatures.
Imagine a lake filled with ravenous piranha. A few tiny goldfish cower in holes at the very bottom of the water. You are the fisherman. Your task is to catch the goldfish, but you keep hooking piranha. They swarm over your bait while the goldfish live on whatever crumbs fall to the lake bed.
The challenge? To manufacture a bait that attracts the goldfish without interesting the piranha. Ordinary human beings (as voracious as piranha—just ask any dolphin) would be a constant source of friction and dissent. My vision was of obedience unto death.
The classic answer, of course, has always been ‘esoteric’ religion and the search for ‘enlightenment,’ but can you see me as Guru Davis?
Perhaps I should change my name. Swami Rumphump. That has an esoteric Indian ring to it. What Poochie could resist Swami Rumphump?
Simple truth, boys and girls: I don’t know a chakra from a mantra. Worse still, it has long been my opinion that religion is the most pitiful of all human endeavors.
Nevertheless, I spent the month following the Jonestown massacre in the library, researching cults. All were based on religion. Even the ones that encouraged the use of drugs had some spiritual message at the heart of their bait. “Trust in me and I’ll set you free.”
I imagined myself in white robes. My followers sat before me (in full lotus position, of course), begging for spiritual enlightenment.
“Enlightenment? That will come in time, my little butterfly. First you must cast off your ego. You must remove your inhibitions. Along with your panties.”
I might be a Christian or a Hindu or a Buddhist or…
After a month of intense fantasy, I was forced to admit that I could not be a priest. Even if I learned to bring off the role, it would take me years to gather my disciples. The admission depressed me and, as compensation, I seduced Marilyn.
It came as a surprise, even to me. Such a mousey little woman. She moaned slightly when I cupped her tiny breasts, but she didn’t resist. For all her talk about sexual repression, she was near to being a virgin. When I laid her out on the bed, she (just as she advised her clients) lost all inhibition.
Marilyn was the first poochie. Perhaps I should have had her stuffed and mounted. With her short, straight butchy hair and her uncorrected rabbity overbite, she would have done well in a display case.
No bait was used, of course. We were thrown together by circumstance and once Marilyn set me free, I simply lacked the inhibition to keep my hands to myself. I wanted her and I reached out. Later, I discovered that Marilyn, from the psychological security afforded by her profession to the greedy wet nature of her sexuality, was a very typical Poochie.
Instead of a post-coital cigarette, Marilyn began to talk. Lying back on the pillow and seemingly oblivious to the wet sheets beneath her butt, she outlined her ‘dream.’ She had developed a unique therapeutic method and was in the midst of writing a book outlining her theories. Her method involved intense interaction between therapist and patient. Patients, she insisted, would become therapists themselves, creating a mutual interdependence that would eventually counter the damage done by the nuclear family.
That was her bug—the nuclear family. She blamed all the ills of the world on this ‘unnatural relationship.’ It was certainly unnatural in her case. She’d been molested by both her parents. (A fact which intensified the sexual fantasies that allowed me to match her sexual ardor. I imagined her, five years old, naked in front of her naked mother. She lies back on the bed and…)
What did I know about psychological theory? Not a damned thing. I’d been training to be a chemist when my crime occurred. Therapy was a condition of my probation. Far from choosing Marilyn, I had been assigned to her by a computer that keeps track of analysts who
Imagine a lake filled with ravenous piranha. A few tiny goldfish cower in holes at the very bottom of the water. You are the fisherman. Your task is to catch the goldfish, but you keep hooking piranha. They swarm over your bait while the goldfish live on whatever crumbs fall to the lake bed.
The challenge? To manufacture a bait that attracts the goldfish without interesting the piranha. Ordinary human beings (as voracious as piranha—just ask any dolphin) would be a constant source of friction and dissent. My vision was of obedience unto death.
The classic answer, of course, has always been ‘esoteric’ religion and the search for ‘enlightenment,’ but can you see me as Guru Davis?
Perhaps I should change my name. Swami Rumphump. That has an esoteric Indian ring to it. What Poochie could resist Swami Rumphump?
Simple truth, boys and girls: I don’t know a chakra from a mantra. Worse still, it has long been my opinion that religion is the most pitiful of all human endeavors.
Nevertheless, I spent the month following the Jonestown massacre in the library, researching cults. All were based on religion. Even the ones that encouraged the use of drugs had some spiritual message at the heart of their bait. “Trust in me and I’ll set you free.”
I imagined myself in white robes. My followers sat before me (in full lotus position, of course), begging for spiritual enlightenment.
“Enlightenment? That will come in time, my little butterfly. First you must cast off your ego. You must remove your inhibitions. Along with your panties.”
I might be a Christian or a Hindu or a Buddhist or…
After a month of intense fantasy, I was forced to admit that I could not be a priest. Even if I learned to bring off the role, it would take me years to gather my disciples. The admission depressed me and, as compensation, I seduced Marilyn.
It came as a surprise, even to me. Such a mousey little woman. She moaned slightly when I cupped her tiny breasts, but she didn’t resist. For all her talk about sexual repression, she was near to being a virgin. When I laid her out on the bed, she (just as she advised her clients) lost all inhibition.
Marilyn was the first poochie. Perhaps I should have had her stuffed and mounted. With her short, straight butchy hair and her uncorrected rabbity overbite, she would have done well in a display case.
No bait was used, of course. We were thrown together by circumstance and once Marilyn set me free, I simply lacked the inhibition to keep my hands to myself. I wanted her and I reached out. Later, I discovered that Marilyn, from the psychological security afforded by her profession to the greedy wet nature of her sexuality, was a very typical Poochie.
Instead of a post-coital cigarette, Marilyn began to talk. Lying back on the pillow and seemingly oblivious to the wet sheets beneath her butt, she outlined her ‘dream.’ She had developed a unique therapeutic method and was in the midst of writing a book outlining her theories. Her method involved intense interaction between therapist and patient. Patients, she insisted, would become therapists themselves, creating a mutual interdependence that would eventually counter the damage done by the nuclear family.
That was her bug—the nuclear family. She blamed all the ills of the world on this ‘unnatural relationship.’ It was certainly unnatural in her case. She’d been molested by both her parents. (A fact which intensified the sexual fantasies that allowed me to match her sexual ardor. I imagined her, five years old, naked in front of her naked mother. She lies back on the bed and…)
What did I know about psychological theory? Not a damned thing. I’d been training to be a chemist when my crime occurred. Therapy was a condition of my probation. Far from choosing Marilyn, I had been assigned to her by a computer that keeps track of analysts who
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