Vicariously Yours,

Disfunctionally Effective

"I'm not going, woman!"

Pamela raised her hands on her hips, a desperate anger coating her face as she looked at her fiancé.

"It's just a session. Maybe you opening up to someone who isn't me will help you." Her catty voice registered barely. He was so used to it.

Marcelo's fist clenched, trying not to take in another sprout of mayhem into his system. He didn't look at her, he focused on the wall behind her.

Plain white wall.

Everything in this house was white. The furniture were white, the curtains, the sofa, the floor, the bed, the sheets even the lampshade every fucking thing was white. No color, nothing. So devoid of anything really except it being plain.

And he hated plain.

There was no excitement in plain. Bad enough, Pamela liked everything to be pristine and crystal. Even her dress was a white boring slender dress with silver heels. Her white feather earring dangled on her ears like some dream catcher. She may look like a model but it did nothing for him.

Blasted! Some times he would wonder why he would marry her. And then, he'd remember.

His damn fa- "Are you even listening to me? You are going, I don't care! Look at the vase you broke just because you lost a client. This- this anger of yours is a serious nuisance! I don't think I can live with -!" She stops abruptly.

Strangely, he wanted her to finish that statement. Let her say it out loud. Then, he wouldn't feel so guilty all the time to leave this shithole of a place. Leave her.

Pamela was his father's best friend's daughter. Marcelo knew her since they were teens. He never liked her in general. His father, Cody DeVille used to think it was because he had a crush on her. Ha! That's bloody unlikely.

Marcelo wasn't the one to hide his feelings.

If he liked her, he wouldn't have used her that night when they were nineteen and she came into him in his room at his vacation house in Italy. She was older to Marcelo by two years. At least. They were staying together for the summer that year and she was always loitering behind him, asking him this and that, poking him for attention. What was worse, she thought it was cute that he was getting irritated.

He didn't know what signal he sent but somehow it meant all was green for her. In nothing but a skimpy bra and panties, she had come that night. She had crawled into his bed and seduced him into sleeping with her.

He was a young chap back then. No point in wasting pussy. Especially free pussy. All his life, he loved two things. Sushi and for dessert, a nice blow job.

But that was several years ago.

Her cold hand wrapped around his arm, jerking him out of his stupor. "Please, Marcelo. This psychiatrist is good for you. It's a mental- uh, condition you have here."

He wanted to give her points for using the word condition rather than problem. Fucking Lord, why did he agree to marry her? His stupid bastard of a father forced him that's why.

Have a good wife, father said. Someone who will take care of your needs, father said. His needs? The only need he has is when he buries himself into pussy. And he wasn't talking about Pamela.

He got bored with her right after she tip toed back into her room after they were done all those years ago. He had his callous affair with beautiful women, shy women, spunky ones and let's not forget the awkward encounter with a Drag Queen. He had been high that day. Thank god, he had the last minute sense to back out.

Yet the moment he agreed to get engaged, his pussy days were over and it wasn't because he wasn't capable of cheating. In fact, he had cheated and had affairs before but this one would send his father running behind him with a dagger. No point in angering the old man and come to think of it, even Pamela's father.

He was locked here. Unable to do anything but only his job which gave him some peace. Unfortunately, the job was sending him to some damn psychiatrist where he had to talk to some old quack. Bah!

He could really use a drag. His jaw tightened when he felt her kiss against the nape of his neck. He couldn't stand shit like this. It gave him creepy crawlers. "Okay! Okay, fine. I'll go. When and where?"

She yanked her head back, disbelief etched over her face. "Really? Oh Marcelo, thank you thank you!" She took his face into her hands and planted several smooches all over.

Pulling away immediately from her, he gruffly demanded. "When and where?"

                                     • • •

Slamming the magazine back down on the small wooden table in front of him, Marcelo looked around the office.

Shade of aesthetic light red splashed with wheels of fortune stencil on the walls around him. It was easy on the eyes and yet something screamed personal. The office looked like an office but only barely.

Probably a marketing scheme.

His foot began to rap against the wooden floor, as he sat waiting for his appointment. Stupid Pamela. He hated all this nonsense of talking and discussing stuff he didn't want to confide. He had nothing to talk about.

His life is at it is. There was nothing poetic about it. Drab life for a money manager but he liked money too. So there's your poetry. Money. Money. Money. That's all. Everything else is drab.

He got up, running a hand over his bald head. The receptionist was a timid young fellow, roughly around in his early twenties. He seemed to be frightened of him.

Marcelo smirked at that.

He was always feared and it was because of his look. Some people pinned him with the infamous nicknames like Voldemort. Hilarious! That dude was ugly as fuck. At least, he was good-looking. He purposely shaved his hair because he knew he could pull it off. Besides, it pissed his father and Pamela too. That's a bonus.

It's not like he couldn't grow hair. He stroked his well endowed beard, loving the scruff feel. Getting on his damn nerves, he swirled his head to the closed door.

Dammit, when can I get this over with?

He swiftly marched to the reception desk and seeing the boy straighten up gave him a sadistic hit. "Yo! When the fuck is he going to call me?"

"He-he?"

Daft male. "The man who is the mentor of minds." He said pointing to the closed door with a red button at its side. It blinked green just then but Marcelo barely registered it.

"Sir-sir, you have to wait-"

"Listen you. I ain't waiting for no body. Bring that quack out."

"The quack will see you now."

A sweet familiar voice spoke from behind. Marcelo turned to see it was the same woman who he saw at his favorite sushi place. The one who was making love with her food. The one with the mouth, he called her.

Her face was oval, eyes of dark smoky liquor pinned him. Her hair tied in a neat low ponytail. It was straight and silky and slightly sandy brown. Her skin reflected of biscuit, smooth and ...something said she was very regal and proud.

His eyes ran down her form. The same pencil black skirt he saw that night reached till her knees, stockings climbed her legs with black pencil heels. A tight fitted cream top that filled her breasts nicely.

He looked back at her eyes. She didn't blush like the usual females did when he gave them a one look over. Her eyes were still trained on him just like that night.

They were friendly but blank. He couldn't get a read on her.

"You must be Marcelo DeVille. Come in, please." She gestured him to walk into her office.

He didn't move. "And you are?"

"Dr. Isabella Pressley."

He stared at her for long moments then he shrugged, entering her office. "I'm calling you baby doll."