Chapter 1: Satanism, Old Fashioneds and Paraphilias

CASE FILES - PERSONAL NOTES - PATIENTS 333 &334 - DAY ONE

Have you ever heard an old guy say: “If I had my life to live again, I wouldn’t change a thing”? Well, that’s bullshit. Everybody, and I mean everybody, does things he or she later regrets and wishes that there was an opportunity for a do-over. I certainly know that’s the case with me.

Now, don’t get me wrong; I’m very happy in life, and I love how it’s all turned out. But, there ARE some regrets. This tale is going to be about one of those ... but with a twist. While it was all unfolding, I relished it, though it was decidedly weird. Afterwards, when things got even weirder, I regretted it immensely, and wished I could take it all back. But even later, when things got to be their weirdest, I wound up accepting it ... or maybe I just tried to justify it. I don’t know. Whatever. I’ve got to admit, though, it’s one hell of a story. No pun intended.

I’m not much of a socializer. When I find myself in a party setting, I try to find the corners of a room and keep out of the way. And, the LAST thing I want to have happen is to find myself talking shop. Maybe all doctors are like that. Somebody walks up to a physician and says: “Hey, doc, I’ve got this pain in my elbow...” I mean, that’s bad enough. You can just imagine what it’s like for psychiatrists. Freudian conjecture in a public setting can become very embarrassing very fast.

But, I couldn’t get out of THIS party. I was the host. It had become sort of a tradition; though this was only the third time. When somebody new moved into my apartment building, I had everybody down for dinner and cocktails.

Okay, it’s time to introduce the characters. Now, please bear with me; I commiserate with you. It’s one of the things I hate about reading an Agatha Christie novel, though I like her stuff. She DID tend to have too many characters, though. Anyway, I’ll try to help you keep everybody straight in this tale. I’ll tackle them in their order of arrival in the building.

First, there’s yours truly: M.D., professor of psychiatry and erstwhile evil mad doctor. Pleased to meet you. Next, my lovely wife, nurse and social director: Loretta. The love of my life. We live in the first (ground) level apartment, while my offices take up the other half of the floor.

Next to move into the building: the two people who were NOT there that night: my building superintendant Rory and his lovely girlfriend (and soon-to-be wife) Lauren. They were in Boston, where Rory was finishing up the last semester of an undergraduate degree in Architecture at MIT, while their apartment in the basement was waiting for them when they decided to return. Before they left, however, Rory had all four of the upstairs apartments ready to rent. Anyway, those two people would not figure into this adventure until it was over, so just forget them for the time being.

Our first two tenants were Daphne Ludwig and Simone Roderick in 2A. They were the topic of another of my little Case Files. Simone was one of the most innocent individuals I’ve ever met, completely open and honest with all those around her. Daphne, on the other hand, has a gift. You’ll encounter it in our tale of that evening’s events. The term “hypnotic eyes” is a rather tired cliché; but in Daphne’s case, it was surprisingly true. She not only possessed such a feature, but she knew it ... and she knew how to use it. (She’s a remarkable woman, and a very good friend.) I should also mention that these two ladies were very much in love ... with each other ... and that they had recently voiced an interest in marriage themselves.

Next up, in 3A, we had another couple who was absent, but had given me an indication that they hoped to show up later in the evening: Terry and Lily Randolph. Terry struck me as a rather insecure individual, tall and gangly, quiet and withdrawn; the type of person who wouldn’t hurt a fly. And yet, as meek as he was, Lily was even more so. Her eyes were constantly cast toward the ground, never able to meet those of the people around her. She also had the habit of blushing for seemingly no reason whatsoever. It made me uneasy, constantly wondering if my fly was open or something. And then it made me curious. What thoughts was the woman having to make her react so? I had to admit, though, she was an attractive girl: Asian in ancestry, slim but curvaceous, small but with very generous breasts, and jet-black hair that was almost always braided into a long ponytail that hung to the top of her tantalizing ass. Both individuals were young, the south side of twenty-five, I guessed (correctly). He worked for the state as a computer technician, with offices in the capitol building. She evidently worked several jobs in order to help make ends meet financially. She was a waitress a couple days a week; and she sometimes cleaned rooms at a nearby hotel; but all her work seemed to be part-time.

Apartment 3B was still vacant. And so, that brings us to our guests of honor in 2B, Charlie and Nadia Porter, who had moved in on Monday (this was a Friday). They were both in their late thirties, and they’d been married long enough to have reached the “comfortable” stage. He was a Social Studies professor at a junior college in the western part of Providence. Nadia owned a small boutique on Douglas Avenue. Nice folks. It was on this evening that I learned that Charlie liked Old Fashioneds. For those of you who are unfamiliar, an Old Fashioned is a drink made with whiskey (in this case, Bourbon), bitters, soda and sugar. I was NOT overly familiar, but I became a might TOO familiar that evening. As did we all. And therein lay part of the problem.

Two drinks before dinner. Two bottles of Cabernet with the lasagna, and into our second drink in the living room afterwards. I can’t really put my finger on the moment it began to happen, but a strange sort of mellow sexual dynamic began to form in the room about 11:00 or so. It was so subtle that all of the participants in our little drama just seemed to accept it. Now, don’t get me wrong; the evening was not in danger of morphing into some sort of orgy or anything. I don’t think anybody really wanted that. We were all, every one of us, in love with our spouses or partners; and we were more than satisfied with that. But ... something shifted in the mood of the room.

Loretta and little Simone were giggling and confidential on the sofa; and Charlie was openly staring at the two of them, especially in the vicinity of their breasts, which seemed to make the girls giggle even more. Nadia was hard to read. She, too, seemed engrossed (to the point of distraction) by the two girly-acting women on the couch. (For those readers who have not browsed my other Case Studies, perhaps I should have mentioned that both Loretta and Simone are sexually submissive. And, anyone who has studied the art of reading body language and personal mannerisms would immediately know this.) But to add to the weirdness, Nadia kept casting glances at her husband, as well. I slowly became aware that, in addition to the female-female dynamic involved, she was immensely interested in her husband’s reaction to it.

And, in my periphery, I became aware of Daphne watching ME. Not in a sexual manner, mind you. Daphne was just about as pure a lesbian as I have ever met, and she loved her partner dearly. But she also had a profound interest in the interactions between people, and she craved more of the professional knowledge that I had locked away in my cranium. I didn’t really mind her doing this. There are always avid amateurs swimming in the waters of every professional pond. And, like I said before, she was a good friend. Now, noting my interest in the psychological interactions in the room, she was wondering what exactly I was observing. (It was this curiosity that would soon send the evening spiraling out of control ... but, of course, I didn’t know that at the time.)

And suddenly, like the bursting of bubbles, these varying frames of mind were shattered by a knocking on the door as we were interrupted by the arrival of our two missing guests from 3A, Terry and Lily Randolph. This involved all the types of pleasant shifts in conversation that one might imagine; for nothing is more logical at a party where people have had too many drinks than to mix more of them at the slightest excuse. And our leering friend, Charlie, had immediately announced that we needed another round of these dainties fixed posthaste so that our new guests could sample my expertise in mixology. I, myself, was saved from this overindulgence by the simple expedient of running out of ingredients. I found that we were critically low on maraschino cherries, which happens to be the required garnish for an Old Fashioned.

Terry took his drink gratefully, and finished it quickly. When I explained that we were out of adornments for another round, he asked for bourbon on the rocks, which finally (finally) set off some alarm bells in my head. And, fifteen minutes later, when he helped himself to a refill, my hypothesis was confirmed. My geeky lessee, Terry, was drinking because he NEEDED to drink ... not because he wanted to. Thus far in our brief relationship, he had displayed none of the telltale signs of alcoholism, so this was something else; and his demeanor emphasized this in other subtle ways. He was nervous, anxious, uneasy; and he was continuously glancing in his wife’s direction.

His pretty counterpart, Lily, on the other hand, having been coaxed onto the couch by Loretta and Simone, was sitting as she always seemed to sit: coy and nervous, bashful and shy, her drink held in both of her hands, her wrists resting on her knees. And yet, there was something else there, as well ... something uncommon for her. It took me a long moment to figure out what it was. Every now and then, she would move ... sort of shifting from side to side, then forward and back, almost as if something was tickling her ass.

I had retreated to the side of the room, unaware of having done so, until I found Daphne standing next to me. The conversation in the room was, by this time, going in several different directions at once, just mild chit-chat, as one might expect. But Daphne was staring intently at only me. I soured (or tried to) when I realized this.

“What are you staring at, witch?” I asked pointedly, though good-naturedly.

She threw back her head and laughed at the moniker. But then she stopped and studied me with abject inquisitiveness, ignoring my comment completely. “You see something,” she accused. “You see something that I don’t. Fifteen minutes ago, it was amusing ... and I couldn’t figure out what it was. And now, it’s something serious ... something that concerns you greatly. And I STILL can’t understand.” She stole a glance at those around the room, and then glared at me with nothing but curiosity in her enormous eyes. “Tell me, Randy. Please. What is it? What do you see?”

Without another word to her, I strode quickly across the room and grabbed the whiskey bottle as Terry was about to pour himself yet another. He relinquished it immediately, and I set it down on the side table next to the ice bucket. “Care to talk about it?” I asked him. “I’m not sure I can help, but I can try.” I had put a hand on his left arm, trying to move him toward the doorway that led to the kitchen, but for some reason, he resisted. He cast a glance over my shoulder ... the same sort of glance he had been indulging in ever since he’d entered the apartment. “It concerns Lily,” I said: a statement. “The two of you are in trouble. Do you want to see me professionally? I can meet with you both tomorrow, if you’d like.”

He glanced around, past me ... and I immediately understood my immense mistake. In my current state of inebriation, I’d spoken too loudly; and now, the room was quiet enough to hear a pin drop, all ears straining to hear what he was about to say. I was at a sudden loss. If I turned and addressed the room, my moment of earnestness with him would be over, and I felt as if he was about to let it slip ... to let me know what this perceived horror was.

“Um ... yes,” he stuttered. “Yes, I’d like it very much if you could see us. I’m not sure it’s in your ... um ... purview. But ... I ... we ... DO need help. Please.”

“Oh, God,” Lily whispered from the couch. It was almost a moan. Almost sexual. I wasn’t looking, but I heard her as she shifted again: very slightly left, right, forward, back. I suddenly wondered if she was trying to masturbate using the friction from the sofa.

Daphne was beside me, reaching past me, her hand on Terry’s right arm. He was forced to look at her (a rather dangerous thing to do, where Daphne is concerned. Her eyes are ... well ... not to be ignored). “Please, Terry,” she pleaded gently. “Can you tell us? We’re all friends here. We all want to help you.”

Well, crap. For the moment, I was forced to give up any psychological advantage I was using to manipulate him into agreeing to see me. I took my eyes off of him and turned them toward Daphne, but she kept her gaze firmly into Terry’s. “The moment he said he wanted to see me, he became my patient,” I told her firmly. “This has become professional. This is between him ... THEM ... and me. Period.”

But it was if I wasn’t even there. “Yes,” Terry said dully, his eyes still locked on hers. “We are all friend here. You all want to help us.” With a shiver, he managed to break eye contact, and he looked around the room at the startled, openly curious people staring at him. “Tell me,” he said more loudly to the group, “does anyone here have any experience with Satanism?”

Okay, I guess that I have to confess that I was just about as unprepared for this question as anyone else in the room, and I simply stood gawking, as I imagine everyone else was. But Daphne recovered the quickest, and she reapplied the pressure on his arm, making him lock eyes with her again. He was almost immediately lost as she said: “Oh, Terry, you simply can’t leave us guessing about THAT! Don’t you want to come sit on the couch with me and tell us? You do, don’t you?”

He nodded pleasantly. “Sure. I can’t leave you guessing about that. Let’s sit on the couch.” And he allowed himself to be drawn toward that side of the room.

“Now, wait just a minute!” I barked. But already, Loretta and Simone were rising, making way for Daphne and her new thrall. Gently, she pushed him down toward the end of the couch opposite his wife, and she settled herself between them, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “Daphne!” I implored. “This is not one of your little party hypnosis demonstrations! These are my patients! There’s confidentiality in play here!”

“Oh, nonsense, Randy,” she admonished. “He’s already given his consent. He needs our help. And now, he can explain it to us.” She turned toward the man at her side and looked slightly up at him. “That’s what you want, isn’t it, Terry?”

He was staring down at her intently. “Yes. That’s what I want. To explain it to you.”

Daphne reached up and put the palm of her left hand on his right cheek. “Now, why don’t you just relax for awhile, Terry? In fact, you can take a little nap, if you’d like. I think that’s a wonderful idea, don’t you? Just take a little nap. You look so tired. And all this stress you’ve been feeling ... you just want to let it go, don’t you?”

The man sighed heavily. “That’s a ... wonderful idea,” he answered dully. “So much stress. I’m so tired. I’ll take a little nap.”

“Let go now,” Daphne ordered softly. “Surrender. Take a nap. Sleep for me. Now.” She took her hand away as his head fell forward onto his chest.

“Holy fuck!” Charlie Porter whispered from the side of the room.