22 comments/ 102226 views/ 42 favorites Ejaculatory Therapy By: rikkitampa2014 "And what exactly does a sex therapist DO?" I asked my daughter Amber the next morning at the breakfast table. Her flight from LA had gotten her in shortly after midnight. Which meant I'd had to drive to the airport shortly after midnight. It was close to noon now but we were just having breakfast, of a sort. Large mugs of Puerto Rican expresso along with warmed-up croissants Amber had included in her luggage, along with little else. "The best croissants I've ever experienced," she claimed, after unpacking them. "Including Paris." Maybe. But these, by now, were stale. "Lots of things." Amber furrowed her brow—hard to believe, now that her "California Period" had apparently come to a close, suddenly, and for rather murky reasons, that my beautiful, latter-day-hippy daughter was pushing 30—and shook a buttery finger. "Sexual tension is one of THE most destructive forces in the universe," she alleged. "Hitler had sexual tensions." "I thought it was the mustard gas..." "You wouldn't believe what a destructive force it is in people's lives, and in society in general. It leads to all sorts neuroses and hang-ups and aberrant behavior—look at the Catholic church!" "I'm agnostic..." "That's internally," Amber continued, thumping her visible breastbone. "Externally it leads to all kinds of societal ills: rape, child abuse, exploitive pornography, unlicensed prostitution..." "You can get a license for that?" Amber sank her teeth into the flaky heart of a croissant and said, or mumbled, wrist raised to mouth, "Beleeb me..." "I believe you." "...the whirl would be a lot savor place if more pimples like you"—she swallowed—"went to sex therapists on a regular basis." "Why single me out?" "Men. I mean," slurping coffee. "Fucking men." "Oh. So...like I say, what exactly does a sex therapist DO?" "Well," Amber said, swallowing more buttered bread, "there are many different, but convergent, approaches. And specialties. My practice focuses on ET." "Erectile...?" "Tee!" she insisted. "ET?" "Tee, yes." "Electro...?" I was fishing in murky waters. "Ejaculatory Therapy." I spit—nearly—my swig of expresso out. "You...?" "You OK, dad?" "Yes. You...?" "Yes." "And they...?" "Yes. I describe it on my website...Well, my former site. I've got to set something new up. I describe it as TRS: a Therapeutic Release Strategy." "Masturbation?" "It's only masturbation if you do it yourself, daddy. If you do it for them it's--" "A hand-job." Amber took a moment to shake the tangled locks of her golden-brown, shoulder-length hair out. "That's a crude way of putting it." "How would you put it?" "Like I just explained," she said haughtily. "A therapeutic release." "And you charge them for this." "My patients?" "I hope they're your patients!" I said, for some reason having instant visions of my daughter giving hand-jobs to bums under a bridge. "I charge $85 an hour." "It takes an hour?" "Although...," giving her tangles another shake, "that's the LA rate. I'll probably have to lower that here." "I'm confused," I said. "Why?" "Well...You give guys glorified hand-jobs..." "I really resent that term." "...and in return they pay you eightyfive bucks." "Gladly. They hand it over gladly." "So what's the difference between that and, say...prostitution?" "First of all. Dad. In California they're no longer referred to as prostitutes. We call them sex-workers." "Mea culpa..." "Second, what a prostitute, as you call them, does, and what I do...It's not even a comparison worth discussing. I have a license from the state for christsake." "Well let's say we're in Amsterdam..." "I thought about moving to Amsterdam..." Amber said, distractedly, a buttered finger at her cheek. "Remember when I went there in college?" "I remember paying for it." "Anyway, what I was thinking about, seeing how we have this empty downstairs bedroom, MY old bedroom..." WE? "Once I get my ST license here in our state—" "Slut?" "What?" "Tit?" "What are you talking about? Let's get serious here. This is my long-term future we're talking about and you're making a joke. DAD!" "So many acronyms, Amber." "Is...turn the downstairs bedroom into my practice office and then, well, the bathroom is right there with it's walk-in shower stall...That's perfect." "So you'd be...having guys over to our house—MY house—and jacking them off in the downstairs bathroom." Amber turned her profile to me. Her mother's profile I should say. They were nearly identical. "I wish you wouldn't use that crude term. It's highly sexist, you know." "Dorothy," I said, pushing the envelope, "you're not in California anymore." "It would only be during business hours," she added, ignoring me. "Business hours being...?" "Ten to four, Tuesday through Friday. With Saturday hours by appointment only." "Saturday?" "Some guys can't make it weekdays, dad. Get with it." "So I'm out mowing the lawn..." "I'll have to incorporate...," Amber said aloud, with a thoughtful roll of the eyes. "Can I ask you something? Dear?" "Shoot." I laughed. "Yes. ET. No. OK...so you're providing Ejaculatory Therapy to one of your patients..." "And that's exactly what they are. Thank you." "And meanwhile...what are you doing all this time? I mean..." "Providing therapy," Amber replied, with an uncomprehending shake of the head. "No, I mean...with your hand?" "Of course with my hand." "But are you, like...dressed?" "In the shower? Don't be silly, daddy. We're both naked. What can I say? I have a great body. I have to get them aroused somehow. I mean, I guess I could show them a porn film or something. But that's so...artificial. No, my practice is a hundred percent holistic and organic. And tactile. It's just me and my patient. I'll need business cards," Amber said, switching gears, the stale croissants devoured, our mugs empty. "And a website—I can do that myself. But will you help me set up the bedroom as an office? And I'll need a shingle. Out front on the lawn. And we'll have to have an outer door installed at the entrance to the hallway, and my office. I'll need privacy after all..." "I need a drink," I said, rising from the breakfast table. It WAS 12:01 after all... I imagined my daughter describing a rectangle in midair behind my retreat as she fantasized, about her office door: "DOCTOR AMBER..." That was Saturday. On Sunday Amber—thankfully—spent most of the day reacquainting herself with some old friends (and future clients?). Leaving me alone to sprawl on the couch, drink beer and watch football. Early Monday morning I was in the upstairs shower—MY shower—getting ready for work when my daughter burst in like a whirlwind. Or a kind of unarmed terrorist. She was wearing a pair of my old PJ's which, while I stared through frosted glass, she quickly discarded. Then, her naked body in front of me, Amber cupped her generous breasts in her palms and said: "See what a beautiful daughter you have?" "Amber, what are you...?" But it was too late. She'd already barged in and joined me in the steamy shower. "See?" she said, taking hold of my sudden urgent hard on. "See the effect I have on guys? This is what I do," she added, beginning her stroking motion. "Amber..." But my protest was hopeless, helpless. I was putty in my daughter's hands. Well, hand. And very stiff putty at that. "When's the last time you got laid, daddy?" she asked accusatorially. "Have you gotten laid ONCE since mom left you for her boyfriend? ONCE?" "Sure I..." "Liar! No you haven't. It's been, like, five years daddy! Look at you! You have all this pent-up frustration inside you. I can feel it. I have special skills. It's like a...vibe I can pick up on." I was looking down, open-mouthed, at her blurry hand. It's like a...stroke, I thought. "This is what I do, daddy. This is what I'm licensed to do—well, in California anyway. Let it out, daddy. Let all that sexual tension out..." "I'm..." "Go ahead." "I..." "You know what makes this so...unique? In my experience as a therapist? This is the cock that...conceived me. I've never held it before. I've SEEN it before. But never held it. And the sperm you're going to shoot out...that's the seed that fertilized mom's egg a million years ago and conceived me. This is so fucking profound," Amber said, her already furious hand speeding up, "I can't even believe it. Fuck! Oh! Look at it! Look! Let it out, daddy! Let all of it out! I can't even..." The hand-motion had stopped. Now Amber was down on her knees, kneeling in the swirl of hot shower water and clotted semen as they found their collective way down the drain holes, sucking the last of the "tension" from my flagging meat. Sucking it and swallowing. I staggered backwards. She grasped me from behind, squeezing my buttocks. "You OK? Daddy?" "Oh." That's all I could say. All I had left. Amber got to her feet, clumsily, and we embraced under the torrent of water. It was, in the moment, like holding her mother, back in the day. Her wet tits against my chest were, well, pure dreamy magic. "So anyway," she said, back to business. "This is what I do." "Oh. I see." "And I'm gonna make a special offer to you, for being such a great dad and helping me set up my business and all. I'm gonna give you free ET once a week so you can—no, twice a week so you can realize your full potential in the spiritual realm of being and not being and not get bogged down in petty..." Jean-Paul Sartre? I thought. "Are you, like, taking Cialis or something? Are you getting hard again? Dad?" What can I say? I was standing in the shower with my beautiful, naked, crazy, 29-year-old sex-therapist daughter in my arms. Who needs drugs?