Nocturnal Admissions: Swine & Roses

Entry number five or six in my series of shorts about a third-shift psychologist. Special guest-reference to the work of Andy Reynolds, fellow New Orleans SF writer — check his stuff out here.

 

Nocturnal Admissions: Swine & Roses

Ever since I helped that smooth guy from Cafe Envie get over his affair with a sexually-frustrated ghost, my practice has begun taking on the occasional supernatural client. A number of them, unsurprisingly, have trouble integrating into modern society.

Andy is probably the one who gave Circe got my number. Dream girl? I can’t date clients. Pixie? It was more of a Chelsea cut. But manic? That’s exactly what her appointment that night was about!

“So,” she began, “after some bro-y sailor spread gossip about me being a battleaxe just because I wouldn’t line his crew up and blow ’em all in a row like a trained seal, I had to skip town for a couple thousand years. New Orleans seemed like a fun place with the vampires and all.”

“That’s just for tourism,” I said.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

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Better Moans and Gardens

I don’t usually do the confessional thing, but this was too fun not to share with the Esoterotica crowd. . .

Personally, I’ve never seen the appeal of having sex in the woods. There’s itchy pine needles all over the blankets, no easy access to brunch the following morning, plus we’d have to tie the used condoms up in a tree so that bears couldn’t get to them.

Besides, being alone in the wilderness would eliminate my single biggest turn-on when it comes to doing it outside: the risk of being seen. So my preferred venue has become other people’s yards.

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You Can’t Fire Me, I Hit It & Quit It

This was written on short notice for Esoterotica’s NSFW-themed show, so it went a little…base, let’s say…with its humor. But I never liked cream sauces anyway.

Nocturnal Admissions: You Can’t Fire Me, I Hit It & Quit It
By Zach Bartlett

I would have known that Warren was a chef, even if most of his stories didn’t involve coke at some point, because he always wore those houndstooth-patterned pants. He scheduled his appointments right after his shifts so that he’d be sure to have a good hour of coked-up lucidity before he had to pass out for the morning. Mostly we deal with his job-related stress, but last night was the first time we dealt with some relationship trouble.

“I need to find a new gig, that’s what’s pissing me off,” he began.

“I thought things were going well? You work with your dealer.”
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Nocturnal Admissions: Gear Head

Another Esoterotica piece. The closing line was a little ribbing of a fellow performer who’s written before about being turned on by vehicles.

Nocturnal Admissions 3: Gear Head
by Zach B

She sat across from me, worrying at the ends of her hair like she usually did when anxious.

“I told you at the last appointment I’d started seeing somebody. But I had to break it off with him,” she said.

“I’m sorry. Do you want to talk about it?”

She sighed and trailed her gaze around on the carpet.

“We got together in the first place because. . . well, you know how I’m really in to cars? Well this guy was like a character from Crash.”

“He had an offensively-simplified understanding of systemic racism?”

“No, I mean the other Crash. The one with James Spader.”
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