my ideal

The Confessions of a Horny Dentist

I, who pull and drill teeth, am happiest pulling at and drilling my dental hygienist, a frosted blond girl of twenty-two, whom I recently chose over two other applicants for the job, one a fat girl with a high G.P.A., and the other a horse-faced brunette who always looked like she was thinking something sad.

My wife doesn’t care. Well, she doesn’t know, and even if she did, I doubt she’d care. She and I went our separate ways years ago. Our home is so absurdly large now that the children are grown and gone that she and I can spend a week at home and only run into each other once or twice. Even then, we have nothing to say to each other.

For a while I experimented with the recreational use of nitrous oxide, most commonly known as “laughing gas.” With careful experimentation I was able to heighten my orgasm during masturbation, in a way that left me breathless and speechless for minutes afterwards. I would love to involve my hygienist in this hanky-panky, but am afraid that she would be too shocked to relax and enjoy herself. And then she would tell her friends and eventually I would wind up in treatment or in jail.

I have already divorced two women who stood in the way of my happiness, so I’m not about to entangle myself legally with any more of them. Them as in “Them” the movie about giant ants who invade the LA sewers. My freedom is all I have. And my house. I can’t lose my practice. All these things cost money!

Sometimes I think I have a novel in me, hiding, waiting to be brought into the sunlight. I used to think I had a lot of different talents including writing, music, drawing pictures…but I had to let all of them go to complete dental school and start my practice. Now that I look back on it, the years simply flew by. No matter how much I tried, I never really enjoyed myself. Now it’s time to change all that.

I’ve paid my dues, taken my losses, eaten shit as much as most dentists who spend their days staring down the open mouths of people who can’t be bothered to brush or floss. At the end of many a day I’ve had to drink myself to sleep. Intravenous Valium takes the edge off, as well. Come tomorrow it all starts over again. Watching the hands of the clock crawl slowly around, staring at women’s breasts under their clothing, dreaming, fantasizing, hoping that today will be different. Something will happen, some fundamental change will occur. But it never does.

If I only owned a condo on the sea shore in some third world country where the women are cheap and readily available. Maybe then I’d be able to scratch this terrible itch that’s been plaguing me for most of my adult life.

Come to think of it, the itch struck when I was about fifteen. From that point on, nothing equaled girls. Not science, not sports, not money, not the approval of parents or teachers. Nothing. Since that time, it hasn’t really changed for me in a fundamental way. Girls are all that really matters. The approval of girls. Girls willing to have sex with me, for whatever reason. Girls and their girl bodies.

Call me shallow, color me obsessed. I’ve certainly been called worse. I’ve lost more than most men have earned, and still I haven’t learned my lesson. It’s a hunger, and ache down deep in my soul, and no amount of anything will make it go away for good. It dies down now and then, briefly, and then pops back up like a whacka-mole.


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