away with. Still on the DEA’s radar, to be sure, but a psychiatrist being liberal with scripts for anxiety and panic attacks, was much more difficult to nail than one doling out hydrocodone.
Dr. Stephens had a weakness of the flesh as well. In some cases, and particularly where the questionable drugs were involved, he was not above trading his signature on the prescription pad for sexual favors. In fact, there wasn’t much he wouldn’t trade for sexual favors. Always consenting, of course, or so he told himself, despite the fact that the law was very gray on whether a patient could actually consent. His drugs, his testimony, his ethics, they could all be traded for sex. Yes, Dr. Ulysses Stephens was a deplorable little weasel.
Working to his advantage, any petition for divorce in Ashwood went through his brother, The Honorable Thomas Jefferson Stephens, which was a gross misappropriation of the term honorable . His honor outwardly viewed divorce with the venom of a catholic priest: A failure of man. Inwardly, he could not have cared any less. But he used his position to force the petitioner and respondent to meet with a marriage counselor of their choice prior to dissolution of marriage. Wouldn’t you know it, Dr. Ulysses Stephens was the only game in town.
Dr. Stephens, for his part, was actually good at that part of his job. Those who sought him out with a genuine desire to repair their marriage found that he was a compassionate doctor with the ability to cut through the bullshit and get right down to the root of the problem. Most who came via The Honorable Thomas Jefferson Stephens, though, were merely a tick on his patient counter. Which, in turn, made his wanton prescription flinging seem much less suspect. If a doctor is seeing a dozen patients and whipping out scripts for every one of them, he is obviously dealing. If a doctor is seeing a hundred patients and medicating twelve of them, he doesn’t seem so unrestrained.
Among his list of patients were Bethany and Devin Bryant. A couple in their early thirties who were experiencing the seven-year-itch. They needed counseling about as much as tree needs a shiny new car, but Bethany insisted. She never said it was her idea, but it was always the woman’s idea. She also scheduled sessions for herself, Devin and them as a couple. Only a woman would do that. She caught Devin with Jezebel Anders a few weeks ago and was taking it as if she was the only woman whose husband lost the battle of will with his cock. The truth is that in situations like this, there is no counseling to be done for the man. He will either have a head full of regret and treat that woman like a queen for the rest of her life, or he will find that the friction feels better coming from someone else’s cooch and the marriage will be over. No amount of talking about his mother is going to change that.
The woman, on the other hand, gets her brain all tied up in knots. To her, sex is intimacy and intimacy is love. A woman just can’t think with her dick. When her husband finds some dirty skank who is willing to take it up the ass while he is choking her out, the woman can only picture a bed of roses with some milky skinned goddess, dressed in white, singing a hymn while he makes love to her, all the while planning out a white wedding, 2.3 children and a little house with a picket fence somewhere in the country.
The woman will always ask, ‘ what does she give him that I don’t? ’ and the answer is always painfully simple. She is fucking him like you won’t, but she doesn’t want that answer. She will get lost in a haze of insecurity and shattered ego. She has red fingernails, maybe if I paint my nails red, he won’t want to be with her and that kind of thing, never giving a second thought to the possibility that maybe, just maybe, the fact that she is swallowing his dick while he is working one fist in and out of each of her holes like the pistons on a v-twin motorcycle engine might have
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