Original subtitles

Men

lurking in bushes

in parks, public parks.

Don't they worry about insects?

What if a mosquito, you know, down there?

And those bookstores, come on, a hole in the wall.

They don't know who, or what's on the other side.

Like disease isn't enough.

What about splinters?

Not that they’d care, the way they’re pierced,

holes everywhere, even their

well, yeah, exactly.

I've never even touched myself

some places those, you know, have

pierced.

And yeah, I know, I know

they're not all like that.

I watched Oprah.

But, the ones that aren't, you think they're not as bad?

I'm open minded and all that slop. Guy wanna wear a dress,

hey, free country.

But some of them, flowery sun dresses, and they got beards.

I mean,

I've seen, at one of those parades

on the TV. I saw the parade on TV.

I know every guy's not

I mean, I'm not

I look in the mirror and I don't see much, but

I need off, off, off it all.

I've been losing

track of things.

Please, tell me, what things?

Last week,

I kind of sort of lost count of some pills.

Made me think maybe it might be time to see someone.

You understand

I'm a psychologist,

not a psychiatrist.

So?

I'd like you to see a psychiatrist.

I'm that far gone?

Why not you?

No. In addition. A psychiatrist

for a medication consult. For depression.

Me? Here?

I'm miles from depressed.

I heard mention of suicide.

I flushed those pills. They’re sewage. I swear.

Do you still think about suicide?

I don't think about anything.

Wake up, my brain,

I might as well, you know, give in.

Look, I'm

not going to kill anyone, including myself.

Convince me.

Uh, that pill stuff,

I kind of, sort of lied.

I never took pills.

And you'll kindly explain, why the lie?

What, you don't ever lie?

Frank.

I'm the therapist,

which allows me to answer your questions,

with a question.

You, on the other hand,

cannot. Now, why the lie?

Well,

you asked what I wanted off of, and I panicked.

Then I'll ask again.

Of what would you like off?

You know,

yeah?

Correct.

So?

I can't cure you.

Your suffering isn't from a disease.

I thought you did that type of counseling.

Frank,

would you like it to be a disease?

So a pill would make it disappear?

That pill--I'd kill for.

The quick fix, huh?

Change requires more than a pill.

The difficulty of it now,

isn't diddly-doo compared to

the difficulty of changing it.

You think you're up to such difficulty?

Told you, I don't think.

Working with me requires you start.

I do have other clients with identity

disorder issues experiencing similar pain to yours.

I understand English, usually, so talk it. Huh?

Many of my clients, as we proceed

discover their interests, interests of which

you wish to be freed, lessen, and eventually disappear.

So you do--

I help people create lives that work.

If it disappears,

then many of my clients seem pleased by the byproduct.

Fuck yeah.

You desire change.

Are you prepared for the most grueling journey

of your life?

I understand English always,

so talk it. Are you prepared

I don’t know.

Well, if you ever do know,

feel free to schedule another appointment.

If not, of course, I wish you the best.

Wow.

Whatever

vitamin you’re taking

Vitamin L.

L? Love? Lust?

Lecher-osity?

Lying. What an aphrodisiac.

Details!

Okay.

Our initial therapist/client chitchat was of the

perfectly blah blah genre, that you as a psychologist,

I assume, are excessively familiar with.

Until the good doctor says, “pull down your pants.”

And I say, “excuse me, Big Daddy-O,

you're hardly my type.”

But in the name of solid

investigative reporting, I decide to drop

my very brief, briefs.

Then Dr. Frankenstein slaps electrodes to my low hanging

and extraordinarily oversized man-balls

And I’m thinking, oh, my God, how did I let my dear, sweet

son-of-a-bitch Jonathan, talk me into this?

He shows me a slide of this naked toy-boy-

beauty-boy, and I'm thinking, well,

this isn't so bad. Until this electric shock zaps me

and suddenly I'm prancing around

like I'm auditioning for the City Ballet.

He flips off the switch,

and the instant the current stops, the hunk-a-rama

slide is replaced with a slide

of an, objectively, rather uninteresting

naked woman.

You know, men equal pain. Women equal relief.

As if I needed an electric shock

to teach me that men equal pain.

No dinner

‘till you tell me what really happened.

Well, I knew I was in trouble when he put on the

rubber gloves.

Frank.

Okay, okay. I'll tell you.

For you, my love, nothing but the truth.

I pulled it off.

I should have been an actor instead of a writer.

I was so butch.

More perfectly butch

than I ever dreamed I could be.

Sweetie, you can be butch.

But I was petrified that I would lose control

and my voice would rise an octave

and the spirit of Judy Garland

would burst from my body.

When is the spirit of Judy Garland

ever burst from your body?

Exactly. But what if my first session

with Frankenstein was the moment

when all my nelliness first surfaced?

You're being a tad offensive, you know.

That's the point.

I dripped a self-loathing, so terrifyingly

easy to find in myself.

I was the perfect public service

announcement for fag haters.

We're gonna nail

this guy.

But, get this.

Not once did he utter the word

g-g-g-g-gay, like he'd spew fuzzy green chunks if the

dreaded G-word passed his lips.

So I figured next session-- chunks.

But what else?

I need coaching.

If you were him, exactly what would you be expecting?

Well, if I were he,

I'd expect lots of doubts.

Lots of questions.

Okay, I've got questions Dr. Apsey.

I got questions.

I'd recommend asking them.

No Bible thumping.

I don't care what Jesus thinks of me.

I have no interest in Jesus' opinion of you either.

This is not Christian therapy.

Anything else?

Unorthodox techniques.

Like torture? Okay.

No electric shocks. No electric shocks,

no funny smells to make me puke

when you flash pictures

of naked individuals. No punishment stuff.

What you're describing's aversion therapy.

I promise none of that.

Only direct, honest talk.

So direct he couldn't even say the G-word.

Yeah. Couldn't say the word.

Then last week, why wouldn't you say the word?

And what word was that?

The word.

Oh, yes, the word.

You refrained from using it.

So I chose similar restraint out of respect for you.

Have you ever employed it? To describe yourself.

Been to a therapist before. Said it then.

I'd like to see copies of the records.

Forging records. That's inadvisable.

That's impossible. The guy's died.

Or moved. Or something.

Did this other therapist use aversion?

I don't remember.

You don't recall if he used electric shock.

Little electrodes over your body?

Oh, no. No shocks.

Any form of aversion?

No.

So how are you aware of aversion therapy?

There are books.

Ah, of course. I've read.

I’ve read.

What books?

The Recurring Use of Aversion Techniques

in the Clinical Treatment of the Male

Homosexual in the 20th Century.

I don't remember the title.

You're aware of aversion therapy, yet

your previous therapist never used it.

You've read, but you don't remember the books.

If you were I, Frank, would you believe that?

A good therapist

doesn't insinuate his client is lying.

I don't think a good therapist calls his client a liar.

Probably not.

Are you lying?

No.

Uh, maybe.

Maybe

I never exactly been to a therapist.

Then my previous question remains.

Have you ever verbalized the word about yourself?

Could be.

Not.

If you did, what would happen?

Your worst fear.

Oh, if I said it, I'd puke my guts.

A fear of vomiting, nothing more?

There'd be more.

Course there's more.

Tell me.

Don't know I got the words.

Find them.

I got, you know, a life. Not a perfect life.

But I'm standing.

And sometimes I think that one word--and my tendons'd

let go my bones, my muscles'd turn to Jell-O

and I'd collapse.

I don't think I could say that word and still stand.

Do it anyway.

I'm pressing, Frank because the first step

to change is accepting what you want to change.

Hey, I accept it.

I quite doubt a human organism can accept something

he/she won't verbalize.

Earlier you said you have a life.

Yeah.

What type of life?

A supercallifragilistic life with the man

you love.

A life, a life.

Just a life.

You're not married, correct?

No.

Girlfriend?

No.

Boyfriend?

Husband, please.

Fuck you...

No. No boyfriend.

Would you like someone special in your life?

Doesn't everyone?

So, is your life working?

My life's not so bad.

So why are you here?

Okay, my life sucks.

My life's a fucking nightmare.

Enough?

No. Why?

Because.

Because.

Because I may have tendencies--

Because I have tendencies. That may be--

that are--

homosexual.

I maybe kinda sorta messed up.

Instead of forcing him to use the word,

the session became about me not saying it.

So, you know, give him what he wants--

I said, "homosexual."

"Fag" seemed too hostile,

"gay" too neutral.

He certainly wouldn't understand the subtleties of

the word "queer."

I don't understand the subtleties of the word queer.

Basic homophobia 101 theories.

He manipulated you into saying the dreaded H-word.

You won't be able to cope with the truth,

so you'll sink into self-destructive behavior

the way we all do

when we're faced with our sick, twisted selves.

Drink yourself into oblivion.

Have a few unsafe,

anonymous fucks in filthy places.

Rape a couple of blind, handicapped ten-year-old boys.

You know, the usual faggot fare.

So, next week

you make up some gooey experience,

so he can convince you

what a twisted worm of a man you are,

and pull you out of the homosexual muck

and into a blissful heterosexual life where the

sun always shines.

What do you mean, "make up?"

You want to see the monster's methods? You gotta

give him what he wants.

Talk dirty to him.

I wouldn't do that.

That's not my experience.

Not me.

The me in his office, that me wouldn't talk dirty.

So talk clean, but the

extracurricular activities-- very, very dirty.

So, if you were to, you know,

what would it be?

Sex in bushes?

No, I told him I don't like that.

Perfect.

He assumes you're lying

and have a frequent bush pass for the park.

No, if I'd ever have anonymous sex, I'd--

What?

No.

What?

Tell me.

A huge club, with pitch black rooms.

There's lots of men, and there's

lots of wandering hands.

A relentless army of hungry hands, smothering my body.

Pinching fingers, probing tongues.

So sticky. So wet.

You seem to have given this a lot of thought.

Uh-huh.

So--

that's what you'll tell Frankenstein next week.

Yeah, but I've never been.

He'll know I'm making it up.

Okay.

Club Phuque.

P-H-U-Q-U-E.

Cute. Group scenes, role playing,

fetish attire required. Open seven days, ten to four.

Refreshments, non-smoking rooms.

Yeah?

You can't fabricate, then fornicate.

Go to a sex club. Do whatever--safe only of course.

Then you got a nice non-fabricated experience

to tell Frankenstein.

I can't believe you want me to have sex with another guy.

I don't.

I want you to write this article.

If we stop one guy from going

to this quack, you've saved a life.

God, I hate when you do this, Jonathan.

If I were a Good Fag, I'd protest with you at every new

cause du jour. If I were a Good Fag, I yell louder.

If I were a Good Fag, I'd throw condoms at the Pope.

I can do what you want, which makes me the Good Fag,

or I can not do what you want, which makes me an

unenlightened, apolitical, walking piece of selfish

shit.

It's okay

for you to contradict that.

What's wrong with being a good fag?

It's not wrong. It's just,

it's very, very hard.

Okay.

Exactly what

sordid depravities do you want me to make up?

My name is Franklin

Johnston, and I am a writer.

A freelance writer.

Nice to meet you all.

I didn't,

I didn't actually make the choice to go see Dr. Apsey.

It was planned

experiments.

Went somewhere, last night,

only to watch. I wasn't gonna take off

any clothes, but everything got taken off.

I guess there wasn't much of a fight.

How many times?

How many individuals? I don't know.

I woke up--six a.m.

was naked,

curled up on a damp

concrete floor.

Found a pair of jeans, soaked,

not mine. And a shirt, mine,

but covered in--

Yeah.

So I left it.

Walked home. Shirtless,

Shoeless. Soulless.

And you undertook this excursion because?

Last week you said, "say

it, say it, say it, say the word."

So I said it--fagot. And I acted like a fagot.

All male organisms in your situation

don't engage in such behavior.

You pushed me.

Me?

Have you ever succumb to anonymous sex before?

Don't remember.

Frank.

Your lapses of memory consistently occur

at ridiculously convenient times.

Say, "yes."

Yeah. I guess I've done that stuff.

Were we acquainted during these past exploits?

No.

So were these previous encounters because of me?

Course not.

Then who caused you

to have anonymous sex these other times?

Whoever. Your editor--

My boss. I got fired.

When you were fired, what were you feeling?

How do I know?

I look like I keep a diary?

Upset? Angry? Humiliated?

All of the above.

Last week, after you verbalized the word

were you all of the above?

Yeah. Exactly.

So both times, you were angry, upset, humiliated,

and what did you do?

Fucked.

I fucked.

So for five fucking seconds, I could fucking forget

who I fucking was.

So who caused you to have anonymous sex?

Don't take the blame.

You. And my ex-boss.

You had nothing to do with it?

Look, slap my knuckles or something and

let's get on with this.

To punish you? Last week you specifically requested

I refrain from punishment techniques.

This week you're wanting them. Make up your mind.

He's putting words in your mouth.

You're putting words in my mouth.

I am concerned you view me as a disciplinarian,

and your activities the other night

were rebellion against me.

Well, no real guy likes some other

guy telling him what to do.

Did I ever tell you no sex club?

My mind's not a tape recorder.

Mine is. I've never mentioned sex.

Not the word, not the activity.

You're rebelling against a rule I never made.

So why'd you assume you shouldn't have sex?

Well, duh. That's why I'm here.

Then you've created the no-sex rule, not me.

Perhaps you shouldn't be so demanding of yourself.

I should do exactly what I'm trying not to?

I will never tell you whether or not to be sexual.

But Frank, desires exist.

Repression always fails. Miserably.

Healthy sex is not an anesthetic.

Mature adult sex connects to feelings.

If that's easier with a man, practice with a man.

I'd prefer you build an emotionally healthy

relationship with a man, than have anesthetized

sex with men, or women.

Well, even Frankenstein has his surprises.

I'm, uh, I'm surprised.

I have a confession to make.

That story about the sex club,

I made it up.

Oh.

Why this lie?

A friend put me up to it.

Frank, I'm gonna piss in my pants.

To see if you'd pee your pants, or anything.

Pleasantly

it's been quite a while since I've lost bladder control.

Perhaps there's

a better therapist for you.

Great.

Now you see what you've done?

I'd be happy to recommend a few.

Okay.

No!

No!

You view me as your enemy.

Ask to stay.

Please, let me stay.

Have you noticed a pattern to our sessions?

You lie, you stumble, you reluctantly come clean.

He wants an apology.

I'm sorry.

Sorry, isn't worth doo-doo.

Please, please, please,

let me stay!

The pain you radiate, blinds me.

I'm a sucker for pain.

You may stay.

If--

you stop lying and begin with coming clean.

Saves time, saves energy,

saves me pissing my pants.

Agreed.

Thank you.

Now, homework for the week--

no lying.

Lying is toxic.

It's time to develop healthier habits.

And the truth, is a spiffy habit to get into.

He was lying,

but his, his lies,

by his own admission, after a while, were very,

were a thin veneer.

It became very complicated.

Well, you have all the records, so.

Truth is a very important

factor in my life.

I would like to give

all my patients the benefit of the doubt.

I mean, people lie.

I guess you could label anything a lie,

but people are just afraid of the truth.

That's, that's as clearly as I can put it.

I don't know.

I don't know. I don't know.

I don't know why I told him the sex club was a lie.

Maybe it's his eyes.

They suck words out of me and everything backfires.

He's supposed to tell me I'm bad and he doesn't.

Well, what's he gonna say? You know,

good afternoon,

you're bad.

Please pay me $150 an hour to destroy your life.

He's supposed to punish me, but he won't.

Knows that you don't trust him.

So he expresses compassion to keep you off balance.

He's supposed to hate my guts,

but I think he actually likes me.

I can't deal with him liking me.

Because, you like him?

You are way off.

Clients are frequently attracted to their therapists.

Are you?

You're crazy.

I've seen him at conferences.

He's not bad looking.

You know,

if he were my therapist, I might

sport a woody.

You're oversharing.

Look, I'm,

I'm having a really bad day, and it'd be really nice

if you just zip up your deliciously oversized mouth,

nod your head, mutter a few therapist uh-huhs, and

never use the phrase,

"sport a woody" again.

Jonathan, what if I can't?

I mean, it's not exactly like

I've ever done a piece like this before.

Uh-huh.

Was that a "therapist" uh-huh?

I aim to please. Jonathan.

You're a good writer.

I'm a writer, not a reporter.

Who am I kidding?

I write about tulip festivals,

and antique shows, and fall colors. But an exposé?

What if I'm in over my head?

Then you will rise and meet this challenge.

Same way you've risen and met

every challenge I've ever seen you face.

I have complete confidence in your ability.

You know what?

What?

I have an uncontrollable desire to kiss you.

Wow. That is friggin' freaky.

I'm experiencing the same

uncontrollable desire.

Oops.

What?

The uncontrollable desire is spreading.

Oh?

You have an uncontrollable desire to kiss my nose?

Yeah, that alright?

Yeah, that's alright.

Oops.

Mm-hmm.

Your earlobe. Can I kiss it too?

Yeah, I guess so.

Oops.

The bulging bag underneath my left eye?

How did you know?

Faggot intuition.

Okay,

before you completely lose sight of the fact

that we are in a public place, Jonathan,

I respect you.

You know, you're always right there,

front line.

That's why they call me super fag.

Faster than a speed dial phone tree--

Exactly.

Able to leaflet entire malls in a single round--

Exactly. But,

it's not that I'm

not sure if, I can pull this off,

but I'm not sure,

I'm kinds thinking, feeling, maybe

I sorta, don't want to.

Well.

You don't want to,

you don't want to. Right?

Wants change, right?

Wants change all the time.

I mean, really, all the time.

Like,

like when you wanted to manage our investments,

instead of hiring a professional.

Except it turned out that it was

harder than you thought. So you quit. And we

ended up with a one-percent return instead of ten or more.

Or when you wanted to make extra money

with that multi-level marketing craziness.

Except it was more time consuming than you thought.

So you quit.

And we ended up with a 100 gallons of mud-mask,

and a tax write off, or

whatever. You know, you go halfway,

wants change and you bail.

And I step aside and let you self-sabotage

because it's your life, and it's usually only money.

But this time--it's more.

So grow a backbone,

visualize manhood, pretend you have a brain,

but under no circumstances-- drop out.

Why don't you tell me what you really think?

Sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

I'm not allowed needs? I'm not allowed concerns?

Of course you are. Tell me your concerns.

Oh, eat it! If I go back, I do.

And if I don't, I don't.

Oh, you're going back.

You are going back!

The actual idea of

Mr. Johnson posing as a client of Dr. Apsey's

I was not involved in.

It was Dr. Baldwin's

idea for me to to go undercover.

Prior to the events in question,

no, I wasn't even aware of Dr. Baldwin.

As Mr. Johnston

is a reporter,

it was not my place to decide whether or not

it was within the bounds of his professional ethics.

It's not my

responsibility to make that decision.

How was your lie-free week?

Difficult.

Perhaps you'll share how

difficult.

Listen, I can't do this,

today.

I'll pay you.

And therapy may be a beneficial place

to share these difficulties?

I can't talk about not lying, 'cause I'd have to lie

to do it.

You're more comfortable with falsehood than truth.

But changing patterns is why you're here.

You don't have to have sex with men.

That's the big step.

Take a small step today.

Earn a couple bonus therapy points.

Tell the truth.

The friend I told you about last week,

the one who convinced me to lie about the sex club--

He's not a friend.

Well, no, of course he's a friend.

But a friend,

I kinda sorta have a thing with.

I assumed.

Now this man, what should I call him?

His name is Jonathan.

And how's not lying connected to Jonathan?

Sometimes he wants me to do things,

I'm not sure I want to do.

Sexual things?

Personal things.

True friends don't push.

Yeah, and he's a therapist, too.

I mean, he should know better, right?

A therapist?

Exactly,

what's he been pushing you to do?

I know,

you know, I've lied to you.

It's not only to you.

Everywhere.

Every crack in my life,

I putty with a lie, out of habit to survive.

Because day in and day out,

I got the not so subliminal

message that I was sick, or defective, or pathetic

because I couldn't hammer in a nail

with a single pound,

or my handshake wasn't firm enough,

or I couldn't

do the forty-two pushups that the Presidential

Fitness Test said I should be able to do.

And I knew that something was

very, very, very wrong with me, because whenever

there was a new neighbor, or postman,

or waiter who had that certain je n'est sais quoi,

you know, that certain je--don't wanna--

sais quoi,

my dad would say, "that man's a little light on his feet."

And it scared me, because somehow,

I knew that je n'est sais quoi--was moi.

So. Not a day passed

where my dad wasn't embarrassed by me,

and he didn't know why,

except in the tiniest corner of his brain

that spoke with a voice so soft he never listened.

And I would do something wrong,

and Dad would

hit me, on the face.

Not a slap, but a fingers-curled-

into-fist hit, on the face. And Mom would try to

stop him."Stop, stop, stop,"

she'd yell.

But words didn't work, so she'd hit me first.

You know, a softer, kinder, gentler smack.

She figured if she hit me first, then he wouldn't.

But the problem was

she grew to like hitting me

because power over me, was the only power she had.

And they'd fight. "It's my turn!" "No, it's my turn!"

"No, honey, you hit him yesterday."

"No dear,

I don't think I would have ever given

him that black an eye!"

And because I caused this fight, they'd both

just gang up on me. And 'cause kicking

the shit out of me, glued their marriage together--

Stop it.

Stop it.

Frank, stop.

Stop, stop, stop, stop.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

I'm so sorry.

Okay.

This is the truthful truth--

Mom and Dad

never hit me, physically, but

they hit me with words.

They hit me with criticism.

They hit me with the

disappointment

festering in their fearful eyes.

And I thought I must be

very, very, very bad

to make them judge me.

I figured if I lied,

they wouldn't see me,

and they couldn't reject me.

And it continues even today, no matter how much money

I make, or how many articles I publish. I'm a,

I'm a writer. Did I tell you I was a writer?

I feel inadequate.

And when Jonathan

suggested writing an exposé,

I thought, wow,

that's a serious piece of journalism--

it could fix me.

And I said,

yes, yes, yes, save me from myself.

So I came to be saved, but not by you.

By this article.

But then you, surprised me.

You helped me,

taste clean.

Hey, I still get those bonus points?

Say something.

Hate me. Hit me.

Rip me a second asshole,

and scream,

"Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!"

These options

you've suggested, many have crossed my mind.

But life ultimately

is about self-control, isn't it?

So before I lose my professional tolerance

and those options seem viable, you'd better go.

Notice my tone.

The low timber and even modulation indicate

I'm not posing a question, or an invitation. An order.

Now go.

Are you expecting ugliness?

To see my anger?

I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you.

I just,

I just want to interview you.

Include your side.

Continue.

I'm going to write this article, with

or without your cooperation.

I'd prefer it to be with.

Why?

Professionalism.

Professionalism hasn't been a major force in your behavior.

No, I guess not. But I was,

I was talked into some things I wish I hadn't been.

How many times have you lied since we've met?

That question was not rhetorical.

An exact number, please.

I don't know.

Then estimate.

Ah, six times.

A conservative estimate, alright,

six. And not white lies, but six malevolent falsehoods.

I didn't have to tell you

I was a writer.

I could have,

I could have continued this game

if all I wanted was to trap you.

I don't.

I suppose so.

You not the first client who's lied to me.

Well, when they lie about their names,

you know it's hopeless.

Let me see your driver's license.

I promise I won't laugh at your photo.

Hmm. Franklin Johnston.

Well,

Mr. Johnston,

you want to interview me for my side?

It's a delicate dilemma.

To consent to

an interview with a client would

clearly be an inappropriate, dualistic relationship.

Yet, in reality, you never were a client. So,

perhaps I'll give your proposal

serious consideration. Now go.

I know

"sorry" isn't worth doo-doo.

But, please, accept my apology.

I'm a therapist, not a saint.

Now go.

Hi. Sorry I'm late. Subway's a mess.

Hey, champagne!

What's the occasion?

Listen, I'm sorry.

Meetings, protests, fundraisers--

I love that life.

You go along with me, sometimes I think,

just to earn Good Fag points.

Like I dole them out.

I promise,

never again will I pressure you to be more political.

You're free. Poof.

You don't want to write this article, it's okay.

I'll find someone else.

Thanks.

Thank you.

Jonathan, it’s just the

pretending I'm uncomfortable with.

I think I want to be above-board.

You know, tell him

I'm a writer, and do a straightforward interview.

Like he would go along.

And even if, trusting what he says?

The only way to get the truth--

Is by lying.

Get the fat-free.

If he knows you're a reporter, he's never going

to give you honest information.

Well, I hope you're wrong, because--

Frank.

Okay, Jonathan, just don't flip--

Frank. Tell me you didn't.

I kinda sorta did.

Frank!

Frank!

What on earth were you thinking?

I don't know. I just,

I can't go through with this.

After all our planning--

Your planning--

You sabotage--

Choosing not to do something

your way isn't the same as sabotage.

Whatever. Fine.

It's over.

There'll never be an article now.

Oh, grow up.

How about a little honesty here?

Hey, just say it--

you don't think I'm good enough.

Asking you to go

undercover, was a mistake.

If, if I always go halfway, it's because you, you,

you build me up--you can do it, you can do it.

Then you chop me down with your doubts.

Okay. No more halfway.

When this article comes out, I'll be saying, I told you so,

I told you so,

I told you so,

until you're investing in earplugs stocks.

I very much look forward to

you proving me wrong.

I believe that Dr. Apsey's

approach and the basis of his psychotherapy

is unethical, inappropriate, immoral,

as well as perhaps malpractice.

His use of language is very powerful.

He, he comes across as sounding quite logical.

I did not realize that

Dr. Apsey would manipulate

Mr. Johnston to such a degree.

Of course,

he was in a dilemma because he was talking

about someone he loved, he cared for, but who I feel

was using him unfairly.

To left, or

not to let, one never-truly- was-a-client, i.e.,

you, interview me for a potentially career

threatening article.

The roughly four-inch-by- four-inch area beneath

my solar plexus currently is experiencing a

not negligible inflammation commonly labeled, caution.

My caution encourages me

to say N.O.

The four-point-one-pounds above my neck--the

average male brain is actually three-point-one pounds--

I hope you'll excuse me for being a smidgen over-generous

I'm feeling rather vulnerable.

My brain assures me I have nothing to lose by cooperating

You'll write the article with or without my input.

If you lie, you lie.

If you tell the truth, I can only gain from an interview.

The single path to victory is to step aside.

As the history of humanity

and inhumanity clearly demonstrates,

stepping aside is, of course,

much more difficult than loading a gun and shooting it.

How to step aside, make the correct decision?

I have no earthly idea.

And you're telling me this because?

Ah, my analogy eludes you.

Then I'll try again in a more simple vernacular.

Ya like Oprah?

Sure. Who doesn't?

I wouldn't know. Her people phoned me.

I declined. Talk shows expect you to be combative.

I'm not.

They expect you to be defensive.

I'm not.

They expect you to be charming and have a sublime ability

to banter.

Well.

Ha, okay.

But honesty and integrity aren't assets

during a ratings sweep.

Do you find my condescension of television arrogant?

Extremely, but not unjustified.

I'm pleased we see eye to eye.

Now you must elucidate--

why would a wise organism trust the print media more

than the electronic media?

So, why did you ask me here today?

You've initiated a game I'm powerless to terminate.

So I intend to win.

You and I are not in opposition.

No?

If I refuse your interview, what will your

article say?

I'd say you're a,

you're a kind-hearted man who's misguided

in his attempts to change us.

Oh, as I suspected. You'd invalidate me and my work,

yet we're not in opposition.

Then you are naive, which benefits me tremendously.

I will win much more easily.

Now. You've unfairly labeled me as misguided.

How can I prove otherwise?

Prove your therapy works.

Prove it doesn't.

That is not my--

And why not?

Your Dr. Baldwin and his fancy office claims

I'm a fraud.

Do you ask him for proof?

No. Because he--

what?

He cooks your dinner, warms your bed,

so his assertions go unchallenged.

You know his last name. How?

Oh, I've done a dollop of research this past week.

Your community is small and quite talkative.

Information equals strength.

I intend to play your game from a position of strength.

And you've

certainly gone out of your way to let me know this.

I wonder--does a man secure in his strength

go out of his way to reveal how strong he is?

I like you,

Mr. Johnston.

Next question.

Okay.

Why this type of work?

If I weren't so terribly shy, I'd put it in a brochure.

People ask so frequently.

My younger brother was similar to you,

my clients.

I thought,

I don't care, who cares?

Turned out, he cared.

I was nineteen.

I was away at college.

One day,

I received a letter from him.

Using the corner of a razor blade as a pen, and his blood

as ink,

he wrote, "I won't live this way.

I'm sorry."

When my clients frustrate me,

I think of my brother.

Okay.

And, how do I know

this really happened?

Here, I'll show you the blood-drenched letter

I carry in my wallet.

I'm sorry,

"gay teen kills self." It's very tragic.

It's also very convenient--

a dead brother motivating you to save

the poor gay men from killing themselves.

I am so thoroughly pleased you were never a client,

because now I have complete freedom to say--

Fuck you!

Fuck you! Fuck you!

Heavens, "fuck" is a lovely word.

I'll have to remember to use it more frequently.

Is your outburst intended to distract

from the question of proof?

March 23rd, 1971.

His obituary, two days later.

Morton, Illinois.

Morton Herald.

Adam Apsey.

You want proof?

Do your own research.

Next question.

I need to interview

your clients who've supposedly succeeded.

I guarantee my clients complete confidentiality.

That's a convenient rule.

Oh, I suppose your Dr. Baldwin has allowed

you to interview those clients he stole from me?

Jonathan?

Do I detect surprise?

Has he never informed you that stealing my clients is

his favorite pastime?

Your clients?

If you won't let me talk to them, then

all I have is your opinion that they've changed.

And if you spoke with them,

would you believe them, or insist I brainwashed them?

Some people would say that, yes.

Yes, "some people." Attack dogs, really.

They bark and growl simply because my clients

have the courage to assume control of their lives,

and change themselves to find happiness,

while these "some people"

are wallowing in pain over the same sexual behaviors

they're waving their flags about.

I'm not in pain over my sexuality.

Did I say you?

That's your inference, not mine.

Of course,

now that you mention it, anonymous sex

followed by guilt-ridden drunken binges--

That wasn't me. I made it up.

Oh, "made that up" means your subconscious mind

is barking louder than your conscious.

Which mind hardly matters.

As you've pointed out,

I'm not your client, so don't try to psychoanalyze me.

I'm here in a professional capacity.

How professional?

How determined are you to find out

if my therapy works?

Very.

Only one way. Go through the process. You change

you'll know.

Not possible.

Well, then,

Mr. Professional has a professional dilemma. To write

my therapy works, you need proof.

The only way to obtain such proof

is to experience the process.

Yet, if you write my therapy doesn't work,

you'll know you failed to test it.

How unprofessional.

Don't mind-fuck

me, Doctor.

Hardly my style, Mister.

I am merely encouraging in you

a professionalism I know you possess.

I've been to the library to sample your articles.

Would you rise above the tulips?

The world is filled with weak organisms.

Don't be one of them.

I didn't steal Frankenstein's clients.

Some of his clients chose to see me.

I'd think you'd be happy, not upset.

I'm not upset--

Excuse me. You seem upset.

I'm not upset

you're seeing his clients--

I'm upset

you didn't tell me.

I never discuss my clients with you.

Corners, please.

This is different.

If you've got men who've

been through his process, I need to interview them.

Uh, no. I can't encourage my clients to talk to a reporter.

Any reporter.

They're too vulnerable.

Would hurt to ask?

Yes.

It's my professional obligation

to protect my clients.

And I'm professionally obligated to find proof before

I write he's a fraud.

My ethics are expendable,

and yours aren't?

The proof would be sitting in your lap

you hadn't told him you're a reporter.

You won't let me talk to your clients.

What do you expect me to do?

Nothing.

I thought

you write the article,

the Board's alerted, Apsey loses his license.

Me involving you to keep my name out of it, was just

cowardly. I'm going to the Board to file a complaint.

What he's doing is worse than just unethical,

it's malpractice.

And if there's any justice, he'll lose his license.

Whoa, whoa, whoa. You file a complaint,

you sabotage my article.

You think after Frankenstein's notified, he'll

ever talk to me again?

So what?

The goal is to stop him. From me filing a complaint,

or you writing an article-- what's it matter?

It matters. It matters to me.

You challenged me. You can't un-challenge.

The other day

you told me not to quit.

Don't get in my way.

This isn't a drop-in clinic.

I wanted to apologize for doubting, about your brother.

And since you're here, I suppose more questions.

You do,

he'll think your apology was manipulative.

No. No more questions.

I'm pleased. If you'd any more questions,

how could I not have doubted the sincerity of your apology?

Well,

since you've no new questions yet, you're here,

may I ask questions of you?

Okay.

How would

Dr. Arthur Alexander Apsey--

excuse me, Arthur Alexander Apsey, PhD--

a spoonful of alphabet soup following my name steadies me.

When I feel off balance,

my wife scolds me, my pomposity explodes.

Gee, gosh darn it, I tell her,

good thing you're a saint.

Your question?

Ah, yes.

One--is same sex behavior a clinical pathology?

No, merely undesirable.

Heterosexual behavior is the superior choice.

Question two--would or could

I force a male organism to change his sexual behavior?

Never.

Your process only works on voluntary participants.

Question three--is same-sex sex

natural?

Homosexual behavior occurs across many cultures.

But so what?

In every society, human beings kill one another.

Does that make murder natural?

If so, then nature is terribly overrated.

Congratulations, Mr. Johnston.

You understand my theories well enough to parrot.

You've admittedly no new questions. Yet,

here you are. Why?

I came to apologize.

A letter or a phone message would have sufficed.

Excuse me for being personal.

Why write such an unlikely article in the first place?

Why spew such poorly crafted lies?

So, I'd catch you? Force a confession?

Why haven't you located any of the men

who've completed my therapy?

As though my refusal to provide

their names would have stopped a more determined reporter.

And why, today,

have you no new questions,

when if I were writing the article,

the most important questions I'd have are still unanswered?

The only answer that makes any sense is--what you want,

you won't admit it.

Why do you think it's so impossible

for someone to like being gay?

I don't care about Mr. Someone.

My undivided attention is on you.

You have no idea what it's like to be this way--

in a world that despises you.

Ahh, the blame game.

Society's abuse,

The government's neglect. Always somebody else's fault

you don't like the way you are.

But, just as much of the world loves you, as hates you.

Your books, your parades, your television shows--

all insisting gay is good, gay is better, gay is best.

So if you don't like yourself,

maybe it's not because of the world,

but simply because--you don't like yourself.

And given your feelings,

I don't believe you've never wondered

what it'd be like not to have your sexual desires.

What gay man hasn't?

Bingo.

But, so what? Wondering isn't the same as wanting.

I like being gay. I like being gay.

I like being gay!

Is my message getting through?

Yes. A message is beaming

through, though not the one you intend.

Would someone say, "I like, I like,

I like," so fervently if he really believed it?

Or do you mutter it into your pillow every night

like a mantra, hoping repetition creates reality?

Every human

organism has parts of himself he doesn't like.

Exactly. And survival is finding self love, hunting,

digging, scraping it up off the sidewalk,

if that's what it takes, and allowing it to grow.

You choose only to survive?

What about thrive?

Survival is, it's talking, conning yourself

into self-love. Thriving

is transforming yourself into the man you can and do love.

You remember our first session?

I asked you if you wanted a pill.

Yeah, I remember.

Scientists have been developing them for years.

It's secret funding, secret studies.

This tiny pill

can forever change your sexuality.

Right.

It's merely a game. Play with me.

Not a chance.

I don't think so.

Why are you so terrified of the hypothetical?

Let the world take a pill.

Let the world take a pill so all its hate goes away.

That pill will never exist short of a nuclear bomb.

The world is here to stay, because the world is inside

us, inside our heads,

a world of other people's voices.

Some say you're good, okay.

Some say you're bad or evil.

But liking or disliking the way you are--

how do you know those feelings are your own,

or a response to those voices?

You can't know how you truly think unless you

silence those voices.

Who's chattering in your head?

No one.

Jonathan.

I don't know.

I could go on all day. There's so many.

Exactly. And all together, if all those voices

are telling you one thing, what is it?

Be a Good Fag.

Yes. The best little fag in the world.

Is that truly what you want?

Or merely a response to those voices?

How can you know,

unless you remove those voices.

You perform exorcisms?

Quality idea.

From now on, you hear anyone's voice in your head you say

Out! Loudly, firmly. Out! Say it. Out!

No.

Or are you scared?

Don’t.

If you eliminate those voices,

Don't you dare.

Are you scared there'll be anything left?

Don't you dare do it.

Don't give in to the fear.

Out!

Good. Again.

Out.

Out.

I'd be walking around the streets,

Out. Out. Out.

If you can't verbalize it, snap your fingers. Twice.

And think it, out. [snap, snap] Out.

Out. Snap your fingers.

Quality. Again.

Good.

Now say it. Out. Out.

Out.

Out.

Out.

Out.

Quality.

Now look at the pill.

It looks like a vitamin.

The most potent medicine is often very simple.

Lick it.

The taste?

Nothing.

Lick it again. Lick it harder.

It's nothing.

You're licking with your tongue.

Lick with your imagination.

That's chilled raspberries.

Smell it.

A wet forest.

A tiny pill, looks like a vitamin

but tastes like raspberries and smells like a wet forest.

What magic.

Now ignore the hate.

Ignore the love.

Ignore the hope. Ignore the fear. Ignore the world

that says you're sick.

Ignore the world that says you're special.

Ignore being the evil homosexual. Ignore

being the good fag.

Hypothetically. The Big If.

If you could obliterate your same sex desires, would you?

You hungry?

You hungry?

Hungry?

Hungry?

Every shirt I own has a button missing.

What you say after brunch with your mom tomorrow

we go shopping?

Have you ever,

if there was a pill,

to make you straight,

would you?

Not in a million years.

You?

Not in a billion.

I love how I am.

Yeah, me too.

But for guys who don't, is trying

so, I don't know, evil?

Not evil.

Useless.

Yeah, of course.

But even if, maybe a guy has the right to try.

Sure, try.

Then in a month, or a year or decade,

it blows up

in some woman's face, or some children's faces, and

everyone has wounds that burn for the rest of their lives.

Shirt's ripped. Toss or sew?

I don't care.

I'm asking because I'm thinking of writing,

if a guy wants to try that, it's

I don't know, maybe it's kinda sorta not so bad.

It's a personal choice.

But a false choice.

I mean, for hundreds of years, they've tried to fix us.

They tried electroshock,

pumping us full of hormones, full of drugs,

cutting our brains, cutting our--

Apsey doesn't do those things.

Frankenstein uses words.

No difference.

Whatever they try, we're still here

and always will be, because it never works.

Out.

I can't believe I just did that.

Out?

Oh, something Apsey said.

Oh?

You know, if you and I are arguing

and we come to a standstill--

Wait a minute.

You're not talking to Frankenstein

about our private life, are you?

That's what one does in

therapy.

He's not your therapist.

He's research. Remember?

Yeah. 'Course. He's research.

Frank,

promise me you won't go back.

He's dangerous.

He will open your skull like cracking an egg

and reach his hands in

and he will kneed your brain like dough.

Until you won't even remember

you have a penis, let alone what you like to do with it.

I've seen it.

I have four clients who've told me how Frankenstein

has crept into their heads and destroyed their lives.

Please. Promise me you won't go back.

You've seen the damage he does.

I haven't.

Okay.

A new client started yesterday.

A pickup from Apsey.

Hello?

He's been seeing Frankenstein for about two years.

Who? How? Don't you wonder how?

Jonathan,

I'm wondering, with hundreds of gay

therapists in this city, somehow all of

Dr. Apsey's ex-clients end up seeing you.

How do they find you?

You develop a reputation.

Ha!

This new client, I could ask about you

getting an interview.

Double ha!

If--

Beware the if--

If?

If you promise me never to see Frankenstein again.

You're, you're, you’re--

He's bribing you.

You're bribing me?

Although technically, there's no exchange of money or goods.

I mean, you're, you're--

More like blackmail.

You're blackmailing me.

Not precisely blackmail, either.

I can't believe you.

I just want to be clear here, because if you're really--

You're resorting to--

He's manipulating you.

I'm manipulating you.

How dare you try to manipulate me,

you ask this new client, or you don't.

No strings attached.

All right, I will ask.

No strings attached.

What a weak organism.

No. If you think it's unprofessional.

You are stronger than that, Mr. Johnson.

Do it. Don't. Ask. Don't ask.

I'm getting whiplash.

You are stronger--

Fuck professionalism.

I have.

Ask.

I don't consider my therapy, conversion therapy.

I consider my therapy--

therapy.

Dr Apsey never, never

encouraged me to do anything against my own will.

People come to me.

I do not seek them out.

And I try to make their lives better.

The repercussions of Apsey's work were severe.

I believed that I was doing the right thing

for the good of my clients who have suffered

from this kind of junk science for far too long.

I've been clear--

unannounced drop-bys are unacceptable.

You have severe boundary issues.

Yesterday that, that magic pill,

so-called, "game" was so, so, so manipulative.

I prefer the label, truth

facilitation. I offer a mirror.

Okay. So, maybe a mirror because swallowing a pill

maybe reflects, shows, that, that there's some part,

some teeny tiny, so teeny tiny part wants, maybe wants

what you have to offer. Okay.

But so, so, so what? This, this, this change,

supposed change--oh you say, you say it's not easy,

you say it's the most difficult thing to ever do.

But what you don't say, is,

the word you don't use, is--impossible.

Yes, Dr. Baldwin

and his clones have worked

tirelessly to promote the myth of impossibility.

But, I know, deep down, I was born this.

So what?

It's in my genes,

I have no control over my attractions. Ha, ha,

phooey, fifty types of bunk.

So maybe a chunk of your hypothalamus

is bigger than the average bear's,

or your mother dressed you in taffeta,

or your father was weak and distant, or your big brother

told you vaginas have teeth.

Who cares why? Inside each of us is the liar,

the thief, the killer, but also the saint, the healer,

the lover.

Isn't life about the parts of ourselves

we choose to cultivate and act upon? Isn't America

based on the belief of bettering ourselves,

of picking ourselves up, rising above? Transcendence?

In India,

a master walks across coals 600 degrees Fahrenheit.

His feet remain unburned.

A yogi locks himself in a vault

with just enough oxygen for an hour,

yet he slows down his heartbeat

so that oxygen last a day instead of an hour.

You tell me the human mind can accomplish these marvels,

yet can't control where you want to put your pee-pee?

I don't think so.

But a man walks on coals,

I can see that.

Yet a man says he's changed and you refuse to believe

that. But it doesn't matter whether you want to believe

my therapy works or not, because you still

have to choose.

A year from now, or five years, or ten years,

there's going to be a shot, or a gene therapy, or a tiny pill

that tastes like raspberries, smells like a wet forest.

Sexual attraction will change as easily as hair color.

Clinging to the illusion that my therapy doesn't work

nearly postpones the inevitable.

You. Everybody like you-- Will. Have. To. Choose.

So? So what?

What am I going to do?

I'm going to just renounce? Betray? Just reset my sights

and aim for heterosexuality,

because sometime in the future, it will be possible?

I don't care what you choose.

The motives behind my magic pill game were self-serving.

So you could experience the view

from my clients vantage.

So your journalistic portrait of me

would be more comprehensive.

So, so, the magic pill was to manipulate me into sympathy?

No more manipulative than the so-called

professional tactics you've used on me.

Considering the precarious position in which you put me,

I think I'll be forgiven if my magic pill

game was self-serving. Now,

no more dropping by.

I don't ever want to see you again.

Good luck with your article.

Thank you for allowing me to express my thoughts.

Be well. Be happy.

Be gay.

You're up late.

You're out late.

Dinner's cold.

I'm colder.

Come warm me up.

You eat?

Nope.

Tupperware.

Smells good.

It's the bread. Bananas were rotting.

I left something out, though. It chews like lead.

I'm sure it's delicious.

He said no.

He who?

My new client. About an interview.

Well, then the others.

If you could ask one, you could ask the others.

Frank.

I'd be careful, respectful. I'd give you a list of questions.

Frank.

One might be willing to talk to me.

Frank, I already brought the subject up,

as a hypothetical.

They said no.

All of them?

Yeah.

How convenient.

How many?

Four.

All four?

All four.

How amazing.

What an amazing show of solidarity.

Except they're not

all acquainted--

Except they don't know each other,

so it's not solidarity, but coincidence.

So this is an amazing coincidence that all four

have so quickly dismissed being interviewed.

You don't believe me?

Such razor sharp perception skills.

Why would you lie?

How long have we been together?

Oh, how patronizing.

Why do you put up with this?

Don't patronize me. You know as well as I do--

In all our six years, four months and thirteen days--

yes, I know exactly--

before Frankenstein entered your life,

do you remember even once, not trusting me?

I hardly have the power to make you distrust one another.

Dr. Apsey can't make us distrust each other.

Yeah, he can.

It wasn't until after all this started

that I began distrusting you.

You never used to hide things from me.

I'm not now.

Your editor called this afternoon.

I asked her how she thought the article was going.

She said, "what article?"

The article you told me she was so anxious to see.

She had no idea what I was talking about.

You had no right--

I asked anyway. I'm not sorry.

Because I never had a vision for the article. I wasn't

gonna put myself out on a limb, 'til I was certain.

So, you lied to me.

I, I, I withheld minor information.

You never used to lie to me

until you started seeing Frankenstein.

That absolutely cannot be pinned on me.

The day we met,

you asked if I had plans for Saturday night.

I answered no, then rushed to the nearest pay phone

to cancel them. It's not a big lie, but a lie.

I lied about that plaid tie you love

when I said, it's only mildly unpleasant,

but in fact, it's extraordinarily ugly.

I've lied between the sheets that that thing

you do with the feather feels good,

when it just scratches.

I've lied about liking this

sugar-free, fat-free banana bread lead

slop you make. I've probably lied to you daily.

You got a spare month? I'll make a list.

And yes,

I lied about pitching the article

before I'd ever set eyes on Dr. Apsey.

So if you didn't believe in the article, why--

Because I always do what you want.

Did. Past tense. Did.

And will you? Write the article?

Of course.

When?

Unrelenting, isn't he?

When I'm ready.

Show me. Whatever you have.

Anything? I haven't even seen a single word--

It's in my head.

I'll put it on paper when I complete my research.

And, an estimated completion date?

The banana bread's not so bad.

You're too hard on yourself.

I know you didn't want to see me again. And I Know--

Yes, yes, yes,

I expected you back.

You did?

Yes.

Of course.

But why?

You can answer that yourself.

I'm here for the article.

The article,

the article, the article.

Look me in the eye.

Tell me you've written even one sentence.

I thought not. Now,

the unanswered question--

Was your smokescreen conscious or not?

Okay, listen, if a man-- not me--hypothetical.

If a man wanted to see you for therapy but couldn't.

Couldn't?

Yes. Say, he couldn't afford it.

I'd offer for free.

No, free has no value. I charge one dollar.

Okay.

Not because he couldn't pay, but for some other reason.

Whatever. He can't see you.

But he might want to kind of sort of maybe work on his own.

What would you tell him?

I would ask this man--

when's the last time he had dinner

with a male organism who didn't

share his sexual leanings?

If it'd been a long, long time?

That would suggest

Mr. Hypothetical lacks comfort with the male gender.

All men have same-gender needs.

If humankind could accept same-gender emotional needs

as normal, homosexual behavior would disappear.

But, close-minded organisms label same-gender

needs as gay.

So if you feel and admit same-gender needs--

you're gay. But you're not! You have same-gender needs.

That's all.

But--back to

Mr. Hypothetical. Meet men without his leanings.

Study how they interact, how they express,

or repress their same-gender needs.

Become friends with the type of man he wants to be.

And reading.

I'd offer a list of books that--really,

Mr. Johnston, must we maintain

this pretense of the hypothetical?

Yes. We must.

Would you care to peruse the list I'd offer

Mr. Hypothetical?

No.

Yes.

No.

Maybe.

If it's handy.

Hi. Sorry I'm late. Subway.

Subway's been screwed up a lot lately.

Yeah.

You were out late last night.

Were you staying away 'til I was asleep?

Absolutely not.

Ah, well, maybe.

I'm tired of fighting.

Come on, let's play.

You gonna tell me where you were?

I was out walking.

Serve.

You reeked of cigarette smoke.

I thought you were asleep.

I wasn't.

One--nothing.

So?

Went to a sports bar.

You know,

studying straight men in their natural habitat.

Research?

How's the article going?

Don't wanna talk about that.

Not going well?

The idea was yours, but now the article is mine.

From here on, Apsey's off limits.

Two--nothing.

Why'd you move up our racquetball time?

You're changing the subject.

Yeah, I know. Meeting canceled?

I didn't wanna go.

Jonathan Baldwin, not in the mood for a meeting.

Has the sky fallen?

Yeah.

It's my serve.

Please tell me

you're not seeing Frankenstein for real.

[snap, snap]

You've mastered that.

Have you ever considered communicating with words?

Don't call him Frankenstein. His name is Arthur Apsey.

Sweetheart,

I'm sorry

if you were born a way

you don't want to be. But you can't change that.

Not, I don't want you to, but can't.

You used to melt in my arms.

Now you repel.

When was the last time we made love?

That event was not momentous enough

to mark on my calendar.

Five weeks, two days.

Plenty of couples go five weeks.

You first met Frankenstein, what, six, seven weeks ago?

Coincidence?

And those men you were with at the bar--

if they're so straight,

why did I smell them on your clothes?

Why do I smell them on your skin?

Please tell me you were safe.

I, I didn't--

No lies. Yes or no?

Did you have sex with another man?

No!

No.

Remember I told you

in high school, you know?

Yeah, I remember.

I lied.

I was never bashed.

It never happened?

It happened.

Only not the way I told you.

The hell-hole I grew up in

had a town punk.

Every now and then, when the beer wouldn't

anesthetize the boredom, the town punk,

and his gang of punk wannabes would drive up to Chicago,

and set up bar in an open flatbed of a pickup,

spitting epithets at shoppers who fell into

the category loosely described as fruity.

One summer night, they spied a boy who

they laughed, was so fruity he could pose for a still life.

The fruity boy fought back.

The fruity boy got hit.

Got kicked.

Got a broken beer bottle ground into his face.

The punk and his buds bolted.

The punk went away to college and moved

as far from Chicago as he could.

Eventually, the punk

became me.

The memory of that bleeding boy, it consumed,

consumes--

I see

on the street, a face, a scar.

I mean, I know what I did, but

I'll never really know--

This,

this is truth?

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

You are amazing.

Who you once were, a self-hating redneck,

and who you are now--

Super Fag.

People really can change.

Okay.

Truth--

I was safe,

with her.

It was a her.

I'm aware of the complexity

of this issue.

I did not realize that

that it would come to this.

I take responsibility for how my emotional reactions

affected this scenario.

I haven't seen Jonathan,

I mean, I haven't seen

Dr. Baldwin

since ummm,

Dr. Baldwin and I are not

together, anymore.

[door buzzer]

If you haven't noticed from your watch,

you may notice from my attire--this is a thoroughly

inappropriate time for you to be here.

I was walking by.

At ten p.m.?

Please.

Last night,

I went to a bar.

You know, a regular bar, to study men.

And I met a woman there, blond,

curves in all the places

I'd want curves, if I liked curves.

I'm trying to figure out why I didn't care

she was beautiful.

She catches my stare,

thinks I want her. Flirts.

You know, sparkly eyes, head thrown back, a deep throaty

laugh. She helps me forget who I am and invites me home.

I go.

Then, the pre-sex dance. Men, women,

it's all the same. You know,

the heart's pounding.

It's me. And it. Out. In working order.

I stick it in,

I do it.

And it was off.

The smells, the taste were all off.

How could

such an ill-considered attempt end in anything but failure?

Which you knew beforehand.

Tea?

So, this escapade puzzles me.

I want to believe your mission to destroy me is terminated.

But I'm aware

of the possibility that you may still be hoodwinking me.

And quite frankly, this turn of events

makes me doubt your sincerity.

So, it's my turn to demand proof.

Proof? What? That I? With a woman?

No. A different kind of proof.

I'm filing a complaint against you Dr. Baldwin with

the Psychology Licensing Board.

What?

What he's done--going after me--is wrong.

Please no.

And you'll be expected to testify.

I won't turn on Jonathan.

I'm not asking you to. Merely tell the truth.

The truth is the same as turning on him.

If there's one thing you've learned from me,

isn't it not to lie?

Yes.

And if the Board talks to you, will you?

Please, don't do this.

I'll do anything.

Just ask.

But don't hurt Jonathan.

An acquaintance of mine at the Board

told me your Dr. Baldwin

inquired about filing a complaint against me.

I'm filing a counter complaint because

at the risk of sounding like a five-year-old--

he started it.

If you're able to dissuade

your Dr. Baldwin,

I'd be less inclined to file a complaint of my own.

I'll stop him.

I imagine you overestimate your influence on

Dr. Baldwin. But, I'll wait one week

to provide you with the opportunity.

Now. Your misguided sexual attempt.

What was that all about?

I don't know.

You don't know. Of course not.

Shall we construct some possibilities?

Perhaps as research for a new article?

A rousing first person narrative on how

it was to sleep with a woman in, oh,

how many years?

Lots of them.

Any reality to this first hypothesis?

No.

Then hypothesis number two--

this woman found so irresistible,

she began shoving hundred- dollar-bills down your shorts.

It wasn't that kind of bar.

Well, let me suggest

a particularly farfetched hypothesis.

Perhaps,

you slept with a woman because, gee, gosh,

you wanted to.

Ah, no response.

I'm not sure.

How could you be?

Clarity is unobtainable as long as you live with

Dr. Baldwin.

I love him.

So? The great romantic myth is

that love is the highest calling.

It's not.

I once had a client who justified sex

with his dog, because he loved the creature.

His dog!

Love is no excuse for poor choices.

The Dr. Baldwin

you love, set you up.

He used you for his own vendetta.

Why didn't he come to see me himself?

Because he didn't want to risk anything.

I like you,

but you've been one dumb dupe.

His pawn.

He's not a man to trust.

Your life has no room in it

for a manipulator like

Dr. Baldwin.

Clear enough?

I guess.

Good man.

Now, be firm.

In control.

Your Dr Baldwin will employ all his tricks

to demolish this decision.

Understandably.

He's got a lot to lose.

You.

Morning.

Hey.

Out all night?

Been thinking.

Uh-huh?

I'm thinking maybe it's time to,

it's time to,

to end.

Us.

More research?

You have the divorce experience, and presto,

more material for the article that never was?

I don't appreciate your attitude.

If I'm ever going to figure out what life

I want, I need

to leave.

I need...

Out.

I will let you go--

no fight--

if you swear, you'll never go back.

I can't. I won't promise that.

I won't let you go back.

What, you’ll tie me up?

Hire a twenty-four-hour guard?

Whatever it takes.

Frank, heal. Frank, sit. Frank, stay.

Frank write this article.

No, I won't live with your demands. With your,

your lies. With your manipulations. With you.

I lied once.

The bashing. That's the only time I ever lied to you.

Behind my back. A complaint against Apsey.

If that's not a lie, what is?

Yeah, I know. And he knows, too.

And he's gonna file a counter-

complaint if you go through with it.

How can trust you anymore?

It's a lie here, and a lie there.

And they build and build and build. All of a sudden there's

this swamp of lies just smothering our relationship.

A dark, dank, sludge that we're waddling through,

and I'm sick of the stink,

and I'm sick of you.

And I. Want. Out!

I don't,

I don’t mean this very moment.

That's mine.

Yeah.

You're packing for me?

Us.

Us?

Bermuda.

You always wanted to go, right?

Jonathan!

Yeah, yeah.

Fuck!

Fuck!

How many times have I told clients

you can't change another person?

Let go. And, yet, I can't.

I'm getting you away from that monster.

We thought you'd pull something like this.

We?

Where you going?

To Frankenstein's castle.

For a heart-to-heart. Or a fist-to-fist.

I'll decide which on the way.

Just, just,

just let me talk to him.

Relax.

Ah, the unannounced visit brigade's multiplying.

Dr. Baldwin, I presume. Welcome.

I’m sorry, I tried to stop him.

It's quite alright. The pleasure is--

Nobody's. This war is between you and me.

Jonathan--

Leave Frank out of it.

Don’t do this.

Shut up Frank. I'm doing this for you.

Shut up? You treat me like a child.

Then act like an adult.

I am.

I don't think so.

You, you, you act like an adult.

I, I, I am.

Gentleman--

Oh, like that was adult?

Gentleman.

I don't do couples therapy.

Now, Dr. Baldwin,

I'm pleased you're here.

This game of yours has gone on long enough.

This is a game to you?

This isn't any game--

And your pawn,

Mr. Johnston, is suffering.

I am not a pawn.

He's not my pawn.

You don't need to talk for me.

Then tell him.

Listen, I am not,

I was his pawn,

Frank.

But you don't have to call me one.

How dare you call Frank a pawn?

Don't defend me.

Well, apparently, you need it.

No, I don't need you to.

No, I don’t--

I'm sorry to say you do--

No, I don’t--

Can we stop this infantile doo-doo?

Heavens, you two together

are a nightmare.

Can we get a collective grip?

Keep your sucking, strangling

tentacles off of Frank.

Because if not, every ounce of pain that you inflict

upon the man I love, I will turn back on you tenfold.

Until you're withered and broken

and too weak to fight back.

Blah, blah, blah, blah.

I’m sorry, I have no patience with such dedicated hate.

Hate is not a family value.

Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding.

Hypocrisy for twenty! Take a look in the mirror.

A mirror? One of us is reported, both of us are.

There's no victory in sacrificing one another.

A truce?

No complaints.

No complaints.

If--

If you agree never to see Frank again.

Agreed.

If--

You never again steal from me another client.

Abso-fucking-lutely not!

What's more important to you?

Your Mr. Johnston?

Your clients?

Your license? You're stopping me?

You can't have them all. Prioritize.

You are pure evil.

I am pure nothing.

And neither are you.

Deal.

In truth,

To keep Mr. Johnston,

you'd condemn dozens of men to my therapy,

which you believe evil?

Do we have a deal, or not?

No. My offer was a bluff.

I didn't think you'd accept.

You may be willing to sacrifice dozens

of other men to save

Mr. Johnston, but I won't sacrifice Mr. Johnston

to save myself.

The only deal I'll agree to--

no complaints, no conditions.

See you on the unemployment line.

Believe it or not, Dr. Baldwin, I respect you.

Fuck you.

Well, parts of you.

The part that dreams of a perfect world

where everybody is happy and well-adjusted.

That'd be lovely.

But in some men's perfect world,

they wouldn't be okay with their same-sex desires.

They simply wouldn't have any.

Do you have a son?

Dr. Baldwin,

you've chosen to fight to change the world.

A nephew? A friend or neighbor's boy?

Bang your head against the wall.

But others don't want to fight.

Somewhere, there is someone, in your life--

Others want to change themselves--

That you are destroying--

Let others make their own choices--

Don't do that to him.

Step aside.

Yeah. Step aside.

Hellooo! Remember me?

This was about me, wasn't it?

If this is about me,

why are neither of the two voices I hear mine?

It's like the two of you are on opposite shores,

I'm drowning, and you're yelling, "This way,"

"No, this way," "Grab my life preserver,"

"No, climb on my boat,"

"I'll save you," "No, I'll save you,"

Screaming so loudly, I hadn't even noticed it’s,

it's the two of you, pissing, shitting,

vomiting in the lake that makes the water so high.

I don't need to be saved.

I need to be left alone.

Out.

Out.

Out. Out.

Out.

I wish I hadn't met

Dr. Apsey.

Because,

though he was very logical sounding,

he confused me.

I think people don't want to entertain a possibility--

His work is dangerous.

I believe that it's homophobic--

They do not even want to think that a certain possibility

is in the realm of possibilities,

and anyone that might even bring that up,

is an enemy--

If that

is a strike against me as far as this

Board is concerned, then so be it.

Why shrink possibilities?

My intent with the article was not to discredit

Dr. Apsey. Have you read the article?

I just present both sides.

Yes, I understand that this is

an ethics violation over which I can lose my license.

As a psychologist I never set about--

I think it would be a mistake--

To--

I think it would be a mistake if I lost my license.

I don't think I've done anything wrong.

--become embattled

with another professional.

My record will speak for itself.

Dr. Apsey

doesn't need to,

he doesn't,

he doesn't need to--

Just be who you want to be.

Thank you for finally seeing me.

I have a job interview at 2:15.

Talk.

I called because I want,

I want your recipe for banana bread.

I wake up some mornings and all I want is a slice of that

lousy bread.

Still games?

I'm trying to apologize.

Get on with it.

I'm sorry.

That's it? Two words?

After both you and Apsey filed complaints, that became the

story. I couldn't write the article without mentioning

you. I'm sorry you lost your license.

But he's going to lose his too.

What do you do now?

Start over.

Being forced out of my career, hey,

prevents a mid-life crisis.

That's the silver lining.

Some days that's all there is.

What you did was unforgivable.

Yes. Forgive me anyway.

You hurt me.

I know. You used me.

I know.

We shouldn't have.

We did.

Are we sorry?

You remember, maybe our tenth date,

we strolled in this park, by this fountain?

You stood behind me, your arms wrapped around

my chest, your kneecaps cradled at

the back of my knees.

You kissed my ear.

And I thought you were writing true poetry.

The truth if it's anywhere in me, it's in my body,

and my body knows--it's been designed to love men.

One overly ripe banana. Mush it--

I know we can't go back, but we can go forward.

A future--

Three cups self-rising flour--

Us, no lies, no manipulations.

--Self-rising or it chews like lead.

We're capable of that, aren't we?

Sometimes I forget the self-rising--

Listen to me. I'm trying to say--

I know what you're trying to say.

Stop it.

Don't say it. Please.

I'm not ready to stop hating you.

Yet.

Yet?

I like that, “yet.”