Subject: Professor Sigmund Voyde: "On the Origins of the Interpretation of Dream-like States"
Date: Sun, 28 Sep 1997 02:30:33 GMT
From: email@example.com (Nolan Voyde)
Organization: MindSpring Enterprises, Inc.
"ON THE ORIGINS OF THE INTERPRETATION OF DREAM-LIKE STATES"
by Professor Sigmund Voyde
I awoke with a sudden start, which caused me to jerk my head up from
the bed violently, precipitating a painful jar against the bust of
Moses hanging over my bed. "Fuck!" I screamed. As the blood ran down
my face onto my semen-stained blankets, I reached for a Handi-Wipe and
suddenly remembered the dream that had caused me to awake so suddenly.
In the dream, a man who I believe was myself sat on a hard bench in a
train station. It was late at night, and there were few people in the
station, mostly queers cruising for security guards that were changing
shifts and dressing in the bathrooms. A rank odor of semen and urine
permeated the station. An effeminate homosexual with lipstick smeared
across his mouth and half his face walked by, trailing droplets of
mucoid fluid on the floor from the bottom of his brightly colored
polyester pant-leg. It had no effect on the man/me. He was bored,
miserable and beyond erotic impulses. Besides, the man had
masturbated seventeen times in the last twenty four hours. It would
be at least another ten to fifteen minutes before he felt horny,
Time passed slowly, each tick of the great station clock representing
another eternity of limp-dicked waiting. For what? I, the man, did
not know. It was early in the evening, and the station grew colder as
time wore on. The man shivered and huddled into his coat, under which
he wore nothing but a jockstrap and a cockring. And a butt-plug. And
nipple clamps. And a condom. Better safe than sorry. Although the
advent of AIDS was nearly 80 years in the future, he had already
decided to play safe when masturbating in public.
After what seemed like hours, but was only minutes, the man slumped
over and fell asleep.
What was the meaning of this dream? I wondered as I toweled the fresh
blood and dried semen from the night before off my face and chest. I
looked at the leering grin of Moses over the bed, my blood hanging in
a coagulating stream from his chin. He looked like a gargoyle who had
sucked my cock and received an ejaculation incarnadine for his
trouble. "Old devil", I laughed to myself, "as if you'd ever had the
satisfaction." I masturbated to orgasm three times before dressing
without a shower. I'd showered last week for the first time in
months, and a cockroach had been found on my kitchen sink later that
day. I had resolved then to shower less often.
My dream about the train station still puzzling me, I snorted a
half-ounce of uncut pharmaceutical cocaine and prepared to see the
first of my eight victims and tormentors, combined. My patients. I
had so many great thoughts, so many writing projects, so many assholes
to destroy and have my revenge upon. It was grotesquely unfair that I
had to earn a living by seeing patients like other psychiatrists.
Fucking world of philistine cocksuckers, couldn't they see I'm a great
man who should not have to work? Shit.
My first patient, Emma Weiss, showed up promptly on time. It was
10:00 a.m., and I was desperately in need of more cocaine. I snorted
another half-ounce, injected another 1500 cc's, and gave Emma two big
fat lines to get her ready for her session of free-association
cocksucking. I drank coffee and absinthe and smoked a cigar as she
bared her breasts and dropped to her knees. Suddenly, I was pissed.
"BITCH!", I screamed as I jerked her bodice back up over her fleshy
globes. "Stop reminding me that you're a woman!" I impressed the
lesson upon her by whipping her across the face with my razorstrap.
She mumbled something I took for an apology as she sucked eagerly, the
paint-peeling odor from my crotch arousing her to a fever pitch.
"Jesus!" I thought as I ejaculated, "good sex is hard to find."
After Emma left, I ordered my sister-in-law, Minna, into the therapy
room and spanked her ass with a braided rope to drum up some
inspiration for my work on the neurological mechanisms of
sadomasochism, but my heart just wasn't in it. I called in my
daughter, Anna, and ordered her and Minna to whip each other while I
tried to think. Anna asked me if my departed patient, Emma, had
satisfied me properly, and did I need another blowjob? Just like a
fucking woman, always trying to anticipate your needs and desires.
It's fucking sick, man. I should know, I'm a doctor.
I abruptly ordered them to cancel my remaining appointments and charge
the patients double. Grabbing my overcoat and wrapping it around my
body tightly with leather cords, I left the house in search of kicks.
First, I wandered around aimlessly, riding buses and taking a taxi to
the Vienna suburbs, where I found myself completely lost with no idea
how to get home. I started to feel more comfortable, at last, despite
the painful swelling of my prostate. Over two hours since I had
ejaculated. This cutting down on sex wasn't doing me a fucking bit of
good. A man could develop a neurosis, this way. Hmm, perhaps another
Great Theory a-borning? I resolved to work it out later, with Minna
and Anna to help me while my wife watched, tied to a nail-studded
chair, as usual. Quite inspirational.
Right after that thought, I saw my friend Freidrich Neitszche walk by
across the street, going the opposite direction. I thought of asking
him if I could suck his cock, but he gave me the finger and yelled,
"Plagiarizing bastard Jew scum!" After all the Jewish doctor's
reputations I had usurped and ruined, the man still yelled that! I
resolved to never go down on him, again, even if he were spectacularly
well-hung for such a little guy. The cocaine was wearing off, and I
suddenly felt depressed. As Freidrich disappeared around a corner, I
resolved to kill him and steal ALL his ideas, not just some of them,
as I had already done. The thoughts of plagiarism and other people's
ideas prompted me to go over to Fliess' house, where he was in the
fortuitous habit of leaving unfinished manuscripts laying open on his
desk. I hailed a cab and ordered him to find the location.
By the time I got to Wilhelm Fliess' home, it was late afternoon. I
barged in without knocking into a therapy session with Fliess and two
of his patients, boy and girl adolescents who were engaged in a 69'er
while Fliess pounded on his Smith-Corona with a manic intensity. "My
dear Dr. Voyde", he shouted over their noisy love-making and the
incessant clacking of keys, "I'm so glad you've come!"
"Nah", said I, "just breathing hard!"
We laughed over our oft-repeated little joke as he laid out some coke
and I fingered the boy's butthole.
"I'm working on my theory of universal bisexuality," Wilhelm told me
as we did up the cocaine and drank absinthe. "Fantastic!" I thought,
"more ideas to steal. Fliess is a fucking goldmine!"
We then ushered out the two grateful teenagers as we got naked
together and began attaching spiked metal devices to our bodies. Just
then, Sherlock Holmes and Josef Breuer, my former collaborator and
mentor, walked in together. Holmes immediately grabbed up a handful
of syringes from Fliess' open medicine cabinet, while Breuer took in
the scene, hands on hips and glaring menacingly.
"Still the reprobate, eh, DOCTOR Voyde," he sneered. "I still say
you're a clear-cut case of moral insanity, and this proves it. I saw
the two kids leaving. What did you do to them that had them smiling
and giggling like that?"
"Nothing you wouldn't have done if you weren't such a fucking prude!"
I rejoindered as I picked up a letter-opener from Fliess' desk.
Holmes pushed another needle into his penis and groaned with delight.
Fliess shoved a giant rubber dildo up his ass as Breuer took a seat
and watched, his eyes shining with poorly concealed delight. He
claimed to like women, but his glassy stare proved otherwise, the old
He continued to watch, perhaps not believing his eyes, as I slammed
the letter-opener into his heart. He died quickly, still sitting up
straight with his eyes open. It was an eerie sight, the remaining
three of us had to agree. Sherlock had used all the syringes in the
cabinet, before Fliess warned him about the ones loaded with arsenic
and cyanide. He and I laughed as Holmes died, too. The great
detective's farts and pissing his pants as he relaxed into death
caused Wilhelm and I to guffaw uncontrollably until we farted and
pissed on ourselves, also.
With tears of hilarity streaming down my face, I sucked Wilhelm's cock
until he came like wild dog, then I began to strangle him so I could
steal his manuscript on bisexuality. Perhaps it contained the teenage
boy's address and phone number. Before I succeeded in killing him,
however, I awoke from the dream, still sitting at the train station on
the unforgiving pew-like wooden bench. It was morning, the queers
were gone and the rush-hour trains were running. I resolved to find
Carl Jung and ask him for the meaning of all this as I left the
station. Perhaps he would make me wear panties and a bra, again!
Then, I would write a report on the progress of my research for Rev.
Stang, anxiously awaiting to hear from me in Dallas.
Copyfreely 1997 VoydeZone productions
Inspiration for this story came primarily from the book "Deadly Dr.
Freud", by Paul Scagnelli, Ph.D. Yes, it is a real book that you can
find and read.