Placida carefully pulled and peeled the beard from her chin, placing it reverently on the dresser; same with the mustache. The adhesive left a residue that was annoying, but at least she wasn’t allergic to it as she was to other adhesives. And she didn’t have to wear it every day; only when she had scheduled certain clients online. She gave herself three days off per week, and not all in a row, so her face had time to recover. What must it be like to actually GROW facial hair? That thought made her shudder with a strange delight. But since she’d been offering services on some websites as a MALE counselor, she was in demand. She could pick and choose. She’d researched the statistics, but she never expected to see such great results.
This new request she’d received— she’d have to ponder this one. “Edwina Campion, 33, seeking help with marital miscommunication.” The gal lived in East Tennessee. Placida was wary of Southerners. They could never come right out with the truth, especially the women. Well, that wasn’t fair; it had been a limited Dixieland sampling so far. Two men and three women. The men had been struggling with their homosexuality, and the women with disappointment. Life hadn’t brought the expected rewards.
Safely ensconced in New Haven, Connecticut, Placida spent her non-work time writing poetry and attending AA meetings with a mixture of grizzled townies and aging Yale alumni. She had been an ambitious Trinity graduate at one time, someone in-between, but at 56 no longer a mover and shaker in her field (she thought), but she considered herself an effective “healer,” to use the new-age jargon.
She was still single, and liked it. The beard was not a new thing; she had been into “cosplay” on occasion. Using the disguise for work, on the other hand, was innovative. Fortunately, her voice had always been rather deep; many of the men she knew had higher voices than hers. It worked out. No acting was required; people saw what they wanted in the persona she presented. SHE saw that when they encountered a man with a white beard offering a listening ear, the god-need kicked in. Instant transference. Easy rapport.
“Who are you, Edwina?” Placida wondered. “Why should I choose you over Sarah, Josh, or Thaddeus? I wish you’d sent your picture. Perhaps a get-to-know-you session, a trial session, would be the ticket? You’ve contacted me through “ReGrow,” so the male version it must be; that adds pressure, Edwina. This is an experiment, and you will be the experimented-upon, although you’ll never know. Your responses to the benevolent, or at least conventionally dominant, MAN will be called forth. Will I be able to help you in this guise?”
“Placido D. Halbert, MA” sent a link to Edwina Campion for an online meeting for the following evening at 7 pm. She was arrogantly assuming a conventional work schedule, and counting on Edwina’s eagerness, which she could almost feel through the email that Edwina had sent. Counseling was something like dating, Placida thought (and it wasn’t the first time she’d thought that).
— Macoff
This new request she’d received— she’d have to ponder this one. “Edwina Campion, 33, seeking help with marital miscommunication.” The gal lived in East Tennessee. Placida was wary of Southerners. They could never come right out with the truth, especially the women. Well, that wasn’t fair; it had been a limited Dixieland sampling so far. Two men and three women. The men had been struggling with their homosexuality, and the women with disappointment. Life hadn’t brought the expected rewards.
Safely ensconced in New Haven, Connecticut, Placida spent her non-work time writing poetry and attending AA meetings with a mixture of grizzled townies and aging Yale alumni. She had been an ambitious Trinity graduate at one time, someone in-between, but at 56 no longer a mover and shaker in her field (she thought), but she considered herself an effective “healer,” to use the new-age jargon.
She was still single, and liked it. The beard was not a new thing; she had been into “cosplay” on occasion. Using the disguise for work, on the other hand, was innovative. Fortunately, her voice had always been rather deep; many of the men she knew had higher voices than hers. It worked out. No acting was required; people saw what they wanted in the persona she presented. SHE saw that when they encountered a man with a white beard offering a listening ear, the god-need kicked in. Instant transference. Easy rapport.
“Who are you, Edwina?” Placida wondered. “Why should I choose you over Sarah, Josh, or Thaddeus? I wish you’d sent your picture. Perhaps a get-to-know-you session, a trial session, would be the ticket? You’ve contacted me through “ReGrow,” so the male version it must be; that adds pressure, Edwina. This is an experiment, and you will be the experimented-upon, although you’ll never know. Your responses to the benevolent, or at least conventionally dominant, MAN will be called forth. Will I be able to help you in this guise?”
“Placido D. Halbert, MA” sent a link to Edwina Campion for an online meeting for the following evening at 7 pm. She was arrogantly assuming a conventional work schedule, and counting on Edwina’s eagerness, which she could almost feel through the email that Edwina had sent. Counseling was something like dating, Placida thought (and it wasn’t the first time she’d thought that).
— Macoff
The thought plickens.
ReplyDeleteHAHA
Delete(lkai here) I am fascinated by your use of the prompts to add to a running story. (Ok, more In AWE) I'm trying to write one piece of short fiction but trying to string everything together. And you're completely changing the essence of a character to fit the next prompt. My hat is off to you.
ReplyDeleteSweet. I hope we get a copy of the link to listen in!
ReplyDelete