This is a Nude Day contest story. Please vote.
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Locked away in an asylum since Nude Day, a man has a breakthrough.
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"Nude Day. Nude Day. Every day is Nude Day. Nude Day. Nude Day. Every day is Nude Day."
"Hi, I'm Doctor--"
"I know who you are," said the patient sitting on the couch in front of the doctor's chair and looking insanely angry. "Just because I'm crazy, I'm not stupid. I've seen you around. I can't help but see you around," he said spitting out the words with a shrug, before blurting out a loud laugh longer than necessary. "I live here," he said laughing again, only this time even more annoyingly louder.
"Tell me, Timmy," said the doctor. "May I call you Timmy?"
"Of course, that's my name, my name is Timothy, but I'd prefer Tim to Timmy, if you don't mind. Timmy sounds too much like the main character in an old Lassie episode."
"I see," said the doctor casting his eyes down to look over his notes. "It says here that you lived in Miami, after coming to the United States from Cuba."
"No."
"No, what?"
"I lived in South Beach, not Miami. You probably think I'm from Miami because I root for the Miami teams, the Heat and the Dolphins."
"Oh, to be honest, I didn't know anyone lived in South Beach. I thought it was, well...just a beach."
"Yeah, well, there is a community called South Beach, but I was homeless. I actually lived on South beach."
"I see," said the doctor. "And it says here that you're problems started on Nude Day over" withholding a laugh, but unable to hide his smile, the doctor had difficulty finishing his sentence "a woman?"
"Yes, it all started over Cinderella. She was my girlfriend and I loved her deeply. And she loved me, too. We were made for one another," said Tim looking at the doctor with a sad smile. "With her long blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and perfectly sculpted body, she looked just like a real walking and talking Barbie doll."
"I see," said the doctor making eye contact. "Cinderella? That's an unusual name. Did you give that name to her or did she come here from China with that name?"
"China? How dare you? Cinderella was as American as I am or, well, as you are." Tim looked at the doctor with the look of a madman. "Don't pander me, Doctor. Sarcasm doesn't suit your professionalism nor does it put you in my good graces, especially when you besmirch the name of my woman."
"I'm sorry. I meant no offense," said the doctor hiding another laugh. "Tell me, Timmy, how long have you been here?"
"Tim."
"Pardon?"
"I'd rather you call me Tim than Timmy, if you don't mind."
"Sorry. Of course. How long have you been here, Tim?"
"You know how long I've been here, Doctor; it's in your report or is this just a test of my sanity."
"According to my records, you've been here for thirty years."
"Yes. That's correct."
The doctor looked intently at the man. Easily he was 60-years-old but, with his white hair, dark skin, and having the lean and wrinkled body of an old man, looking so much like how one would imagine Santiago to look in Hemingway's Old Man and the Sea, he looked much older. Not appearing very healthy, the drabness of the hospital environment added to his unhealthy appearance.
"It says here that you write," said the doctor looking down to read from his notes.
"Yes."
"Fascinating," said the doctor looking up and over his glasses. "I would love to read some what you have written. What do you write?"
"Stories. I write stories," said Tim putting his head down, as if he was lost in thought and, perhaps, thinking about a story he had written, was writing, or was going to write.
"What kind of stories?"
"If you don't mind, doctor, I don't want to talk about my stories with you."
"Why not?"
"They're private," said Tim looking up at the doctor with a face full of defiance.
"Private?" The doctor looked around the room. "Tim, need I remind you that you're in a mental institution and nothing here is private, not even your bodily secretions," said the Doctor with smugness. "The only real privacy you have is what you say and do in this room during our session."
"Tell me about it," said Tim. "It's a sad day, when I can't even masturbate without the nurse coming by my room and telling me to stop that. How dare she? It's my body. I'm not a child."
"I see," said the doctor making a note before eying his patient with a long stare. "How often do you masturbate?"
"Every day, multiple times a day."
"What do you think about when masturbating?"
"What do I think about?" Giving the doctor a look, as if wanting to say, none of your business, the patient eyed the doctor, as if he were the madman. "I think about fucking your mother. Yeah, I think about stripping your mother naked, removing her bra and panties, and touching her in all the places you fantasize of touching her to make your Mommy groan."
"I see," said the doctor scribbling a note. "What else do you fantasize about, when masturbating?"
"With a hand to the back of her head, I think about your hot, blonde wife on her knees in front of me and in between my legs sucking my cock, while I hump her mouth and fuck her face. Then, just as I'm about to shoot my load, I think about cumming in your wife's mouth and her swallowing me."
"I see," said the doctor scribbling another note. "Is that all you think about when masturbating, my mother and my wife?"
"No, that's not all. I think about bending your daughter over, lifting up her skirt, pulling down her panties, and sticking my big, hard cock up your her round, soft ass and fucking her, while squeezing her big tits and fingering her nipples."
"I see," said the doctor. "So, is that it? You write what you masturbate over? And you only write fiction?" The doctor smiled victoriously.
"Why do you say that?" Tim looked at the doctor with annoyance.
"Why did I say what, Tim?"
"Why did you say that I only write what I masturbate over and that I only write fiction."
"Because we've all seen your penis, Tim. You don't have a big, hard cock. As if your penis is a sudden comma, an abbreviation, and an afterthought, after a pause, it's barely there and hardly noticeable," said the doctor smiling his indifference.
"Asshole."
"Let's start over, shall we?"
"Okay. I'm sorry that I called you an asshole, asshole."
"Help me to understand," said the doctor ignoring Tim's hostility. "Tell me then--"
"Understand what? Tim looked agitatedly impatient. "Tell you what?"
"If your stories are so private, then why do you ask the nurse's permission to use the computer, so that you can post them on Literotica for so many people to read?"
"I like receiving feedback," suddenly acting defensive. "The feedback to my stories is the only contact that I have with the outside world. Besides, it gives me something to do the rest of the week."
"What do you mean, it gives you something to do?"
"I have a program that I can vote for myself, leave comments and unduly raise the number of my hits by hundreds of thousands," said Tim with a wild eye crazy smile on his face, while incessantly pounding his index finger on the arm of the chair, as if he was voting for his story over and again.
"Contact? Did you seriously say contact?" Peering over his glasses, the doctor gave him another long stare. "You call causing trouble and calling everyone names on the forum boards contact?"