The analysis of the psycho

This is just for the record. There's a new neologism, finally, sort-of, and we need to justify it by a fragment, yes, a fragment of some text where it appears, the neologism.

And here it is. Michael answered a anthology call for Jules Verne fan fiction with an erotic twist----nothing to do with the Green Eyes, so far, but he'll somehow manage that the

Analysis of the Psycho

will somehow appear on the pages of a forthcoming installment of the Green Eyes. 

For the time being, however, you have to do with a few paragraphs from our short story The Darker Side of Lunar Engineering.

Here goes:

(Hold on, let's explain...The call was for Jules Verne fan fiction with an erotic twist. So we're in Jules Verne's From the Earth to the Moon, and one of the main characters of that story, Michel Ardan, sets the record straight:) 

(Hold on, Michel Ardan managed to happen upon Dr. Sigmund Freud in the meantime, whom he has invited to Haussner's, a historic Baltimore restaurant (now closed), in the vicinity of the Baltimore Gun Club, the originator of the plan of a lunar voyage:)

We walked the twenty minutes to the restaurant, Freud still holding on to the pointer, and when we arrived thither he knew everything about my mother, father, penis, gardener Hérault, Hérault’s penis, and (my) refractory period (the minimal lapse time between two male ejaculations—Freud made appreciative noises).

“What is your problem, then,” he asked while we were being seated (he had deposited the pointer in the corner) at yesterday’s table below Franklin’s portrait. “You have no need for sexual amnesty.” So I explained about my crush on Barbicane—the flood-gates were open anyhow—interrupting myself only when the waiter approached or the lady at the next table adjusted her ear trumpet (which was often). During those intervals I learned that Freud had traveled hither in the footsteps of Oscar Wilde, the Irish poet who had built his career on the notoriety afforded him by a lecture tour across the New World. “I want to make a name for myself,” Freud said, “I have designs for a revolutionary theory of the human psyche based on sexuality. They are on the drawing board, my plans, but one day they shall bloom, and the analysis of the psycho shall rule the world.” As he said this his stare rose to the Franklin above us, and—you guessed right—the founding father returned the attention, impatient lips softening, eyes smiling, head cocking a bit. He even managed to effect a minor toss with his bad-hair-day hair, Franklin, I swear.

Freud, unimpressed, lowered his gaze back to me and resumed the conversation. “I am still in the exploratory phase of my work, but I can advise you that sexuality is not only fundamental, it is also malleable. The sex drive, libido I call it, is best compared to hunger, a faceless urge that will consume anything and everything when starved, like a ravenous beast. A ravenous beast.”

“We have supped well,” Freud continued after an introspective pause—his stare now directed at the empty plates of the afters course—“but we have not”—the stare wandering to the pointer in the corner which, under his attention, appeared to grow in girth and size—“we have not fucked for hours. Would you not say?”

I motioned the waiter and settled the bill.

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