All language subtitles for Fixing Frank 2002 tubi

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.”