I gathered his basic biographical information and explained the basic guidelines for him in therapy. Now it's time to get down to business. "So, Stephan. Tell me why you think you're here."

"Why I think I'm here?" He wants to believe he's competent, that he knows why he's here. But that isn't worth arguing about, so he gives up on that and answers me. I've already started teaching him an important lesson. "I . . . um . . . I'm attracted to the female foot."

"So you have a foot fetish," I say bluntly.

He winces. He doesn't like hearing those words so openly. Really, he doesn't like thinking badly of himself in any way – men love having a huge ego. He hesitates.

I say soothingly, "You can admit it."

"Okay. Yeah." He decides not to argue with me about what I want to call it. But he would have just lost anyway. You're a pervert is what I wanted to say.

"That's a significant problem. It can destroy a marital relationship." I see him wince again. "Left untreated, it can lead to worse problems." The asshole nods like he knows, but he's just pretending, again playing his male ego game. What other problems would it lead to? It's just a foot fetish.

"I assume your wife sent you here."

"I, uh . . ." Men are such cliches. He doesn't like me saying his wife is controlling him. He wants me to think that he decided to come, that he's controlling his life. Actually when he was in control, he just masturbated to foot porn. He needs female control, I just have to make him weak enough to accept it.

"Your wife is the one most affected by this. She wants to be a real person, not be objectified. Especially as not just two feet. You have to learn to see her perspective on your disease."

"Well, yeah, sure." I win again, he didn't object to me calling it a disease. I can talk circles around this pervert; this almost feels too easy.

I change my sitting position, crossing my feet at the ankles. As expected, he immediately looks at my feet. I glare at him; he looks up at me, sees that I caught him, and feels guilty.

I say accusingly, "You describe being attracted to 'the female foot.' That includes an attraction to the feet of young girls." I'm accusing him of pedophilia.

I see the shock on his face. "No, no, of course not."

He was afraid to even think about it. He can't easily tell age on a foot, so it would be really difficult to him not to be attracted to underage females. Of course, most men, with their primitive visual attractions, have that problem. "Not at all? No pedophilia? Are you sure?"

"Of course." He sounds angry, but he's flushing.

"Good. I'd have to report that." That's one more worry for him. I'll come back to this issue if he ever feels like he's making progress.

When I received therapy as part of my graduate training, I carefully hid my hatred for men. I'm disgusted at everything about them, from their creepy balls to their hyper-inflated egos.

"Your condition can be treated, and you can be completely cured and live a normal life and be a normal husband. But that's only if you want that and work at it. So it's all up to you."

"I want that. Of course." Like he has any choice. Now that his wife knows he has a foot fetish, she'll scrutinize everything he does and never trust him again. And she has blackmail for any divorce settlement, which will probably happen now that she doesn't trust him and he's so vulnerable. So he's probably already screwed and this therapy is just the sharp pin in the wound.

"There are several treatment modalities. Obviously, you'll want aversion therapy."

"Uh, what's that?"

"We'll associate punishment with seeing a female foot. Electric shocks. Don't worry, they won't cause any permanent damage."

I see the uncertainty on his face. But I've already painted him into a corner and he already agreed to stay there – if this doesn't work, it's because he didn't try.

I turn my foot out a little, he looks down at it, and I imagine him receiving an electric jolt to his genitals. Of course, the electric shocks will just be to his arm, though his genitals would be more effective and appropriate.

"Is that really necessary?"

"What?" I use this opportunity to raise my voice at him. He winces. "Do you want to be treated? Or not?"

"Yes, of course I do. I'm totally committed."

"Good." He really has to do everything I say or get branded as not trying. What does he not understand about that? And when his treatment fails, he still gets the blame. His wife will see it that way too, and he'll have no defense.

Now I use my soothing voice. "You've admitted your problem. To me, and your wife knows. That's a first step. You're doing good." Good boy I want to say. "But it's just a first step. Now you have to accept treatment. Do you want to get better? Really want that?"

"Well, yes, of course." He tries to impress me with his sincerity, which I know is a lie – once a pervert, always a pervert.

"We'll also use stimulus withdrawal."

I see the blank look on his face. No matter what they say, men always assume they're smarter than a woman. He can see the PhD from Harvard hanging on my wall, and he still thinks he's smarter than me. It's just one more thing to hate about men. If I could accomplish just one thing in this therapy, I want him to know that every woman in the world has better judgment than him.

"Sorry for the fancy words, most people know them. The term stimulus withdrawal means withdrawing the stimulus that excites you. In your case, that would mean you won't view female feet. Or think about them." Except, when he goes on withdrawal, that's all he'll think about.

I uncross my feet. He looks down at them. Now he feels guilty just to look. That's progress. He looks up at me, already expecting my disapproval. That's progress too.

I say scoldingly, "How do you think that makes me feel? That you're looking at my feet and getting sexually excited? I feel violated. This is a therapy session, not playtime for you excite yourself. I'm trying to help you, and all you're interested in is a peep show."

I'm ripping his slimy maleness to shreds. Tonight, I'm going to remember this while I excite myself; I can already feel it. "Are you going to go home and masturbate to thoughts of my foot? How do you think that makes me feel?"

"Uh, I wasn't going to do that."

I want to say Yeah right – a pervert is a pervert. "But even if you don't, how do I feel assured of that? How can I, as a woman, feel comfortable sitting in this chair and talking to you, when I can see you leering at my foot and sexualizing me."

I HATE men leering at me. There's no way to stop it, they're all animals. Breasts, ass, legs, face, hair, mostly breast. And even feet for some unfortunate sickos. It's endless. But I can try to make them feel guilty. I can feel how vulnerable he is; his wife probably helped with that.

"You'll probably look up my picture on the internet to see if my feet are in it."

"I didn't know you had a picture on the internet." He didn't think of that. Now that idea will torture him until he looks, and then he'll feel guilty.

I say, as if I am intoning the word of God, "So anyway, that means no looking at any woman's feet."

I can see the worry on his face. I escalate. "Including your wife's feet."

"Uh . . . uh . . ."

"Yes?" I ask, demeaningly.

"I can't get, you know, hard, without seeing my wife's feet." He shrugs. He's humiliated to admit that. But he has to learn to tell me his feelings and not be protective.

"You can. You can think of the love you feel for her. You can think about sex, and excitement. Then when you have an orgasm without thinking about her feet, it'll get easier the next time. And easier the time after that."

Actually, when he fails, the next time just gets harder and harder. I demand, "Tell me about problems at work."

He looks puzzled. "I don't have any problems at work."

"Of course you do. You're not supposed to be looking at women's feet at work and sexualizing your fetish. You're bringing sex into the work place. Have you noticed the women in your office starting to wear shoes that completely cover their feet?" That should give him something to worry about, as if he doesn't have enough already. If he gets too much to worry about, he might just break down. That would be great.

"I'm not here about work."

"I have to treat all of your problem." Don't try to resist me, Stephan.

"Okay. Well, I never noticed any women where I work always wearing shoes that cover all of their feet."

"So you do notice their feet."

He waves his hand helplessly. We both know he's a pervert, he can't really deny it, but he still doesn't like admitting it.

"Do you ever think about rubbing your penis against your wife's feet and then dripping semen onto them?"

"No." But he's flushing and I can see his cock getting hard, which is disgusting. I want to start the electric shocks now. Zzzzt to his genitals. I imagine him bending over in pain and his erection disappearing.

I try to read him. Anyone with a halfway decent foot fetish is going to want that. Did he never think of doing that? I realize, I can make his fetish worse just by talking to him about it. "What about her rubbing your penis between her feet?"

He tries to talk and then just waves his hand. I think he didn't want to admit wanting them and decided it was pointless to deny it. So that was always part of his fantasy. It's something to tell his wife.

I take out my notepad as if I'm going to take notes. "Clean feet or dirty feet?"

I see a quick look of disgust when I mention dirty feet. "Clean."

"How clean? Freshly bathed? Perfumed?"

"A shower or bath, or I can bath them for her. No perfume or smell of soap. Just the smell of a clean foot. Her arching her clean foot."

Ahem. I did not ask for him to have a fantasy in my office. "That's interesting," I say sarcastically

He realizes what he just did. "Oh, sorry. Anyway, clean."

"Tell me how your wife discovered your problem."

I see him blanch. This is going to be really painful for him.

When he's done with that humiliating story, I direct him, "Tell me about the things that have sexually excited you in your life."

"Why do I need to –" I glare at him. "Starting when?" he whines.

"As far back as you remember."

I can feel him trying to resist. But he's lost every battle we've had, and I'm surely not going to let him win one now.

As he describes his sexual fantasies, I show interest, to draw him into telling me about them. Then I express my subtle disapproval. I want him to feel bad about everything he does. And I want him to feel helpless, because that makes him easier for me to change and easier for his wife to manage. So I want him to feel how I can make him tell me anything.

I look down and see that I took off my shoes. I don't remember doing that. It was cruel and pointless, and now it's my turn to be embarrassed. I quickly put them back on. That explains why he was working so hard not to look at my feet when he talked.

Stephan wants to keep his foot fetish. It gives him happiness, that's all the animal part of his brain knows. A fetish is a fetish, I've never seen one go away.

But I can treat the other problems of him being male. I want this to be a better world, and I want him to be a more useful male. Men should be using their strength for physical labor, not to be able to hold down a woman or molest her. Their confidence just gets in the way of learning how to behave properly.

I remember pinching our cat's tail -- he would be sleeping and then be howling and in so much pain. I knew it was wrong, but I just couldn't stop myself. I think that was my first interest in psychology and trying to understand the mysteries of why people want what they want.

Years later, I realized that I pinched his tail whenever I saw his shaft or balls.

Stephan makes me angry too. His balls making semen as we talk, his cock occasionally engorging with blood and becoming larger and harder. The incessant ego games, like pretending to be better than he is or that he has more control than he does. That he's stronger than me; that he thinks of me sexually because his sex drive never turns off. The testosterone, the hair on his face, the deeper and scarier voice, it just goes on and on, it's disgusting.

"It sounds like you have a lot of problems for us to work on, Stephan. Not just your foot fetish." He nods miserably.