Finally, after the fourth thud,everybody started laughing. It was a rare moment of levity at Talbot Marsh, a moment between guys, a moment between Martians, where the normal societal niceties could be stripped away, where homophobia could be entirely ignored, and men could be just that: men! I had a fine workout that afternoon, and the rest of the day passed uneventfully.

The following day, just after lunch, I was sitting in an astonishingly boring group therapy session. My counselor strolled in, asking to see me.

I couldn’t have been happier—until two minutes later, when we were sitting in her small office and she cocked her head to the side at a very shrewd angle and said, using the tone of the Grand Inquisitor, “So, how are you, Jordan?”

I turned the corners of my mouth down and shrugged. “I’m okay, I guess.”

She smiled warily and asked, “Have you been having any urges lately?”

“No, not at all,” I said. “On a scale of one to ten, I would say my urge to do drugs is a zero. Maybe even less than that.”

“Oh, that’s very good, Jordan. Very, very good.”

What the fuck? I knew I was missing something here. “Um, I’m a bit confused. Did someone tell you that I was thinking about using drugs?”

“No, no,” she said, shaking her head. “It has nothing to do with that. I’m just wondering if you’ve had any other urges lately, anything other than drugs.”

I searched my short-term memory for urges but came up blank, other than the obvious urge to bolt out of this place and go home to the Duchess and fuck her brains out for a month straight. “No, I haven’t had any urges. I mean, I miss my wife and everything and I’d like to go home and be with her, but that’s about it.”

She pursed her lips and nodded her head slowly, then she said, “Have you been having urges to expose yourself in public?”

“What?” I snapped. “What are you talking about? What do you think, I’m a flasher or something?” I shook my head in contempt.

“Well,” she said gravely, “I received three written complaints today, from three separate patients, and they all say you exposed yourself to them—that you pulled down your shorts and masturbated in their presence.”

“That’s a complete load of crap,” I sputtered. “I wasn’t jerking off, for Chrissake. I just yanked on it a few times and slapped it against my stomach so we could all hear the sound. That’s all. What’s the big deal about that? Where I come from, a little bit of nudity between men isn’t anything to write home about.” I shook my head. “I was just fucking around. I’ve had an erection since I got to this place. I guess my dick is finally waking up from all the drugs. But since it seems to bother everyone so much, I’ll keep the snake in its cage for the next few weeks. No big deal.”

She nodded. “Well, you have to understand that you traumatized some of the other patients. Their recoveries are very fragile at this point, and any sudden shock could send them back to using.”

“Did you just say traumatized? Give me a fucking break! Don’t you think that’s a bit extreme? I mean…Jesus! These are grown men we’re talking about! How could they have been traumatized by the sight of my dick, unless, of course, one of them wants to suck on it. You think that might be it?”

She shrugged. “I couldn’t say.”

“Well, I’ll tell you that no one in that car was traumatized. It was a moment between guys, that’s all. The only reason they ratted me out was because they want to prove to the staff that they’re cured or rehabilitated or whatever. Anything it takes to get their fucking licenses back, right?”

She nodded. “Obviously.”

“Oh, so you know that?”

“Yes, of course I know that. And the fact that they all reported you makes me seriously question the status of their own recoveries.” She smiled the smile of no hard feelings. “Either way, it doesn’t change the fact that your behavior was inappropriate.”

“Whatever,” I muttered. “It won’t happen again.”

“Fair enough,” she said, handing me a sheet of paper with some typing on it. “I just need you to sign this behavioral contract. All it says is that you agree not to expose yourself in public again.” She handed me a pen.

“You’re shitting me!”

She shook her head no. I started laughing as I read the contract. It was only a few lines, and it said just what she’d indicated. I shrugged and signed it, then rose from my chair and headed for the door. “Is that it?” I snapped. “Case closed?”

“Yes, case closed.”

As I headed back to my therapy session, I had this strange feeling that it wasn’t. These Talbot Martians were a strange lot.

The next day it was time for another roundtable discussion. Once more, all hundred five Martians and a dozen or so staff members sat in a great circle in the auditorium. Doug Talbot, I noticed, was conspicuously absent.

So I closed my eyes and prepared for the drizzle. After ten or fifteen minutes I was soaking wet and half asleep, when I heard: “…Jordan Belfort, who most of you know.”

I looked up. My therapist had taken over the meeting at some point, and now she was talking about me. Why? I wondered.

“So rather than having a guest speaker today,” continued my therapist, “I think it would be more productive if Jordan shared with the group what happened.” She paused and looked in my direction. “Would you be kind enough to share, Jordan?”

I looked around the room at all the Martians staring at me, including Shirley Temple with her wonderful blond curls. I was still a bit confused as to what my therapist wanted me to say, although I had a sneaky suspicion that it had something to do with me being a sexual deviant.

I leaned forward in my seat, stared at my therapist, and shrugged. “I have no problem talking to the group,” I said, “but what is it that you want me to say? I have lots of stories. Why don’t you pick one?”

With that, all hundred five Martians turned their Martian heads toward my therapist. It looked like the two of us were engaged in a tennis match. “Well,” she said therapeutically, “you’re free to talk about whatever you want in this room. It’s a very safe place. But why don’t you start with what happened in the car the other day, on the way to the gym?”

The Martians turned their heads back to me. Through laughter, I said, “You’re kidding me, right?”

Now the Martians looked back at my therapist…who pursed her lips and shook her head, as if to say, “Nope, I’m dead serious!”

How ironic, I thought. My therapist was giving me center stage. How glorious! The Wolf—back in action! I loved it. The fact that the room was half females made it all the better. The SEC had taken away my ability to stand before the crowd and speak my piece, and now my therapist had been kind enough to restore that power to me. I would put on a show the Martians would never forget!

I nodded and smiled at my therapist. “Is it okay if I stand in the middle of the room and talk? I think better when I’m moving.”

A hundred five Martian heads turned back to my therapist. “Please, feel free.”

I walked to the center of the room and stared into the eyes of Shirley Temple. “Hi, everybody! My name is Jordan, and I’m an alcoholic and a drug addict and a sexual deviant.”

“Hi, Jordan!” came the hearty response, accompanied by a few chuckles. Shirley Temple, however, had turned beet-red. I had been staring right into her enormous blue eyes when I’d referred to myself as a sexual deviant.

I said, “Anyway, I’m really not much for talking in front of crowds, but I’ll try my best. Okay, where should I begin? Oh, my erections—yes, that’s the most appropriate place, I guess. Here’s the root of the problem. I spent the last ten years of my life with my dick in a state of seminarcosis as a result of all the drugs I was doing. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t impotent or anything like that, although I will admit that there were about a thousand or so times I couldn’t get it up because of all the coke and Ludes.”