Confessions of a Love Doctor

by By Sherry Amatenstein

In the sudden hush, I winced, then thought, “Mom wanted me to marry a doctor: I hope this will satisfy her.”

“Doctor” label aside, that escapade left me feeling queasy. Helping couples cope with possible infidelity could have infinitely more toxic consequences than advising women whether or not to pay on a first date—especially since Montel’s “aftercare” consisted of my delivering a five-minute post-taping consult in the dressing room.

I suggested that the couple seek therapy, then went home to write a column on “The Aretha Principle: Respect Your Relationship Enough to Treat Your Partner Right.” Readers responded appreciatively. (Phew.) I remained the relationship fairy, sprinkling good love advice around.

After Montel, I quit tabloid talk-TV, but did accept a Learning Annex request to host a seminar. I nixed their first idea, “How to Steal Another Woman’s Man” (integrity alert!), but signed on to lead “Picking Up Girls—For Men Only.”

Considering my tendency to hang in a corner at parties, too self-conscious to even smile, I was going to need balls to counsel 40 penis-owners on flirtation tactics. Channeling