Yield

by Ashling, Mickie B.

  Despite his simple appearance, Peter’s therapy came with a hefty price tag. Sami bristled at the unfairness of having to pay for treatment he should have received at no cost, having put his life on the line for his country, but he was tired of the long wait times and subpar selection at the VA. Having the wherewithal to seek better care didn’t make it right, but he had to get on with his life, and he would just as soon get it done quickly. He’d already wasted enough time.

  And now the appointment day was finally here, and Sami examined the tiny waiting room feeling underwhelmed. The furniture was comfortable but frayed in spots, magazines on the Lucite racks were months old, and the coffeemaker looked like it could use a good scrubbing, although, he had to admit the strong brew itself was pretty good. The selection of music piped out of speakers in the ceiling ranged from country to the top-one-hundred pop hits.

  Sami’s right leg bounced nervously. Spilling his guts to a complete stranger was inconsistent with the person he’d become since joining the army. Staying on top of any given situation, regardless of the provocation, had been integral to his success. To his mind, admitting he couldn’t cope felt like an epic fail. He hoped this doctor was equipped to handle whatever shit he threw his way. Could he explain his problems without sounding like a sociopath? He’d read enough literature on sadomasochistic relationships to know it wasn’t uncommon. People who got off administering pain and humiliation to a willing partner were part of the BDSM dynamic. Sami hadn’t labeled his brand of loving or joined a club, given his geographical constraints, but Ethan’s casual invitation to Heaven’s Gate had given him hope. Knowing there were accomplished men who shared his sexual predilections was a huge relief.

  What Sami hoped to resolve with Dr. McCauley’s help was his complete lack of empathy and the unmanageable situation with Jay. The escalating violence was disturbing as hell. He sank down in the comfortable bean chair opposite the doctor and waited expectantly.

  “Have you always wanted to be a soldier?” Peter asked.

  “No.” Sami’s tension eased slightly. This doctor sounded genuinely interested, and he couldn’t detect a whiff of condescension. “I wanted to be a journalist, but it went pear-shaped one sunny September morning.”

  “Are you referring to the 9/11 attack?”

  “Yeah. Our country had been cut off at the knees by a bunch of hateful zealots, and my desire for revenge influenced my decisions going forward.”

  “You enlisted right away?”

  Sami shook his head. “My parents insisted I go to college first, which turned out to be a good decision. After I enlisted as an officer candidate, the army realized I had an affinity for languages, and I was sent to the Defense Language Institute to learn Arabic, Pashto, Persian Farsi, and Afghan. I even picked up some Russian along the way.”

  “They intended to send you to Afghanistan?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you become an interrogator right away?”

  “No.”

  “When did you start noticing a change in your personality?”

  Sami wasn’t sure. Could it have been the first time he saw a buddy turn from a living, breathing thing to a lumpy mass of bloody flesh thanks to the Taliban fucks who’d boobytrapped their path with stolen US army-issue grenades? Or maybe it was the time he’d handed over a candy bar to an innocent-looking child who gobbled it up greedily before walking over to a crowded marketplace to blow himself up. The group of enlisted men and civilians caught in the blast had no idea death could come in the form of a cherubic smile. Those were the early days during his first tour.

  “I can’t pinpoint the month it began to happen. The longer I stayed, the more horror I experienced and the less I struggled with my conscience. Methods I would have shied away from in the past no longer made me pause. It was the end result that mattered. If my information could save one more American life or derail the enemy’s agenda, it was worth doing. Time flew by, and one tour bled into another with limited breaks in between. The constant diet of hate and treachery took its toll.”

  “Were you a sadist before you enlisted?”

  “Only in bed, and I wouldn’t call it hard core. I enjoyed dominance mixed in with a little pain. You know, spanking, bondage…the usual stuff. I’ve always liked rough sex, but now it’s more about the pain than the pleasure. You know what I mean?”

  Peter nodded thoughtfully. “Are you currently in a relationship?”

  “We haven’t labeled it, but yeah, I’m banging someone regularly.”

  “Are you concerned he might press charges?” Peter asked pointedly.

  “Are you kidding? Jay is a twisted pain slut. And that’s the problem. Every time we’re together, it turns into a…blood bath.”

  Peter’s eyebrows lifted. “So you’re into cutting and other forms of blood play?”

  “Yeah,” Sami said, feeling a little sick. Saying it out loud made it so much worse. “You need to help me get back to my old ways. When I could stop these crazy impulses. I’m not going to switch to vanilla, but Jay is a bona fide masochist, and I need to control the situation rather than have him take the wheel. He’s not capable of restraint.”

  “Perhaps a change of partner is in order?”

  Sami shrugged. “Probably so, but wouldn’t that be defeating the purpose? If I don’t learn moderation, regardless of my partner, I’ll never be at peace with what I do.”

  “Self-control is vital given your need to draw blood and leave bruises. It’s okay to have a sadomasochistic relationship with a consenting partner, but there is a right and wrong way to do this.”

  “I didn’t ask earlier, but how do you know Ethan? Are you in the lifestyle?”

  Peter nodded. “I’m a Dom.”

  “Thank fuck!” Sami exclaimed. “So you get me.”

  “I understand a part of the problem. Your time in the Middle East has resulted in a severe case of PTSD. You say you’ve lost your humanity, but I beg to disagree. You’ve seen too much of it—especially in its lowest form. Mentally checking out is your way of coping with the horror. Were the people you interrogated that extreme?”

  “Yes,” Sami said emphatically. “When you’re fighting a holy war—a jihad—death is a fucking reward, not a punishment. Those people are impervious to most forms of physical torture because they have a clear vision of what lies ahead.”

  “I would think they’d feel pain like any normal man,” Peter remarked.

  “You’re wrong. Warriors who die in defense of Islam have a fast pass to paradise. They don’t have to wait until their precious Allah raises all people to be judged. The key to unlock their secrets is to use their own religion against them.”

  “Such as?”

  “Degrading their holy objects,” Sami said nonchalantly. “One asshole gave up a strategic location after I threatened to pee on the Quran.”

  Peter frowned. “I can see how that would disturb a religious man.”

  “Freaked him the fuck out. Another guy broke after I burned the same Quran along with his prayer rug.”

  “That’s disgusting,” Peter said.

  “But effective. These people don’t follow the Geneva conventions. The only time they give our soldiers an honorable death—and I say that with a grain of salt, because lopping off someone’s head with a dirty scimitar is degrading as hell—is when the camera’s pointing in their direction. Their usual form of entertainment is to dream up new ways to make us suffer. Your hair would fall out if you had to watch someone be skinned alive. Or buried naked up to the neck while their head is used for target practice. Their ability to create the most excruciating death is legendary. I tried getting physical until I realized it was pointless. Mind games work much better. Forcing them to defile something they considered most holy got results. The next guy I interrogated sang like a nightingale.”

  “We’re supposed to be better than that.”

  “Tell that to the thousands of Americans who’ve died at their hands. Do you think we should give them a p
ass because they’re using religion as an excuse to exterminate anything in their path?”

  “You realize you’ve been dealing with a small minority of extremists. Most people who practice Islam are honorable men and women who would do no harm.”

  “I haven’t met any of them.”

  “Would you be interested in speaking to a member of the Muslim community?”

  Sami felt his blood run cold. “Are you one of them?”

  “No,” Peter replied. “But, unlike you, I don’t allow a few bad apples to tarnish a crop.”

  “Doc, come on,” Sami sneered. “We’re talking orchards of crazies. Not a few bad apples.”

  “It still doesn’t justify your virulent hatred.”

  “I’m not here to convert.”

  “No, but a better understanding of Islam might temper some of your negative feelings. We need to work on that.”

  “Whatever. Did I mention the guy I’m banging is a Catholic priest?”

  Peter leaned forward. “Is this your way of changing the subject?”

  “No, but you seem hung up on religion, and I thought it might be relevant. He wants to give it up.”

  “For you?”

  “Nah. He was conflicted before we even met.”

  “Your hard-core masochist is a priest in crisis?”

  “Yes.”

  “Interesting,” Peter mused.

  “Why?”

  “I’m not sure,” Peter stated. “Honestly, I won’t know until we spend more time together. I find your distaste for religion, and I’m including Catholics now that I know about your friend, especially meaningful. Don’t you believe in God?”

  “Hell no.”

  “Are your parents churchgoers?”

  “Sure.”

  “They didn’t force you to participate?”

  “I stopped believing after 9/11.”

  Peter nodded. “Many turned away from their faith after the attacks, but an equal amount of people found solace within their religious communities.”

  “You can put me in the first category.”

  “How do you feel about hypnosis?”

  “I won’t do it.”

  “Why?”

  “Control issues.”

  “Hypnosis is neither mind control nor a strategy for the weak-willed. As an adjunctive technique, it can be integrated into other more conventional behavioral therapies.”

  “In what way?”

  “A hypnotized person enters an extremely alert state, allowing one to process information in a manner entirely different from how they’d normally work things out. I’ve found it effective with deep-seated issues such as PTSD.”

  “What if I’m not hypnotizable?”

  “I’ll know right away.”

  “I guess it’s worth a try,” Sami agreed reluctantly.

  “In my experience, hypnotic strategies will start working after a few sessions. If they don’t, we’ll try behavior modification therapy.”

  “You want to start today?”

  “I’m afraid we’re out of time. I’ll need the full hour.”

  “How often do you want to see me?”

  “Twice a week for a month,” Peter replied. “Then we can taper off.”

  “Am I that fucked up?”

  “No more than a lot of my patients,” Peter said, taking Sami by the arm and heading toward the exit. “I believe I can help if you keep an open mind.”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  Peter paused to push up his glasses, which had slipped down his straight nose. It was a repetitive movement Sami had noticed at the beginning of the appointment. He didn’t know if it was a habit or some sort of tell, but he’d find out soon enough. Attention to detail was another component to Sami’s success.

  “See you in a few days,” Peter said, stretching out a hand.

  Sami shook it and murmured his thanks.

  Chapter 21

  Since informing my superiors that I was leaving the priesthood, I had to endure several unproductive conversations on why I should reconsider. In my opinion, the time for discussion, reflection, and prayer had long since passed. There was nothing positive to be gained by my continued presence in an institution enforcing celibacy. This hostile environment would end up killing me.

  Speed was uppermost on my mind, and the sooner I packed my meager belongings, the better. Upon entering the priesthood, I’d taken a vow of poverty. This was intended to thwart a basic human need to accumulate worldly goods and power. In essence, it was a vow of dependence. I looked to my superiors for everything from toothpaste to bus fare. There was no secret stash of money I could draw from. I was broke, and calling my parents for a handout wasn’t an option. They were in an assisted-living community and couldn’t spare a dime.

  I left the parish with sixty dollars in my wallet and a small bag of clothes. At the last minute, I grabbed the rosary and bible I kept beside my pillow. According to Rino, walking away didn’t necessarily mean cutting off ties with God. I had to find another way to reconnect with my faith and still live an authentic life. It would help to have familiar sources of comfort close at hand.

  Father Spencer embraced me when I stopped by his church to let him know I’d made the leap. Ever the voice of reason, he asked if I had a place to stay.

  “I’ve got an apartment until the end of the month.”

  “What about money?”

  I shrugged. “Some.”

  “How much?”

  “Sixty bucks.”

  He grumbled in disapproval, dug into his pocket, and pulled out a bunch of crumpled twenties. “Take this for now.”

  I pushed his hand away, but he glared and shoved the money into my shirt pocket. “Don’t be a fool. You’ll have to eat, and I’m happy to loan you the money until you get a job.”

  “As long as you let me pay you back.”

  He waved me away dismissively. “Come back after you’re settled and we’ll talk.”

  “Thank you, Father.”

  He hugged me again, and the small gesture left me teary-eyed. From the moment I’d announced my decision to leave the priesthood, most people in the parish had treated me like a traitor, steering clear of me like I had some contagious disease. Father Spencer’s touch was as comforting as a fuzzy blanket.

  My afternoon trek to his church became a part of our daily routine. Conversations ranged from the practical tutorial on survival, to filling the gaping hole left by a lost career and a part-time lover. I’d been running on adrenaline this past week, but now that I’d breached the mental and physical walls, I found myself floundering. Fear of falling into self-destructive patterns pushed me into revealing a secret side of my psyche to a man who’d already provided me with so much support.

  At our initial meeting, I’d touched on some of these topics, but I’d skirted the truth. Now my life was an open book and I had nothing to fear. We talked about my miserable childhood in depth, and the guilt associated with any sexual act.

  “I’m a masochist,” I blurted, waiting for a frown of disapproval, but it didn’t come. What I got instead was understanding and food for thought.

  “Without a slew of psychological tests,” Father Spencer began, “it’s hard to say if your compulsion comes from self-loathing or a longing to abide by canonical rules. There are many priests and nuns who self-harm as a form of punishment for daring to act on their impure thoughts.”

  “An ineffective tool that only causes more mental anguish,” I acknowledged. “My body continues to crave release despite my best efforts.”

  “You’re a healthy man,” Father Spencer said. “Nothing surprising there.”

  “And now you know I’m gay.”

  He cleared his throat. “Have you always known?”

  “Since I hit puberty, but it got buried in the mental closet, along with other needs.”

  “There is empirical evidence that a large number of priests are gay and your Jesuits aren’t immune to this phenomenon.”

  “No way.
”

  “Way,” Father Spencer insisted. “You’ve been so terrified of your own feelings, you can’t see anything else. Take off those blinders and have a good look. You might be surprised at the results.”

  “No one has ever hit on me.”

  “Perhaps you’re unreceptive to other clergy and they’re afraid of being rejected or exposed.”

  “It never occurred to me.”

  “My dear boy,” Father Spencer said gently. “You’re not as unique as you might think. Did you enter the seminary right after high school?”

  I nodded.

  “Then you had no time to explore other options. You volunteered for God’s service with a healthy sexual appetite and no outlet.”

  Where was Father Spencer when I was eighteen? “Do you know any gay Jesuits?”

  “I know several.”

  “Why are they still in the priesthood?”

  “A multitude of reasons. Not everyone is brave enough to admit it out loud and face the repercussions. I’m not here to bash the Society of Jesus. They’ve been in existence since the fifteenth century and have done more good than bad. But you should be aware that many stay in the order because they’re living the good life with access to so much they’d never get on their own. The latest technology, top positions in colleges and universities, perks that include luxury homes, travel vouchers, and gas cards. All worldly goods continue to flow if you’re a member in good standing.”

  “That is wrong on every level.”

  “I’m not making excuses for them, just stating facts. I know a couple who have been lovers for years.”

  “They’re still priests?”

  “Yes.”

  “You mean I could have stayed and lived a double life?”

  “If that’s what you want.”

  For the first time since we’d met, I sensed a note of disapproval. “You’re not making this up, are you?”

  “Not at all. Most people in the know are aware of the gay men among the clergy, but you’ve been living in some kind of self-imposed bubble. Stop beating yourself up. In my estimation, you’re far more worthy of God’s mercy than closeted priests who are chronic sinners. They use confession the same way people use the day-after pill. I would rather deal with honest failure and all it entails than listen to endless excuses from men without the balls to stand up for their beliefs.”