by Nikki Sex
We come to a wooden bench and Grant gestures for me to sit down. Thank God for small favors! However, now I’m stuck figuring out what to say.
These are tricky questions.
My job today isn’t to question Grant. I’m supposed to let him be in charge and do exactly as he wants. I didn’t consider he’d ask about my life.
Our time together isn’t supposed to be about me, it’s supposed to be about Grant becoming more at ease. However, this might help him do just that. Talking about me would probably help him relax. The spotlight wouldn't be on him, so it might alleviate some pressure.
Yet my screwed up, uber-dysfunctional family and past are intensely emotionally charged subjects. I don’t want to screw him up with the story of my life, and I don’t want to get into it—not right now anyway. What shall I tell him? How shall I answer?
For a long moment, my thoughts return to André, who insists that lies ruin relationships. “Deceit is a barrier to intimacy,” he’s warned me again and again.
André contends even the smallest white lies are unnecessary and destructive. When a person lies, they become accustomed to deceit. The habit of “stretching the truth” or of telling “minor” falsehoods creep into a person’s life. Lying is soon second nature, until such “small” untruths become casual and effortless.
And then, small lies become bigger.
“You ask, how do I know? I have made these mistakes myself, and oh, how I have paid for them!” André warned me. “Do not fall for such foolishness.”
“Better to be silent, than to lie,” he says. “This is important with a client. It is better for a person to suffer pain from hearing the truth, than to have confidence destroyed by a loved one. How do you feel when you discover someone has lied to you? When you find they have been false? The trust you once had—it is lost forever, no?”
Of course, I couldn’t argue with that. “But how should a husband answer when his wife asks, ‘Do I look fat in this dress?’” I ask.
“The husband may reply that the dress is too small, and they must immediately buy her a larger one,” he said. “But what are the woman’s motivations behind her question? Is she asking how she looks, or does she have body issues? Perhaps what she really needs is reassurance that she is loved and desired.”
André says these awkward moments in life create opportunities for dialogue. Honest communication is the foundation of a relationship. When better to be absolutely forthright, than with a person you care for?
I care for Grant and he’s a client. I have to tell him the truth.
How shall I answer?
I inhale a deep breath and tell him the shortest version of my family and my past I can. “My father’s in jail for life, my mom and baby brother are dead. When I was young I lived on the street with my best friend, Jamie.”
I tell Grant we shared a makeshift cardboard box and one morning, when I woke up, Jamie was dead. He had a congenital heart condition neither of us knew about. I explain how I was pretty messed up and I totally lost it, ending up in a mental institution. I tell him André saved me.
Grant looks at me with strong interest, or perhaps concern. He listens intently, his gaze never leaving my face.
He isn’t nervous anymore. He’s so absorbed in my story—I think it’s pulled him completely out of his head and his own problems.
For once, his dark secrets and demons are forgotten.
I brace myself, afraid of what he’ll ask next. I can’t think of any easy questions. ‘How did your brother die?’ would be a toughie. Or, ‘Why is your dad in jail?’ That would be another.
With forced calm, I meet his gaze and wait, determined to do my job. I give myself some quick mental advice. Something that might help me deal with whatever he says next.
Focus on him. Be in the present. Be the counselor. It’s not about you.
Grant’s turned towards me now, looking at me square in the face. He’s completely attentive. For once, he isn’t trying to hide his scars—he’s momentarily forgotten about them. He heard what I said. As is typical with Grant, he takes his time before speaking, considering his response.
I study him, taking his measure. He seems to be processing what I've shared. Grant’s considering what to say next, but not in an introverted or uncomfortable manner.
There’s a wealth of sensitivity and understanding in his blue-gray eyes.
One thing I’ve learned in life is, people who have survived grief and pain, know all about grief and pain. People like that can see another person’s agony a mile away. That’s because they’ve been there themselves.
Grant surprises me. He doesn’t ask for a bunch of gory details like why I was homeless, or how I was able to live on the street. He’s not fascinated or hung up by the fact I was institutionalized. Instead, he goes straight to the most raw and relevant point.
His expression is thoughtful, his eyes penetrating as he says, “Tell me about Jamie.”
The question takes me by surprise—kind of like an unexpected a stab to the heart. Happy memories of Jamie fill my thoughts. Suddenly, I miss my best friend all over again.
Damn my hormones!
To my shock and embarrassment, I burst into tears.
Chapter 10.
“Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.”
― Khalil Gibran
~~~
Grant Wilkinson
Last night, I spent hours writing down my emotions and attitudes—my homework, à la André.
Yesterday was life-changing. Being with Renata felt very nearly sacred. She’d been well aware of my scars, both inside and out—yet she could look past them. I think what she really saw was me.
For that short time we were together, Renata had the power to make me feel clean and righteous.
So why did I run?
I tried to analyze not why I did it, but what exactly set me off. What was the trigger? The most obvious answer would be because I had sex.
Having sex has always been a huge problem for me. As soon as it’s over, I'm overwhelmed with shame and guilt. It’s something I can’t control, some hang-up from my childhood. After sex, I can’t stay, I can’t talk. I can’t touch, or be touched. I have to get away.
That’s a large part of why I ran, but that’s not all of it.
Another huge trigger contributing to how screwed up I am, is the ton of perverse sexual fantasies I have. These mental pictures haunt me. Stalking these ideas through internet porn when I was a teenager, only made it worse. Just like my once compulsive problem to look at dicks, I can’t stop these images and I can’t get rid of them. It's an ongoing struggle, but one I can usually more or less ignore… except after sex.
I've never acted out any of these fantasies, and I doubt I ever will. I simply can’t accept my abnormal thoughts and desires. No wonder.
I can’t even accept myself.
But when I narrow it down, the biggest trigger of all seems to be Renata. She’s too good for me.
I came to the conclusion the crux of my panic seemed to be the idea of putting two people together who just don’t belong. Me; damaged, disfigured, dark and totally fucked up—with Renata; generous, kind, beautiful, and… perfect.
I don’t want to contaminate her.
It was wrong of me to have sex with her. I shouldn't have touched her. I shouldn’t even breathe the same air as she does. Just looking at her was more than I deserve. Renata’s way out of my league. I shouldn’t risk sullying her with my darkness.
Selfishly, I’m going to see her again. I have to. She's gotten under my skin. I can’t stop thinking about her. I don't even want to, no matter how much I know I should.
Everything reminds me of Renata since we met yesterday: her smell, her voice or just her. I like her. In fact, I like her far too much. She puts my head in the clouds, gets my heart racing, and twists my stomach into excited knots.
How could we work? It’s inconceivable. I’m not thinking a
bout us being together as a couple—I’d never begin to let myself hope for something like that. I can't see us being together in any possible way. How can I have her as my sexual therapist? It feels so wrong.
Consequently, I was uncertain and wound up tight when I pulled up to Renata’s apartment. Heart pounding, I’d stood by that damn blue door after I called to tell her I’d arrived. I waited for her, excited yet scared to death of the stupid things I may say or do.
What I didn’t expect was her reaction. Renata actually blushed when she saw me. She seemed so young, shy and insecure. It was as if she were two different women—the confident, worldly, understanding woman of yesterday—and the uncertain, timid woman of today.
I was invited to her apartment, which was surprisingly spartan. Small and clean, it had a single bed, dresser and mirror—no pictures or decorations. There was nothing much there at all except for cat toys, a tripod, and a video camera. It was as if no one lived there except Mitten.
I treasure my home, my garden and my things. I wonder why so little of Renata shows in her personal space.
Once she introduced Mitten to me, Renata’s confidence returned. Luckily, I also felt more at ease. Yet, my body has a mind of its own. Despite jacking off before I arrived, I’ve wound up sporting a hard-on all day. I don’t usually have that problem, but I find being near Renata incredibly… stimulating.
Still, I’d say our day together went far better than I ever expected. We talked and even flirted—something new for me. I’m physically attracted to her with an intensity beyond anything I’ve ever experienced. What's really strange is, for some inexplicable reason, she seems to be genuinely attracted to me too.
I’m a loner. I’m content enough when working, but I’m not comfortable around people. Today, I’m out in public with Renata. For the first time in a long time, I was able to forget my scars. I felt playful, happy and almost normal much of the day.
At one point, I even talked myself into holding her hand—which didn’t go well, but at least I did it. Sadly, my disgustingly damp palm ruined it. I have no idea why something as simple as holding a beautiful woman’s hand freaks me out so much. Especially when we’ve already had sex.
Could I be a bigger head case? I’m such a screwed up mess.
Suddenly, our time together took an unexpected left turn. I wince as I recall seeing unbearable sorrow in her beautiful blue eyes.
When I asked, she told me about her family and her past. It was such an unexpected shock. Mother and brother dead. Father in jail. Homeless and living on the street. Institutionalized after someone close to her named Jamie, died right beside her.
Knowing this about her changes everything.
She's not normal. Not perfect.
Renata’s damaged, too. And she lost her mind when her friend died. I feel an unexpected spike of jealousy over the dead man. Who was Jamie to her? Companion? Lover? Pimp?
That last thought seems unkind, but who am I to judge? I’ve had sex with “whores,” and “prostitutes.” These harsh names mean nothing to me. Hell, they may be selling sex, but that’s only because others are buying it. Who’s worse? The buyer or the seller? I certainly can’t point fingers—not with my past.
For me, “love” was connected with the games I played with my father. A prostitute sells sex for money. As a child, I gave sex for love. What does that make me?
Renata’s a professional woman, a sexual surrogate, trained to help people. Yet, I have to wonder. Did Renata make money on the street selling sex? It’s a terrible thought, but I can’t help but hope that she did.
I can’t contaminate or corrupt someone who’s already suffered some of the worst that humans can do, right? Also, in a strange way, it would make me feel better about who I am and what I’ve done.
I’d innocently said to her, “Tell me about Jamie.”
To my astonishment and dismay, sweet, calm Renata, had burst into tears.
Chapter 11.
“I have seen what a laugh can do. It can transform almost unbearable tears into something bearable, even hopeful.”
— Bob Hope
~~~
Grant Wilkinson
I’m stunned. The sight of Renata’s crying disarms me completely. I’d rather give myself a vasectomy with nail clippers than cause her pain. Some protective male instinct kicks in, overriding my reserve. I act without thought, which is so unlike me.
“Come here,” I say and pull her into my arms. To my consternation, Renata begins to cry even harder. A shudder of grief shakes her body. My shirt is wet with tears as she burrows her face at my neck and shoulder.
“It’s OK,” I say quietly. “It’s OK. It’s OK.” I murmur over and over, as I pat and rub her back soothingly.
How hideous would it be to wake up next to someone you love and find them dead?
Renata’s tears begin to slow but she doesn’t let go of me. Her blonde head rests on my shoulder; her warm breath caresses my neck. Occasionally, her breathing hitches in a soft little hiccup sound.
We stay here embracing each other. I comfort her, still murmuring “It’s OK” from time to time. I’m not going to pull away unless she does. I want her to stay right here. She feels like Heaven in my arms.
I am so going to Hell.
I shift to give myself more room as my swollen cock throbs. Here I am, enjoying holding her while the poor woman’s upset. I feel bad for her, and bad for taking advantage of the situation.
I recognize Renata’s pain—I’ve experienced it myself. A dark memory has surfaced in her mind. It’s weighing her down with the force of it. I swear to God I can feel it. It’s as if Renata has cast a shadow over me with her black mood.
How would André deal with this?
Renata finally backs away from me, finding tissues in her pocket, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose. “I’m sorry,” she says and the sadness in her eyes tugs at me.
I frown. “What for?”
“For getting so emotional.”
“I don’t see how you could’ve helped it,” I say, and then I give her a smug, self-satisfied smile, determined to lighten her mood. “Besides,” I raise my eyebrows. “I got to hold you.”
Renata’s expression brightens. “So you did. I noticed that too. You made me feel better. Thank you.”
I stand up, take her hands and pull her to her feet. “C’mon,” I say. “We have to go find a swing set. I’m pretty sure there’s a playground somewhere over there.”
The sound of Renata’s surprised laughter eases my heart. This time, my palm isn’t sweaty when I take her hand. This time, holding her hand feels like the most natural thing in the world.
I intend to hear her whole story sometime, as much as she wants to tell me anyway—but not now. First, I need to cheer her up.
While holding her, I thought about what André might do in this situation. From what I know of André, it seems to me he’d comfort her and then make her laugh. The swing seems like a classic André diversion. It’ll give her time to compose herself and consider what, if anything, she wants to tell me.
Anyway, that’s how I figure André would handle it.
We find a playground and nobody’s using the swing set. We’re alone. Perfect. The swing is made of rubber and Renata sits easily upon it. As promised, I push her. When I do, she giggles adorably. I’m elated by the sound of her happiness. I push her again and again until she’s soaring, way up high.
Laughing joyously with her blond hair flying, she looks more beautiful to me than ever. She’s a vision, so lovely to behold.
I get on the swing next to her and we begin to compete, racing each other to see who can go higher. By the time we’ve had enough, we’re both grinning and lighthearted. The shadows have gone. Renata’s back to being herself once more.
I’m pleased because I pulled her out of her sadness.
I think André would be proud of me.
Chapter 12.
“Facing one’s past can be a perilous activity. For the client,
joy must exceed misery. Personal successes must far outweigh losses. Pleasure must exceed pain. Always. Always. To do otherwise is a failure of the counselor.”
— André Chevalier
~~~
Grant Wilkinson
As we leave the playground, we see a soft serve ice cream vendor. We both choose plain vanilla without chocolate, nuts or sprinkles.
“I thought I was the only one who was happy with plain vanilla,” I say, but what I’m thinking is, Renata and I are curiously alike in more ways than I ever dreamed. Both boring. Both damaged.
“Nope,” Renata says with a big cheesy grin. I watch her long tongue lick her ice cream and my relentless hard-on—which had gone down while on the swing—instantly returns. Shit.
“You touched me without being nervous,” she says.
“Yes.”
She flashes me a sexy grin. “I liked it. A lot.”
“Me too.”
“We’re making progress.”
“You’re a good counselor.”
Renata laughs. “No, I’m not! I shouldn’t have reacted like that. Showing all of that emotion was extremely unprofessional.”
“Oh?” I raise an eyebrow. “André got really angry with me once.”
Her blue eyes widen. “No—really?”
“He even yelled at me.”
“No way!” Bouncing rapidly on the balls of her feet, she's practically jumping up and down with excitement to hear that André isn’t perfect. I decide to explain the whole story.
“He told you… of my situation?” I ask.
“Yes. Childhood sexual abuse by a man,” she says without a moment’s hesitation. Undisturbed, she takes another lick of her ice cream.
I struggle not to flinch, but damn it to hell, I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to it. Hearing of my shame causes adrenaline to spike my veins. It makes my heart race—but not in a good way.
I can tell André taught her. She’s so nonchalant and forthright on the subject. There’s no trace of shock, horror, pity or bullshit. Her attitude is casual and interested. No fuss. No muss. Her outlook is refreshingly pragmatic. It’s a ‘Well, it happened. OK, let’s deal with it,’ attitude.