by K NILSSON
She looked beyond us and appeared to focus on the wall behind Dr. Jane.
Then she said, “I went there, you know.” She paused a moment. Her eyes flitted across Dr. Jane's face, looking for confirmation that she knew what Maya meant. The women in group all looked at each other.
Dr. Jane said, “Tell them where you went.”
Maya nodded and looked around to explain.
“I went to see the chastiser. I’d gone to see her before. She wore a hood, so I could imagine her to be anyone I needed her to be. She told me to take off my clothes, then motioned to a dog cage that was in one of the dark corners of the room. There was a bowl of water and an empty bucket inside.”
She paused. “What else do you want me to say?”
Dr. Jane prompted, “And you were there because?”
“I hired my own disciplinarian, to administer punishment, if I surrendered to drive-thru sex—the kind of sex that addicts crave.”
Some heads nodded at the familiarity with the term; it was quickie, stop-n-go sex.
“The floor was hard and cold. The room was dark except for a sliver of light that stole through the bottom of the closed door. When I didn't move fast enough for her, she hit me with something like a strap across the fleshy part of my ass.”
Maya paused a moment. Her eyes came to rest on Dr. Jane's face. The room was very quiet. No one cleared their throat or shuffled their feet.
“Part of the ritual was to kneel in the cage and reflect on the fact that my choice of behavior was impulsive, and the consequences could have been disastrous. I hate that part; kneeling in the cage with nothing to do but contemplate. It’s worse than listening to the sound of my heart beat.”
She continued.
“After thirty minutes in purgatory, the chastiser returned to usher me to a spanking bench that was in another part of the room. The chastiser commanded my attention with the wide leather strap, probably the same one she’d used when I first came in. I was thrilled to see it, longed to feel it, and ashamed that I needed it.
A few of the women blushed. I squeezed my thighs together.
Maya continued, but her voice was a bit strangled as she told us the next part.
“The chastiser and I have an agreement. I have to tell her what I did; the details are the most important part of the ritual. The retelling slowed down the randomness of what I did into something that couldn’t be glossed over. This is another way to reflect on the error of my ways. The chastiser decided how many strokes to deliver.”
Maya's voice sounded robotic, devoid of any feeling as she said, “When it was over, I kissed the strap, and then I kissed her feet, put on my clothes, stay for ten minutes, and cried all the way home.”
For the next few minutes, Dr. Jane said nothing. No one said anything.
But the unspoken question on my lips was, “did it help?”
The group stirred and everyone began to disappear, the girl with the candy said she had to pick up her children from preschool, another said she needed to go as well. Pretty soon, the room emptied out.
Chapter Twelve
Carrie
Dr. Jane and I agreed to meet after the support group to help me process it and discuss if attending was beneficial. But between support group and now Dr. Jane, I’d had enough of conversing, but I had to speak with her… before I chickened out.
“What happened in there, Carrie? One minute you were with me, the next you spaced out. The look on your face made me think you heard something terrifyingly familiar.”
She waited.
I wavered between telling her I remembered and the prospect of having to relive those feelings again, nausea and the overall sickness.
“I don’t know what happened. It’s like I spaced… you know?”
“How often does that happen?”
“Usually someone's talking, I listen, or hear something like… a candy wrapper, and then… I'm gone. I’d lost minutes that I’ll never get back.”
There. I said it. I was unwilling to disclose that last bit, but I was compliant.
“Candy wrapper?”
Tears welled in my eyes. “I don’t know why it happened. Ever since I started going to group, the girl with the candy made me shiver.”
I gazed at a peaceful painting that was hanging on the wall directly across from me of a young girl, seven or eight, holding a kitten. I imagined myself holding that kitty, stroking its head, with thoughts of nothing else.
“I felt sick, and something like bile rose up in my throat. The more wrappers she discarded, the sicker I felt.”
“Go on,” she urged. “Why do you think you reacted that way?”
“I think someone gave me candy when I was younger, someone whose face I don't remember; a blank face from my nightmares. He gave them to me to cover up the taste of something vile, and I associate the candy with the vile act before it.”
Dr. Jane moved over to the couch to sit next to me, put her arm around my shoulder, and cooed as if she were comforting a child. I felt like a child. I needed someone to hear the horror of this memory and explain what this might mean.
“And is this when you dissociate, forget where you are?” she asked, making a note on her tablet.
“Sometimes, like today at the meeting. When the fog in my head cleared up, I was present. Before, when I was in high school and they brought me to you, I had blacked out. I was in that altered state and unconsciously tore my thighs up with pencils during class. The scariest part was not the self-inflicted wounds, but that I could have hurt someone else.”
My behavior had gotten more reckless. The resulting depression had almost caused me to drop out of high school, but thanks to Dr. Jane, she had me check in to a special facility that I attended during spring break. The stint had helped me through the brief crisis, but I didn't want to give up the dirty play. And then the cycle began again, dirty sexual relief and emotional drop.
Today's memory made me suspect that I was molested when I was young.
“Let's move on to something less traumatic to give you a little break.”
She knew me so well. I was about to bolt because the familiar dark thoughts, like hot tar, were beginning to suffocate me.
Dr. Jane hesitated when she looked me in the eyes, and asked, “When was your first kiss?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Humor me. Take me back to your first kiss.”
Her sofa, the one I love to curl up in, suddenly felt scratchy on my legs. “Did you have the fabric on this thing cleaned?”
“Are you deflecting?”
I began to scratch the insides of my forearms, an unconscious habit triggered by anxiety. That was what I had—anxiety. Dr. Jane told me that at our early therapy sessions.
“I’ve never had a first kiss,” I said.
Her eyes widened. “Never had a first kiss?”
I shook my head. I’d just lied to my therapist. My blood ran cold as I remembered the kiss from the faceless man in my nightmares, the one with the candy.
“How is that possible?”
“I… I… never kissed anyone on the lips; anywhere else but there. That act is so intimate, so personal and invasive.”
It was easier for me to have anonymous sex with complete strangers than consummate a kiss.
She probed some more. “Not even from a woman?”
“No.”
“Why? What’s the significance of a first kiss?” I asked, puzzled.
“Kissing is the foundation of a romantic relationship and has been forever.” She said that as if I should know it like I know my times tables or the alphabet.
“Kissing is a bonding of souls.”
It sounded romantic and surreal. Mother and Daddy didn’t kiss, at least not in front of me. I’d seen kissing in movies, but I didn’t recall anything that looked like the type of kissing Dr. Jane described. “What does it look like?”
“Have you seen To Have and to Have Not with Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall?�
� she asked.
“No.”
“I’m dating myself. It’s my favorite movie of all time. The Notebook is another good one if you’d like something more modern.”
I made a mental note of the titles. “I’ve never… had a romantic relationship.”
“Why is that?” she asked.
I threw up my hands in frustration. “Yes! Why? I had so many questions. No one ever told me about this stuff!”
Big tears spilled down my cheeks. They came faster and faster until I was in full-blown sob mode.
Poor Dr. Jane moved to hug me, but I held up my hand. I didn't want to be touched. I was ready to go. She gave me a big box of tissues that was well on its way to being empty.
“I’m sorry…” I sobbed, wiping snot and tears, and uttered garbled words of despair.
“Dear, dear. I think you have some work to do now. Although you've made incredible progress today, painful things have surfaced. There might be a deluge in your future.”
I nodded.
Then, Dr. Jane handed me a leather-bound journal she had sitting on the table. When I opened it, the blank pages had the smell of a new book. She also gave me a ballpoint pen with a picture of her face and phone number on it. I smiled.
“It's a nice pen. I keep them for my special clients.” The words came out a little fast as if she were a bit sheepish about her face on the pen.
“I think you’re ready to start recording your nightmares and recollections, honey. Be as honest as you can, or else it will defeat the purpose of keeping a journal.”
“I promise.” And I meant it.
She continued with her recommendations.
“I strongly urge you to find a movie, any movie, where the kissing makes you feel something. Then tell me about it. Write down what you process, what you can remember, even if you’re just scribbling. And I want you to buy a sketch pad and draw. Let your subconscious thoughts flow through your fingers. Play some light jazz or yoga music while you do it. It will help us.”
She made me smile. “Sounds like a plan,” I said.
“Let’s meet after group next week, and if you feel the need to talk before then, call my service. They'll get in touch with me.”
Now I have tools to get through the weekend. Would it be enough to drown out the noise from my dreams, the random memories, him?
My favorite place to drown out the noise was the ocean. There were tons of bars along Santa Monica Pier. But I felt like going to a quieter place, a place where people had wedding receptions and honeymoons. I’d heard that Jay’s, in Santa Monica, had a great piano bar. That sounded perfect.
Chapter Thirteen
Mr. Nobody
1981
What luck. She was alone again and wore that handy ponytail. How could Declan be so stupid? She was too innocent, so sweet, and vulnerable to leave home alone for the likes of me to prey on.
“Let’s begin your fall from grace.”
I used punishment, reward, and repetition, to elicit her compliance. I think “fall from grace” was a twisted description for our ritual. She was open in her innocence, willing to trust, in the face of that which appeared to be wrong. Carrie, unknowingly, was willing to be hurt.
“I think you get in trouble on purpose to entice me, Carrie.”
“No, I don't.” I tugged her hair and she corrected herself at once. “I-I-I'm sorry.”
I waited patiently. Carrie was wearing a defiant little expression on her face. She was setting herself up for failure.
“Did you forget something?”
Her eyes moved back and forth as though she was searching for the right answer.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Open your mouth. Does that ring a bell?”
She bit her lip. She knew this first step was important… She’s supposed to give me a kiss, a deep French kiss. I shouldn’t have to remind her, but I liked doing it. But today, I’m going to switch gears on her and let her kiss something else.
“Take down my zipper.”
She whimpered.
“Stroke it… love it… kiss it,” I remind her.
Slurping sounds escaped her lips. Her eyes were watering. Her reluctance and eventual submission pushed me over the edge.
She wrinkled her nose.
“Is it the smell of bleach that bothers you, darling?” I asked, referring to the smell of come.
She shook her head. She was lying. I’m smiling.
I looked forward to these stolen moments. She whimpered. My dick hardened when she does that. I didn’t take chances on being discovered. If that happened, my master plan will be derailed.
I didn’t feel guilty. I know Carrie enjoyed the lessons because she was always wet for me. No harm, no foul; wasn’t that how the saying went?
After we finished, I usually reviewed what I’ve taught her.
“Carrie? Love?”
“Yeth thir?”
“Here’s some candy. It’s your favorite… peppermint. Don’t forget to put the wrappers in a sandwich baggie, or someone will find out you’ve been eating too many,” I smirked.
It wasn’t her favorite; it was mine.
Her lips were still a little swollen. I smile. She was going to have to apply some ice.
“What was the first thing you did for me?”
She frowned. “Touch mythelf?”
“Yes.” I nodded, remembering fondly how she fought her embarrassment and eventual acquiescence.
“What was the first part of the ritual you forgot today?”
“K-k-kithingg,” she stuttered.
She squirmed and blushed furiously.
“Don’t you like the kissing?”
She looked up at me with sad eyes, and her lower lip trembled, afraid of my reaction to her answer. “Yeth,” she lied.
“Are you ready for your punishment?”
She peered up at me through those thick, long lashes with… that look tugged at my heart.
I was a little brutal with her punishment, but she can take more next time.
“I know you didn’t like that, sweetheart,” I said, and wiped a big teardrop that slid down her face.
I needed to reassure her that she was my good girl. I tucked her under my arm and kissed the top of her head.
“Let’s review. If anyone ever asks you, what’s my name?”
“Mr. Nobody.”
“Why?”
“Because what we do is Nobodeeth bitnet.”
“You’re my good girl, Carrie.”
“Yeth, thir.”
I ended the session with: “Let us pray.”
She closed her eyes and her head dropped. Then I put her to bed.
Chapter Fourteen
Carrie
In a small, almost girlish voice I whispered, “And he was there for me, standing tall in his priest robe with the Roman collar so tight around his neck, I thought it was strangling him. His eyes bulged as he ordered me onto my knees to do my penance. I asked him if it was punishment, and he said no, penance was for transgressions.”
“What did you do?” asked Dr. Jane.
“I pretended to forget part of the ritual, the thing that signals to I’m giving control over to God.”
Dr. Jane would soon know I lied to her before.
“What kind of signal was it?”
“I had to kiss him on the mouth, willingly, while he stuck his tongue in mine. But I refused, and then, he punished me.”
“What was the punishment?” Dr. Jane asked.
“I had to wear a clothespin on my tongue while he spanked me. But that’s not all.”
All of us collectively held our breath.
“He hurt me, jammed his fingers in my private parts. And then, he fucked me with them while I said ten Hail Mary’s!”
I looked at Dr. Jane. “That’s why I don’t pray anymore.”
She twisted her mouth with distaste.
At the end of that retelling, I felt as if a dark cloud was keeping me from sunshine, but it was ju
st the marine layer rolling in.
Chapter Fifteen
Saint
I followed her to the support group meeting and waited inside my car for it to end. I wondered what she was saying in there, or not. Margie told Will that Carrie had been a troubled teen and had attempted suicide after her sixteenth birthday.
By then, she had been seeing a psychiatrist, Dr. Jane MacCallan, for four years.
I’d had to sign a stack of non-disclosures for Margie, but I needed information to do my job. Because Carrie had been a minor at the time, her parents were informed of her diagnosis. She had acute anxiety, depression, and OCD, but she’d also admitted to Margie she was a sex addict.
Then I wondered about the poor little rich girl, Carrie Drazen. Was she too young to be tainted as a cheating whore, or was she a proper young woman who behaved in an improper way just because she could, a good girl who became a bad girl because someone had made her that way?
What did I care? She was just a job.
Make no mistake, I didn’t have a savior complex cell in my body, but imagining her under someone else's body, vulnerable in every way, it gave me pause.
My thoughts trailed off as I went into a Starbucks around the corner from the church. The line moved quickly, and I grabbed my double latte and went back to the car to study her files some more. Will Santon had sent more notes this morning about her therapy plan. What she worked on with the group was called cognitive-behavioral therapy.
I didn't need to know any more about that, but Will Santon had made comments in the margins of Carrie’s dossier. Dr. MacCallan used the therapy to get Carrie to recall unconscious memories and conflicts. What that told me was that the shrink, Dr. MacCallan, thought someone or something had caused Carrie to turn into a sex addict.
Well hell. That put a whole new complexion on things.
I was familiar with sex addiction. I'd been accused of that all my life, but men try to screw anything with a skirt. You know the guy who can pick up any girl? I'm him… on crack.
I remembered it with clarity, the single moment that changed my life. Natalie and I had been high school sweethearts. My heart hung on her every smile, her contented sighs, and deep, hungry kisses. There wasn’t anything I wouldn’t do for my angel. She and I went through a lot of firsts together: first kiss, first blowjob, first lay, first husband, and first hate fuck. She was my first lover and last mistake.