Mind Tryst

by Robyn Carr

  I was stirred by his insight. He was good. His assessment and reinforcement lulled me into need. He was cool in his support. I wanted his affection and the nurturing quality of his therapy. I wanted him. My ex had tried hard to comfort me and was clumsy. Tom was practiced.

  “You’re not so all alone, Jackie. I’m glad you told me a little bit. I understand now.”

  “What do you think you understand?”

  “Are you always prosecuting? I understand why you’d want a change of people and scenery, why you’d want to keep that loss private, and why you’d be more self-protective than the average beauty-school dropout.”

  “Oh.” I was always either prosecuting or defending. I was sure I couldn’t change it. Or wouldn’t.

  “Why don’t you enjoy the stars while I rinse and stack the dishes, and I’ll join you.”

  “I’ll help...”

  “Not here. I’m serving you tonight. I’m only bothering with this mess because I’ve gotten fussy in my old age. Refill your glass and sit at the table outside. I’ll be out there in three minutes.”

  Later, when he did come outside to join me, he quietly took the deck chair beside mine and touched my hand. “You know, I didn’t pay enough attention to my daughter and I was her everything. I bet one of the things you miss is being someone’s everything. We may have that in common. In therapy, I got to be the everything of some people’s lives. Their anchor. We call it transference and have to be on the lookout that patients don’t become too dependent. One of the things we don’t talk about enough is how good it feels to be that object.”

  “No,” I said. “Not meaning to be argumentative, I never did want to be anyone’s everything. I raised Sheffie to be independent, as I was raised. I wasn’t successful in my marriage, and in the relationships I had later I was constantly being accused of being too independent. No, I just miss him, that’s all. I loved him, I was proud of him, and I miss him.”

  He squeezed my hand and wisely chose not to say anything. Which made me feel I should.

  “That other part is right,” I said, as if to make amends for disagreeing. “That business about losing my job, my child, and my identity... that’s right. You’re a good counselor; you know how to comfort. Maybe you should practice again.”

  He leaned closer and put an arm around me. “No, I don’t think so. Tempting, but dangerous. I’d get myself locked into that power thing again. Maybe. Who knows? Who cares?”

  “But if you have a gift...”

  “Then it’s mine,” he said softly, gently. “Mine. And I can use it for me in my life. Right?”

  I admired this in him. This attitude of self-assurance, of self-acceptance, was something I aspired to in my own life. He was so genuine, seemed to rebel against preconceived ambitions and be true to himself. It also crossed my mind that he had told me what I was going to do and I did it. He had said I would suggest he counsel, and I had. Because, I reasoned, his gift had been noticed by others and it was, he said, the natural progression.

  He leaned closer, lifted my chin with his hand, and kissed my lips gently. He shifted in his chair a bit; that first touch had worked and he put a hand on my waist and pulled me nearer. His mouth on mine was seductive; the burlap of his beard scratched my mouth in an unforgettable roughness and I opened my lips to have more, to be deeper. His tongue, hesitant and cautious at first, gained power and fierceness until he was penetrating my mouth. He was insistent, possessed of a delicate pressure.

  That old part of me began to respond. It must have been that desire was not so dormant, but quite close to the surface after all. My arms tightened around his neck and I held him closer. I liked the sound of our breathing, labored and serious. His hands moved along my back, my sides, my arms. We engaged in this for a while, minutes. It was hot, slippery kissing and I was aroused. I knew where we were headed, I just didn’t know how it was going to happen. I know I was thinking that he could pick me up and carry me. He could pull me to my feet with one hand and I’d follow. Or he might take me down on the deck...

  He broke away. “Oh,” he moaned. “Oh, Jackie.”

  I was trembling. I didn’t have to say anything. It is true what they say about the body closing off the mind. The trait reflected in that old joke about men thinking with the wrong head is not purely masculine. This is why teenagers and others get into trouble; when your libido gets fired up, you turn off all your good sense. You’re not supposed to; you’re supposed to be clear-headed and rational. I often tried to imagine good lovemaking that wouldn’t carry me away and put me out of control. I never could. That feeling that I was as unstoppable as a freight train had always been my favorite feeling — and it didn’t come all that often.

  “If you have any sense, you probably won’t get any more involved with someone like me.”

  “Why? Because of all you’ve been through?”

  “Because in an abstract way, I actually brought on all I’ve been through.”

  “You didn’t deserve what happened —”

  “What do you want to do, Jackie?”

  “I don’t know,” I said honestly. For a woman who usually knew precisely what she wanted, I was having trouble with the decision making now. I wanted to go to the bedroom, and my conscience, sounding remarkably like my mother, suggested I might like myself better if I waited for a few more dates, more talking, kissing, and petting.

  “We’re going to end up in bed eventually,” he pointed out.

  “I suppose.”

  “Do we need birth control?” he asked.

  “No,” I said.

  “Does that mean you’re using something or does that mean you’re going to take chances?”

  “I had a tubal ligation. I can’t get pregnant. I can get infections, however.”

  “I don’t have condoms,” he said, “but I’ve only had one partner in four years and I’ve never noticed anything.”

  A doctor had said something like that to me once. He had been apologetic later for having been so sadly mistaken. For reasons logical or idealistic, I thought that had Tom been sleeping with all the women of Coleman, I’d have heard about it. There probably was only that one; surely it was all right.

  “Want to?” he asked me.

  “Yes.”

  It is still vivid, that night. The pictures still come clearly. He was an accomplished, hypnotizing lover.

  He had a charismatic body and technique, and his canny verbal skills were as apparent in bed as out.

  “There are no curtains” was the first thing I said when I entered his bedroom, holding his hand.

  “The entire outside is lit and the dogs will bark if a rabbit runs by. Here,” he said, flipping off the light. The room was still bright from the high floodlights around his house. He could sleep in a dusk-like light if he left the outside lights on through the night.

  He undressed me slowly; he touched my skin softly, seductively. He brushed his hands along my shoulders, elbows, breasts. He took my mouth with his while caressing my body. I did not require all this foreplay, but I was grateful for it. Fast lovers don’t give you time to think; they rob you of the savoring; the savoring went on and on until I knelt, naked on his bed, while he undressed.

  There was something about his control of the situation that made me a brave lover for the first time in my life. I had never been able to do that before — watch a man methodically undress and smile at him. It was like an erotic show, an artistic sexual act. I thought it was the beauty of his body; he was both well conditioned and naturally fortunate. When he walked toward me, his erect penis bobbed slightly because of its size, which was generous. Knowing how men feel about their penises, I was happy for him that he’d been lucky.

  There was more caressing; fingers, tongues, nibbles. He seemed to have plenty of time, though I was running out. When he spread my legs and put his tongue on me, I was gone. It was an explosion of pleasure and my fingers dug relentlessly into his shoulders. I heard his moan, as though it had been his moment as well,
and that made me want him more.

  He raised himself up and touched my lips. Gently, as I shuddered, he nibbled at my mouth.

  “Do I taste good?” he asked me.

  “Oh” was my inspired dialogue.

  “I have to be inside you, Jackie; I have to be inside you.”

  I was hot and tender after such an enormous shock, and he was slow and gentle, entering almost stealthily, moving rhythmically. It’s like a hammock ride, that motion in coupling. Easy, but pitched. Smooth, yet demanding. He was patient, giving me plenty of time to recover. “Come again,” he said to me. “Come again.”

  I stayed with him, having his mouth, his hands, his body in my body. We rocked and lurched. He moved more quickly, breathing hard. “Come again,” he said.

  I did. I had thought I was holding myself back, being patient for his sake, on his behalf. That I was quick was not nearly the disadvantage of a man being quick; I was still capable of returning the favor. There I was, two down and Tom still ready. I collapsed from equal parts surprise and exhaustion. He stayed inside, letting me rest, whispering that I was the most wonderful, sexual, erotic woman alive. He said that one thing that hooked me in: “I haven’t ever had it like this; I haven’t ever had a lover like you.”

  I abstractly considered my position; he was still ready. I could have slept. Maybe for a week. Instead, I stayed alert, conscious of my obligation to participate. He gave me another brief rest... and then began to move again.

  It was not my participation that he wanted, however. Drugged by sex and sluggish of brain, I allowed him to move me about. I felt the debt; if there was a position that would give him satisfaction, I could cooperate.

  A couple of times he held my hands in a viselike grip and I asked him not to. Once, behind my back. Once, over my head. Both times I said, “No, don’t hold me down, please,” and he stopped. Although he wasn’t a huge man, he was strong and made me feel small. I’m not a big woman anyway; I was moved about easily and found him creative in his maneuvers. I was on my stomach, my side, my other side, sitting on his lap. He didn’t stand me on my head, but if he had moved me into that position politely, I might have gone along.

  I stayed on the edge; if I had an orgasm, he let me calm, rest, before taking me to the crazy edge again.

  “Can I make you come a hundred times?” he asked me, whispering.

  “No,” I said, still astonished by his fortitude. “I don’t want to be a pig about it.”

  “Once more.”

  “Don’t wait, Tom. I don’t have your stamina.”

  “It’s okay. You’ll tell me when to stop. Or I could keep you a prisoner and torture you with ecstasy.”

  In fantasies women want a machine like this, women think they want to spend a summer vacation like this; that is only in their dreams. In reality, two hours of lovemaking will almost kill you. In the end, exhausted and sore, I had to admit I couldn’t be a good sport or the lottery winner any longer. I was past the point of satisfaction and getting to the point of saturation. Every woman who has had the multiple experience, and I suspect we are few, knows that when you’ve lost count, you’ve lost your craving and nearly your mind.

  And I think women are all alike in this too: Unlike men who say thanks and put on their pants and go home, we say,

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I just can’t. We have to stop.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about, babe. You’re fabulous. Let me be still a minute, huh?”

  That I could oblige. When he began to move again, as though he had ignored my request, I began to pull away with firmness. I said, “I can’t anymore. That’s it for me.” Then he believed me. And I stopped apologizing.

  When his breathing and mine had become normal, he withdrew.

  “What happened?” There were a couple of times that by his breathing or shuddering I thought we had finally done it. I was wrong. He never lost his erection, never softened. Not for a second.

  “Nothing happened, babe. Go freshen up if you want to.”

  “Tom —”

  “It’s okay,” he said insistently, giving me a smile and a peck on the lips.

  I washed up and borrowed a towel and washcloth. My clothes were still in his bedroom; I emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a towel and found him sitting up on the edge of the bed. Still naked.

  “Will you stay the night?” he asked.

  “Would you be terribly hurt if I said I’d rather wake up in my own bed?”

  “No, Jackie, not if that makes you feel better.”

  “It would be easier for me to get a good night’s sleep, get up for work, at home, and indulge all my morning rituals.”

  “I understand,” he said very solicitously. “Thank you. You were magnificent. Can I follow you home, make sure you don’t have any problems?”

  I checked the clock and shook my head. It was twelve-fifteen. I was a big girl; I had gone home late before. “I don’t think I was magnificent enough.”

  “It’s a medical problem,” he said. “It’s not a bad problem; I get some relief, if not often the big relief. It’s still wonderful for me.”

  “What kind of medical problem?” I asked.

  He chuckled, got that engaging grin and twinkle. “The kind a lot of guys would kill to have. It’s the opposite of a premature ejaculation, except the hell of it is that there is enough of an ejaculation — several small ones — to get a woman pregnant. There’s a surgery; I passed. This problem has good points.”

  “Is it painful for you?” I asked, which made him erupt in a short laugh. I braced myself for a clever comeback, but he did me the courtesy of resisting an easy joke.

  “It’s great for me; the benefits far outweigh the disadvantages. Believe me. Understand, it’s not you. It’s me. I’m okay about it now that I’m over my adolescent embarrassment.”

  Thinking of a sensitive young man trying to ask a doctor about this unique situation took my mind away from my concern. I imagined he was right; if he could sell it he’d make a fortune. Especially if he wasn’t being robbed of fulfillment.

  “It’s amazing,” I said, reaching for my blouse. “Maybe too virile.”

  “Thank you,” he returned, pleased with himself. “I did a lot of screwing around when I was younger; I think I was in denial that I had a problem and always looking for the woman who could make me come. Can you imagine?”

  Rhetorical question. He didn’t want an answer, naturally. Wasn’t I just thinking that I wished I could have? Not so that I could be the one to finally satisfy him. So I could have stopped him.

  6

  It didn’t feel right. It hadn’t felt good.

  That was my sobering and suspicious thought as I drove home. The cool night air scoured away any sluggishness; I was wide awake, and I knew something was wrong. I tried to figure out what. I wasn’t breathless, dreamy, or desperate... things I should have been if I had visited paradise.

  Modern women can be so ruthlessly misjudged. What I had done was not impulsive. Nor had I done anything naughty-yet-fun. I felt no shame or regret. I know, understand, and am comfortable with my own sexuality. I’m fairly pragmatic about it; I’m an adult and I am not promiscuous. That I’ve had more partners than I like to admit is a symptom of my inability to find an enduring relationship, not a problem with my morals. I’m trying, for gosh sakes, which is what modern women do.

  This feeling that I had was not unlike the sinking, frightened feeling that overcame me the morning after I had slept with Douglas Jefferson Emory, the married partner. It’s an “ugh” of the conscience. I had done something wrong and put myself in danger.

  With Doug, my mistake was unpardonable — I had stepped into another woman’s territory. I brought sex into my work and it could have cost me far more than it gave me. I was entitled to feel I’d done something bad, and I faced danger.

  Tom was a different case. I’d known him for three months, he was an appropriate sexual partner, I knew his legal history — and still I felt, somehow, that I sho
uldn’t have. I was aware of this niggling, nagging, ugly sensation that it wasn’t right. It had nothing to do with the aforementioned coke addiction or his dramatic medical problem.

  Tom was the type of man that I should be with: physically appealing, unattached, stable under an extraordinary threat to stability, and sensitive. He understood himself and his inadequacies. It’s an attractive trait: humility combined with confidence.

  As I drove home, troubled, I had this mental image that came out of a horror film. A young girl is chased by a handsome prince; she is laughing, running, and hiding, keeping ahead of him and hoping he’ll catch her and kiss her. When he does, her giggles are wild and joyful. And before her eyes he turns into a monster, and her giggles turn to screams.

  When I got home I checked the doors and windows; I had locked everything. I was plagued and felt followed. I didn’t sleep immediately, so I mentally listed the things that bothered me.

  I was seduced. This is what women think they want.

  At several points I was tenderly told what I would do and then proceeded to do so. As though it were my idea. In telling him maybe he could counsel again and in multiple orgasms.

  I did not believe him about the medical problem, but there seemed no other acceptable explanation.

  And I didn’t like him as much as I thought I should under the circumstances. I didn’t love him.

  There it was — as if I’m a moralist. I knew when I entered Doug Emory’s hotel room — out of town on business, two drinks, dinner, the end of lots of hard work, a man I liked and respected — I knew I wasn’t in love with him. Had all the circumstances been proper, I could have been. Yes. I would have allowed myself to become devoted to such a man.

  What was it about tonight, then, that removed rather than intensified my hopefulness?

  I felt that somehow I’d been tricked.

  I dozed fitfully, and when my clock-radio alarm came on and the music began to rouse me, I was sluggish. Slowly I realized that what I was hearing wasn’t the usual brisk early-morning pace, not harassment from the disc jockey to get up and get going. It was soft, late-night music that played. And it was still dark. It was dark because it was three a.m.