by Nikki Sex
We’re both surprised when André’s phone rings.
He takes it from his pocket and checks caller ID. I watch his sensual lips curve up in a slow smile.
“Voilà! Our lost sheep is calling,” he says, slanting me a playful look. “Me? I am not at all surprised. Do you think Monsieur Wilkinson wishes to return to the fold?”
Chapter 6.
“Courage is being scared to death... and saddling up anyway.”
— John Wayne
~~~
Grant Wilkinson
I stand in the shower of my hotel room, my head bent down under the icy spray, my palms flat against the tiles.
My mind replays my time with Renata, over and over again.
Renata was amazing. Sex with her… well, that wasn’t just sex. That was something else—something I don’t even know the word for. In fact, maybe in all the dictionaries, in all the languages, in the world, there is no word for it.
Heaven, exoneration, freedom, connection—reason and purpose for living—all of these things come close to the exhilaration and satisfaction in my heart and soul.
But I screwed up.
I lost it. Why did I panic?
I feel so stupid, embarrassed and ashamed of myself.
In a sudden masochistic impulse, I turn the hot water tap off altogether. The ice-cold water hits my skin in an agony of goose bumps and trembling flesh. I refuse to move or turn the hot water back on. I deserve to suffer for such stupidity.
I wonder if I can manage to freeze myself to death.
Right now, it seems tremendously appealing.
Renata sounded upset. As the elevator door closed, I heard her voice. I was surprised to hear her stutter. Maybe she only stutters when she’s off balance. Well, no wonder. My discourteous behavior would’ve distressed anyone.
Why couldn’t I have stayed and at least said “thank you,” “nice to meet you,” or almost anything? Instead I mumbled something about having to go.
Dumbass.
It’s not right. I’m pretty sure that’s the crux of the matter. Open, sweet and giving—Renata’s way too good for me. Why couldn’t the sexual therapist have been old and ugly? Someone who’d appreciate a younger man, even if he was damaged and disfigured? Someone less… perfect.
Yet, my thoughts rebel with this idea. I don’t want anyone else. I want Renata.
My skin has taken on a slight tinge of blue and my teeth chatter. I turn off the water, resolved with the fact that I’ll live. I dry myself, get dressed and check my phone. To my surprise, there’s a message from André. Why has he called? Is he pissed at me for so rudely running off like that?
Knowing André as I do, I figured he’d shrug indifferently at my boorish behavior, then wait until I called him. He’s told me countless times that our sessions are my choice. Why did he call?
I hit playback and hear Renata’s voice. She clears her throat. “Grant, it’s Renata here.” A long moment passes. “I enjoyed meeting you very much, and would appreciate you returning my call.”
Then she hangs up.
Hm.
Not André, and that pleasant message was fine. Renata doesn’t sound angry or upset with me. In fact, she said she was glad to meet me. I sit down on the bed and stare at the phone. My teeth are still chattering, so I can’t talk to her until I warm up.
I shut my eyes and lay back on my bed, pulling the covers over me. André would tell me to discover what situation or circumstance I’m trying to avoid. Once I found a possible problem, he’d advise me to face up to it.
Ordinarily, I keep away from other people, particularly women. What am I so afraid of? A list of answers comes instantly into my head: Wrecking Renata’s life. Contaminating her. Disgusting her. Hurting her. Ruining her perfection.
André gave me Susan Forward’s book about adult children of incest. They feel dirty, damaged and different. That’s certainly the case with me.
Yet, I felt none of those things when I was actually with Renata.
Images of my time with her fill my mind. I see her expression, as her soft fingers trace my scars—so gentle, so kind and moving. The sight of her trembling hands as she slipped out of her robe. Her perfect curvy body. The feel of her wrapped tight around me. The slick heat between her legs. The sight, the smell, the feel and the taste of her. The sound of her sighs, moans and whimpers as they grew louder and louder.
Everything was completely different with her. What did I feel? My mind goes back, seeking to understand until I know the answer: Powerful, euphoric and… most surprisingly, normal.
I felt changed, yet myself—as if maybe that person, that liberated person was the real me. As if everything else is bullshit.
Normal.
I want that feeling back.
I want to be like that all the time.
My teeth have stopped chattering. I’m warmed up. No excuse now. I have to call. I hit speed dial on my phone.
“Bonjour, mon ami.”
“Hello, André?”
“Oui,” he replies, but he says nothing more.
I called him, so I need to talk first. I know the bastard will happily wait for me to speak forever. The long pause in our conversation seems interminable.
“André, I’m sorry,” I finally say, breaking the silence. “I can’t…I mean… I just…” I blow out a loud exhale of breath. “I freaked out.”
“Do not concern yourself, my friend. All unfolds as it should.”
There’s another long pause while I try to decipher this rather cryptic comment. At least he’s not pissed.
“I’m sorry.”
“Do not be. Of a certainty, it truly is nothing.”
“What… happens now?”
“What happens now will be exactly as you wish, nothing more. You were powerless as a child. As an adult, I wish for you to have all the power you need. You desired to leave earlier today, and this was your choice. I applaud your decision. It was for the best. It is my professional opinion, you are doing very well.”
Very well? Not likely.
My sardonic snicker turns into a full-throated laugh. I don’t know if he’s trying to be funny, but he is.
When André doesn’t say anything, I sigh and ask, “Do you want me to come back?”
“You did not sleep well last night?”
“No.” I didn’t sleep at all.
“Then I do not wish for you to return today. All is well. Indeed, I was most pleased with the time you spent with your surrogate. You, however, may have a different opinion. Do you wish me to find you another sexual therapist?”
“No,” I snap back instantly.
My reply is instinctive and comes out somewhat harsh. I don’t want to go through all that uncertainty and anxiety with someone else. Also, I liked Renata. I liked her too much, really. Right now, if I’m allowed to keep her as my therapist, I don’t want to let her go.
“Bon,” he says calmly, not at all disturbed by my curt reply. “This afternoon and this evening, I suggest for you, physical exercise. Go to the gym; go for a run. Exhaust yourself. After a respectable amount of sleep, write in your journal of your attitudes, emotions and feelings. Go over what happened and observe your behavior today as you have learned to do.”
“OK.”
“You take the supplements and follow my other instructions?”
“To the letter.”
I swear I can hear the pleased smile in his voice. “C'est bon. Do you recall our first meeting at the Ghostbar?”
“Of course.”
“I told you that when one wishes to go to the highest floor of a building, they must enter initially from the ground floor, yes? An individual travels from the ground floor to the first floor and so on. This is merely common sense.”
“OK.”
“When it comes to women, conceivably, you should begin with a date. This, for you, is the ground floor. You must become comfortable with conversation, and then? Perhaps hold hands. You do not have experience in dating?”
“No.”
“You spoke to me of second base in high school.”
“Only a few stolen moments in the dark behind the bleachers, André. I never dated.”
“Merde. Pardonne-moi. Forgive me. At times I am very stupid. Tomorrow, if it is acceptable, I would like you to take Renata out on a date. Stay with her as long or as short a time as you wish. Ask or answer any questions you wish, avoid any subjects you wish. It is my desire that you enjoy yourself.”
“Sounds good.”
“Très bien. Go someplace you would like to go. Do something you want to do. Why? We lower the gradient to the most basic of beginnings. You must enter at the ground floor, no? Every day this week, I would like you to spend time with Renata. Learn to accept and enjoy the company of this most beautiful and understanding woman. Can you do this? Do you wish to?”
I draw in a deep breath. “Yes.”
“Very well.”
“Renata will be OK with that?”
“But of course.”
More silence.
“Is Renata still there?”
“Oui, oui, she is here and wishes to speak with you. Tomorrow, you will not see me for I have another engagement. For now, please make your arrangements with Renata. I will make myself available by phone if there is a problem, but I do not envision a problem. Renata is most capable.”
More silence, a few words spoken in French, and then I hear Renata’s cheerful, musical lilt over the phone. “Hello, Grant?”
“I’m sorry for running out on you,” I manage to say.
“No need to apologize. You’re facing a truckload of childhood shit. That’s hard to do and I admire you for it.”
Her words calm me. I don’t know how to take this unexpected compliment, so I file it away to consider later. There’s another long silence.
“Did I… upset you?”
I hear the sound of a heavy sigh. “Yes. It’s embarrassing to admit, but I was upset.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
She giggles. “Well, you nailed that didn’t you? That’s exactly why I was upset. I figured I must’ve screwed up somehow.”
“No.”
How could she think that? Renata is perfect. My throat goes very dry as I remember the look on her face when she touched my scars. That was when she got me. That was when she captured my heart and set me free.
“No?” she says.
“You were… great,” I manage to choke out.
“Good. I may be your sexual therapist, but just like everyone else, I have crap of my own to deal with. You need to understand that, Grant.” She snickers. “If you’re looking for perfection, you’d better look in another direction.”
I burst out laughing from her little poem, and it surprises me. Renata’s honest and lighthearted. In admitting she makes mistakes, it makes it easier for me to feel better about my own screw ups.
“I’ll remember that,” I say, grinning.
“Also, I should warn you. Although I have experience and I've got some game, I’m not fully qualified.”
“You coulda fooled me,” I say gruffly.
Man, I really mean that. Something happened when I was with her. My eyes burn and a knot of emotion constricts my throat. I felt separate from the darkness inside of me—for those short eternal moments, she freed me from myself. I’d like to tell her this, but I can’t. I don’t know how.
After a long silence, she says quietly, “Thank you, Grant.”
She’s doing it again. How does she do that? How does she read me so clearly even when we aren’t even in the same room? Renata seems to understand how I feel. And you know what’s really amazing? Despite my vulnerability and an unpleasant sense of exposure—I don’t mind her knowing.
I take down her phone number and we arrange to meet. I’ll pick her up at her home tomorrow morning. I can do this. I know I’ll sleep well tonight because I’m not afraid anymore. I don’t deserve it, but I have Renata to look forward to. André told me to only do what I feel comfortable doing.
A peculiar wave of panic, excitement and exhilaration runs through me.
I’m going to see Renata again tomorrow.
Chapter 7.
“The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed.”
― C.G. Jung
~~~
Renata Koreman
Grant’s coming to pick me up this morning at nine. I’m dressed for the outdoors in cut-off jeans, Nikes and a light blue T-shirt. I even have a hat and sunblock. We’re going kayaking. I’ve never tried that before, so it should be an adventure.
Anticipation has my breath coming short. Grant will be here soon. I place my hand on my stomach, trying to calm the fluttering butterflies. I feel like a teenager experiencing my first crush.
Mitten rubs against my legs and stares intently at me. He knows something important is going on. Cats pick up on everything—they’re psychic like that.
I just think of Grant’s savage look of desire, the divine feel of his hard body against mine and deep within me, and I almost climax. Last night, I masturbated twice while thinking of him. I wouldn't have been able to sleep a wink without that release of building pressure from nerves and excitement.
Grant’s smoky blue eyes are beautiful, but they seem so sad. It’s as if he’s seen too much in life already. I want to chase that sadness away. I want to make him happy.
I wish I understood what was going on. The best theory I can come up with is I need to be needed, and Grant needs me. That’s definitely part of what’s happening, but it’s not the whole truth. The rest of it, I haven't quite figured out.
My friend and landlord, Diana, is getting in a temp this week. That way, I’ll be available for the rest of Grant’s vacation. I hope to spend every possible moment with him.
It’s still early, yet this morning has already been a day of correspondence.
My grade school librarian—Mr. Brand—has been on my mind recently; I’m not exactly sure why. I’m so thankful he was there for me. I’m sure he has no idea of the important part he played in my life.
Mr. Brand was one of the few, positive influences during my childhood. He showed me respect and saw me as a person.
Teachers are like that, I think. They have the ability to change lives by setting positive examples of kindness, respect and understanding to the kids they teach. I doubt if even a small fraction of them have any idea of the wonderful impact they have on their students.
Yesterday afternoon I obtained the address and phone number of Santee Elementary School, where I attended as a child. I phoned and found out Mr. Brand still works there, but he’s now in the English Literature department. I figure he’s maybe forty or forty-five years old.
I could’ve written an email to the school address to be forwarded to him, but I didn’t want to—not for my first contact.
I wanted something handwritten; something that showed an effort. So I wrote him an old-fashioned letter by hand, on André’s best stationary. It's much more personal and special. He deserves that and more from me.
Dear Mr. Brand,
I don’t know if you remember me, but I used to help you in the library for a couple of years, about ten years ago. I was eleven years old at the time. My name is Renata Koreman. If you recall a thin, blonde girl who always wore the same clothes and never spoke, except to occasionally stutter—that was me.
You interacted with me more than anyone else back then. You’d say, “Thank you, Renata.” Or “You’re a good girl, Renata.” You didn’t say much, but your smiles and wholehearted acceptance spoke volumes, warming my heart and giving me hope for the future.
You must remember the mousy little girl that used to follow you around endlessly, offering a pitiful desire to help as much as I could? I look back now and realize I probably made a pest of myself. It had to be time consuming to teach me how to do the few small things I could do, rather than simply completing those
tasks yourself.
Yet, you took time and effort and were always nice. It meant so much to me to feel useful, wanted and appreciated.
Well, I’m writing to thank you for your kindness. I must’ve been a weird kid. Let me just say that my family circumstances were problematic. I rarely felt safe as a child, but I always felt safe with you in your library. You have no idea what this meant to the frightened little girl I was.
With the help of kind, generous and understanding people like yourself, my life is turning out quite well. So, I find myself sitting here, remembering you, thinking of you and feeling incredibly grateful.
I’m enclosing a current photo of me, which might help jog your memory. My phone number and email address are on the back of this photo.
I very much hope to hear from you.
Yours in deep and sincere appreciation,
Renata Koreman
I don’t have a stamp. I’ll ask Grant to stop by a post office, so I can mail it today. The thought of meeting Mr. Brand again leaves me with a pleasant tingle of happiness. I hope to tell him someday, of how I fantasized about marrying him. I was a kid at the time, so I’m sure that will surprise and amuse him.
Right after I wrote my letter to Mr. Brand, I received an enthusiastic email from Joshua:
My dearest Renata,
I know I only get to write two letters a month, but so much has happened I feel I must write you immediately. I have so much energy, and I’m bursting with ideas at work. Our time together has given me new enthusiasm and joy in everything I do.
I never thought I’d ever need or want a woman in my life. Isn’t that strange? Consequently, women never came up on my radar. I didn’t notice them. It was as if I was blind to them. Ha. Ha. (bad joke) But guess what? They’re everywhere!
I want you to know I’ve asked out a woman and she said yes! Her name is Alice Fredrickson, and she’s a fellow physicist. I asked one of the men where I work how old she was. That’s not quite accurate. I told a married colleague, Eric Mann, that I’ve decided to date. Upon my request, he gave me a list of three names of available women who work in our building who are of a similar age.
I know age doesn’t matter, but I considered it best to start with what’s socially expected. I’m taking Alice out to dinner on Friday night. She generously offered to drive. Ha. Ha. (another joke). I think she’s more nervous about our date than I am. How about that? That’s because I’m an experienced man of the world now, thanks to you. You have no idea what one day with you has done for my confidence, as well as for how I view the world and my future.
