TheRapist

by J. Levy

  ‘Where are you meeting your friend?’ she asked, trying to navigate the conversation to a different direction.

  ‘At her office, but she doesn’t know I’m coming.’

  Jezzy caught a crisp in her throat. She coughed it up, beyond embarrassed and disappointed, spluttering, ‘how nice.’

  *

  Back at work, the thoughts of her brief encounter pushed to the outskirts of her mind, Jezzy was at her desk, desperately trying to complete a Sudoku. It was driving her crazy. Why wouldn’t the numbers fit in properly? It was just a choice of nine numbers so why should it be so hard? She was so intent on finishing it, having yet to complete a single one. This had been going on for months. One square had only three spaces left to fill, but which one went where and why did she always have trouble with the 3’s!? The phone rang, breaking her concentration. ‘Dr. Kampf’s rooms, may I help you?’ She jotted down a few notes, a phone number and gave helpful advice as to when he would return the call. Aware of a man entering the reception area, she looked up and almost dropped the phone. It was the gorgeous man from Pret he and was holding a bouquet of dusky pink roses that smelt divine. Happy Valentine’s Day, she said to herself excitedly. He looked even taller and more handsome and was looking right at her, somewhat quizzically, with his ice-cube eyes. She hurriedly finished with the call, ‘Yes Madam, the doctor will call you as soon as he returns,’ and crashed the phone down, probably in an impolite manner. ‘Hello again,’ She breathed through her teeth.

  He looked down at her and smiled. ‘You’re not Frankie, are you?’ He spoke the rhetorical question with a husky American accent.

  Jezzy straightened herself a little more in her chair. ‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘Oh, no!’ Realization set in and she knew then that the balloons hadn’t been for her. It couldn’t be, he couldn’t be. Could he?

  *

  Adrian and TheRapist

  ‘My mother was a miserable woman. My father was a great man, but she never loved him. He loved me though, he would carry me on his back and kiss me goodnight. She never showed him love, no affection, not anything at all. Then he died and I was starved of emotion. That’s all I remember of him and those memories are so faded now. Things were never the same after that. I used to go to a small working farm after school. Amazing really, a farm in a busy town! I always thought it was there just for me. Every day I would escape there, just to get away from her and the stifling feeling that was in our house. Things were never the same after my father died. The house was stark and cold. It was always dark. There was no music, no TV. My mother hardly ever put the lights on. She always made the same things for dinner. Always white food. Potatoes, chicken, rice, turnips, parsnips. Always boiled. Everything always tasted of salt, which she used excessively because it was white. Just patches of white food on chipped LCC green plates. Ancient plates in that sickening green colour. Dinner never tasted of anything except salt. Even the occasional biscuit was white. She never let me drink anything except tap water and creamy milk. My childhood was tasteless and I was constantly thirsty and confused. So I used to spend time on this farm. A tiny farm with a farmer called Fred, on a small patch of land surrounded by semi’s. I always thought that was funny, Fred the farmer! I used to help Fred with the eggs and the cows, Errol and Flynn. We would brush the horse together, she was beautiful and her name was Sassy May. Sleek and brown with flies in her tail. Fred taught me how to take care of the animals. He would show me how to gently move the hens to collect the eggs without disturbing them. How to milk a cow the old fashioned way, by pulling on their udders. He really took the time with me. Have you ever felt an udder? It’s like a tiny soft dick. Even if you pull it really hard and rub it, it doesn’t get hard. Not like we do. Not like men do. Fred showed me that. He taught me the difference. After my father died, I didn’t have anybody to teach me about boy things. My mother wouldn’t tell me anything. The first time I got an erection I thought I was dying. I thought something had climbed inside of me to kill me. I was so scared. But Fred showed me what to do. He showed me how to make it explode in a good way so that you felt relief. I was so relieved. Fred told me that the reason it felt so good was because I realized I wasn’t dying. He was so good to me. I don’t know what I would have done without him? I would practice at night too, in my bed with a box of tissues. I would cover my face with a pillow so that my mother wouldn’t hear me scream. But one night she caught me. She opened the door just as I had thrown the blanket off because I was so hot and I was sweating and she caught me with it in my hands, just as it was exploding into the tissues. I will never forget the look of horror on her face. I could see her eyes because there was a streak of moonlight coming through from the landing window that was shining into my room, reflecting off my mirror. Her mouth looked like a gaping black hole, as if she had modeled for Münch, but the light in her eyes showed pure horror. That was the first time I ever really saw real expression in her eyes. Never before. Never again. She never really looked at me again. Not properly, not right at me. Fred made me feel better though. Up in the barn, behind the haystacks, he showed me that wanking was a good thing and that if I didn’t want to do it at home anymore then I could always come to the farm and do it there, with him and that he would never make me feel bad. He was so understanding that it made me want to do something for him, to make him feel good. So then I would do it to Fred. He showed me just how to hold it and stroke it and then he would feel good too. Sometimes he would almost cry with joy. I learnt so much from Fred. How to milk a cow, brush a horse, fuck a farmer.

  *

  The Therapist was in a rotting world of his own, as thoughts trickled back, seeping from a hidden shell inside of his brain……as he lay on the used bed. Weeping. His body shaking with the force of his tears, fat belly trembling, causing slight ripples in the damp, gray sheet. He felt used. Dirty. She had made him feel like a slut. And how many times in his life had he made a woman feel that way? How many times? How many women had he hurt, using them as nothing but a sperm-dumper? How many women had he fucked, shooting his crap into their bodies, treating the lovely, sacred flesh of a woman as nothing more than a vessel? Now he knew how they all felt, because she had come along and done the same to him. Used him like a trash can, then dumped him and his soft, useless cock. He felt an immense urge to tell someone, for somebody, anybody to make him feel better. He had spent years, decades, sitting on a chair in his office, listening to griping, lost clients. They came to him for help, but had he ever listened to them? Really listened? Or just sat there, twiddling his pen, rarely throwing out a monotonous statement, before arranging the next session? Had he ever given anyone true solace? Perhaps not. And now he felt as they must have in their desperation.

  The stars fought to get through the heavy, black clouds. And he lay there. Naked. Crying. Ashamed. Back to work.

  *

  Devon

  Devon was lying in a giant tub of bubbles at The Berkeley. The book tour was almost complete, having done signings, interviews with two nationals and an appearance on a morning TV show with two hosts: one a blousy, though pleasant woman with an endearing smile; and a man who resembled an ageing ferret. Devon had charmed and smiled and been a perfectly divine, if somewhat mysterious, guest. Her time in England was almost up. She would be back in LA in two days. She sank lower in the tub until the bubbles covered her chin. Her eyes began to glaze over as she realized that the time had come and that there was just one more thing she had to do. Needed to do. A place she had to go and someone she needed to see. Devon knew that she had to go back to her past in order to escape to her future.

  *

  Frankie

  Frankie looked out onto Wigmore Street from the sun-warmed window of Starbucks. The sky was so blue, as ripe as the palest delphiniums, the first promise of spring having finally sprung after a long, drawn out winter. She was so early for Sam today, but she had wanted to pop into town and have a look around for some new things to wear. The thought of meeting him, of possibly flyin
g out to meet him, (what a thought!) made her feel bilious, a word she detested but couldn’t think of an alternative to describe her state of mind or stomach. She sipped her black tea, sweetened with a crumbly pack of brown sugar. She hadn’t found a thing she liked in the stores but she knew that she needed to pry herself out of her usual attire of baggy jeans and safe neutral T-shirts in beige and grey. There was just too much choice with everything where clothes were concerned: colours, frills, soppy necklines, strange fabrics, awkward patterns, unsure sleeves. Those rails upon rails of everything conceivable item of clothing were, she pondered, breeding grounds for migraine. All she really wanted was sexy simplicity, but it was proving to be hard to find. A lot of work for a man she had never met. The Internet could be so seductive, but she really didn’t know very much about him at all? Would she even want to know him once she saw him in the flesh? Would she like the smell of him, the feel of him, the taste of him? The music in Starbucks piping through the scent of coffee was jazzily drowning out all conversation. So Frankie sat, in a sea of white noise enhanced by Arabica beans. She was holding a little greaseproof bag bulging with Sam’s sandwiches and a chocolate biscuit that was slowly and unevenly melting against its wrapper. Frankie believed that all kids should have a biscuit after school to sweeten their day. She loved her job, loved Sam. She had been with him since he’d started nursery school and they were so close, but after devoting herself to him for the last few years she knew it was time to start thinking about herself and her own life. She couldn’t bear the thought of forgetting to have her own baby because she had been so involved with caring for someone else’s child. A good man would help of course, but at this stage she thought that it would be harder to meet the right guy than to have a baby. Still, she would hold off the trip to the sperm bank for a while longer. If that was to be the route she would one day have to take, then she would seriously consider choosing American sperm. Yanks seemed to do everything better. They had better sit-coms, better looking actors, better teeth, better governments, better parking spaces and definitely better shopping malls. The majority of men looked better on paper too, their education, self worth, bodies. Yes, if she ever had to go to the bank, she would have to withdraw her deposit from an American one. Maybe tonight she would e mail him a picture of her on a beach, no bikini shots, just one that she had from a couple of summers ago, a good one where she had been wearing an orange beaded kaftan on a moody lit beach at sunset in Italy. Her phone rang, a Billie Holiday ringtone serenading Starbucks, a welcome relief as her mind was beginning to feel as freshly ground as the java in her cup.

  ‘Frankie, get your lippy on, he’s here!’ whispered Jezzy fiercely.

  ‘What?’ Frankie had been lost in her dreams and was just trying to ease herself out.

  ‘The balloons were for you from him, he’s got a huge bouquet and he’s in the waiting room, quick!’ Jezzy spoke in an insane whisper, spitting into the phone.

  Frankie was puzzled. ‘I thought they were your balloons?’

  ‘Well, they’re not. They’re from him. Him! Your virtual man is no longer virtual. He’s here. Literally.’

  ‘My online man is in your office?’ Frankie spoke very slowly as if trying to comprehend a new language.

  ‘That’s the address you gave him right? Well baby, he’s here and he’s gorgeous. Come and get him.’

  Frankie began to grow very hot. She felt as though she was a plant, wilting in the window of Starbucks. ‘I’ve got to get Sam, he’s due out in half an hour!’

  ‘Then get him and then come here, I’ll make him tea and leave him in the waiting room with a pile of Country Life and The Lady. Just hurry up, OK?’

  Frankie couldn’t answer.

  ‘OK?!’ squawked Jezzy.

  Frankie nodded. Which didn’t help.

  ‘Frankie!’

  ‘Yes, OK.’ Frankie’s face had drained of colour and she suddenly had an onslaught of thoughts: that she hadn’t used body lotion or perfume that morning so she probably didn’t smell of anything at all, hadn’t washed her hair in two days so it was bordering on a hedge-do, wished she hadn’t worn her old baggy All Saints T-shirt and most of all, that she hadn’t eaten beefy crisps at lunchtime. Her dreams were suddenly coming true and she wasn’t dressed for it.

  *

  Devon

  Devon stood in the crowd in front of two Edwardian houses. Similar houses. Narrow, tall, slightly stark, quite ordinary, almost bordering on indistinguishable, except for the brightly coloured tissue paper shapes stuck to the inside of an upper floor window and a hard, white plastic board with red writing above one of the front doors which read, ‘St. Fairfield Primary School.’ A bell rang and the sudden onslaught of small people stormed from the front door, all dressed in black and yellow uniforms. Black blazers with yellow braid trimming the edges. Yellow and black ties against graying-white crumpled shirts. Black shorts and skirts. Filthy white socks and scuffed black shoes. Typical. A typical assortment of English school kids. They rushed out to their mums or the mums of a friend with cries of ‘I’m starving mum!’ or ‘Can we get a Wimpy?!’ There were no nannies in a school like this. A few of the older kids walked to the bus stop at the end of the street and three kids walked off together, probably living only a few houses away, digging into their bags for a half eaten bag of crisps or a broken biscuit.

  Devon was aware of a few sidelong glances. This was something she had always experienced though, being slim, good looking and elegant, with a slight, almost imperceptible air of danger about her, there were few crowds into which she fitted, outside of Beverly Hills. She smiled at the kids as they shuffled or skipped, eager to get away from school to play in the garden or the street.

  Then it was quiet on the street. The school had emptied itself of pupils and Devon stood there, alone. The school was quiet, unlike her mind which was a raging torrent. Tears welled up in her eyes and her padlocked memories took her back to a time almost thirty years ago when she was a pupil here. When the playground was so hot one summer, it literally melted beneath scuffed shoes. Banned from volleyball because of fingernails that were too long. When a few of the kids would play a game called ‘Touch me!’ where they would fumble around on the outside of their shorts and skirts, touching each other fleetingly on their private bits. Didn’t like that game. Wouldn’t join in. Couldn’t.

  Her mind stayed in the past as visions raged through her memories. Was she seeing herself…..or Adrian?

  Emerging from the dark, musky school broom cupboard at the end of a lost corridor, anguish having been freshly etched in some ancient, unspoken language between furrowed brows, a slight, skinny teenager tugged at a damp, creased shirt with dry, dented nails, trembling hands hurriedly forcing buttons into holes as a trail of torment had begun its journey along the moist skin of a fragmented mind.

  The lanky figure reluctantly ambled home through a small, strange field, bursting with misleading buttercups and soft sprigs of dusty pink clover, crossing roads crammed tightly with proud semi-detached stepford houses, still trying to maintain their vigour from the 1930’s, but slowly being eased out of society by insidious developers. Strands of hay momentarily trapped on a loose thread of the worn, grey jumper struggled free, floating away upon the afternoon breeze, alone and adrift in suburbia.

  Peroxide in a small town, turning black hair to blonde and back again.

  Devouring night classes. Debating. Dictating. Desiring only the best.

  At the lone cinema, stuck rudely at the end of a road lined with a Senior Service newsagents, an iced bun shop and a launderette, during a time before popcorn was edible and tiered seating just a pipe dream, amongst ribbons of smoke spiraling up towards the towering screen. Gazing with damp starry-eyes at the stories as they unfolded, whisking you away to other worlds, sucking you in, before spitting you out through golden double doors that once beckoned so enticingly, yet now turned their tarnished backs to leave you wallowing beneath yellow lamplight on a cold, stark street, wistfully longing for
love in another life.

  Appearing suddenly, without warning, straight talking and sincere. A stile. A figment, a virtual oasis inside one’s mind, a mere tease? Or the suggestion of another pathway, a turnstile with which to purge the torment. A stile one could bravely use to climb across, in order to get to the other side.

  Wherever that may be…

  She was jolted back to the present as the wind drew its icy breath, skimming through the trees, biting at her collar. English weather. Sunny one moment, cold the next. At least the weather in Los Angeles was predictable, give or take the occasional earthquake, although they were even prepared for that. The Richter Scale was a friend to all. There were only six degrees of separation in California between you and a seismologist. She pulled up her collar and noticed the front door slowly opening. A thin, elderly man came shuffling out, wisps of grey hair around his temples that formed a frayed semi-circle from ear to ear. His glasses were small and round. He hadn’t changed much, still virtually the same, just older and possibly even more bent. Mr. Birdman the science teacher. He must be in his sixties now. Not the frightening, bullying teacher he had once been, but a much older, slightly wizened man. He peered over at Devon waiting beneath the tree, as he descended the stone steps and walked towards her. He smiled thinly at her with those same long, yellowing teeth. As he walked towards her, she surprisingly thought how small he seemed. Having only been a young teenager, the recollections has always been those of a tall overbearing teacher who used to hand out detentions or take you into the broom cupboard if you were considered naughty and now here he was, smaller than her, looking wiped out and weary. She could not take her eyes from his as he approached. He had no idea who she was. Or did he?