by Nikki Sex
I love service men and women. Post-traumatic stress disorder or not, once a protector, always a protector—that’s what I say. Although constantly fearful, I felt a bit safer just knowing they were around.
It took me years and seemingly endless help from André, but now I can look people in the eye and I can speak to them. When under pressure, or upset or around fighting or yelling, I often relapse to stuttering and averting my gaze.
I’m studying psychology via correspondence and hoping to become a registered sexual surrogate through the International Professional Surrogates Association. It’ll take years to become confident enough to do it on my own.
Until then, I work as a surrogate for André from time to time.
I’m comfortable with my own sexuality and I’m no longer lost, frightened and confused. André taught me how to express my emotions and myself. I’m observant, sensitive and I feel deeply.
Who’d be better to understand and help others? Just like André and Mr. Brand, my school librarian, kindness comes naturally to me.
I feel much older than my twenty-two years.
Most of my life I was living in the sense that I was breathing, seeing, hearing, thinking, feeling and walking around. Yet, in many ways, I wasn't truly alive until I met André. I was so restrained by fear, pain and grief, I never embraced life. I was paralyzed and shut off from the world.
I’d do anything for André Chevalier.
I believe he’d do anything for me.
I’m a grown woman now. Fear no longer rules my life. Someday, I hope to find someone of my own to love. I still long to be married and have children. These childhood desires continue to be strong goals.
Meanwhile, I’m safe, content and have people who care about me. Love is all-important. It’s a mystery I’m still trying to understand.
When I was a child, I loved my mother, even though I ran away so she had to take most of dad’s beatings. As an adult, I’d gladly take a beating for André.
I’ve learned people express love in many different ways.
Pascal shows his love by cooking wonderful meals. Anne teaches me French. André hugs and praises me. Mitten obeys me. Gustave likes to take walks in the park with me. He talks about music, art and philosophy and intently listens to everything I have to say.
Pascal, Gustave, Anne, André and Mitten. I adore them all. They’re the family I never had—but I fell madly in love with André. Who wouldn’t? Yet, I soon realized he could never be mine.
André’s unique, kind and fun. He genuinely cares about me and he’s taught me how to be myself. There’s only one André, but he belongs to everyone.
Not only that, more importantly, André doesn’t need me.
When it comes to love, I need someone to need me as much as I need them.
I know that much about love.
Chapter 8.
“In ancient times cats were worshiped as gods. They have not forgotten this.”
—Terry Pratchett
~~~
Renata Koreman
Present day…
I giggle when Mitten slashes his tail back and forth, tickling my arm as I apply a light touch of make-up. His black and white fur is luxurious because I brush it all the time, feed him a perfect diet and spoil him as much as is humanly possible.
“Mitten, don’t be annoyed. You know I have to go out.”
Mitten stares at me in the mirror as he sits on my dressing table. Unblinking, his eyes blaze into mine. “I want to play!” he communicates, his dark, demanding gaze drilling holes into me.
I have an “owner” and “owned” relationship going on with my cat. In his mind, he’s the “Master of the Universe.” And me? I’m his personal slave.
“We’ll play when I get back,” I lightly reassure him, as I slip plain gold hoops into my pierced ears.
I see my reflection and smile when I notice how curvy I am. Over the years, André’s successfully fattened me up. Having plenty of good food around and losing a crap load of anxiety, I’ve learned to eat. Right now, my bacon and egg breakfast sits heavily in my stomach. I won’t be hungry for hours.
I’m shaved and showered, I’ve rubbed a fragrant lotion on my skin and I’m all dressed up and ready to go.
A thrill of lustful anticipation flows through me, as I recall the sweet client who’ll benefit from my sexual expertise in therapy today.
Joshua Marks is the youngest child of five well-adjusted older siblings. His parents are over sixty and happily married. Such nice people, they want what they have for their son. Joshua is a thirty-year old blind man who, other than his mother, has never even kissed a girl.
Women make him nervous.
For his birthday, Joshua’s father paid for a surrogate session and pushed him for months to attend. Upset by alterations in his schedule—in fact disturbed by change of any kind—Joshua was stubbornly against the idea until we met for coffee a week ago.
When I first met him and his Seeing Eye dog, Max, Joshua was frowning—he was meeting with me against his will. Well over six feet tall, he looked too slim for his height. His curly, sandy-blond hair was cut short. Under those sunglasses, his eyes were most likely blue.
I smile, recalling his naivety and innocent charm. After he agreed to have a surrogate session with me, I’d sealed our arrangement with a chaste kiss on his soft lips.
It made his face instantly redden with a mixture of awkward uncertainty, confusion and lust.
Sweet. So damn sweet.
I lean in toward the mirror to see better, in order to apply my mascara. You usually can’t tell when someone has Asperger’s and Joshua’s no exception. He’s a genius who’s completed two Masters degrees (in Physics and Mathematics) and has a doctorate in Aeronautical Engineering.
I grin at myself in the mirror, thinking about Doctor Joshua Marks. His real interest is rocket science.
Yes folks! Rocket science!
This thought makes me snicker out loud, and I almost stab myself in the eye with the mascara applicator. Joshua’s blind so he won’t see it, but I feel prepared for anything when I have my make-up on.
We sat together in the coffee shop while he conversed animatedly about weight ratios, pounds of thrust, fluid mechanics and the key differences between aerodynamics verses astrodynamics. Joshua, I discovered, feels strongly that humankind should colonize the moon.
I listened attentively and while I couldn’t fully follow the conversation, I’d been sincerely interested. His passion for his job was fun to watch.
Joshua is an interesting guy.
Man, who wouldn’t love my job? It’s perfect for me. I get to meet and genuinely help interesting people for a start. I’ve always loved sex, and as for helping others—well, maybe it’s a form of pay it forward. Because, where would I be now if not for André?
I was worried Joshua would get cold feet and back out, for a while there. At my encouragement, and as an icebreaker, Joshua and I have corresponded daily via email for the last week.
Joshua wrote to tell me André took him out to update his wardrobe in preparation for our date. André loves shopping for clothes. He would’ve also given him condoms and told him how to use them—if I know André at all, and I do—but Joshua didn’t mention that. The ideal listener, I wonder if my loveable Frenchman managed to get Joshua to talk?
Even with a practiced therapist like André, I bet Joshua still didn’t have much to say. Unless he’s talking about rocket fuel, the man keeps his mouth shut.
Life sure can throw some curve balls. If my sweet, super-nerdy client hadn’t lost his sight when he was a teenager, maybe he would’ve become a brain surgeon.
Brain surgeon!
Mitten glares at me as a gurgle of laughter slips from my lips.
Like most people with Asperger’s as a disability, Joshua has difficulty with social interaction and communication. As these are both issues I’ve struggled with, our pairing is perfect.
The fact that Joshua was blinded during a laboratory expe
riment when he was sixteen-years-old, exacerbated his inability to pick up social cues.
During our coffee together, I’d urged him to talk, using every skill André taught me. With my history of silence or stuttering, I’m more comfortable listening rather than speaking. Besides, I can identify and sympathize with these problems, and he really is just so damn cute. We got along really well.
Joshua’s devotion to his Seeing Eye dog, Max, further endeared me to him. So I told him about my cat’s internet fame. I make over $1000 a month from YouTube views of Mitten’s tricks. I’m hoping a publisher will take on the book André encouraged me to write, called “Cat Coaching.”
Before I go, I check the internet for a quick read of the New York Times. Hmm. Sex trafficking, increase in teenage pregnancies, and a frightening report about AIDS. Bummer.
All of this bad news about sex gives people the idea that it’s scary and dangerous. In focusing on all that can be wrong, society makes sex seem like a sin. In truth, it’s the exact opposite.
In America, abstinence until marriage is pushed. Regardless of what's said in the media, schools and homes, young adults follow their urges and continue to pair off. Nothing stops them.
Sadly, instead of embracing the role sex can play in relationships, the fun it can be, and how it allows people to get the most out of life—young people end up feeling guilty.
For a moment, ‘Uncle Bob’s’ comments, uttered years ago, echo in my mind: The dirty little slut is three months away from her eighteenth birthday. She opens her legs to anyone! It’s a wonder the little whore isn’t pregnant!”
Strange how mean words can return to ones thoughts, years after they’ve been callously thrown at you. They replay in your mind, spiking a sense of remembered pain. Nasty name calling can be an ugly memory that stabs unexpectedly—not unlike a nightmare where you wake up crying.
Sticks and stones, may break your bones—yet, cruel names can hurt you.
I’m not a slut. I’m not a whore.
Why is sex considered a shameful activity, rather than a way for couples to get to know and enjoy each other? The whole subject is tainted by unhealthy, pre-conceived notions.
When I think of how I was introduced to sex, I’m glad of the way I grew up. And yet, I never tell anyone I’m a sexual therapist. I don’t want to be condemned by ignorant people who don’t understand.
I check my watch. Merde!
It’s 9:15 a.m. Gustave is going to pick me up in twenty minutes as my appointment with Joshua is at André’s place.
I’ve got to go.
Chapter 9.
“Nymphomaniac: a woman as obsessed with sex as an average man.”
— Mignon McLaughlin
~~~
Renata Koreman
My low heels click loudly down the stairs as I trot down to the lower floor.
I live in an apartment above a veterinary office. Diana, the local vet, is my landlord, good friend, sounding board and boss. She works for André too sometimes, not as a surrogate, but as “Mistress Diana.”
A sudden vision of the petite woman with her bright bottle-red hair, standing in four inch stilettos and a latex cat-suit or corset, while impatiently tapping a riding crop on her thigh, cracks me up.
I can imagine any number of men—or women for that matter, worshiping at her feet.
Other than knowing her as an extremely confident and competent vet, I haven’t witnessed that side of her personality. She saves her dominance for the bedroom.
Diana took one look at what Mitten could do and hired me as a part time assistant on the spot. I get to live upstairs. For that and a minimum wage, I bathe animals; clean and disinfect cages; sterilize surgical equipment; and generally help out.
Dressed for work in a trim skirt and blouse, covered by an open lab coat, Diana’s rummaging around in the storeroom at the exact point where my stairs end. Her striking, mid-length hair is tidily placed on top of her head in a braided, chignon twist.
Ten or maybe fifteen years older than I am, Diana’s protective and caring. I could say she even “mothers” me—certainly far more than my own mother did—but she’d be upset if I told her that.
I’m a little awed by her confidence and experience.
“Oh, hi hon,” she straightens up and greets me cheerfully. “You look amazing. Too good for a mere mortal. Hot date?”
“Kind of.”
I shrug, give her a feeble chuckle, and force myself to meet her eyes. After all this time, even with someone I know, I still long to avert my gaze. It feels safer and more comfortable somehow. I don’t like crowds, a raised voice scares me, and I still need to spend time each day in my box.
I’ve come a long way, but really I’m a big fake. Head and heart, I don’t feel like a real woman. I’m still such a mouse. Maybe that’s why my cat and I get along so well.
I’m not normal.
I go through all the motions, a kind of “fake it until you make it” kind of deal. André says I’ll improve. I just need to give it time and make myself be part of the world. He encourages me to go out and talk to people. He inspires me to face life.
I’m working on it, but I have to work really hard every day.
He wants me to take a self-defense course. Nope. I can’t see that happening. Violence scares me.
Mitten jumps up on a box beside Diana. Diana spreads her arms encouragingly, a cue my cat knows well. Mitten instantly stands up on his back legs and raises his arms. With his little white paws open and ready, he looks as if he’s expecting a hug.
Diana giggles and sweeps him on to her chest, petting and praising. She pats her shoulder, and obediently Mitten climbs up with a little push from Diana.
Grinning, she says, “I may be the vet, but you’re the Mistress of the animal Kingdom, Renata. I’ll never get over how remarkable Mitten is.” Her eyes narrow as she studies me. “Maybe there’s a hidden Dominant underneath that quiet, meek exterior of yours.”
I shake my head. “Maybe.”
No way. I’m a self-doubting, worrying, marshmallow.
“Diana, do you ever tell people… what you… like?” I ask tentatively.
Raising an eyebrow, her eyes narrow as she gives me a searching gaze. “What? That I enjoy dominating men or women, singly or in multiples during sex?”
I’m blushing, I feel heat burning my face, but it isn’t because I’m embarrassed about the subject. It’s because she’s so… penetrating. Right now, I feel exposed. It must come with her dominant personality.
“Yeah,” I manage to say.
Diana smiles and her good humor washes over me. “Let’s just say, it never comes up in ordinary conversation.” Her lips quirk. “Why do you ask?”
The memory of Uncle Bob’s cruel words are still in my mind. I shrug. “Because I never tell anyone I’m a sexual surrogate. It’s not that I’m ashamed of it—I’m not, but I don’t want to be called a ‘whore,’ a ‘skank’, a ‘ho’ or a ‘slut.’”
Diana laughs. “You’re so young! Don’t forget ‘harlot,’ ‘hussy,’ ‘tramp,’ and ‘fallen woman!’”
To my surprise, anger I didn’t know I had building up inside, breaks free. “I just don’t get why men get pats on the back, winks and admiration for having sex,” I say, in a raised voice. “A promiscuous man is sought after! He’s called, ‘Casanova,’ ‘stud,’ ‘lady-killer,’ ‘heartbreaker,’ ‘playboy,’ or ‘player.’ All of the terms for oversexed men have sexy, cute connotations—while we women are looked down upon and labeled mean names for having sex!’”
Diana nods understandingly, but I’m on a roll so I just keep going.
“I don’t get it. Language reveals so much about a culture. Men who sell women are called ‘pimps,’ which doesn’t sound too harsh. Men who pay for sex are simply, ‘Johns,’ which is a common name for a man. What’s bad about that?”
I throw up my hands in frustration. “In short, men don’t have a number of special, nasty names for being sexually active or enjoying sex. Wome
n have them all. Why is that?”
Diana laughs. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you speak so many words, all at once.”
I blush again and avert my gaze. This time I am embarrassed.
“I think it comes back to human history,” Diana says, ignoring my obvious discomfort. “In the past—without birth control, women needed to keep their legs together. Before the invention of antibiotics and condoms, sexually transmitted diseases may have ended the human race. These out dated patriarchal rules of ‘must be a virgin until marriage’ are no longer relevant.”
“Do you think people’s views are changing?” I ask.
Her perfectly shaped eyebrows raise up in surprise. “Of course! Don’t you?”
I shrug, because I’m not so sure.
“Women are becoming liberated and attitudes are changing,” Diana says. “What women want now isn’t just sex, but great sex!” Our eyes meet and we snicker. We’re both examples of that.
Diana places Mitten upon a high box, so he’s at eye level. He rolls over and looks at us so adorably, we immediately begin to stoke him. Who could resist Mitten? Neither of us can. With all of this affectionate attention, he curls up and begins to purr loudly.
“When it comes to mind blowing orgasms,” Diana says while rubbing Mitten under his chin, “women are reading about them, talking about them, and they’re actively pursuing them.”
I choke on a laugh. With a smug smile, she chuckles too.
“Anyway,” Diana asks, “have you seen how many bestselling erotica books are out there? Most of them are written by women.”
“Yes,” I say, “But too often, the heroines are in their early twenties and are still virgins. Really? Is anyone a virgin at twenty-four? If so, the poor things have been missing out.”
“True. I’m sure it happens, but I don’t know anyone who made it past seventeen.”
“See?” I say, happy to make my point. “The heroine is frequently portrayed as absolutely naive and has never even heard of oral sex. In this world of the internet, this is—dare I say—a bit hard to swallow.”
