by Nikki Sex
I can’t marry him.
I care for Joshua in many ways. I like him very much. In time, could I fall in love with this brilliant man? Could we develop the kind of love a good marriage would build upon? Who knows? I have no idea what I’m looking for in a partner. I don’t know what I need or want.
To accept his proposal would be lunacy and likely lead to disaster for both of us. The basis of our relationship is nothing but a snapshot in time of two vastly different lives.
Yet, I long to be loved. I long to be married and have children. Could he fill my needs? Could I fill his?
For a moment, my mind touches on my little brother, Timmy. I really want children. When I see mothers with their babies, I feel jealous. Of course, I feel jealous when I see daughters out with their loving mothers, too.
When I see daughters with their fathers, I feel nervous.
Right now, Joshua’s offering me all I’ve ever wanted.
Love, marriage and a family. Why does the mere thought of these subjects still make me feel lost and sad and a failure?
André thinks I’m still wounded through unresolved issues from my childhood. I frustrate him because he hates to see me unhappy. Despite his extensive one-on-one counseling and the many techniques he’s used to help me, he can’t fix me.
I’m not really unhappy.
It’s just sometimes I feel like crying and I get into depressive funks. There's an emptiness within me I can't seem to fill. It’s as if I’m half a person. All of my life, I’ve longed for a family. I’ll meet the right man someday. Even though sometimes I feel old, I’m still young. I’ll get there.
If only I knew my other half now.
After going back and forth for a while, we come up with an agreement. Joshua can email me twice a month for an entire year. In that time, he has to find and date at least one woman; preferably more.
“I do love you,” he says quietly.
For a moment I flash on to a memory of Jamie. Jamie opened my eyes to the intimacy and joy of sex. I was forever changed and I told him, “I love you,” too. But Jamie preferred men, so the subject of marriage didn’t come up.
“I’m honored, Joshua, I really am. Your whole world has changed. I know, I’ve been there. For now, will you go out and learn to love other people, too?”
He’s hurt and upset. Change is difficult, especially for him. He’d like to spend more time with me. We finally agree if Joshua is still romantically unattached at the end of a year, and I’m not with anyone—I’ll date him.
Why not? We are attracted to each other and we like each other. That’s a very good start.
Chapter 14.
“The patterns learned as a child, repeat as an adult. Those with an abusive childhood are very often oh-so blind to this inescapable truth.”
— André Chevalier
~~~
Renata Koreman
I lightly knock on his door.
“Entrer,” André says.
I tentatively walk inside and close the door, resting my back on it.
André's study is warm, inviting and utterly male. Dark wooden floors are covered by a medieval Aubusson rug and his large teak desk is set so he can peer out over the landscape of Las Vegas. Dark wooden beams along a white ceiling make it appear as if the room’s set in some French château.
This is the place where I first met André. What a mess I was back then. Just out of a psychiatric unit for a psychotic episode, devastated by the death of Jamie, my best friend, protector and first love.
For a long time afterwards, I had nightmares, flashbacks and panic attacks. I wasn’t exactly an easy case. I can’t believe André took me in, and took me on. I’ve been such challenge and a trial to him. He’s devoted so much time and energy into helping me heal.
Ever the gentleman, André stands and gives me a friendly smile when I enter the room. “Ma petite souris,” he says in a quiet voice.
It means, “My little mouse.” He’s always affectionately called me that. His face is open and welcoming; in fact, everything about him demonstrates his pleasure at seeing me.
André wears his usual perfectly tailored top-of-the-line charcoal suit and vest, with a well-pressed, crisp white shirt. His subdued tie rests on the desk beside him and his shirt is open at the neck.
Flat stomach, broad shoulders, dark hair styled perfectly around his neck and ears, the man is so incredibly handsome.
Still, I think his personality is what’s most attractive about him. Character beats good looks every time. If he was decrepit with age, hunchbacked and physically ugly, I’d still find him to be the most beautiful person in the world.
I haven’t seen André in ages. Just the sight of him lifts my low spirits.
I’ve just come back from walking Joshua Marks and his dog to the elevator and I feel so damn down. I feel ridiculously guilty for not accepting Joshua’s offer. I feel bad because I caused him pain. I’m confused because I don’t know what I’m doing. I feel stupid, and hopeless. I never get anything right.
André reads my turbulent emotions instantly. “Come to me, ma belle,” he says and opens his arms wide.
With a sob, I run into the safety of his embrace. The faint smell of nutmeg, cedar and Brazilian Rosewood fill my senses and I breathe in deeply. God, I adore his cologne. I love everything about him.
André grips me firmly, patting my back and soothing my raw feelings with soft words of affection and lighthearted chastisement. He knows I’m mad at myself—I often am. I’m my own worst enemy. He speaks only in French, telling me I’m a “foolish little cabbage” and a terrible, terrible trial to him, but he loves me anyway.
He’s called me a “foolish little cabbage” so many times. This isn’t an insult—it’s a term of endearment. Maybe you’d have to be French to understand the context. He’s being affectionate and his playful teasing is just so damn sweet.
Either way, he stops my downward spiraling mood in its tracks and makes me almost choke with laughter, which he no doubt had hoped for.
When I’m more composed, he takes my hand and we move to the couch where we can talk. He pulls a handkerchief from his breast pocket. Taking gentle care, he wipes my eyes.
“You are upset. Tell me what has happened to disturb your peace?”
“Everything with Joshua went really well,” I reply in English, because I don’t have to think so much while speaking in my native tongue.
“I expected no less,” he says, switching to English, too. “You are most capable, ma petite souris.”
I give him a wan smile and sniff in an unladylike manner. He hands me his handkerchief and I blow my nose loudly. His bushy black eyebrows shoot up in surprise. The stunned expression on his face makes me grin.
We both laugh out loud.
“All is better, is it not?”
I nod.
“And so?”
“Joshua asked me to marry him,” I begin. “He’s got it in his head that he’s in love with me. I feel like I ripped out his heart by saying no. The whole thing left me feeling guilty and confused. André, I want to be in love and married. He’s a good guy. We could be happy together… probably.”
He nods, his dark eyes filled with understanding. André knows my triggers.
“Are you pleased you did not give in and tell Monsieur Marks you would marry him?”
“Yes! But it was really hard. I didn’t want to hurt him.”
“It was well done. Continue to work on your boundaries, little mouse. You improve on this most vital skill. How did the session end?”
“We agreed if Joshua is still single at the end of the year, and I’m not with anyone—I’ll date him. But he has to date at least one woman before then. He can also write to me twice a month.”
André stands up and begins to pace. I knew this would piss him off.
“I do not fault your actions,” he says, “but me? I doubt your reasoning. Every time you wish to be the Superwoman,” he says flinging a hand in the air. “The Wonder woman, t
he heroine who races in and saves people. But you cannot save everyone. You are not to blame for Dr. Marks’ emotional responses to life. You cannot rescue someone from themselves. People are never as helpless as they feel! When they improve, it is not because of you—it is because they have chosen to help themselves!”
André and I have had this conversation many times before.
As a child, I was powerless. I couldn’t save my mother from my father. I couldn’t save my baby brother. I try to fulfill other people’s needs in some sort of crazy form of compensation because I want to give them what I never had. I have difficulty making my own desires a priority.
In the scheme of things, I feel unimportant.
Helping people is all I want to do. Being needed makes me feel valued. Through helping, I’m able to connect with others, yet a “rescuer” who's willing to forego her own needs to support others, isn't the best idea for a therapist.
“I did tell Joshua ‘no,’” I say meekly.
He shakes his head, hitches a hip on his teak desk and crosses his arms. “Pardon, you did not say ‘no.’ You said you will not date him for a year and he may write to you.”
“But only twice a month.”
He rolls his eyes at that.
“I wanted to say yes… well, I didn’t really want to, but I couldn’t bear to see Joshua so upset. And frankly, the things he said made sense. I know it's crazy.”
“D'accord, eh bien,” he says with a sigh. “You did as you thought best and he is worthy of your care. In fact, he could be the man for you. Who can say? I only wish you would allow me to introduce you to people. I know of men who would be good for you. Men who would cherish you, protect you and need you as you need to be needed.”
“What? Not one of your Dom friends again?”
He shrugs.
André’s into BDSM. I know all about that. BDSM is a strange abbreviation because it’s formed from the beginning letters of more than four words. It stands for bondage, discipline, dominance, submission, sadism and masochism.
Often, André uses a variety of erotic practices involving role-play, restraint and other interpersonal power dynamics when he works with his clients. Helping people find their way in life and within relationships is what he does best.
Like me, André is a rescuer too, in his way. But unlike me, he’s not crazy. Despite being caring and empathetic, André maintains his boundaries with ease. He’s able to separate himself and his own wishes from those he helps.
In André’s opinion, BDSM is a useful tool for personal growth and self-awareness. Why? He says, “BDSM is about honesty, communication, trust, sacrifice, service and connection. This makes it not only something for the body, heart and mind, but also a great remedy for the soul.”
It sounds wonderful.
Too bad, it’s not for me.
I’ll always associate an inability to escape and vulnerability with the abuse I suffered as a child from my scary father. I wouldn’t let André try it with me. He showed me a lot of the basics of Domination and submission, but I was too much of a scaredy-cat to go further.
He thinks if I fell in love with a Dom and played Dom and submissive games, I could work through all of my childhood shit. André says he’s solved many abuse cases in this manner.
“Often,” he says, “the same poison used differently and with trust, can become the cure.”
He means I need to go back to the things that messed me up and face them again, but this time with people I love and trust.
I don’t know if it would work for me.
They say if the only tool you have is a hammer, you’ll treat everything as if it were a nail. For André, BDSM is one of his favorite tools.
“You did very well with Joshua Marks, except now you are unhappy.”
“I know, it’s nuts, but I feel as if I let him down. I feel like a failure.”
Voice and arms raised, he jumps from his desk in a frenzy of passion. “Oui, oui! And a good Dom would spank you for such idiocy! I would enjoy to see you unable to sit down for a week! Yet, you will not have a good Dom, and I do not know how else to help you!”
My reaction—or my lack of one, is a testament to how far I’ve come over the years. The fact I feel no physical or emotional response to André’s apparent threat of violence or his raised voice, shows how much I trust him. He’d never hurt me.
André’s just frustrated and disappointed as I confound him with my self-punishment and weird depressive funks.
My doctor prescribed me high-dose antidepressants for years. Now I’ve stabilized on a minimal dose, but when it comes down to it, with the slightest provocation I still feel like a fool and a failure.
For a long moment, there’s only silence in the room.
I meet his eyes. “If I could bring myself to play BDSM games, I’d want to play them with you,” I say in a soft voice.
He smiles down at me and looks sincerely apologetic. “I’m very sorry I cannot be who you need me to be, little mouse.”
“Me, too.”
He nods. “On another matter. I see from your schedule you are available tomorrow afternoon, no?”
I have a ton of work to do at the vet’s office, cages to clean, animals to attend to… but Diana won’t mind. I can get everything done. I’ll do as much as I can tonight.
“Sure. What’s up?”
“I have a new client for you. His name is Grant Wilkinson. He is seven years older than you are. As a child he was sexually abused by a man.”
I shake my head and already feel sorry for the poor guy. Not that feeling sorry for someone helps—it doesn’t. Pity sucks. I always hated when people felt sorry for me.
“What does Grant need from me?”
André gives me his typical Gaelic shrug. “Who can say? I have done all I can for him—for now. It is for you to take him further, I think. This will not be one session as it was with Joshua Marks. This could mean many, many sessions you must have with him. It may take time to discover his requirements.”
“Did you tell him about me?”
“I told him you enjoy sex and are an experienced sexual surrogate. I told him I would inform you of his history of sexual abuse, but that is all. He has spoken to me, purging himself of details. I feel it would help him to speak to a woman of these things.”
I frown and think this over. “How should I bring up the subject?”
“Do as you feel best. You are a counselor par excellence.” He shoots me a broad grin. “I know, as I have trained you! Use your own judgment of how to proceed. I will be available to answer questions, or to deal with any difficulties, of course.”
“Will I like him?”
André grins. “Mais oui, you will most certainly like him. I enjoy his company, oh, very much. We shall see. If a connection does not form between you, I will find him someone else.” His eyes narrow as his gaze probes mine. “Of all you have worked with, of a certainty, Grant needs you more than any other.”
My heart kicks up at these words.
I hear a soft knock, followed by Gustave’s appearance and his mellow voice announcing, “Le déjeuner est servi.”
Lunch is ready. The thought of Pascal’s wonderful French cuisine makes my empty stomach growl. I’m hungry and now I’m all fired up. Tomorrow, I’m going to meet my new and hopefully long-term client.
Grant needs me, André says. My clever friend knows me so well.
I feel loved when I’m needed, and I’m happy and fulfilled when I feel loved.
It’s one thing to know your own type of crazy, but it’s another to figure out how to deal with it. My self-esteem is tied up with rescuing people and giving my heart away. Pretty funny when I clearly need someone to save me from myself.
Right now, sexual surrogacy is what works for me. I can help lots of people without getting too tangled up emotionally.
Having caused Joshua pain has put me on edge. The moment I return home, I plan to spend time in my little box. I’ll feel safe there and be able to ref
lect on the day. I’ll also consider Grant and his possible problems.
I remember what André said: This could mean many, many sessions you must have with him.
Yes! A delicious sense of anticipation runs through me. I cross my fingers and pray that Grant and I hit it off.
Chapter 15.
“Selfish—a judgment readily passed by those who have never tested their own power of sacrifice.”
― George Eliot
~~~
Stan Huber
One more day and I’ll be out of jail.
It couldn’t come soon enough for Stan.
On Sunday morning, after breakfast, he was let out into the general population for exercise. Reluctant to go, Stan had no choice. He’d already seen one guy limping and sporting a black eye. What would they do to him?
The moment he walked into the yard, a huge Latino man looked right into his eyes and purposefully started walking straight toward him.
The massive thug was flanked by two other big men.
Stan stopped short and pulled back, but the immense man and his associates kept coming towards him. After watching Stan cower, an evil grin spread broadly upon his scary face.
So soon? Stan thought, his eyes wildly seeking a correctional officer. Not even two days in jail, and this guy is going to beat me to death? Shit!
“Hey, gringo,” the big man said.
“Yes, sir?” Stan managed to choke out a reply, while experiencing a sudden and fierce desire to pee.
The large Latino laughed loudly and slapped Stan’s back in a manner that almost knocked him over.
“¿Qué haces?” he asked.
Stan blinked. “What?”
“I am Martillo.” The giant laughed in a booming voice. “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to protect you.”
“You are?”
“Sure. You have powerful friends, my man. People with cash who aren’t afraid to share—know what I mean?” He bumped a shoulder against Stan’s in a conspiratorial manner.
With the big man’s size and weight, even a small tap felt something like a Mack Truck knocking into a VW. This time, Stan did almost fall over.
