Passion (School of Sex Series Part 1, Jess's Story)

by Deveraux, CM

  I froze, willing myself not to turn around, not to give in. I did anyway.

  “What I said in there,” she said, “it came out all wrong. I didn’t mean to say you weren’t good enough, I meant to say you were better.”

  I was no longer listening. A twenty-something-year-old guy wearing a mostly shredded muscle shirt had strutted up to us with his chest pushed out like he was the keeper of all the hens in the henhouse. Veronica rolled her eyes before he’d even started talking.

  “Are your legs tired?” he asked. “Because you’ve been running through my mind all day long.”

  I was speechless.

  Veronica turned, placing both hands on her hips. “Not. Interested,” she said. “Not now. Not ever. Get it?”

  He scratched the back of his head and stood there for a moment, confused.

  “I said I wasn’t interested,” she repeated. “Go away.”

  He turned.

  “And by the way,” Veronica added after the guy mumbled the words “dumb bitch” under his breath, “maybe you should try a strip club. Divvying out singles to a woman in a G-string seems more your style.”

  I couldn’t help it. I clasped a hand over my mouth, but it wasn’t enough to contain my laughter. After he’d hopped on his bullet bike and peeled out of the parking lot, I said, “I bet that kind of thing happens to you a lot.”

  “I’ve heard worse. I rode a subway once when I was on vacation and a guy said, ‘I’m looking for buried treasure. Can I search you?’”

  I whipped my head back and forth. “Unbelievable.”

  “That’s the problem with guys these days. They think it’s all about them. It isn’t.”

  Finally, someone who felt the same way I did. “I’m starting to figure that out—the hard way.”

  “I can help if you’re interested.”

  “Are you a...therapist?”

  “In a way,” she said.

  “What kind—relationship?”

  She grinned, a wide, secretive kind of grin. “The best kind. Sex.”

  I’d heard about sex therapists before, but seeing one in the flesh was almost too hard to believe. After the initial shock passed and I stopped nodding for lack of knowing what else to do, she said she was available for an hour that evening.

  I walked with Veronica back inside the gym. In the women’s locker room, she reached into a handbag, extending a business card to me. I took it. On the front was her name and a miniature black-and-white logo of two stick figures, their arms entwined. Below her name it said “Specializing in Sex Therapy and Couples Therapy.”

  “The initial visit will need to take place at your residence,” she said.

  When I explained it was a small, one-bedroom apartment and I’d rather she didn’t, she said if she was going to help me, she’d have to start there.

  So be it.

  CHAPTER 3

  At seven p.m., Veronica had arrived wearing an above-the-knee, black, spaghetti-strap dress and four-inch, peep-toe heels that had two metal studs poking out the back. My first thought was whether the studs served a purpose other than being there for looks, but on second thought, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. Her blond locks were curled in such a way that when she walked past me, they bounced up and down in perfect harmony, like a woman strolling along the beach in a shampoo commercial.

  Before I could even get the front door closed, she’d started a self-guided tour of my humble abode, checking out every nook and cranny before sitting on the edge of the couch. I sat across from her, nervous.

  “Why do you think sometimes the plainer-looking girls seem so content in their relationships while the pretty girls seem so unhappy?” she asked.

  I was confused. Was she saying I was plain or pretty? Or had it been a hypothetical question?

  “You’re not plain, if you’re thinking that’s what I meant,” she’d said. “You’re pretty, under all that...what you’ve got on.”

  I thought about a couple I’d seen recently in the grocery store, strolling down the aisle, oblivious to everyone around them. The man, a three to four in the looks department, noticed nothing around him but the woman pushing the cart beside him. The woman was also a four in her natural state, but easily had the ability to increase her score to a solid seven if she applied the right makeup. He playfully walked behind her, softly blowing into her ear whenever she wasn’t looking. “Stop it,” she’d said. “Not here, Ron.” I skulked along next to them, trying not to let the color of my envy show. Her mouth may have pleaded for him to stop, but not her eyes. Her eyes soaked it in, begging for more. And judging by the way he looked at her, she was certainly going to get more later. A lot more.

  I looked at Veronica. “I don’t know why certain girls are luckier than others. I’ve never been able to figure out how some relationships last while others don’t.”

  “The girl gets the guy and keeps the guy because she knows who she is. She’s content with who she is. She attracts the kind of guy who prefers a strong, confident woman with a brain and turns down the opposite, even if they’re better looking. When this woman marries, she almost always mates for life. This kind of woman almost never suffers a heartbreaking divorce and is rarely cheated on.”

  “So you’re saying I’m not attracting the right guy for me?”

  “Depends. What’s your goal—what are you trying to achieve with a man? I believe I already know, but just to be sure, I want to hear you say it.”

  “At this point, my goal is simply to find someone who’s honest. A guy who’s faithful. I’m beginning to think I’m asking for the impossible.”

  “And if you find a man like this, what then?” she asked. “What’s your goal in a relationship?”

  “To get married one day?”

  “Is that a question or a statement?” she asked.

  “It’s what’s I want.”

  “You want to get married. Own it.”

  Was she expecting me to say it aloud?

  “Go ahead, Jess,” she prodded. “Own it.”

  Apparently so.

  “All right, I want to get married. Not right now, but one day.”

  “What else?” she asked.

  “I want a man who will make me happy long-term, not someone who dazzles and amazes at the onset, then over time leaves me feeling empty and unfulfilled. I’ve seen enough of this behavior in my friends’ relationships. I’d rather be alone than suffer like they have.”

  “Good. We have a place to start.

  “So...what next?”

  “Stand up,” she commanded.

  “What?”

  “Do it.”

  I did.

  She eyeballed the top of my head like it offended her. “What the hell have you got in your hair?”

  “What...this?” I pointed to the black band securing my bun in place. “It’s a Scunci.”

  “Take it out.”

  “Now?”

  She sighed.

  I pulled the elastic free, allowing my hair to cascade over my shoulders.

  She reached out, fluffing my locks with her fingers. “How often do you wear your hair back in a bun like that?”

  “Most days, I guess.”

  “Why?”

  I shrugged. “It’s easy.”

  “You mean lazy,” she said. “You should wear it down more often. You have lustrous, radiant hair. You should show it off. I’ll show you how to style it. Do you ever wear makeup?”

  “Not really.”

  “You should. You have a beautiful complexion. We just need to enhance it.” She squinted. “I’m trying to think of who you remind me of. Turn around.”

  I turned.

  “The clothes have to go.”

  I glanced down, scrutinizing my pebbly, blue sweater and boot-cut jeans. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

  “Nothing...if the message you’re trying to send is dull librarian.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Sweetie, your current look is like opening
a box of crayons and finding it filled with the same shade of dull, lifeless blue. It doesn’t really matter which of the twenty-four colors a man plucks from the box; in the end, he knows they’re all the same. Certain kinds of guys want this. They know just by looking at you that you’re submissive, weak. They’ll break you once they’re finished and snatch another girl from the carton. They aren’t the marrying kind.”

  “What should my look say?”

  “It shouldn’t say, it should do,” she said.

  “Do what?”

  “Whatever you want. In a sea of blue, we want red. We want different. Each one of us is unique in our own way. This should be celebrated, not stifled.”

  The more the words of wisdom ejected from her perfectly-shaped mouth, the more I felt perplexed and yet oddly beguiled at the same time.

  “An outfit can do all that?”

  “The right one can. You’re a size five at most, and yet your clothes give you the appearance of a size eight. Lose the bootcut and go with something fitted. Skinny jeans paired with boots or heels.” She lifted my sweater, inspecting my waist. “You have excellent hips, a tight ass, and solid thighs. The baggy sweater needs to go as well. You’re, what, a C cup?”

  “Almost. I’m more of a B plus.”

  “Good. Let’s show that off. A little cleavage goes a long way.” She circled around me. “What’s your schedule like tomorrow?”

  “I...I think I’m available. Why?”

  “We need to do a little shopping.”

  I sat back down. “I thought you were a sex therapist.”

  “I am, but first things first. You have to prime the engine before you can get it serviced. To get what you want, you have to brand yourself. The way you dress, the way you smell, the way you walk, what you say—all of it matters. Got it?”

  I nodded.

  “Good. Now—let’s talk about your place.”

  I glanced around. “My place? What’s wrong with it?”

  “Uh, the year 1995 called—it wants its artificial flowers back. Pink is cute, but unless it’s a piece of skin-tight lingerie, it’s not sexy. You want your place to look and feel like you, tell a story about who you are without using a single word. The walls aren’t even painted.”

  Her words pained me at first. They felt like insults, but she was right. I was living in a teenager’s dream house. “I want to show you something,” I said. I walked to the kitchen, opened a drawer, pulling out a magazine. I took it back to the living room and plopped it down on her lap, opening it to a section of dog-eared pages. “This is how I’d like to decorate someday.”

  She scanned the pages slowly and methodically, taking it all in. “This is fabulous. What are you waiting for?”

  I sat, crossed one leg over the other. “I don’t know. I just haven’t invested the time, I guess. I want to sell this place first and get into something different. It takes money.”

  “You’re the broker of one of the most successful real estate offices in the city. You can manage it. You’re dragging your feet. Am I wrong?”

  In her few short hours, she’d done her homework. What else does she already know about me?

  “Kate Beckinsale,” she said.

  “What?”

  “That’s who you remind me of, except you have darker hair.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Honey,” she said, her head cocked to the side, “once we work on your confidence, you’ll see it too. Trust me. No more hair buns unless you plan to attend a yoga class. Understood?”

  I nodded.

  She flipped the page. “What you’re showing me in this magazine is something completely different than what you currently have. The deep browns and rich reds...it’s perfect. Men will feel comfortable in this type of environment. Comfort equals relaxation, and relaxation leads to everything.”

  Finally, something she liked. I wanted to savor the moment, make it last longer. But then she breathed in and winced.

  “Take a deep breath and tell me what you smell.”

  I complied. “Nothing.”

  “This house has a specific odor. It’s very strong. Maybe from something you’ve sprayed on?”

  “Oh, that’s Baby Mine,” I said.

  “Baby what?”

  “My perfume,” I said.

  I went to the bedroom and brought it out, handing it to her. She shoved it into her purse without looking at it and snapped it shut.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “This perfume, if you can call it that, reminds me of something you’d smell at a child’s birthday party. You’re trying to attract a mate, not Bozo the clown.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve never really thought about any of this before.”

  “Lesson one: never say you’re sorry. Lesson two: think about everything. The goal here is to create an environment that you love and are comfortable in, first and foremost. You need to figure out who you are and who you want to be. Not in five years. Not for the someday that will never come. Now. Once we’ve accomplished those two things, you can do anything.”

  “I think I got it,” I said. “New clothes, new place, new attitude.”

  She smiled. “This journey is about finding yourself. Are you ready?”

  I nodded.

  She passed the magazine back to me. “Let’s get started.”

  CHAPTER 4

  In the beginning, dating was awkward at best. Dressed in clothes I wasn’t used to wearing proved more than a little difficult. The new-and-improved me still had one thing to work on: confidence. Veronica had decided to test that confidence by suggesting I ease into things via online dating. In her opinion, I needed to learn how to separate the angels from the asses, the studs from the mama’s boys. I spoke asshole fluently, so choosing that type of guy wasn’t a problem—it was not choosing them that proved to be difficult.

  “But he’s so cute,” I pleaded. “And we haven’t even gone out yet. How do you know he’s not right for me?”

  Veronica leaned in, scrutinizing Hot4You’s photos. “Trust me. Not for you.”

  I rested both elbows on the desk in front of me and sighed. “I give up. This is the seventh guy you’ve rejected. Who would you choose?”

  She typed in the screen name WhyNot. Up popped a guy with blond, shaggy hair, glasses, and a crooked nose. He looked like Owen Wilson, but taller. In his main photo, his brown-and-white-striped polo shirt didn’t match his black cargo pants. “Umm...”

  “What is it? What’s bothering you?” Veronica asked.

  “He’s mixed a brown belt with black slacks for starters. And why wear those hideous, rimmed eye-glasses when he could be wearing contacts?”

  “I appreciate the fashion sense. You’re learning. But is that all you see?”

  I bobbed my shoulders up and down. “Yeah.”

  “So you don’t care that he owns his own business and has two photos where he’s spending time with his sister’s kids? That doesn’t count for anything? Look past the glasses. Look past the clothes.”

  “But you just had me donate half my closet to Goodwill and buy an entirely new wardrobe. I thought clothes were important?”

  “They are. This guy isn’t forever. He’s a starter.”

  “A what?”

  She pressed a finger to the screen. “It says right here he’s not looking for a relationship. He’s perfect.”

  “Perfect? Why?”

  “You’re not looking for a relationship either.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “No, you’re not. Not yet,” she said.

  “But what about—”

  “Sex? Not going to happen for the next three months. Sorry.”

  I opened my mouth to object. She lifted her pointer finger, silencing me. “You’re in phase one. The first thing you’re going to do is get to know a few guys that aren’t just looking to get you into the bedroom. Have you ever spent time with a single guy without having sex?”

  “Yeah, in high school.”

&
nbsp; “I want you to know what it feels like to be with someone who sees you for more than just sex.”

  The idea seemed foreign when she’d said it, but I put in my time, dating a series of WhyNot’s over the next few months. And do you know what? Veronica was right. With the main event off the table, my head was clear. I was able to see things women never did when they were emotionally clouded by sex.

  This epiphany led me to phase two.

  Men, those looking for a lasting relationship, were simple creatures, not complex, as a vast majority led women to believe. Most had the same basic needs as women, as explained by Veronica.

  Number one: Respect. Men wanted and needed to feel valued. Women had the same basic need, except women also needed to be heard. Women wanted to know their words mattered.

  Number two: Support. For men, it didn’t matter whether they were playing in the championship game in a local soccer tournament or if they’d just received a raise a work. They wanted their women to be their biggest cheerleaders. Woman, on the other hand, tended to appreciate the kind of support that involved fixing things, whether in life, or under the kitchen sink. It didn’t matter, as long as it wasn’t broken anymore.

  Number three: Food. Slaving over a well-planned, home-cooked meal for a man every now and again went a long way for the woman too. “Light some candles,” Veronica had said. “Wear a see-through, silk shirt and a thin bra to expose those taut nipples of yours. Couple it with a black skirt. No panties. Men like eye candy, and they shouldn’t have to look somewhere else to get it. Just because a couple gets involved in a monogamous relationship doesn’t mean things have to get old.” After she’d said this, she rifled through my dresser drawers, removing all sweat pants from the premises. “I get it. Sweat pants make you feel cozy inside. But consider the person watching you wear them around. What man wants to fight through a bunch of layers to get to the hidden treasure? We come out of our mother’s wombs stark naked and shaped like an hourglass, not sealed inside a brown paper bag.

  Number four: Affection. A dual need for both parties. This was to be applied both inside the bedroom and out. Veronica said it was possible to be a sweet, savvy realtor during the day and a tempting seductress at night. I was cautioned not to let things get stale by only allowing sex to happen within the confinement of the bedroom. She said, “It’s the stolen kiss while you’re out to dinner together, the provocative ass grab in a public parking lot, a hand rubbing against his bare chest at the movie theater, and then sex—yes sex—at the time you least expect it.”