by Blaise Quin
Her change of subject was a relief. Although I had come to this session, I was now realizing I wasn’t ready to talk directly about my problems. “No.”
“Were you with other man you would have married?”
“No.”
“Did you have relationships?”
“I guess you can call them that.”
“Were these the relationships where you were very interested in sex?”
“Yes.”
“Were these other men similar to each other?”
“In what way?”
“In any way. Looks. Attitude. How they treated you.” Dr. Artin leaned forward. “In how they made you feel.”
“They didn’t look the same. The other ways, yes. The ways you mentioned.”
“And in how they were similar, are those the same characteristics your husband shares?”
I gave a little laugh. “Just the opposite, actually.”
“Would you say that you married Peter because he was different from them, or that you didn’t marry them because they were not the kind of men you wanted to marry?”
I looked at her with a new appreciation. “You’re very good at this, you know.”
“Thank you. But while I told you that all people and relationships are unique, the problems are not necessarily so.” Gently, she added, “You may be feeling that there is something wrong with you, that you are different. I can assure you, whatever issue you are having, you can rest assured that someone, many people, have had it before.”
“You’re just trying to make me feel better,” I said.
Dr. Arkin laughed. “Of course, but not because I’m saying something that is not true. Now please talk about how the men before were different from your husband. I don’t need names and details, just a general sense.”
Again I felt like I was betraying Peter, so I focused on the other men. “I didn’t have enough trust in any of them to want to spend my life with them.”
“Do you think well of yourself? Do you trust your judgment?”
That was a tough one. “Most of the time.”
“So why did you judge these men unworthy of being with? Why were you with them?”
“I was young. I did it for the fun.”
“For the sex?”
I felt my face redden. Why should I be ashamed of that? “Sure.”
“The sex with these men, was it different from the sex you have with your husband?”
I turned away again. “Yes,” I whispered.
“Please look at me.”
Her voice was quiet but commanding, exactly the voice I was used to obeying. My head snapped around.
“Do you think most men have a lot of sex before they get married?”
Her change of topic again unfroze me. “Probably.”
“And after?”
“Probably more than their wives do.”
“I mean with other women.”
“Are you asking me if men cheat? Sure they do.”
“I’m asking you if you believe that all men cheat.”
“Of course not.”
“So it’s fair to say you believe that a lot of men, if not most men, have a lot of sex with different women before they get married, but then settle down, so to speak, and have sex only with their wives?”
“Yes.” I couldn’t quite see where Dr. Artin was going.
“Do you think that all those men had exactly the same kind of sex in their prior relationships as they do with their wives?”
“I don’t know. Some yes, some no.”
Dr. Artin smiled and leaned back in her chair, as if she was finished. I waited for the next question, but she just sat there.
It took a while for her line of questioning to sink in. I had been so focused on my problem, so expecting her to just tell me I was a sexual deviant, that my brain wasn’t fully working. Yet it was dawning on me.
“You’re saying that it’s not so uncommon for men to have very different sexual experiences with the women they didn’t marry compared to the experiences they have with the women they do marry.”
She smiled. “Yes. Not just men, of course, but the same is true for women.”
“That’s common?”
“Very.”
“Huh.” I guess that made sense.
“You should let that sink in beyond today. Always remember it when any self inflicted question of what is normal crosses your mind. Normal for sex. Normal for a relationship.” Dr. Artin’s voice shifted back to its clinical tone. “Now for a different question. Are you planning on having children?”
“We’ve talked about it. Probably. I’m still young enough. My husband wants to. I do too, I’m just not in a hurry.”
“When you married Peter, did you think of this? That he’d be a good father?”
“Definitely.”
“And the other men?”
I wondered whether my fantasies of those other men impregnating me counted. The times I’d begged them to come in me. The risks I’d taken. The thrill of being bred by a powerful man who didn’t care where he spilled his seed. I didn’t think Dr. Artin meant that kind of fatherhood. “They would not have been good fathers,” I said.
She cocked her head, as if she had sensed my parsing of her question. But instead of nailing me, she said, “Now that we’ve established that you are a normal woman with not uncommon questions and concerns, let’s talk about the real reason why you are here.”
“What? We have been, haven’t we?”
Dr. Artin leaned forward again, her eyes taking on an intensity that pushed me back in my chair. I’d seen this look on men, men who I expected to tell me what to do. Men I wanted to tell me what to do.
“No. You’ve been dancing around it. Tell me this: What has happened recently in your marriage to reinvigorate your sexual desires, desires you had lost because your husband wasn’t as dominant as the men you’d been with before?”
My mouth opened and closed. I was so stunned I couldn’t speak. I wrapped my arms protectively over my chest, my heart beating so hard I could feel the vibrations. “How did. . .how could you. . .?”
Dr. Artin’s commanding look dissipated, and she sat back again. Not like a smug, dominant man, but a woman who could turn on and turn off her presence like a tool. I suddenly realized that she had used that tone to test my reaction. And there was no doubt now in her mind about how I responded to power.
Dr. Artin said, “It’s not as difficult as you think. And, of course, it’s not like I haven’t seen this before.”
“But I didn’t tell you anything specific. You must have guessed.”
“Not at all. I concluded. I listened to what you were saying, but even more to what you were not saying. If you had a very specific issue of sexual compatibility, like your husband didn’t like sexual foreplay, or got drunk before sex, or only thought of his own needs, you would have come right out and said that after a bit. Instead, you tried to blame yourself. A lot of women do that, much more than men do. But you went beyond that, you spoke positively about your husband without being defensive of him. I trust that you do really love him. And yet something is missing. All the qualities you spoke of regarding the other men—or more accurately, the qualities you suggested they didn’t have—are common of dominant, selfish, powerful men.”
Dr. Artin let that sink in, and then she added, “I take it you don’t believe you were abused?”
“If you’re asking me if these men hit me, then definitely not. But they were—rough.”
“Did any of those men hurt you?”
“I wouldn’t have let them.”
“You see yourself as a strong woman?”
“Yes.”
“Yet you are confused because you let men be rough with you.”
“Not just be rough. Dominate me.”
“And you enjoy that?”
I noticed that she had phrased that question in the present tense. “Yes.” I expected her to ask me why, but instead she again changed the subject.
“What? A few times, why?”
“Did you happen to notice how many of them are organized? Not only by type of women they depict—most porn sites are geared toward men, so there is a focus on the visual—but on the types of sexual acts?”
“I guess I knew that.” Of course I did, there had been a video of me on a website in a section marked Wives.
“Then you can understand that there are a wide variety of sexual interests. A wider variety than you might even imagine. Rough sex is certainly one of them.”
“So you’re saying I’m not the only one with a kink?”
Dr. Artin gave me a little finger wag. “The word kink has a very negative connotation. If you say I have a kink, it doesn’t feel so good, does it? But if you say, I have an interest, or This is what I like, it is much more positive, even if it describing the same desire.”
“So I shouldn’t feel badly about having an—interest—in rough sex?”
“As long as it isn’t self destructive, to either you or your marriage.”
“Does that also apply to being dominated?”
“The answer is the same. Although you must keep in mind that self destruction takes many forms. It’s one thing to have sexual interests, desires, take part in mutual sexual gratification that involves inequality between the partners. It’s another thing entirely if that inequality becomes the defining nature of your life, of your relationship. There’s a time and place for everything. Just as you wouldn’t do things in public that you do in the bedroom, so too should you keep other experiences in their own world. In a box, so to speak, only to be opened at the appropriate time, and once enjoyed, closed up again.”
“So you’re saying it’s okay for me to be dominated in the bedroom, as long as I don’t let men dominate me outside the bedroom?” As soon as I’d spoken I realized I’d let more slip than I had planned. Men, I’d said. Not my husband.
If Dr. Artin caught my slip she didn’t let it show. “It’s not for me to decide what is acceptable. I can only tell you that you are not uncommon, and having a desire for rough sex is not, by itself, unhealthy. Only you can decide what is acceptable for you. And your husband and marriage.”
“How will I know?”
“By how you feel. If your desire to be dominated in the bedroom spreads to a desire to be dominated outside the bedroom, then you have a problem.”
I tried to smile. “And I need more therapy?”
“I’d rather help you recognize the warning signs so that you don’t.”
I sat for a long time, letting it sink in. Maybe there was nothing wrong with me after all. I think what Dr. Artin was suggesting was that liking rough sex was no different from liking a certain sexual position, or any one of dozens of other sexual possibilities. Being with another woman. Having sex with multiple men. Swinging. It wasn’t the act, it was how you felt about the act during and afterward.
And how your husband felt about it.
One thing did bother me. “What if it turns out I become different because of what I like?”
“We all change through our experiences and by learning about ourselves,” said Dr. Artin.
“I mean—what if I find out that I like doing to—someone else—what I like having done to me?” I couldn’t even mention Peter’s name.
“I believe you know the answer to that,” said Dr. Artin. “It simply depends on how that other person feels.”
“Whether they like it, you mean.”
“More than that. Whether it crosses over into being unhealthy for them. Or for your relationship.”
“How will I know that?”
“You talk about it, of course. Openly and honestly.” Dr. Artin paused, and then asked, “Is your relationship strong enough for that?”
I glanced out the window. A blustery wind was roughly swinging the branches of a tall oak tree, yet the thick trunk stood solid as a rock. It was like a sign, that the core could remain strong even while the externalities were being buffeted from without. “Yes,” I said. I looked back at Dr. Artin. “Yes, I’m sure it is.”
Peter
Propped against the headboard, my tablet on my lap, I searched through the porn sites. It wasn’t until you were looking for one specific video did you realize exactly how much porn there was out there.
The proverbial needle in a haystack. Except in the case of an uploaded video, a needle that could replicate to other haystacks faster than a virus.
The bathroom door opened. Andie, fresh from the shower, wrapped only in a towel. Even after years of marriage the sight of her still took my breath away.
“Looking at porn?” she asked.
“Actually, yes.”
She paused, then nonchalantly started to dry her hair. “See anything you like?”
“I was looking for a certain woman.”
“Did you find her?”
“I did. She’s standing right in front of me.”
“I meant on the video.”
“Same woman, although I didn’t find a video of her.”
“That’s a good thing, right?”
I set the laptop aside. “It’s been three weeks. I think if Rodney was going to post it, he would have by now.”
“Or maybe you just can’t find it.”
I turned the laptop toward her. “Maybe you should try.”
Andie gave it a look, and for a second I thought she would do just that. Instead she said, “I trust you.”
“It could be there is no video,” I said. “Or if there is, Rodney doesn’t want his face to be seen, even though he claimed otherwise.”
“Could he just edit out his face?”
“Maybe.” I considered. “Probably.”
“Then we are back where we started.”
I wasn’t exactly sure I agreed with that. We had started with secrets, with frustration. But also without Andie having slept with two other men. Without my discovery of my own dark desires, my fantasies of her with other men. My learning of her love of being roughly taken by strong men. Men not like me.
“I’ll keep looking,” I said. Lightly, I added, “After all, what other husband could have such a good excuse to look at porn?” As soon as I said the words I regretted them; it sounded like I was blaming Andie.
Andie stopped drying her hair, her shoulders tensing, but before I could revise my comment she asked, “What are you going to do with the video Rodney gave you?”
I glanced over at the night table. The video was in the drawer on a USB drive. “Whatever you want to do with it.” I kept my voice as flat as I could.
“I guess we should delete it,” she said. She disappeared into the bathroom to hang the towel, then crossed to the bureau.
I watched her slip on a pair light pajama bottoms and a loose tee shirt. She hadn’t put on panties. It made me think of how she sometimes didn’t wear underwear when going out with her girlfriends to a bar, where she’d check out other men.
My cock shifted in my own pajama bottoms. I wasn’t sure if it was the brief, sexy view of Andie’s nakedness, or my reaction to her fantasizing about other men.
She’d sounded ambivalent about deleting the video. Casually, I said, “Too bad. It was kind of hot.”
Andie’s head shot around. Her eyes opened wide, staring at me. A hint of a smile appeared on the corners of her mouth. “Which part?”
“All of it, actually.”
She cocked her head. “That’s some man’s wife in that video. You should think about him.”
“Actually, that’s who I was mostly thinking about. That and how the woman appeared to really enjoy it all.”
The smile disappeared. Andie serious, sat next to me on the bed. “Do you mean that?”
“I do. She really seemed to enjoy it.” I hesitated, not sure what had caused her change in mood. “Didn’t she?”
“She—please answer the other part first. Did you enjoy it?”
“You know I did.”
>
“And how do you feel about that now?”
I took her hand and put it on my now erect cock. “See for yourself.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
Andie didn’t move her hand, but she didn’t stroke me either. She looked away briefly, appeared to make a decision, and turned back to face me squarely. “I have a confession to make.”
Here it comes, I thought. She’s been out with another man. Again. My mind reeled, going blank. The only solid thing left was my erection. “A confession?”
“I went to see a therapist. A doctor.”
“What?” An entire story immediately burst into my mind. Andie hooking up with a doctor. Going to his office, being bent over the examining table. . .
“A sex therapist.”
I was so caught up in my instant fantasy I was having a hard time following. “Are you okay?”
Andie gave a little laugh. “Actually, I think I am. The real question I have is: are you?”
“I’m not sure I’m following. Okay with what?”
Andie gestured toward the laptop. “With that. The video. With what’s on it. With what I did. With them.” She squeezed my arm. “With what I did with you.” She hesitated. “To you.”
I gulped. This wasn’t a confession, it was a unleashing of all her worries, worries that mirrored my own.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about it,” I admitted.
“And?”
That was a difficult question. “What did the therapist say?”
“Quite a bit. I’m still sorting it out. The gist of it was that if the—things—I like are limited to the bedroom, to sex, and don’t spread out into the other parts of my life—into our life—if they don’t become unhealthy in any way, then everything is okay. It’s not that my particular desires are normal—the doctor said there’s no clear sense of what is normal—but they are not uncommon. People have all kinds of fantasies. The important thing is how I feel about it afterward. And that goes for you, too.”
“How I feel about what you do?”
“And—and about what I enjoy doing to you.”
I thought about it. I tried to weigh how I felt now with how I had felt before. About my life of wondering what was wrong with me, or whether I’d ever be able to make Andie truly happy, compared to what we had now.
