by Kitty Thomas
Don’t say it, Vivian thought. But of course Jewel said it anyway.
“I wish I had a man like Michael. It’s lonely having as much money as I have. Too many of the men I’m interested in just want to use me.”
For a moment Vivian was stabbed with jealousy so sharp she thought it was the muffin disagreeing with her. Thinking about how much happier Michael would be with this 21-year-old smart, pretty nymphette. Someone who no doubt would come like a rocket when he looked at her, let alone touched her. Someone who didn’t need to be taken care of in the pathetic way Vivian did.
“Why don’t you find a man with some money?”
Jewel shrugged and slid her knife into the butter, spreading it evenly over the remaining muffin half. “They’re too busy. Michael seems so devoted. That’s hard to find now.”
A dryer buzzed and the three dogs jerked their little heads toward the laundry room in unison.
“Oh shit! I’m going to be late for class.” She jumped up and put her plate in the sink, then disappeared into the next room.
Vivian didn’t bother asking why Jewel didn’t have a maid. She knew why. It was the same reason she and Michael didn’t. Maids were nosy.
Jewel returned, untying the bikini in a rush. Perfect, pert breasts bounced out like they’d been waiting all day to be taken for a walk. Vivian looked back at her plate and tried not to make mental comparisons while her neighbor finished dressing.
“I’m sorry to run out like this. I’ve just got this stupid ten am physics class, and if I’m late the bitch will lock the door on me. She seems to think I belong in fashion design or pottery. I’m pulling a high B in there. Doesn’t matter to her.” She slid the jeans on like fancy wrapping for candy every male on campus––and Michael––probably wanted to taste.
“It’s okay. I’ve got errands.”
“Take some muffins if you want,” Jewel said, running a brush through her hair.
Vivian filled a couple of Ziplock bags and left through the back door.
When Michael arrived home, she was curled in a chair, reading a women’s magazine that had arrived with the mail.
“What’s for dinner?”
“I’m ordering take-out.”
He sighed. “Vivian, you’re home all day . . . ”
She slammed the magazine shut with a crisp snap of pages and tossed it onto the coffee table. “And what, Michael? Are we poor? Is there some reason we need to be watching the money suddenly?”
“I just like it when you cook.”
She rolled her eyes. “Was there a veiled compliment in there?”
“You know I’ve always liked your cooking.” His voice turned softer as if begging her not to start another fight.
“And you know I never cook on manicure day.”
Vivian watched his lips draw together in a disgusted line. She could practically see the cogs in his head turning, linking manicure day with one of her famous no-sex excuses, on par with the classic headache line.
He finally made a noncommittal grunt and retreated into the kitchen. A moment later he was back. “And, there’s not even any coffee made.”
“I’m not your slave. I don’t know why you think my life revolves around serving you. It doesn’t.”
“Well, what does it revolve around, Vivi? Enlighten me. I’d really like to know. From what I can tell you don’t do anything useful during your day at all. The least you could do is see to the house and cooking.”
“That’s all I’m worth to you, isn’t it? Wouldn’t it be much less drama for you to hire a maid and get a whore? You’ve got the money for it. Or would your conscience destroy the enjoyment of that since you’d be leaving me off on some corner somewhere? Or maybe you’d resent the alimony.”
Michael’s eyes flashed dangerously, and for one tense moment she thought pain was coming. He’d never raised a hand to her before. And yet, the thought was there, behind the surface. She could see it shining in his eyes.
He angrily reached inside his jacket pocket and retrieved a lavender card on linen paper. He thrust the rectangle at her. “Here.”
“What is this?”
“It’s a business card for a therapist.”
“You think I’m crazy?”
“I think you’re unhappy. And I know I am.”
“Then why do I need the therapist and not you?”
His face was unreadable, but the anger still simmered beneath the surface. “Tell me, Vivi, what do I do wrong? I give you a life with all the comforts and security you need. I’m attentive. I take you out. All I ask for in return is that the woman I love not be so cold all the time.”
“Do you really love me, Michael? Or do you feel obligated to me?”
He made a sweeping motion with his arm. “See? That, right there. I don’t know where the hell that comes from. That, and whatever sexual hangups you’ve got going on, they need to be dealt with. If not with me, then with someone else because I can’t go on this way.”
Vivian peered closer at the card: Dr. Lindsay Smith, licensed sex therapist.
She crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it across the room. “You have got to be kidding me. This is all about your fucking libido?”
Michael advanced on her, pressing her against the wall. The frenzied look in his eyes made it clear something inside him had ripped apart at the seams to reveal the primal animal underneath. An animal who had no doubt been fighting and bucking in his cage for years.
“Michael, you’re scaring me.”
“Good,” he growled. He held her arms to the wall and looked her over like prey. “You. Are. Going. Are we clear?” His stare alone could have pinned her.
“Michael . . . I . . . ”
“The only acceptable answer here is yes.”
Vivian nodded, too afraid of this new, unrestrained version of her husband to refuse his request. He released her wrists and went into his study, leaving her confused and more aroused than she cared to admit.
2
Vivian stared up at the high-rise building, shielding her eyes from the reflective glare of the sun. “Um . . . Miss . . . I don’t have change for this large a bill,” the cab driver said, leaning over the seat toward the open passenger-side window.
“Keep the change,” she said, not taking her eyes off the building.
The driver peeled down the road before she had a chance to change her mind. Vivian took a fortifying breath and went to meet her doom.
As soon as the elevator opened on the tenth floor, soothing jazz drifted to her ears. The music had a hypnotic effect as it wrapped around her and pulled her off the elevator and toward the waiting office. Dr. Smith’s waiting room was filled with house plants. If the world ran out of oxygen, this room would be the last safe haven.
It was empty, something she found odd for a Friday afternoon. Not even a receptionist. She thought Michael said he’d made the appointment for three thirty today. Maybe she got the dates mixed up.
She turned to leave when a deep voice stopped her. “Mrs. Delaney? You’re my three thirty?”
“Yes?” She couldn’t bring herself to turn back around just yet. She’d thought Lindsay Smith was a woman. Apparently not.
“Please, come on back. I apologize there was no one to greet you. My receptionist had a personal emergency.”
Vivian turned and plastered a smile on her face. “Dr. Smith?”
“That’s right.”
The doctor stood at a little over six feet tall in a well-tailored, dark suit and exuded the calm command of a stock broker. He appeared to be in his late fifties with gray at his temples. He was in good shape, what she imagined Michael might look like in twenty years.
He smiled at her and turned to go into the inner office, clearly confident she’d follow.
She considered fleeing the building, but then she thought about the look in Michael’s eyes the previous night, and the moment of terror at seeing a new side of her husband nearly unleashed on her.
When he’d pinned her agai
nst the wall like that, with that wildness peering out at her, she’d felt the faintest drop of wetness on her panties. The idea that she could have such an inappropriate reaction, after months of nearly no reaction, scared her more than the thought of him losing control.
No, she’d stay for the appointment this once. Then she’d reason with Michael. She had to at least appear to be trying to comply with his wishes if she wanted him to listen.
Dr Smith’s office had lavender walls that matched the business cards. Not the first color choice she’d pick for a man, but the furniture and striking oak desk made up for any lacking masculinity in the wallpaper. The inner office had about as many plants as the waiting area. A long wall featured several orchids lined in a fastidious row.
The room had no couch, just a couple of comfortable-looking leather chairs that sat on either side of a small table with another orchid on it. She was glad for the lack of couch. She wasn’t sure she could lie down to talk about her nonexistent sex life to an attractive male doctor. Especially with no one in the waiting room to act as a safety buffer. It felt too exposed.
He gestured and Vivian sat in the offered chair, smoothing down her skirt, wishing she’d worn pants.
“You seem very uncomfortable,” he commented.
“You’re observant. This must be why they pay you the big bucks.”
He chuckled. “Your husband has already taken care of the financial arrangements. Would you like some coffee?”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
He sat in the chair across from her and observed her quietly. “You’re uncomfortable with the fact that I’m male, aren’t you?”
Vivian looked at her hands. “I thought Lindsay was a woman.”
“You wouldn’t be the first patient with that initial impression.”
“Maybe you should put a picture on your business card to clear up the confusion.”
“Indeed.” He was silent for a moment. “Mrs. Delaney, we won’t speak about anything that makes you uncomfortable. We’ll go at your pace.”
She let out a slow breath and nodded.
He glanced down at a page of notes. “My receptionist gathered a bit of information for the appointment from your husband. He says you’re unhappy with the relationship?”
Vivian balked at that, wondering how many personal details her husband had decided to divulge to a stranger over the phone. “I think Michael needs to come to therapy, too. If I’m coming to therapy.” That had sounded more petulant than she’d intended.
“Perhaps we can arrange that for a future session.”
He looked at his notes again, and Vivian suddenly wished she’d been the one to call and make the appointment. But she’d been stubborn.
“Why don’t you start by telling me why it makes you so uncomfortable to be intimate with your husband.”
She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Mrs. Delaney . . . ?”
“Really. I don’t know. All I know is that every time he touches me I just want to crawl inside myself and die. If I knew why, I wouldn’t be here.”
“Was it like this from the beginning of the relationship?”
“No. In the beginning it was different.”
“What changed? Did your husband do something?”
“I don’t know. Before we got married things were fine. Then after . . . . ” Her voice trailed off.
“Are you able to achieve orgasm with your husband?”
Vivian looked away and smoothed her skirt again. “No.”
The doctor made a notation in the black notebook perched on his lap. “Sometimes these problems can be rooted in emotion. Do you believe he loves you?”
There was a long pause. She had to work to speak around the lump in her throat. She would not cry in front of the doctor. Absolutely not. “No,” she said.
The silence hung between them, making the air feel thicker. Was he waiting for her to speak again?
After another beat, he said, “Why don’t you believe your husband loves you?”
“Why would he?”
“You’re a very beautiful woman.”
“I’m on the wrong end of thirty-five. Beauty fades. Then what? I can’t be his trophy forever. He’d do just as well with a maid and a whore.”
The doctor visibly flinched at that. “You believe he feels obligated to you.” He paused for only a moment before asking his next question. “Do you masturbate?”
Whoa. That was quite a subject jump. “I . . . um . . . I’m not really comfortable with that question.”
“Very well. Let’s broach the subject from a less personal place. Have you ever had a massage, at a spa or from a massage therapist?”
“No.”
“Why not? Isn’t that a normal part of routine pampering for someone of your level of affluence?”
She shrugged, feeling awkward with how close they were sitting.
As if he’d heard her thoughts, the doctor stood and retreated to his desk. He fumbled in the top draw until he came out with a card and handed it to Vivian.
“What’s this?”
“Where I think you should start. You’ve exhibited discomfort with my gender, discomfort with your husband being intimate with you, and overall discomfort with being in touch with your own pleasure. I’d like you to make a weekly appointment for a massage. Allow yourself to feel something good for a change. Do you think you can do that for me?”
The business card was an aquamarine color with brown lettering that read, Dome in a blocky, modern font. In smaller letters in an elegant script underneath, it said, spa and massage therapy. She slipped the card into her purse.
“They accept walk-ins. No need for an appointment,” he said, moving behind his desk. The doctor didn’t say anything more, but began to busily shuffle through stacks of paper on his desk.
“What? Now? You want me to go now?”
He looked up as if shocked she was still in his office. “Why, yes, Mrs. Delaney.”
“But it’s only been twenty minutes. Don’t I get a full hour?”
His eyes twinkled with amusement. “Five minutes ago you couldn’t get away fast enough. Now you want forty more? Have you ever heard the term masochism?”
Was it okay for a therapist to say that? Then again, he was a sex therapist. Once a doctor asked if you masturbated, few topics were off the table.
“I only meant that I’m sure Michael paid for the full session.”
“You show that card I gave you at Dome and tell them I sent you, and your first massage will be free. That sounds fair, right?”
He went back to the papers on his desk, effectively dismissing her.
Vivian, not knowing what else to do, stood and headed for the door. Her hand was on the doorknob when his voice stopped her.
“Mrs. Delaney?”
She turned, still flustered. “Yes?”
His teeth flashed bright white as he smiled at her. “You’re going to lose all of your inhibitions.”
Thirty minutes later Vivian stood outside Dome, arguing with herself on whether she should go inside. She’d never gotten a massage because the idea of being naked underneath a towel while a stranger touched her had never held much appeal.
Yet, hope flared that maybe it was such a simple matter. Maybe massage could loosen her up and free her to experience in bed what she’d experienced with Michael so long ago. Her hand trembled as she pushed open the heavy door and stepped inside.
A silver bell jingled overhead. The place was deserted just as the therapist’s office had been. A warning buzzer in her brain started to sound, as if she were being led into a trap. And yet that seemed so silly. Before she could take the thought apart, a blonde woman in her twenties came out into the lobby.
“Oh, hi. Do you have an appointment? Fridays are generally for special appointments. Walk-ins are Monday through Thursday.”
Vivian chided herself for being so paranoid and felt a small relief that there was a logical explanation for another seemingly empty buildin
g.
“Dr. Smith gave me this and told me to come by today.” She retrieved the card from her purse. “I’ll just come back next week.” Maybe.
She felt herself blush, wondering if the receptionist would judge her for seeing a sex therapist. But the woman remained professional.
“If Dr. Smith sent you, we can work you in.” The blonde led Vivian to an empty room with candles and a burbling table fountain. Eastern music played in the background.
“You can undress in here, then drape yourself with the towel.” The girl pointed, indicating the cushioned table with a red button on the side. “Push that button when you’re ready, and someone will be right with you.”
“Thank you.”
The woman smiled and left the room, closing the door behind her.
Vivian took in her surroundings. The room had a second door opposite from the one she’d been led into. Perhaps a bathroom? A flat screen television on one wall played a video with a low, calming voice talking about the spa and the various services offered by Dome.
Lucky bamboo grew in tiny pots around the room. There was an oriental-style privacy screen with a chair and large towel behind it. Thankfully there was no mirror. The staff at Dome must have realized how few women enjoyed looking at themselves naked, and how right before a massage wasn’t the time to be reminded of one’s imperfections. Though Michael had always told her she was perfect.
She considered walking out, still uneasy with the concept of being touched by a stranger. But she was afraid the receptionist might think her odd.
It was odd. The doctor was right. She was entirely too uptight for a woman in her thirties. She took a deep breath and disrobed, unsure what to do about her panties. Deciding to leave them on, she situated herself on the table. She hesitated a moment, then pressed the button.
Five minutes of tension passed before the door clicked open. Vivian lay there with her eyes shut, trying to relax. It was just a massage. Millions of women did this every day. And even liked it, if all the raving at the country club was any indication.
“You’re my next appointment?” A male Eastern European accent––possibly Russian––greeted her ears. She squeezed her eyes more tightly shut. Couldn’t she get a female for anything? She considered requesting a woman, but then she got a look at him.
