Why do I do this? He doesn�t care what I look like, he�s my therapist for god�s sake, I thought as I rubbed the hot oil treatment through my long blond hair. The hot water from the shower beat down on my skin, and the hot oil penetrated my scalp, heating me from the outside in.
After a minute, I dunked my head back under the stream of water and rubbed the oil out. It was thick between my fingers, greasy. But as the water invaded it became thinner, runny. It looked like honey pouring down my drain. I �shampooed as normal� and stepped out.
My feet hit the chilly blue Italian marble tiles, and I almost slipped from the water dripping off my body. Without drying off, I walked over to the full-length mirror to inspect myself, my daily ritual Small wrinkles were forming around my icy blue eyes. My pink lips too, had wrinkles at the edges. I frowned, and the wrinkles grew. Quickly I smiled, and they disappeared. Silently, I vowed to smile more. After a similar inspection of the rest of my body (sagging C cup breasts, formerly flat, now slightly puffed abdomen, toned thighs, sleek calves, perfectly polished pink toes), I finally got to my hair. My pride and joy. Long. Luscious. Naturally blond.
The papers cited �irreconcilable differences� as the cause for our divorce. They would have said �she�s a cold bitch and I can�t muster up the courage to fuck her anymore,� but they wouldn�t let my husband- EX husband- write that in. My lower lip stuck out a little while I contemplated him, the body in the mirror bearing witness to my thoughts.
He called me an Ice Queen, but it wasn�t true. I was beautiful when we met, and pretty good looking fifteen years later. He just didn�t know what he was doing. That�s why nothing ever felt good. Scott would do it right. He would make it feel good, and I wouldn�t cringe at his touch. Kevin was wrong when he called me frozen. I�m not. A draft blew in the window, causing my body to shiver, arguing with me. I ignored it and continued getting ready, so I would look good enough for Scott to want me. If I do everything right, this week he�ll make a move. A small one.
I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and headed into my attached bedroom. Glancing at the clock, I realized I had better hurry up. Only two hours remained until my appointment. I dropped my still unused towel on the king size bed for one and walked to my vanity table to dry my hair, plugging the curlers in before I grabbed the blow dryer. Droplets of water dripped from my body onto the carpet, and my hair created a waterfall when I flipped my head upside down. Every few minutes I flipped it up again, getting both sides of my hair dry, shaking it back and forth, my breasts swaying side to side with my hair, like a tipsy 20-year-old girl in a club.
A half hour later, on the final upward flip, my hair shone bright and resilient, flowing down my back in waves. All traces of grease were gone. My hair was like a light circling around me, a spotlight from behind, drawing people in, and distracting them from the other flaws. It was perfect. Almost.
It took me another 15 minutes to get all the curlers in.
I dried off my body, soaking the water up with the plush towel. I gently smoothed lotion onto my legs, arms, and face. It was slippery between my fingers as I rubbed it into my skin that was still mostly supple. With curlers still safely in place, I went to my dresser and decided upon the proper undergarments. A matching lacy mauve bra and panty set would do the trick. The delicate lace implicated sexiness, but that was as far as I would go. No thongs. As I hooked the bra, my breasts popped back in to their former resting place.
Next I picked out the right outfit to make Scott want me. A rosy pink sweater, matching my �Everything�s Rosy� polish (purchased on the same day), and a black leather skirt. Scott would be pleased with the skirt. Last week we talked about trying new things. Going out of the box. I told him Kevin once said I wasn�t creative. It wasn�t a total lie. Kevin did say that once. I just never told Scott how my insides would flinch when Kevin touched me, and how I prayed he would be quick. I didn�t want Scott to get the wrong impression. What would he think if he knew everything Kevin had said about me? Dead fish, limp, boring, cold. It wasn�t true, but Scott would never want me if he heard those words. And then I�d be all alone. Again.
So I went out of the box and bought a mid-thigh genuine leather black skirt. I slipped into the skirt first, zipping it up on the side, and then carefully tugged the light cashmere sweater over my head, trying not to disturb the still-cooking curlers. I loved the way these two items felt on my body. They clung to me the way plastic wrap sticks to your arm when you�ve got static cling, gently plastered, molded to my body, revealing my curves and hiding my sags. The top, cut low, mischievously revealed my cleavage, while the soft fabric tickled my skin. It felt so good, delicately rustling the hairs on my arm, and brazenly showing my body.
Satisfied that my body looked as good as it could, I removed the curlers from my hair, letting the locks bounce down onto my back and shoulders. I ran my fingers through them, but did not brush them. Quickly, flawlessly, I applied my make up, and hurried to leave on time. Classic black pumps and a black leather clutch completed the picture.
I pulled into my parking spot quickly. Nobody was ever here on Saturday afternoons, and I had the spot of my choosing. It was a few spots down from Scott�s car, so that if we left his office together, we would walk in the same direction, but it wouldn�t look like I was stalking him by parking right next to him. I thought these things through. If things were going to work out between us, I had to be crafty. Everything must be calculated.
The waiting room to Scott�s office was painfully typical. There were several comfortable chairs sitting around, a large fake plant in the corner, and the required psychological artifacts. A large poster of the �Desiderata� poem on one wall, another large poster of the �I am Me- I am Okay� poem on another. Psychological bullshit. Smaller portraits of oceans and lighthouses filled the other walls. Everything combined to create a pleasant atmosphere, to convince clients that peace awaits in the inner sanctum of Scott�s office.
Sitting down in one of the purportedly comfortable chairs, I looked at the books on the table, which revealed the true horror of sex therapy. The Great Marriage Tune-Up Book: A Proven Program for Evaluating and Renewing Your Relationship, was on top, but I brushed it aside. Not much use for someone without a marriage to Tune Up. Instead I picked up You Can Be Your Own Sex Therapist : A Systematized Behavioral Approach to Enhancing Your Sensual Pleasures and Improving Your Sexual Enjoyment, but I wasn�t that interested. I didn�t need to be my own sex therapist, that�s what I had Scott for. He would fix everything.
Underneath a few other books lay the more risqu� material: Talk Sexy to the One You Love (And Drive Each Other Wild in Bed), and Exhibitionism for the Shy: Show Off, Dress Up and Talk Hot. I was about to pick up that last one, even as I was offended by my own- albeit sleight- curiosity, when Scott opened the door to call me in. I promptly retracted my hand into my lap and my cheeks turned as rosy as my sweater. �Krysalin, are you ready?� His deep voice wafted over me and pricked at my skin. I shivered a little, nodded, and walked into his office. He lightly brushed his hand against my back, leading me to the chair, and I could feel the warmth of his fingers through the softness of my sweater, three little pressure points of heat.
He sat in the chair opposite me, pen and paper in hand. His tall frame was muscular, but he had a small belly growing. His brown hair was soft and brushed, with no product. He looked like a smart farm boy without the plaid flannel shirt. He looked kind. Ready to delve into my inner depths, find the source of my coldness. Learn why I couldn�t open up. Why I wouldn�t have sex with my ex husband. Why I hated it, and part of me wanted to tell him. I realized eventually I would have to tell him the details- the graphic details. But I was hoping I could do that after Scott fell for me. For now I was content to string him along with insignificant details, feeding him crumbs while making him think they were cakes. He didn�t need the big points. Sex therapist Scott, with his quiet yet booming voice, like a barely audible thump of the bass turned down low, and warm eyes that never threatened or judged, would help me. He would never look at me with disappointment, like Kevin had, because I would never give him a reason to.
His voice broke my thoughts, asking me if I had given considered our discussion last week on the importance of trying new things. I smiled to myself. My piece de resistance. I ran my hand over my skirt and crossed my legs. �I bought this new skirt for myself.� I smiled triumphantly.
�And tell me, Krysalin, how does that skirt qualify as outside the box?� I thought he was mocking me, but he did not ask it meanly. But what was that look on his face? Why was he looking at me? Did he know that Kevin asked me once to look at pornography with him, and that I slapped him? He couldn�t know. I had to calm down. Smile. Not frozen. I couldn�t forget to smile.
�I�ve never owned anything this short, not even when I was a teenager. And I�ve never spent that much money on something so small before. It really is a crime how much they charge for these things.� I smiled again, batted my eyelashes.
�Good.� He finally smiled that big smile I always worked so hard to get. His teeth glimmered in the light, and his slight laugh lines crinkled around the corners of his mouth and eyes. His face was like a young Santa Claus. �Krysalin, do you know why I asked you to think outside the box?� His face became a little more serious, so I withdrew my smile to show him I was serious too.
�Because I�m stuck inside the box?� I guessed, and winked a little.
�Well, yes,� he smiled again. �I asked you to think outside the box because you are stuck in one frame of mind. Inside the box, if you will. You need to open yourself up to new opportunities and experiences. You need to be spontaneous and consider things instead of instantly rejecting them. This new skirt is a good move. If you can learn to think outside the box in your everyday life, you can learn to think outside the box when it comes to sex, which is what I think you need.� He licked his lips after he spoke, and my eyes fixed on them.
�How do you think you can do this, Krysalin?� He continued speaking, but I barely heard him. I was too busy concocting a way to get him home with me. Was he the type to fall for homemade cookies, or should I just wear more make-up and less clothes? What kind of woman did young Santa Claus want in bed?
�Huh?� I licked my lips again, wetting them gently with my tongue.
�What do you think you can do to think outside the box in terms of sex, Krysalin?� His voice pressed me.
I crossed my legs and swung the top one gently back and forth, smiled a small seductive smile. I couldn�t say that having a private tutoring session seemed pretty out of the box, so instead I responded glibly with, �Well not much, considering I�m lacking a partner.�
He spun his swivel chair around and plucked a book off the bookshelf. �You are mistaken. The only partner you need is yourself,� he said in an almost fatherly voice I didn�t like to hear. He handed me the chosen book: Tickle Your Fancy: A Woman's Guide to Sexual Self-Pleasure. Anger welled within me and swept through my veins like a wind that whips your face red when it�s -15� out. I didn�t know what to do. This wasn�t how things were supposed to work out. Scott was supposed to teach me, not some book. He wasn�t supposed to make me learn on my own. If I wanted to learn on my own, I wouldn�t have come here. He was supposed to be my teacher, dammit.
�Many people think that it is not fair to expect anyone to pleasure you until you can pleasure yourself,� he said, interrupting my internal fury. �And when you take pleasure in pleasing yourself, you will take pleasure in pleasing others. I know we�ve talked about this before, and you have not been open to the idea, but we�re thinking outside the box now. I want you to take that book home with you and read it this week. I�m not asking you to do anything yet, unless you want to, but read it carefully, with an open mind, okay?� He looked at me like he knew I would never open the book, like I was hopeless, and for a moment I felt bad. But then the anger resurfaced. He was supposed to be helping me. This was not helping.
I nodded curtly, but remembered my mission and smiled warmly, uncrossing my legs slowly. Deliberately. �All right Scott. See you next week.� I grabbed the book, trying not to look at it as I walked to my car. But the cover was impossible to ignore: a black and white photo of a naked woman sitting up in bed. One hand was cupping her breast, the other beyond view. The picture cut off at the woman�s hips. Her head was tilted back, eyes closed, and her mouth was open in an O of presumable ecstasy. It was utterly offensive.
It lay on my seat, cover down during the drive home. I wanted to leave it in the car, untouched until my next appointment when I could give it back, but then an idea flashed in my mind. If I looked at it I could tell Scott that I had done things. I wouldn�t actually look at it. That would be filthy. But I could tell him I did, and then he would be proud of me. And then he�d want me. So that�s what I would do.
neb 12/08/04