Abuse (15 page)

“Nymphomaniac: a woman as obsessed with sex as an average man.”

— Mignon McLaughlin

~~~

Renata Koreman

My low heels click loudly down the stairs as I trot down to the lower floor.

I live in an apartment above a veterinary office. Diana, the local vet, is my landlord, good friend, sounding board and boss. She works for André too sometimes, not as a surrogate, but as “Mistress Diana.”

A sudden vision of the petite woman with her bright bottle-red hair, standing in four inch stilettos and a latex cat-suit or corset, while impatiently tapping a riding crop on her thigh, cracks me up.

I can imagine any number of men—or women for that matter, worshiping at her feet.

Other than knowing her as an extremely confident and competent vet, I haven’t witnessed that side of her personality. She saves her dominance for the bedroom.

Diana took one look at what Mitten could do and hired me as a part time assistant on the spot. I get to live upstairs. For that and a minimum wage, I bathe animals; clean and disinfect cages; sterilize surgical equipment; and generally help out.

Dressed for work in a trim skirt and blouse, covered by an open lab coat, Diana’s rummaging around in the storeroom at the exact point where my stairs end. Her striking, mid-length hair is tidily placed on top of her head in a braided, chignon twist.

Ten or maybe fifteen years older than I am, Diana’s protective and caring. I could say she even “mothers” me—certainly far more than my own mother did—but she’d be upset if I told her that.

I’m a little awed by her confidence and experience.

“Oh, hi hon,” she straightens up and greets me cheerfully. “You look amazing. Too good for a mere mortal. Hot date?”

“Kind of.”

I shrug, give her a feeble chuckle, and force myself to meet her eyes. After all this time, even with someone I know, I still long to avert my gaze. It feels safer and more comfortable somehow. I don’t like crowds, a raised voice scares me, and I still need to spend time each day in my box.

I’ve come a long way, but really I’m a big fake. Head and heart, I don’t feel like a real woman. I’m still such a mouse. Maybe that’s why my cat and I get along so well.

I’m not normal.

I go through all the motions, a kind of “fake it until you make it” kind of deal. André says I’ll improve. I just need to give it time and make myself be part of the world. He encourages me to go out and talk to people. He inspires me to face life.

I’m working on it, but I have to work really hard every day.

He wants me to take a self-defense course. Nope. I can’t see that happening. Violence scares me.

Mitten jumps up on a box beside Diana. Diana spreads her arms encouragingly, a cue my cat knows well. Mitten instantly stands up on his back legs and raises his arms. With his little white paws open and ready, he looks as if he’s expecting a hug.

Diana giggles and sweeps him on to her chest, petting and praising. She pats her shoulder, and obediently Mitten climbs up with a little push from Diana.

Grinning, she says, “I may be the vet, but you’re the Mistress of the animal Kingdom, Renata. I’ll never get over how remarkable Mitten is.” Her eyes narrow as she studies me. “Maybe there’s a hidden Dominant underneath that quiet, meek exterior of yours.”

I shake my head. “Maybe.”

No way. I’m a self-doubting, worrying, marshmallow.

“Diana, do you ever tell people… what you… like?” I ask tentatively.

Raising an eyebrow, her eyes narrow as she gives me a searching gaze. “What? That I enjoy dominating men or women, singly or in multiples during sex?”

I’m blushing, I feel heat burning my face, but it isn’t because I’m embarrassed about the subject. It’s because she’s so… penetrating. Right now, I feel exposed. It must come with her dominant personality.

“Yeah,” I manage to say.

Diana smiles and her good humor washes over me. “Let’s just say, it never comes up in ordinary conversation.” Her lips quirk. “Why do you ask?”

The memory of Uncle Bob’s cruel words are still in my mind. I shrug. “Because I never tell
anyone
I’m a sexual surrogate. It’s not that I’m ashamed of it—I’m not, but I don’t want to be called a ‘whore,’ a ‘skank’, a ‘ho’ or a ‘slut.’”

Diana laughs. “You’re so young! Don’t forget ‘harlot,’ ‘hussy,’ ‘tramp,’ and ‘fallen woman!’”

To my surprise, anger I didn’t know I had building up inside, breaks free. “I just don’t get why men get pats on the back, winks and admiration for having sex,” I say, in a raised voice. “A promiscuous man is sought after! He’s called, ‘Casanova,’ ‘stud,’ ‘lady-killer,’ ‘heartbreaker,’ ‘playboy,’ or ‘player.’ All of the terms for oversexed men have sexy, cute connotations—while we women are looked down upon and labeled mean names for having sex!’”

Diana nods understandingly, but I’m on a roll so I just keep going.

“I don’t get it. Language reveals so much about a culture. Men who sell women are called ‘pimps,’ which doesn’t sound too harsh. Men who pay for sex are simply, ‘Johns,’ which is a common name for a man. What’s bad about that?”

I throw up my hands in frustration. “In short,
men
don’t have a number of special, nasty names for being sexually active or enjoying sex.
Women have them all.
Why is that?”

Diana laughs. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you speak so many words, all at once.”

I blush again and avert my gaze. This time
I am
embarrassed.

“I think it comes back to human history,” Diana says, ignoring my obvious discomfort. “In the past—without birth control, women
needed
to keep their legs together. Before the invention of antibiotics and condoms, sexually transmitted diseases may have ended the human race. These out dated patriarchal rules of “must be a virgin until marriage” are no longer relevant.”

“Do you think people’s views are changing?” I ask.

Her perfectly shaped eyebrows raise up in surprise. “Of course! Don’t you?”

I shrug, because I’m not so sure.

“Women are becoming liberated and attitudes
are
changing,” Diana says. “What women want now isn’t just sex, but
great sex!”
Our eyes meet and we snicker. We’re both examples of that.

Diana places Mitten upon a high box, so he’s at eye level. He rolls over and looks at us so adorably, we immediately begin to stoke him. Who could resist Mitten? Neither of us can. With all of this affectionate attention, he curls up and begins to purr loudly.

“When it comes to mind blowing orgasms,” Diana says while rubbing Mitten under his chin, “women are reading about them, talking about them,
and
they’re actively pursuing them.”

I choke on a laugh. With a smug smile, she chuckles too.

“Anyway,” Diana asks, “have you seen how many bestselling erotica books are out there? Most of them are written by women.”

“Yes,” I say, “But too often, the heroines are in their early twenties and are still virgins.
Really?
Is
anyone
a virgin at twenty-four? If so, the poor things have been missing out.”

“True. I’m sure it happens, but I don’t know anyone who made it past seventeen.”

“See?” I say, happy to make my point. “The heroine is frequently portrayed as
absolutely naive
and has never even heard of oral sex. In this world of the internet, this is—dare I say—a bit hard to swallow.”

We both giggle.

“Seriously,” I add. “Even female erotic authors tend to write about women who are virginal or have only had ‘one or two relationships’—and those are long term. If a character in a book has had significant sexual experience, she’s considered a slut.”

“The myth of the perfect and pure, virginal woman has been going on for centuries,” Diana says. “There’s no such thing! Women are human beings with needs of their own, just like men. Still, little girls are raised on this fairytale fantasy. It’s no wonder grown women fall for society’s ideal, judging themselves and other women when they don’t measure up. Why would they think any differently? They’ve been brainwashed! But don’t worry.” She gives a dismissive wave of a hand. “The human race will come into the 21
st
century…
eventually.
”

A gurgle of laughter peels from my throat. What she is saying is funny, but the way she says it is even funnier.

Her eyebrows rise up and down suggestively. “When it comes to sex,
‘practice makes perfect;’ ‘learn something new every day’
and
‘try before you buy,’
—are my mottos.”

I snicker.

“Anyway,” Diana says. “It’s not
what
people say, but
how they say it
and what they
mean
by it.” Her eyes narrow. “You’ve had sex with André, right?”

“Sure.” I nod, while scratching Mitten’s neck.

André and I’ve made love many times. Why not? I love him more than anyone. Besides, he’s taught me everything I need to know to be any good as a surrogate.

“Well, then,” Diana says with a wicked grin. “If I know André, I’m sure he’s called you a
‘slut’
during sex. You weren’t upset by that, surely? When André uses the word, it’s a term of endearment. When
he
calls you a slut, he’s flattering you with the truth.”

“A slut is a person of any gender who has the courage to lead life according to the radical proposition that sex is nice and pleasure is good for you.”

— The Ethical Slut

~~~

Renata Koreman

I’m startled by an instant visceral memory that blasts through my mind and body. For one long, intense moment I’m back there, naked, aroused and bent over a bed, with my clit throbbing. I’m writhing from a sensuous, aching sensation low and deep in my core.

“You are a gorgeous, insatiable slut,
ma petite souris,”
André croons, his voice husky with admiration and raw lust.

“Yes, yes!” I moan loud and long.

André’s an amazing lover. It’s the things he says—the things he does. He’s between my quivering legs, running his hands up my thighs and gripping my hips. Long gifted fingers trail over my sex, purposefully spreading me open for him.

Blood rushes through my veins, drumming in my ears. My entire body’s heated and sensitized, both skin and core. Leg’s spread wide, ass in the air and my feet on the floor, I lay on a few pillows, facing a full length mirror. André loves mirrors; he likes to watch and be watched.

Our eyes meet—his hold me captive. Heavy-lidded with arousal, there’s a trace of determined intent in his dark, compelling gaze.

I can’t look away.

My heart pounds, my body’s on fire. His eyes remain locked on mine, watching, always watching, as he bends forward. My muscles tighten in anticipation. André’s sensual lips curve up when I can’t bite back a low moan. I swear I could probably come at the sight of his dark head between my thighs.

I start to tremble when I feel the firm, wet heat of his talented tongue dancing over my clit. Sensation rocks through me as I gasp with pleasure.

Diana laughs and I snap out of the potent, erotic memory.

“Jesus,” I say. My knees are week. I suddenly feel faint.

Diana grabs me by the arm, steadying me. I look down at her, this small, powerful woman, and offer a faint smile. “OK. You’re right. I think being called a slut isn’t always a bad thing,” I say in a shaky voice.

She grins. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

Just then, my cellphone signals an incoming message—Gustave is waiting, parked right outside. I told him to text me when he arrived. A true gentleman, he doesn’t like to do this, but I don’t feel he should have to walk to my door to get me.

Quiet as I usually am, I can be stubborn about things like this. I kiss Mitten goodbye, thank Diana, and wave as I go out the door.

Gustave holds the passenger door open for me. Smiling, his eyes scan my face, my casual, wavy hair style and my lime green sheath dress. “You look very beautiful, little mouse,” he tells me in French, using André’s nickname for me. It’s something he often says.

We chat about inconsequential things on the quick drive to André’s place.

I wait for my client in one of André’s luxurious bedrooms. André isn’t available at the moment, but Gustave will bring Joshua in to me when he arrives. I’m already so ready for him. Hot and bothered. Turned on from that one memory of being with André.

The room is decorated with layered blues, accents of white and elegant, European-style old-world furnishings. Too bad Joshua can’t see it. All is ready, even the bed covers are pulled back.

I smile when my eyes stray to the luxury dog bedding I’ve placed in a snug corner for his Seeing Eye dog, Max. Its cotton teal cover matches the bedroom. This room is so beautiful.

My sigh is grateful and content, yet also bittersweet.

How did I get here, to this place where I’m loved and appreciated? I don’t feel like I deserve it. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll wake up back in that psychiatric hospital, and this will all have been a delicious dream.

I won’t ever be normal.

I drew the short straw with my mother and father, and then with my foster father. Consequently as far as I can tell, I’m pretty well the opposite of everyone else.

With my upbringing, the simplest things most people take for granted—such as talking and looking other people in the eyes—are still a real challenge. I think this is because I’ve always associated those actions with
negative
events in my past, like my scary father.

On the plus side, I’ve never,
ever
had negative associations when it comes to sex. To me, physical love—like a smile or a hug—costs nothing. It’s a
gift
I can share with others.

I lost my virginity with Jamie. My foster brother, two years older than me, was born with a vagina and a tiny penis. He felt himself to be a man, but like me he preferred sex with men. Jamie loved me. More importantly, he
needed
me. We needed each other.

Jamie’s congenital defects and sexual identity issues, helped me in a strange way. It made me grateful that at least physically, I’m not different than everyone else.

Jamie was so good for me. He never made me think sex was bad, dirty or something to keep secret or be ashamed of. I was never told to ‘save’ myself for marriage, or that having sex is a “sacred act’ a woman can only share with her husband.

While I prefer sleeping with men, I’ve enjoyed the softness during sex that only a women can provide. I just don’t get why people think the whole sex thing is such a big deal.

Sex is one hang-up I’ve never had.

André and I have had long talks about how crazy people are on the subject of sex. They’re secretive and ashamed of their bodies and their natural desires. It’s such a waste. Nobody cares that some prefer chocolate to vanilla. Why should it matter what feels good, as long as it’s consensual and no one gets hurt?

Women are raised to believe men have only ‘one thing’ on their minds and to ‘be careful.’ Warnings may be needed in society today, but girls should be told that it’s wonderful and normal to have sexual desires.

When young women first feel sexual urges they often
judge themselves
as ‘whores.’ Even virgins can feel dirty for their thoughts. They feel like ‘bad girls’ if they simply masturbate.

When women who experiment with sex are called cruel names, they tend to believe it to some degree. This contributes to low self-esteem and feelings of being “less valuable” or “unworthy.” Lack of confidence and self-worth makes these women easy targets for abuse.

Luckily, I’ve never waited around for my one “true love” before enjoying the pleasures and benefits of sex.

Sex doesn’t scare me.

It’s anger, a raised voice, and violence that does.

Graphic violence viewed by children on prime time TV, is perfectly acceptable in society. But can they see even
partial
nudity? Nope. The message is obvious—hide your body and be ashamed of it.

I saw an interview with George R. Martin, the author of the wonderful “Game of Thrones” series. He said,
“I can describe an axe entering a human skull in great explicit detail and no one will blink twice at it. I provide a similar description, just as detailed, of a penis entering a vagina, and I get letters about it and people swearing off. To my mind this is kind of frustrating, it’s madness. Ultimately, in the history of the world, penises entering vaginas have given a lot of people a lot of pleasure. Axes entering skulls? Well, not so much.”

The Hunger Games, a fascinating series, is rated for children twelve-years and older. That’s because there’s no sex and no swearing. But man, oh man, I was disturbed by the explicit details of violent deaths met by children.

What does that say about our society?

Graphic violence? Sure! No problem! Love? Not so much.

In our attitudes toward sex, André and I are exactly alike. Sex is fun, it’s good for you, and people should uninhibitedly enjoy it. Making love not only releases happy hormones, it helps people build healthy, lasting relationships and a better self-image.

From what I can tell, when sex goes in a relationship—soon after the relationship ends, too.

For me, everything about sex is associated with
positives
, like being with my foster brother and my first real friend. Making love is a source of comfort and stress relief. I want my clients to know the joy and pleasure it brings. Sex is as natural as eating, breathing or sleeping.

It’s also the most fun a person can have with someone they care about.

Under André’s instruction and supervision, I’ve worked with a number of people as a sexual therapist. Each session is a journey of joy and wonder. Like a snowflake or a fingerprint, sexual surrogacy is different and unique every time.

A rush of excitement thrills through me. I’ve never had the opportunity to enjoy sex with a blind man.

What will Joshua’s first time be like?