Abuse (23 page)

“One thing you can't hide—is when you're crippled inside.”

― John Lennon

~~~

Renata Koreman

Grant kindly stops at a post office so I can mail my letter to Mr. Brand, then we head off to Lake Las Vegas, a 320-acre artificial lake about twenty minutes away.

Once we arrive, we find a small marina where we can rent kayaks for $25.00 per hour. As the more experienced paddler, Grant sits behind me, in the stern. I’m happy about this as he can get used to looking at me without me looking at him.

It’s lovely here, so pleasant. A cool breeze over the water, keeps the temperature down.

“This is fun,” I say, after twenty minutes of moving though the water by using our paddles.

“I’m glad you like it. I love being out in the open air.”

“What else do you do outside?” I ask and turn to look at him. It seems an innocent enough question to ask.

He shrugs. “Just about anything. I hike, swim, fish and shoot. I also like to garden.”

“Really? No shit?”

He smiles. “Really. No shit.”

“What do you grow?”

“I have a few fruit trees, but mainly it’s an ornamental garden, with shaded sections, herbs and cottage garden type stuff,” he says, while taking another rowing stroke. “I also have a water feature and flowers. I enjoy working in my garden. I find it relaxing.”

“I don’t know anything about plants or gardening, but I love flowers.”

His eyebrows rise subtly and a sweet smile flickers around his mouth and eyes. “I grow lots of flowers.”

I grin back at him. I can see flowers in my future. I’m so tuned-in to this guy. I just
know
he’s going to bring me a bouquet next time we meet. Maybe he’ll even buy me flowers today.

Again, as with talking about Mitten, I'm glad to have stumbled upon another neutral subject he's comfortable discussing. Our chat feels natural and easy. We have many long pauses in the conversation, but they don’t matter. I’m feeling at ease and I know Grant is, as well.

Grant’s an over thinker and not much of a talker. At times, I can see him thinking
way
too hard. Being here with me isn’t easy for him. André told me Grant had been sexually abused by a man. Why in the world would that make him so nervous around women?

“I like to swing,” I say.

He frowns. “Like on a swing set?”

“Yes. I can’t remember the last time I did it, but it’s relaxing and exhilarating at the same time. As a child, I used to get on a swing after everyone went home from school. I haven’t done that for years.”

Lips twitching upwards, he says, “If I see one today, we’ll stop.” His expression brightens playfully. “I’ll even push you, if you want.”

I can’t curb my broad grin and I don’t want to. “I’d love that.”

Our eyes meet again and damn it to hell if this isn’t like some sort of delayed schoolgirl crush. My heart feels tight in my chest and my stomach’s fluttering with strong attraction. We’re flirting—definitely flirting—and it feels so damn good.

Each of us saying little, but companionable in our silence, we enjoy a nice lunch and walk along the lake together. Grant’s strong, silent, and self-sufficient—yet also so vulnerable. There’s a deep sadness in his eyes I long to banish.

He fascinates me. I find him irresistible. I swear my panties have been wet since the first moment I saw him this morning. I seem to fascinate him, as well. I’m pretty sure he’s had a hard on all day, poor guy.

I can see him brooding again. He’s preoccupied, working some problem out. He thinks before he speaks, which is a good thing—but not all the time. He takes everything too seriously.

To my surprise and delight, he takes my hand. I’m thrilled he feels comfortable and close enough for this gesture. I squeeze his hand with pleasure but I’m not sure what to say, so I say nothing. I simply smile up at him.

He also says nothing, but his palm is sweaty. I watch his throat move as he swallows. He’s so nervous! He’s all too aware his hand is damp. It’s another embarrassing elephant he’s pretending isn’t there. I can tell he doesn’t have a clue what to do about it.

After several long, uncomfortable minutes, I decide to offer a solution. I take his hand, step in closer and put it on my shoulder. Then I wrap my arm around his waist so we can keep pace with each other as we walk.

“This is better,” I say, but I immediately realize I’ve made it worse.

“Yes,” he says, thin lipped.

His body is stiff. Together, we walk somewhat awkwardly. Now we’re both uncomfortable. I am, because he is. What in the world is wrong with him? I suspect I’m simply too close. I can feel his mind working, trying to figure out the best way to get out of this. He doesn’t know what to do or say.

It’s such a ridiculous problem, I suppress an overwhelming desire to laugh hysterically.

Or to scream.

I decide to try to distract him with conversation. “Grant, is there anything you’d like to talk about?”

There’s a long pause and we keep walking while he searches his mind, thinking up an answer. “Tell me about yourself,” he finally says. “You don’t have pictures of anyone in your apartment. Where’s your family?”

We come to a wooden bench and Grant gestures for me to sit down.
Thank God for small favors!
However, now
I’m
stuck figuring out what to say.

These are tricky questions.

My job today isn’t to question Grant. I’m supposed to let
him
be in charge and do exactly as he wants. I didn’t consider he’d ask about my life.

Our time together isn’t supposed to be about me, it’s supposed to be about Grant becoming more at ease. However, this might help him do just that. Talking about me would probably help him relax. The spotlight wouldn't be on him, so it might alleviate some pressure.

Yet my screwed up, uber-dysfunctional family and past are intensely emotionally charged subjects. I don’t want to screw him up with the story of my life, and I don’t want to get into it—not right now anyway. What shall I tell him? How shall I answer?

For a long moment, my thoughts return to André, who insists that lies ruin relationships. “Deceit is a barrier to intimacy,” he’s warned me again and again.

André contends even the smallest white lies are unnecessary and destructive. When a person lies, they become accustomed to deceit. The habit of “stretching the truth” or of telling “minor” falsehoods creep into a person’s life. Lying is soon second nature, until such “small” untruths become casual and effortless.

And then, small lies become bigger.

“You ask, how do I know? I have made these mistakes myself, and oh, how I have paid for them!” André warned me. “Do not fall for such foolishness.”

“Better to be silent, than to lie,” he says. “This is important with a client. It is better for a person to suffer pain from hearing the truth, than to have confidence destroyed by a loved one. How do
you
feel when you discover someone has lied to you? When you find they have been false? The trust you once had—it is lost forever, no?”

Of course, I couldn’t argue with that. “But how should a husband answer when his wife asks, ‘Do I look fat in this dress?’” I ask.

“The husband may reply that the dress is too small, and they must immediately buy her a larger one,” he said. “But what are the woman’s motivations behind her question? Is she asking how she looks, or does she have body issues? Perhaps what she really needs is reassurance that she is loved and desired.”

André says these awkward moments in life create opportunities for dialogue. Honest communication is the foundation of a relationship. When better to be absolutely forthright, than with a person you care for?

I care for Grant
and
he’s a client. I have to tell him the truth.

How shall I answer?

I inhale a deep breath and tell him the shortest version of my family and my past I can. “My father’s in jail for life, my mom and baby brother are dead. When I was young I lived on the street with my best friend, Jamie.”

I tell Grant we shared a makeshift cardboard box and one morning, when I woke up, Jamie was dead. He had a congenital heart condition neither of us knew about. I explain how I was pretty messed up and I totally lost it, ending up in a mental institution. I tell him André saved me.

Grant looks at me with strong interest, or perhaps concern. He listens intently, his gaze never leaving my face.

He isn’t nervous anymore. He’s so absorbed in my story—I think it’s pulled him completely out of his head and his own problems.

For once, his dark secrets and demons are forgotten.

I brace myself, afraid of what he’ll ask next. I can’t think of any easy questions.
‘How did your brother die?’
would be a toughie. Or,
‘Why is your dad in jail?’
That would be another.

With forced calm, I meet his gaze and wait, determined to do my job. I give myself some quick mental advice. Something that might help me deal with whatever he says next.

Focus on him. Be in the present. Be the counselor. It’s not about you.

Grant’s turned towards me now, looking at me square in the face. He’s completely attentive. For once, he isn’t trying to hide his scars—he’s momentarily forgotten about them. He heard what I said. As is typical with Grant, he takes his time before speaking, considering his response.

I study him, taking his measure. He seems to be processing what I've shared. Grant’s considering what to say next, but not in an introverted or uncomfortable manner.

There’s a wealth of sensitivity and understanding in his blue-gray eyes.

One thing I’ve learned in life is, people who have survived grief and pain, know all about grief and pain. People like that can see another person’s agony a mile away. That’s because they’ve been there themselves.

Grant surprises me. He doesn’t ask for a bunch of gory details like why I was homeless, or how I was able to live on the street. He’s not fascinated or hung up by the fact I was institutionalized. Instead, he goes straight to the most raw and relevant point.

His expression is thoughtful, his eyes penetrating as he says, “Tell me about Jamie.”

The question takes me by surprise—kind of like an unexpected a stab to the heart. Happy memories of Jamie fill my thoughts. Suddenly, I miss my best friend all over again.

Damn my hormones!

To my shock and embarrassment, I burst into tears.

“Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.”

― Khalil Gibran

~~~

Grant Wilkinson

Last night, I spent hours writing down my emotions and attitudes—my homework,
à la
André.

Yesterday was life-changing. Being with Renata felt very nearly sacred. She’d been well aware of my scars, both inside and out—yet she could look past them. I think what she really saw was
me
.

For that short time we were together, Renata had the power to make me feel clean and righteous.

So why did I run?

I tried to analyze not
why
I did it, but
what exactly
set me off. What was the trigger? The most obvious answer would be because I had sex.

Having sex has always been a huge problem for me. As soon as it’s over, I'm overwhelmed with shame and guilt. It’s something I can’t control, some hang-up from my childhood. After sex, I can’t stay, I can’t talk. I can’t touch, or be touched. I have to get away.

That’s a large part of why I ran, but that’s not all of it.

Another huge trigger contributing to how screwed up I am, is the ton of perverse sexual fantasies I have. These mental pictures haunt me. Stalking these ideas through internet porn when I was a teenager, only made it worse. Just like my once compulsive problem to look at dicks, I can’t stop these images and I can’t get rid of them. It's an ongoing struggle, but one I can usually more or less ignore… except after sex.

I've never acted out any of these fantasies, and I doubt I ever will. I simply can’t accept my abnormal thoughts and desires. No wonder.

I can’t even accept myself.

But when I narrow it down, the biggest trigger of all seems to be Renata. She’s too good for me.

I came to the conclusion the crux of my panic seemed to be the idea of putting two people together who just don’t belong. Me; damaged, disfigured, dark and totally fucked up—with Renata; generous, kind, beautiful, and…
perfect.

I don’t want to contaminate her.

It was wrong of me to have sex with her. I shouldn't have touched her. I shouldn’t even breathe the same air as she does. Just looking at her was more than I deserve. Renata’s way out of my league. I shouldn’t risk sullying her with my darkness.

Selfishly, I’m going to see her again. I
have
to. She's gotten under my skin. I can’t stop thinking about her. I don't even want to, no matter how much I know I should.

Everything reminds me of Renata since we met yesterday: her smell, her voice or just
her
. I like her. In fact, I like her far too much. She puts my head in the clouds, gets my heart racing, and twists my stomach into excited knots.

How could
we
work? It’s inconceivable. I’m not thinking about us being together as a couple—I’d never begin to let myself hope for something like that. I can't see us being together in
any possible
way. How can I have
her
as my sexual therapist? It feels so
wrong.

Consequently, I was uncertain and wound up tight when I pulled up to Renata’s apartment. Heart pounding, I’d stood by that damn blue door after I called to tell her I’d arrived. I waited for her, excited yet scared to death of the stupid things I may say or do.

What I didn’t expect was
her
reaction. Renata actually
blushed
when she saw me. She seemed so young, shy and insecure. It was as if she were two different women—the confident, worldly, understanding woman of yesterday—and the uncertain, timid woman of today.

I was invited to her apartment, which was surprisingly spartan. Small and clean, it had a single bed, dresser and mirror—no pictures or decorations. There was nothing much there at all except for cat toys, a tripod, and a video camera. It was as if no one lived there except Mitten.

I treasure my home, my garden and my things. I wonder why so little of Renata shows in her personal space.

Once she introduced Mitten to me, Renata’s confidence returned. Luckily, I also felt more at ease. Yet, my body has a mind of its own. Despite jacking off before I arrived, I’ve wound up sporting a hard-on all day. I don’t usually have that problem, but I find being near Renata incredibly… stimulating.

Still, I’d say our day together went far better than I ever expected. We talked and even flirted—something new for me. I’m physically attracted to her with an intensity beyond anything I’ve ever experienced. What's
really
strange is, for some inexplicable reason,
she
seems to be genuinely attracted to
me
too.

I’m a loner. I’m content enough when working, but I’m not comfortable around people. Today, I’m out in public with Renata. For the first time in a long time, I was able to forget my scars. I felt playful, happy and almost
normal
much of the day.

At one point, I even talked myself into holding her hand—which didn’t go well, but at least I did it. Sadly, my disgustingly damp palm ruined it. I have no idea why something as simple as holding a beautiful woman’s hand freaks me out so much. Especially when we’ve already had sex.

Could I be a bigger head case? I’m such a screwed up mess.

Suddenly, our time together took an unexpected left turn. I wince as I recall seeing unbearable sorrow in her beautiful blue eyes.

When I asked, she told me about her family and her past. It was such an unexpected shock.
Mother and brother dead. Father in jail. Homeless and living on the street. Institutionalized after someone close to her named Jamie, died right beside her.

Knowing this about her changes
everything.

She's
not
normal.
Not
perfect.

Renata’s damaged, too. And she lost her mind when her friend died. I feel an unexpected spike of jealousy over the dead man. Who was Jamie to her? Companion? Lover? Pimp?

That last thought seems unkind, but who am I to judge? I’ve had sex with “whores,” and “prostitutes.” These harsh names mean nothing to me. Hell, they may be selling sex, but that’s only because others are buying it. Who’s worse? The buyer or the seller? I certainly can’t point fingers—not with
my
past.

For me, “love” was connected with the games I played with my father. A prostitute sells sex for money. As a child, I gave sex for love. What does that make
me?

Renata’s a professional woman, a sexual surrogate, trained to help people. Yet, I have to wonder. Did Renata make money on the street selling sex? It’s a terrible thought, but I can’t help but hope that she did.

I can’t contaminate or corrupt someone who’s already suffered some of the worst that humans can do, right? Also, in a strange way, it would make me feel better about who I am and what I’ve done.

I’d innocently said to her, “Tell me about Jamie.”

To my astonishment and dismay, sweet, calm Renata, had burst into tears.