Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (13 page)

“You are the
sky. Everything else—it’s just the weather.”

― Pema
Chödrön

~~~

Renata
Koreman

André’s
passionate about everything: food, fashion, love, relationships and sex. No
subject is off limits—I like that about him. His accent, pronunciation and
teasing good humor are utterly irresistible. The man is
fun.
His left
field point of view and his lighthearted philosophy makes me giggle and laugh
again, and again.

Laughter is a
good therapy for me and André knows it.

Either that or he
just likes to hear me laugh.

One day, months
after I came to him, André asked me what I wanted to do with my life. At the
time, I used to carry a pen and notebook around with me in order to
communicate. By then, even though I could meet his eyes, I was still unable to
speak.

“I want to get
married and have babies,” I wrote.

“Très bien!”
he said instantly, with a broad and genuine smile on his face. “These are most
worthy goals. Is there anything else that particularly interests you? This is
in consideration of a career, you understand.”

I quickly
scrawled, “I like sex and I’m good at it.”

André laughed and
clapped his hands. “
Ah bon!
The same is true for me, as well!”

One of the best
things about André is, he doesn’t have preconceived or fixed ideas concerning
the “role” anyone must play in life. There are no set labels in his universe.
Men can change diapers, women can change tires and whatever sexual kink you
have is OK as long as it’s safe, sane and consensual.

Not once did he
suggest I conform to any societal idea of what I was
‘supposed’
to do or
be. André never made me doubt or second-guess my interests or desires. He had
no bias, no vested interest, nor any personal slant on my choices.

This total
acceptance empowered me beyond anything I’d ever known.

Whatever I chose
to do was, according to André,
“Très bon!” or “Magnifique!”
His
unconditional, nonjudgmental support helped me learn how to accept myself. His
approval was inspiring.

He
was
inspiring.

When I was
thirteen, my older foster brother, Jamie and I, ran away together from our
foster home. My very best friend was protective and took me out of a bad
situation. This was after our foster father had become increasingly and overly
free with his hands.

Before the
asshole could commit statutory rape, we took off.

Living on the
street wasn’t any more difficult than living anywhere else; in fact, to me, it
was much easier. I could already fend for myself. I was used to going hungry,
or eating what others threw away.

Most people
ignore indigents, and I felt comfortable being ignored. As strange and abnormal
as I was, I easily ‘fit in’ on the street. There I felt ‘normal’ for the first
time in my life.

While I'd never
indiscriminately “spread my legs” for anyone, as ‘Uncle Bob’ so eloquently
claimed, I did enjoy sexual intimacy with many. I’ve always associated sex with
pleasure, affection and love.

Street people are
nice to each other. I was never attacked or physically hurt when I was
homeless. Ironically, the most hideous experiences of my life took place within
a 'home.'

I lived in
cardboard boxes, but this also, was no hardship. From my earliest memories, I
always felt safe hiding in boxes.

It’s easy to live
without a home in San Diego, where I grew up. First, the weather's good
.
Second, the southern portion of Point Loma peninsula was devoted to the
military. Therefore, I was lucky enough to share the street with many
ex-service personnel.

I love service
men and women. Post-traumatic stress disorder or not, once a protector, always
a protector—that’s what I say. Although constantly fearful, I felt a bit safer
just knowing they were around.

It took me years
and seemingly endless help from André, but now I can look people in the eye and
I can speak to them. When under pressure, or upset or around fighting or
yelling, I often relapse to stuttering and averting my gaze.

I’m studying
psychology via correspondence and hoping to become a registered sexual
surrogate through the International Professional Surrogates Association. It’ll
take years to become confident enough to do it on my own.

Until then, I
work as a surrogate for André from time to time.

I’m comfortable
with my own sexuality and I’m no longer lost, frightened and confused. André
taught me how to express my emotions and myself. I’m observant, sensitive and I
feel
deeply.

Who’d be better
to understand and help others? Just like André and Mr. Brand, my school
librarian, kindness comes naturally to me.

I feel much older
than my twenty-two years.

Most of my life I
was living in the sense that I was breathing, seeing, hearing, thinking,
feeling and walking around. Yet, in many ways, I wasn't truly
alive
until I met André. I was so restrained by fear, pain and grief, I never
embraced life. I was paralyzed and shut off from the world.

I’d do anything
for André Chevalier.

I believe he’d do
anything for me.

I’m a grown woman
now. Fear no longer rules my life. Someday, I hope to find someone of my own to
love. I still long to be married and have children. These childhood desires
continue to be strong goals.

Meanwhile, I’m
safe, content and have people who care about me. Love is all-important. It’s a
mystery I’m still trying to understand.

When I was a
child, I loved my mother, even though I ran away so she had to take most of
dad’s beatings. As an adult, I’d gladly take a beating for André.

I’ve learned
people express love in many different ways.

Pascal shows his
love by cooking wonderful meals. Anne teaches me French. André hugs and praises
me. Mitten obeys me. Gustave likes to take walks in the park with me. He talks
about music, art and philosophy and intently listens to everything I have to
say.

Pascal, Gustave,
Anne, André and Mitten. I adore them all. They’re the family I never had—but I
fell madly in love with André. Who wouldn’t? Yet, I soon realized he could
never be mine.

André’s unique,
kind and fun. He genuinely cares about me and he’s taught me how to be
myself.
There’s only one André, but he belongs to everyone.

Not only that,
more importantly, André doesn’t
need me
.

When it comes to
love, I need someone to
need me
as much as I need them.

I know that much
about love.

“In ancient
times cats were worshiped as gods. They have not forgotten this.”

—Terry
Pratchett

~~~

Renata
Koreman

Present day…

I giggle when
Mitten slashes his tail back and forth, tickling my arm as I apply a light
touch of make-up. His black and white fur is luxurious because I brush it all
the time, feed him a perfect diet and spoil him as much as is humanly possible.

“Mitten, don’t be
annoyed. You know I have to go out.”

Mitten stares at
me in the mirror as he sits on my dressing table. Unblinking, his eyes blaze
into mine.
“I want to play!”
he communicates, his dark, demanding gaze
drilling holes into me.

I have an “owner”
and “owned” relationship going on with my cat. In his mind, he’s the “Master of
the Universe.” And me? I’m his personal slave.

“We’ll play when
I get back,” I lightly reassure him, as I slip plain gold hoops into my pierced
ears.

I see my reflection
and smile when I notice how curvy I am. Over the years, André’s successfully
fattened me up. Having plenty of good food around and losing a crap load of
anxiety, I’ve learned to eat. Right now, my bacon and egg breakfast sits
heavily in my stomach. I won’t be hungry for hours.

I’m shaved and
showered, I’ve rubbed a fragrant lotion on my skin and I’m all dressed up and
ready to go.

A thrill of
lustful anticipation flows through me, as I recall the sweet client who’ll
benefit from my sexual expertise in therapy today.

Joshua Marks is
the youngest child of five well-adjusted older siblings. His parents are over
sixty and happily married. Such nice people, they want what
they have
for their son. Joshua is a thirty-year old blind man who, other than his
mother, has never even kissed a girl.

Women make him
nervous.

For his birthday,
Joshua’s father paid for a surrogate session and pushed him for months to
attend. Upset by alterations in his schedule—in fact disturbed by change of any
kind—Joshua was stubbornly against the idea until we met for coffee a week ago.

When I first met
him and his Seeing Eye dog, Max, Joshua was frowning—he was meeting with me
against his will. Well over six feet tall, he looked too slim for his height.
His curly, sandy-blond hair was cut short. Under those sunglasses, his eyes
were most likely blue.

I smile,
recalling his naivety and innocent charm. After he agreed to have a surrogate
session with me, I’d sealed our arrangement with a chaste kiss on his soft
lips.

It made his face
instantly redden with a mixture of awkward uncertainty, confusion and lust.

Sweet. So damn
sweet.

I lean in toward
the mirror to see better, in order to apply my mascara. You usually can’t tell
when someone has Asperger’s and Joshua’s no exception. He’s a genius who’s
completed two Masters degrees (in Physics and Mathematics) and has a doctorate
in Aeronautical Engineering.

I grin at myself
in the mirror, thinking about
Doctor
Joshua Marks. His real interest is
rocket science.

Yes folks!
Rocket science!

This thought
makes me snicker out loud, and I almost stab myself in the eye with the mascara
applicator. Joshua’s blind so he won’t see it, but I feel prepared for anything
when I have my make-up on.

We sat together
in the coffee shop while he conversed animatedly about weight ratios, pounds of
thrust, fluid mechanics and the key differences between aerodynamics verses
astrodynamics. Joshua, I discovered, feels strongly that humankind should
colonize the moon.

I listened
attentively and while I couldn’t fully follow the conversation, I’d been
sincerely interested. His passion for his job was fun to watch.

Joshua is an
interesting guy.

Man, who wouldn’t
love my job? It’s perfect for me. I get to meet and genuinely help interesting
people for a start. I’ve always loved sex, and as for helping others—well,
maybe it’s a form of pay it forward. Because, where would I be now if not for
André?

I was worried
Joshua would get cold feet and back out, for a while there. At my
encouragement, and as an icebreaker, Joshua and I have corresponded daily via
email for the last week.

Joshua wrote to
tell me André took him out to update his wardrobe in preparation for our date.
André
loves
shopping for clothes. He would’ve also given him condoms and
told him how to use them—if I know André at all, and I do—but Joshua didn’t
mention that. The ideal listener, I wonder if my loveable Frenchman managed to
get Joshua to talk?

Even with a
practiced therapist like André, I bet Joshua still didn’t have much to say.
Unless he’s talking about rocket fuel, the man keeps his mouth shut.

Life sure can
throw some curve balls. If my sweet, super-nerdy client hadn’t lost his sight
when he was a teenager, maybe he would’ve become a brain surgeon.

Brain surgeon!

Mitten glares at
me as a gurgle of laughter slips from my lips.

Like most people
with Asperger’s as a disability, Joshua has difficulty with social interaction
and communication. As these are both issues I’ve struggled with, our pairing is
perfect.

The fact that
Joshua was blinded during a laboratory experiment when he was
sixteen-years-old, exacerbated his inability to pick up social cues.

During our coffee
together, I’d urged him to talk, using every skill André taught me. With my
history of silence or stuttering, I’m more comfortable listening rather than
speaking. Besides, I can identify and sympathize with these problems, and he
really is just so damn cute. We got along really well.

Joshua’s devotion
to his Seeing Eye dog, Max, further endeared me to him. So I told him about my
cat’s internet fame. I make over $1000 a month from YouTube views of Mitten’s
tricks. I’m hoping a publisher will take on the book André encouraged me to
write, called “Cat Coaching.”

Before I go, I check
the internet for a quick read of the
New York Times.
Hmm.
Sex
trafficking, increase in teenage pregnancies, and a frightening report about
AIDS.
Bummer.

All of this bad
news about sex gives people the idea that it’s scary and dangerous. In focusing
on all that can be wrong, society makes sex seem like a sin. In truth, it’s the
exact opposite.

In America,
abstinence until marriage is pushed. Regardless of what's said in the media,
schools and homes, young adults follow their urges and continue to pair off.
Nothing stops them.

Sadly, instead of
embracing the role sex can play in relationships, the fun it can be, and how it
allows people to get the most out of life—young people end up feeling guilty.

For a moment,
‘Uncle Bob’s’ comments, uttered years ago, echo in my mind:
The dirty little
slut is three months away from her eighteenth birthday.
She opens her
legs to anyone! It’s a wonder the little whore isn’t pregnant!”

Strange how mean
words can return to ones thoughts, years after they’ve been callously thrown at
you. They replay in your mind, spiking a sense of remembered pain. Nasty name
calling can be an ugly memory that stabs unexpectedly—not unlike a nightmare
where you wake up crying.

Sticks and stones,
may break your bones—yet, cruel names
can
hurt you.

I’m not a
slut. I’m not a whore.

Why is sex
considered a shameful activity, rather than a way for couples to get to know
and enjoy each other? The whole subject is tainted by unhealthy, pre-conceived
notions.

When I think of
how I was introduced to sex, I’m glad of the way I grew up. And yet, I never
tell
anyone
I’m a sexual therapist. I don’t want to be condemned by ignorant
people who don’t understand.

I check my watch.
Merde!

It’s 9:15 a.m.
Gustave is going to pick me up in twenty minutes as my appointment with Joshua
is at André’s place.

I’ve got to go.