All Is Not Forgotten(21)

Tammy was a pretty woman, short blond hair, big brown eyes. She was just twenty-four when I first met her, and I think she had been weathered by motherhood, but mostly by her marriage to Sean. I found it interesting that she used a pit bull as a simile in her story. Pit bulls, it is said, do not release their jaws until the animal clenched between their teeth is dead. I tried not to read too much into this. The pit bull has become a colloquial symbol, and most people don’t fully understand what they’re saying when they use the expression. Still, she looked as though life were being squeezed out of her. She was embarrassed to speak to me about the more intimate details of her relationship, but I felt it was important, and so I did my best to put her at ease.

Well, okay. So I guess I was flirting with him, too. I would meet his eyes and then look away. The usual things women do. It’s so stupid, isn’t it? Being married now, having a child. All that stuff seems ridiculous to me. But it did work. Tammy got a playful look on her face, and I could see the woman Sean saw that rainy afternoon.

When he was finished telling his story, he excused himself, took his beer and his shot of bourbon, and walked right over to our table. He had this shameless smile on his face, like “I’m here to get you to f*ck me and I won’t leave until I get my way.” It sounds so obnoxious, but he was like a mischievous little boy and I was a complete goner. He asked me to dance. He put on a track from the jukebox—David Bowie, “Let’s Dance.” You know the song? “Put on your red shoes…” His hands were all over me, on my back, running down the side of my leg, through my hair. I had never felt that from a man before. It was like this desperate, raw need that only I could fill. And believe me, I know anyone with a vagina could have filled it, but that’s not how it felt. And even if it did, it wouldn’t have mattered. After a while of dancing and drinking and laughing, he danced me closer to the small hallway that led to the back door, then outside into the alley. It was pouring rain. He started kissing me, pulling at my clothing. His face turned from playful to deadly serious. He was on a mission to satisfy this need. He looked like he would die in agony if he didn’t satisfy it, and something about that just overwhelmed me. I became equally desperate to help him, to save him. And it turned me on, this power I felt I had. It was primal. I felt like an animal myself, tearing at his clothing until we’d removed enough to, you know, make it possible. He lifted me up against the brick wall of the building. It was, I don’t know. I can’t really describe it.

Tammy disappeared for a moment, as though she was reliving the experience. I gave her time to sit with her memories and the feelings they were evoking. She went on to explain how she’d taken him home. How they’d stayed in bed for the next two days until he had to leave for his third tour. Then she told me something that I let pass without much attention. There was much more for her to tell, and it was important to Sean’s treatment that I hear the story. It was not my intention to treat Tammy. But many months later, when I became involved with the Kramers, this part of Tammy’s story came rushing back into my mind.

It may seem strange to those who have not been in therapy how much intimacy is revealed in the process. I suppose this is why patients sometimes favor a therapist of the same gender, so there is less embarrassment. But there really is no need for this, no place for embarrassment in psychotherapy. I have the same reaction when my female patients speak to me about their sexual encounters as I do with the men. I am not listening out of some prurient interest, but as a clinician, a scientist. It is no different from speaking to a gynecologist or urologist. And our sexual lives are inextricably bound to our psyches.

I will make this sole confession: Hearing women reveal their sexual deceit with men has caused me to evaluate my own marriage, the intimate aspects of my relationship with my wife. It is not that I worry about the deceit. I know it is there. I have already discussed the fact that everyone hides and everyone lies. I do not expect my wife to tell me the truth about every experience she has with me in our bedroom. But I have gained insight and knowledge over the years that have afforded me the opportunity to ask the right questions at the right time, and to minimize the deceit to a tolerable measure, both for her and for myself, for my own male ego. I wish I could tell you that I go home and forget the things my female patients tell me. But that is no more possible than if I had an electrician for a patient who told me how to fix a broken circuit. We can’t unlearn. It’s not how we’re built.

Tammy revealed to me that she did not have one orgasm during all those encounters. She said it cryptically because she is a modest person and because she was not my patient. This process was new to her, and she was a willing participant only inasmuch as it was helpful to her husband. The issue came up as we discussed the frequency of their intercourse, even for new lovers. She provided this fact by way of explanation, that perhaps she had pursued additional intercourse because she remained unsatisfied. I did not inquire further, except to ask her why she thought this had happened.

It was so intense, his need, and the way he was with me. It was so fast and powerful, even the way he kissed me. He made my lip bleed. I couldn’t catch my breath. It was like I couldn’t relax enough to make it happen. It would go on for an hour sometimes, and my heart would be pounding, and our skin was so wet with sweat, we were sliding against each other. I think my body spent every ounce of energy just trying to make sense of it. It was like trying to have sex while you’re running a marathon. But it’s different now. We know each other. I’m more comfortable. And the drugs are helping his anxiety. It’s all good now. It really is. It was just a part of who he was back then.