Hook Shot (Hoops #3)(36)
“Sex was for my pleasure,” I say, swallowing hard, my mouth suddenly dry. “Do you mind if I . . .” I wave my hand at a line of water bottles on the table.
“Sure.” Marsha nods to one of the chairs in the small circle. “Have a seat, too.”
I hesitate. We’re talking, but I still feel like I could make my escape if I need to. Sitting down indicates we might be here for a while. And I’m not sure I want to be here much longer, but I grab a water and sit down. When I take the seat, Marsha smiles, but does a decent job hiding her satisfaction.
“So sex was for your pleasure,” Marsha says, picking up where I left off. “Sounds good so far.”
“It was.” I laugh, but it holds no real humor. “I know a lot of survivors have trouble with sex, but I’ve always enjoyed it.”
“Good for you, and yes. You’re right. I, for example, didn’t have my first orgasm until I was thirty-three.”
My mouth is hanging open, and I know it’s rude and insensitive, but damn. I can’t imagine. “Not even . . . touching yourself?”
“Masturbation was a big part of my recovery,” she says, her eyes never wavering while she shares such sensitive information. “I couldn’t experience pleasure with someone else’s hand. I had to feel safe with my own first.”
She tilts her head and winks. “Don’t worry. With a lot of therapy, hard work, and a very patient partner, things are much better in that department now,” she says. “A lot of relationships don’t survive the recovery process because we need so much control, and our partners can’t take it. Control related to our triggers, to the effects of our trauma. Sex requires a lot of trust. We forget how much sometimes—forget the magnitude of sharing ourselves that way.”
“I never had trouble trusting someone else with my body,” I say, frowning, wondering if something is wrong with me, with the way I processed everything. “But I could never trust them with anything else. No real . . . intimacy, I guess. I made sure they knew it was just sex. I’ve never allowed myself to feel anything else, but lately, that hasn’t been satisfying.”
“Part of healthy sexuality is knowing you are loveable and worthy even if you don’t offer yourself sexually,” Marsha says. “There can’t be real intimacy without some love or affection. If you blocked those completely, sex may have started to feel . . . transactional or purely a physical release.”
Marsha offers a one-sided grin. “If we have some time together, I’m sure we can dig around and figure out what you’ve done to survive. That’s all any of us do. We find ways to regain, or at least, to feel that we regain the control that was taken from us. We were helpless and are constantly looking for ways to make sure we’re not in that position again. Some people become hypersexual. Some can’t have sex at all.”
“I decided to take a break from sex,” I say. “and I haven’t really missed it.” Kenan’s face, his voice, his scent all invade my imagination, my memory.
“That’s common, too,” Marsha says, nodding. “It’s not unusual at all to have a season of celibacy while you sort things out. It sounds like you’ve been listening to yourself closely, and your instincts are guiding you well.”
I am more self-aware than many. I know that is a result of how MiMi raised me—how she taught me to tune into things I can’t see with my natural eyes. Even my own pain.
“It’s fine if sex is sometimes just a release,” Marsha continues. “Many survivors have sex, but detach emotionally because such an early sexual experience was associated with abandonment or some trauma. Detaching emotionally is a protective measure. It could be a defense mechanism because you’re afraid to trust someone with much else, especially if you’ve been betrayed by someone you should have been able to trust, like a family member or . . . whomever.”
I weigh my next words. They’re queued up on my tongue, and sit there so long I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to push them out.
“It was my mom’s boyfriend,” I force myself to say.
“I’m sorry, Lotus,” she says so kindly.
“Yeah. Um, thanks.”
That’s all I want to say for now. I think I’m hitting a wall, and having said it out loud, I don’t want to be in the same room as those words. I stand and toss my half-full water bottle in the recycle bin.
“I’m gonna go,” I say in a rush. “I need to . . . to go.”
“Of course.” Marsha stands and reaches for her purse, extracting a business card and offering it to me. “We meet every Thursday evening. Same bat time, same bat place, and my information is there if you ever want to talk some more.”
I stare at the card for a few seconds before accepting it and looking up to find her eyes still on me. “Thanks.”
I start back toward the steps and pause when a thought strikes me. “Marsha, can I ask you a question?”
“Anything,” she says, and I can tell she means it.
“I guess when you’re in a season like this, it’s a bad time to start a relationship, huh?”
I can’t even believe I asked, but what’s happening between Kenan and me is becoming irresistible. When I finally do give in, I want to know how to cause as little damage as possible.