Abuse (14 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 struggle 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.