Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (22 page)

“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.

“I have seen what
a laugh can do. It can transform almost unbearable tears into something
bearable, even hopeful.”

— Bob Hope

~~~

Grant
Wilkinson

I’m stunned. The
sight of Renata’s crying disarms me completely. I’d rather give myself a
vasectomy with nail clippers than cause her pain. Some protective male instinct
kicks in, overriding my reserve. I act without thought, which is so unlike me.

“Come here,” I
say and pull her into my arms. To my consternation, Renata begins to cry even
harder. A shudder of grief shakes her body. My shirt is wet with tears as she
burrows her face at my neck and shoulder.

“It’s OK,” I say
quietly. “It’s OK. It’s OK.” I murmur over and over, as I pat and rub her back
soothingly.

How hideous
would it be to wake up next to someone you love and find them dead?

Renata’s tears
begin to slow but she doesn’t let go of me. Her blonde head rests on my
shoulder; her warm breath caresses my neck. Occasionally, her breathing hitches
in a soft little hiccup sound.

We stay here
embracing each other. I comfort her, still murmuring “It’s OK” from time to
time. I’m not going to pull away unless she does. I want her to stay right
here. She feels like Heaven in my arms.

I am so going to
Hell.

I shift to give
myself more room as my swollen cock throbs. Here I am, enjoying holding her
while the poor woman’s upset. I feel bad for her, and bad for taking advantage
of the situation.

I recognize
Renata’s pain—I’ve experienced it myself. A dark memory has surfaced in her
mind. It’s weighing her down with the force of it. I swear to God I can feel
it. It’s as if Renata has cast a shadow over me with her black mood.

How would
André deal with this?

Renata finally
backs away from me, finding tissues in her pocket, wiping her eyes and blowing
her nose. “I’m sorry,” she says and the sadness in her eyes tugs at me.

I frown. “What
for?”

“For getting so
emotional.”

“I don’t see how
you could’ve helped it,” I say, and then I give her a smug, self-satisfied
smile, determined to lighten her mood. “Besides,” I raise my eyebrows. “I got
to hold you.”

Renata’s
expression brightens. “So you did. I noticed that too. You made me feel better.
Thank you.”

I stand up, take
her hands and pull her to her feet. “C’mon,” I say. “We have to go find a swing
set. I’m pretty sure there’s a playground somewhere over there.”

The sound of
Renata’s surprised laughter eases my heart. This time, my palm isn’t sweaty
when I take her hand. This time, holding her hand feels like the most natural
thing in the world.

I intend to hear
her whole story sometime, as much as she wants to tell me anyway—but not now.
First, I need to cheer her up.

While holding
her, I thought about what André might do in this situation. From what I know of
André, it seems to me he’d comfort her and then make her laugh. The swing seems
like a classic André diversion. It’ll give her time to compose herself and
consider what, if anything, she wants to tell me.

Anyway, that’s
how I figure André would handle it.

We find a
playground and nobody’s using the swing set. We’re alone. Perfect. The swing is
made of rubber and Renata sits easily upon it. As promised, I push her. When I
do, she giggles adorably. I’m elated by the sound of her happiness. I push her
again and again until she’s soaring, way up high.

Laughing joyously
with her blond hair flying, she looks more beautiful to me than ever. She’s a
vision, so lovely to behold.

I get on the
swing next to her and we begin to compete, racing each other to see who can go
higher. By the time we’ve had enough, we’re both grinning and lighthearted. The
shadows have gone. Renata’s back to being herself once more.

I’m pleased
because I pulled her out of her sadness.

I think André
would be proud of me.

“Facing one’s
past can be a perilous activity. For the client, joy
must
exceed misery.
Personal successes
must
far outweigh losses. Pleasure
must
exceed
pain. Always.
Always.
To do otherwise is a failure of the counselor.”

— André
Chevalier

~~~

Grant
Wilkinson

As we leave the
playground, we see a soft serve ice cream vendor. We both choose plain vanilla
without chocolate, nuts or sprinkles.

“I thought I was
the only one who was happy with plain vanilla,” I say, but what I’m thinking is,
Renata and I are curiously alike in more ways than I ever dreamed. Both boring.
Both damaged.

“Nope,” Renata
says with a big cheesy grin. I watch her long tongue lick her ice cream and my
relentless hard-on—which had gone down while on the swing—instantly returns.
Shit.

“You touched me
without being nervous,” she says.

“Yes.”

She flashes me a
sexy grin. “I liked it. A lot.”

“Me too.”

“We’re making
progress.”

“You’re a good
counselor.”

Renata laughs.
“No, I’m not! I shouldn’t have reacted like that. Showing all of that emotion
was extremely unprofessional.”

“Oh?” I raise an
eyebrow. “André got really angry with me once.”

Her blue eyes
widen. “No—
really?”

“He even yelled
at me.”

“No way!”
Bouncing rapidly on the balls of her feet, she's practically jumping up and
down with excitement to hear that André isn’t perfect. I decide to explain the
whole story.

“He told you… of
my situation?” I ask.

“Yes. Childhood
sexual abuse by a man,” she says without a moment’s hesitation. Undisturbed, she
takes another lick of her ice cream.

I struggle not to
flinch, but damn it to hell, I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to it. Hearing
of my shame causes adrenaline to spike my veins. It makes my heart race—but not
in a good way.

I can tell André
taught her. She’s so nonchalant and forthright on the subject. There’s no trace
of shock, horror, pity or bullshit. Her attitude is casual and interested. No
fuss. No muss. Her outlook is refreshingly pragmatic. It’s a ‘
Well, it
happened. OK, let’s deal with it,
’ attitude.

Renata’s natural
serenity gives me a sense of security. I feel as though I could tell her
anything and she’d take it in her stride.

I swallow nervously
and take a deep breath. She calmly waits while my pulse slows

“So, the thing
is,” I explain. “I was feeling incredibly guilty. I’ve learned guilt is the
status quo for victims of abuse. Abused people and particularly abused
children, blame themselves for their abuse. In their hearts, they feel they
deserve it. They
know
it’s their fault.”

“Oh yes,” she
nods her agreement, biting into her cone. “That’s so very true.”

My own ice cream
cone’s beginning to drip in this heat. I take a moment to lick it a few times
so I don’t get sticky fingers. It’s hopeless. I have to eat it all before it
melts all over me. Our conversation waits while we both finish our treats.

With my cone
gone, I sigh and begin again. “When I was working with André, I felt ashamed
and I just couldn’t seem to get over it. I guess my whole, ‘I’m a bad person’
or ‘I’m a monster’ attitude really bugged him. I think that would eventually
annoy even a saint, right? So, André suddenly jumps up and starts pacing back
and forth while swearing in French.”

“No!
Really?”

Grinning, I give
her a long, slow nod. “No joke.”

“I love it!” She
gasps with a giggle.

Renata’s eyes are
bright and happy with excitement. I love to watch her; she’s so animated and
alive. André’s
unprofessional
behavior tickles the hell out of her, just
like it tickles me.

Who’d have
thought I could find it in me to laugh when talking about this subject?

“Then what
happened?” she asks.

“He really lost
it after that. I’ll never forget it. He actually yelled at me. He said,
“If
you must be ashamed, find something to be justifiably ashamed of!
But do
not feel shame for this!”

When I quote him,
I sit up straight and do a pretty good imitation of his mannerisms and French
accent.

I don’t know if
it’s my fake accent or the story, but for whatever reason, Renata bursts out in
whoops of uninhibited giggles. She’s really laughing now.

She finally stops
snickering long enough to choke out, “But he’s always so perfect!”

“No,” I say. “He
just likes to
think
he is.”

We both crack up
even more over that. Our shoulders shake and we bend over holding our stomachs.
André’s unique personal antics are an “in” joke. Only people he’s worked with
would fully understand.

I take her hand again
but she puts my hand on her shoulder, wrapping her arm around my waist once
more. This time, her closeness feels natural and we’re able to walk comfortably
together. There’s a bond between us now, a tug of companionable affection.

I’m wildly
attracted to her, but it no longer feels so awkward. This persistent and
intense sexual pull I feel toward Renata’s nothing new. I'm getting used to it
and can now accept it. It’s not so very wrong after all.

Honestly? I’m
beginning to realize what I feared, was her perfection. I was afraid of hurting
her, or somehow tainting her with my screwed up crap. Now I know she’s already
damaged. Just like me, she’s lived through a ton of shit herself.

Renata can deal
with the evil, ugly parts of my life. She can understand them better than
anyone can. Why? Because she’s been there.

This amazing and
seemingly perfect woman has her own painful scars. I should've known better
than to judge a book by its cover.

I wrongly assumed
that because Renata
appeared
to be perfect, she was innocent and pure. How
ridiculous. After all, before my injury, I looked good on the outside—even
though I was a complete mess on the inside. Still, I’d never have guessed
Renata grew up living on the streets.

In my mind, I was
the monster with power to corrupt and poison. Renata was a princess, pure and
perfect, who was at risk of being harmed by me. Now, I see that for all her
outer beauty, there are monsters inside of her, too.

“I’d like to hear
your story sometime, Renata, when you’re ready to tell me,” I say.

The look she
slants up at me is sexy and playful. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours,
big guy,” she says in a seductive, mischievous tone, as she bats her eyelashes
teasingly.

“Deal,” I agree
with a smile. I love this naughty, flirty side of her.

God, I want
her.

Renata stops
walking and turns towards me. “I’d like to seal our agreement with a kiss,” she
murmurs.

I stop smiling
and sober instantly, as I stare into her crystal blue eyes. They’re filled with
an intoxicating mixture of affection and lust.

Monster!
Pervert!
My internal voice snarls.

I
never
kiss
on the lips.

I’ve maintained
this lifelong courtesy, because I don’t want to contaminate anyone. I know
where my mouth has been.

Still, I’m frozen
in place. I hold perfectly still as Renata moves closer. I feel a stir of
wonder as I look into her compelling blue eyes. They’re dark with passion.

My God, I long
to hold her. I've never wanted anyone or anything more than I want her.

We’re both less
than perfect; we’re both tainted by our past. I can’t ruin Renata—she’s a
survivor who’s suffered and experienced ruin already. Her heart’s been broken
and her mind has known madness. Just like me, somewhere in her childhood, evil
has touched her and darkened her soul.

What could I do to
her that hasn’t already been done?

I never kiss…
and yet, I desperately long to kiss her.

I try to relax
the coiling tension in my body, but I can’t. I’m too tense, too uptight. Renata
trails her fingers gently down my scarred cheek. I’m surprised by letting out a
breath I didn’t realize I was holding. I’ll never get over the sensation of her
caressing my damaged face. It feels
so
good.

Once more I’m
captivated, captured by her touch. She’s tall, maybe only an inch shorter than
I am. She moves even closer, wrapping her arms around my neck, drawing me
nearer. My hands move to grip her shoulders as her breasts meet my chest. Her
hips and stomach push deliciously against my erection.

I’m so incredibly
aroused.

With effort, I
manage to subdue my impulse to groan with pleasure. But then her lips gently press
against mine and I can’t help the sound that leaves my throat—something between
a hum and a moan.

Her skin is so
soft and warm. Her scent thrills me.

And her kiss is
incredible.

I shut my eyes
with the unbelievable sensation of Renata kissing me. For one breathless
moment, everything stops.

I let myself sink
into that sweet, gentle press of her mouth, that powerful symbol of love and
acceptance. Renata makes the kiss brief, just a gentle press of lips, before
pulling back to study me.

Her eyes have
darkened with arousal, yet her expression is concerned. From our time together
yesterday, Renata knows I don’t kiss on the mouth. She’s making sure I’m OK
with this. I feel so safe with her. I’m sure she’ll push me, but I’m confident
she won’t push me too far.

How did she get
this way? How did she become so sensitive and loving with such a lousy upbringing?

A thought strikes
me abruptly. If
she’s
OK—then, maybe
I
can be OK, too. My heart
fills with hope. With Renata’s help, I can change. I can get better. I can
be
better. She’s the perfect example of how
not
to let a shitty childhood
ruin your life.

My heart is so
full—my barriers are down. I can't hold back and I don't want to. She sees me
and accepts me for who I am.

“I’ve never known
what this is like,” I whisper in an awed sort of wonder. “I’ve never felt this
close before.”

Renata’s brows
knit. “What? With a woman you mean?”

“With
anyone
.”

She tilts her
head in a questioning manner. I can see she doesn’t understand me. She waits
quietly, patiently trusting I’ll explain.

Renata’s
possessed my mind, my body and even my tarnished soul. She moves me deeply.
Profoundly. She's found something good and right inside of me.

The goodness
inside of me is something I've always kept hidden and safe from everyone—even
from myself. I don't think I ever realized it existed… until today. I have
Renata to thank for that.

What a gift.

What a rush.

What a woman.

We stand face to
face, so very close. “I’ve never known such an incredible feeling,” I whisper
to her. “I’ve never experienced such happiness.”

This can only
be love.

“It was just a
little kiss,” she says in a teasing voice.

She meets my gaze
as I give her an amused smile in acknowledgment of her humor. She’s opened my
eyes—and my heart. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her. I want to give her
the world. I want her to be happy. I want her life to be everything she wants
it to be—everything she deserves.

Yesterday, I’d
thought maybe Renata had somehow lightened my darkness with her own
perfection—but that wasn’t it. Now, I’m aware of goodness inside of me. André
was the one who first touched upon it. Renata’s managed to bring it out,
exposing it further and setting it free.

André and Renata
see past my scars and hang-ups. They see me as I am.

Through their
eyes, I can too.

The problem
actually isn’t the evil that's happened in my life—it’s
keeping silent
about evil, being afraid or ashamed to speak of it—hiding it away and burying
it deep inside.

Evil deeds and
lies—kept hidden—ruin lives. Secrets give evil the power to grow.

In the same way
malignant cells need be cut out or they will multiply and destroy a healthy
body; I’ve come to realize a person needs to be free of toxic secrets. Hidden,
buried and unseen, secrets are a weighty burden. Every day they grow darker and
heavier, disastrously poisoning a healthy mind.

My father told me
not to tell anyone of the games we played. I kept silent, but not just because
he told me to. I realize now I hid the truth for reasons of my own.

For me,
concealing such wickedness was an act of love. It’s something a
good
person
would do. I buried everything, hoping to keep such terrible knowledge away from
others.

Why?

Because I didn’t
want anyone else to suffer from the ugly truths I knew. Those truths damn near
destroyed me. I didn't want to risk the destruction of others. Nobody deserves
that.

My actions were
automatic and instinctive. Unfortunately, when I became tainted by so much
hidden inner darkness, I think I became confused. Now I realize what's been
going on.

From my earliest
memories, I thought
I
was evil. I thought
I
was a monster.

Reaching out to
Andre was the first step towards regaining control over my life. Sharing
stories of my abuse empowered me further. Being with Renata and pushing my
limits is leading me toward further self-awareness. Each life-affirming step shines
light on the darkness that has been controlling me.

As a child, I
learned what I was taught by my abuser—that love was selfish and twisted. Love
was nothing but an act, a perverse pretense that couldn’t be trusted.

Those were the
wrong lessons.

What my father
had for me wasn’t love at all, it was a sick imitation. Real love is good. It
feels right. It’s healing and it’s empowering. True love is when you know who
you are. It allows you to find your own heart and soul.