Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (25 page)

I giggle over
that. He
selfishly
gives others pleasure. Who wouldn‘t love André?

For months, he’s
been teaching me how to talk to people and how to be a counselor. Now that I’m
no longer a teenager, he’s discussing important sexual aspects of being a
surrogate. André has gone over a number of management techniques for various
situations such as impotence, premature ejaculation and performance anxiety.

Sexual therapy
can be quite subtle. Going at the client’s own speed is important, beginning
with simple eye contact, perhaps touching fingers, then the face and so on.
Like me, many of my clients may be hurt from trauma, abuse or both.

Since I’ve experienced
abuse, I’ll be able to relate and truly understand them. The majority of my
work will be about building trust and intimacy.

I’m a good
listener and André is quite a performer. He’s been acting as various surrogate
partners might act during sessions. He's pretended to be shy or embarrassed,
throwing up his hands up in panic and saying things like, “I cannot speak of
this!”

You’d think I’d
have laughed.

Yet, André was
so realistic when he play-acted as a client. It wasn’t difficult to keep a
straight face—except when he pretended to be someone with a foot fetish. The
way he ardently kissed my feet completely cracked me up. It also
tickled!

I smile as I
recall how passionately he threw himself into each role.

Lightly
karate-chopping my entire back, he sends chills up my spine. His movements
begin to slow, growing slower and then stopping. I’m warm and tingly all over.

André is
finished with me, I think.

“You once told
me you were good at sex,” he says, resting a caressing hand on my lower back,
intriguingly close to my buttocks. “Happily, I have found this to be an
accurate claim. Even more importantly, you are able to connect with others. It
is a gift. For all the reserve you were forced to endure as a child, there was
a brave and loving woman hidden inside.”

My heart melts
when I hear his words. My eyes sting and for a moment, I can’t speak past the
sudden lump in my throat.

“You always say
nice things about me, André.”

“But of course!
Yet, I do so only if they are true.”

Finished with my
massage, he climbs off of me and lays beside me on the bed, propped up on one
elbow. I roll over and lie flat on my back, with my head on a pillow.

Our faces inches
apart, I look directly into his expressive eyes and give him a loving smile.
Normally, it's a terrible struggle for me to meet someone’s gaze, or to speak
openly and to show emotion. Yet, with André, It's natural. I trust him so
deeply that I can easily do these things with him.

My brows furrow
in a frown. I’m full of self-doubt, as usual. “You don’t think I’m too young
and inexperienced to be a surrogate?”

He tilts his
head and studies me with appraising eyes. “Your inexperience we correct day by
day. I am not many years older than you are. Must one have grey hairs on their
head, before they are wise?”

I snort. “Of
course not, my uncle is proof of that. He's totally grey and has clearly been
hit with the stupid stick more than once.”

André laughs
loudly without restraint, the free and joyous sound fills my heart. I grin like
a crazy woman.

He grins back.
“Just so. It has nothing to do with age! A good therapist must be
non-judgmental and open-minded. They must be attentive listeners. The surrogate
must be comfortable with sex and her own body. Yet,
most
importantly,
the surrogate must have a loving and generous heart. A heart such as yours.”

“
Merci,
André.”

He presses his
lips to my forehead, the affectionate gesture warming me from head to toe.
Compliments make me uncomfortable, but right now I’m in admiration overload. I
can’t help but be pleased by all the praise he’s showering upon me.

André’s lips tug
up into a smile. “I could train someone, perhaps, to be comfortable and
experienced in the act of sex, yet the naturally generous spirit? The selfless
drive to help others? Impossible! Such kindness comes from within. It is a rare
and precious gift that cannot be taught.”

I consider this
for a moment, and know what he says is true. I’m super-sensitive. When I see
people suffer,
I
hurt.

Another thought
forms in my mind. “Is it OK for me to practice before I’m fully qualified?”

“
Ma petite
souris,
there is no law against it in Nevada. There are perhaps sixty
registered sexual surrogates in the entire United States. Do you think that is
enough to assist the many, many who are troubled?”

Stunned, my
mouth drops open. I shut it.

André smiles at
the surprise on my face. “It is shocking, no? You are needed, little mouse.”

“I see.”

“Besides, a full
refund for dissatisfied clients is written into every contract.” One of his
elegant eyebrows arches smugly, and he adds, “I have never been asked for a
refund.”

I snicker, not
at all surprised.

“Do not fear. I
will oversee your work. Of a certainty, you will make, oh-so many mistakes, but
your clients will be forgiving. Something done to assist someone in need is
better than if nothing is attempted, yes?”

“Yes.” I’m still
tingling all over. Great sex followed by a great massage. Does life get any
better than this? I'm in heaven, sharing a cloud with my beloved André.

“Thank you,
André,” I sigh. “That felt fantastic.”

“The backrub?”
he asks, with an air of innocence.

My eyes widen in
surprise. I study his face curiously. For all his sexual expertise, I suspect
André’s fishing for a compliment. He’s so self-assured and sexy. Still… he
is
a man. Despite their confidence, or pretense of confidence, people and
especially men seem to need—or at least appreciate—reassurance.

“I’ve never had
better sex in my life, André… but you know that already.”

There’s mischief
in his expression. “And yet, it does no harm to hear it,
ma petite.”

I laugh, because
this is true.

“You have
discovered much this week, no?”

I grin up at
him. “I’ve also had a lot of fun.”

“As have I,” he
says with a naughty glint in his dark eyes. “I wish to discuss men with you.
What do you know of the ego?”

I frown. “Do you
want the textbook definition?” I ask, thinking of the psychology course I’m
taking.

“No.”

“Well then, I
guess you mean a person's sense of self-esteem or importance.”

“
Bon.
The
ego, it is our concept of self,
n'est-ce pas?
” he says. “It is our sense
of self-worth. To work with men, you must know it is oh-so easy to bruise the
ego. Such an injury will cause negative repercussions. It will push your client
away, which you do not wish to do.”

“Right. Is it
true the male ego is more fragile than a female’s?”

“But yes! We men
are much more childish than women in this respect! When I say childish, I mean
immature. Most men do not allow their emotions to grow to adulthood. Women,
they are used to dealing with their moods, no? Women experience strong emotions
daily—if not, most certainly at least monthly.”

I giggle and
André gives me a wry smile.

“Women tend to
embrace their feelings more readily. They do not reject them. Men? Often we do
not know how to express our feelings, or we are too frightened to do so.”

“Frightened of
what?”

“Of oh-so many
things—rejection, failure, vulnerability.” He shrugs. “Exposure or making a
fool of oneself. Perhaps the fear of being ridiculed, belittled or hurt.”

I snort.
“Everyone’s afraid of those things!”

“Very true, yet
men conceal these fears, even from
themselves.”

I nod my
agreement. “Do you think men are cut off from their emotions because ‘real men’
are supposed to act tough?”

One graceful
shoulder lifts in a shrug. “It is of course a possibility, but who can say? It
is certainly more acceptable for women to display their emotions. You have seen
women cry?”

“Many times.”

He raises one
dark eyebrow. “Have you ever seen a man cry?”

“Only once,” I
say, my mind becoming caught in the memory. “Jamie cried very, very quietly,
and only in front of me. He’d been rejected by the man he loved. I wept too,
from seeing so much hurt reflected in his eyes.”

When I return my
gaze to him, André nods. “Unrequited love is very painful,
ma petite souris
.”

“Yes.”

“Men, they have
the emotions, oh yes! They feel deeply and are most sensitive—particularly
concerning matters of the heart. Yet they hide, they become irritated, they
deny and push such sensitivities away, yes?”

“I guess so.”

“Do you know why
so many heterosexual women fake orgasms?”

My brow furrows
at the abrupt subject change. “No, why?”

“Because women
are intuitive! They know their male lovers will take it personally and feel a
sense of failure if they do not climax. A woman who loves her man will not wish
to hurt his feelings. This is a matter difficult to discuss. Like all things in
life, the problem observed is
not
the
real
problem. It is secrecy
and an
inability to talk openly about a subject
that makes such things a
problem. And why can this issue not be easily discussed?”

“The delicate
male ego?” I cautiously suggest.

“Just so.” André
flashes me a broad grin. “When a man’s feelings are hurt, it can be more
damaging for him than it would be for a woman. Men despise weakness and
vulnerability. Women are used to it, often experiencing such emotions—oh—many,
many times! They have learned to endure such trials. But men? They are supposed
to be big, strong and self-reliant. In this culture, they cannot be perceived
as being emotional. Such is considered unmanly.”

“I see.”

“It is a great
generalization and as such it is not a perfect truth, but I tell you—men are
rarely in touch with their feelings. They put their faith in logic. Logic is
most worthy, especially for those who need a firm grasp of control. Yet, the
mind is a very poor substitute for the truth in one’s heart.”

I nod my
agreement. It’s a stereotype that women are emotional, while men are logical. I
think I’m both, but am often swept away by my feelings.

“When men feel
inadequate in bed they have an urge to weep and speak about it—yet they do not
know how to do so. Instead, they become enraged. They blame their partner, they
blame their job. They strike out blindly. Such fury can quickly fall into a
sense of failure and depression.”

“It’s that bad?”

“Mais oui!
It
is a very great secret. Women feel insecure, but they are aware of it. Men feel
insecure but they deny such feelings. They become angry or give up, hiding
their emotions—first from themselves.”

“But not all
men.”

“Not all men, of
course. But the men I will send to you? Their emotions will be underdeveloped.
As a surrogate, your clients will need constant encouragement and reassurance.
To give such requires finesse. Never lie. Never exaggerate. All must be
sincere. Honesty is vital, as I have told you oh, many times before.”

I nod. André
advises me to say nothing if a secret must be kept and never lie. I’m also
beginning to think he intentionally got me to compliment his sexual prowess,
either to see if I would or for some other reason.

When teaching
me, André can be quite subtle. He’s only seven years older than I am, but he’s
a million years wiser and more experienced.

“How did you
train your cat?” he asks. “You did not focus on what was wrong when interacting
with Mitten, did you?”

I shake my head.
“Never.”

“Why?”

I shrug. “It
doesn’t work. If I pointed out what he did wrong, he'd focus on that. It kind
of broke his trust in me. I guess I just found it easier to notice and praise
everything Mitten did
right.
It made him proud of himself. He
wanted
to
please me.”

“
Très bien!
Make your surrogate partners feel special, but only if you find something
truly
special,
comprenez-vous
?
”

“Of course.
False flattery is merely another form of lying.”

André shoots me
a warm smile. “I vow, you are a genius! A cat is much like a man in this way.”
Cupping my head in his hand, he kisses me on the lips, a swift response. “You
will be a most excellent therapist.”

“Merci.”

“Do not expose
weakness directly. Try not to correct them. Let them learn naturally at their
own pace. If you must speak—as an example, perhaps if they are too rough—do so
in a manner that is easy for them to receive.”

“Right.”

“The first
clients I send you will be extremely vulnerable. I trust you with them as you
are naturally empathetic.”

“Merci
encore.”
Thank you again.

My cheeks heat
at his praise. He gives me so much, and I feel unworthy.

André knows
exactly why I blushed. He knows me so well. I’m inexplicably embarrassed by
compliments, something I never had experience with until later in my life.
Together, we continue working through my own brand of ‘crazy’ as best as we
can.

“Now, I wish to
speak of power games,” he says. “Most men will not wish for you to assert your
dominance. Do you recall how you felt when you played the Mistress with me?”

“How can I
forget?” I snicker. “It was only yesterday.”

“But how did you
feel?”

“I liked being
in control. It was great fun.”

André wanted to
give me a taste of dominance and submission. I hated the idea, but I finally
agreed to play the role of his Mistress. He responded to my direct orders in
bed. It was strange at first, but then I began to get into the swing of bossing
him around.