Many days have gone by from when I was younger woman in my second year of college with no cares in the world. Married now with two kids, I do what everyone expects of me, I go to therapy once a week. I don't want to tell my secrets but "good" society dictates that one cannot just keep going with all of their anxiety rolled up behind them like a tote bag.
I sit across from my therapist. He crosses his legs and uncrosses them for the fourth time this half hour. I don't really like him, but he is honest with me. He and I are on the verge of actually working through something. I have this theory that the reason why I can't love him is because I never got over loving her. By him I mean my husband, not my therapist. No one could love my therapist.
She was beautiful, to me anyways. Conventionally her hips were too wide and her belly was too thick. Her hair was probably the best thing about her and even that wasn't average. I guess that is why I liked her so much, because she wasn't average. She wasn't a lesbian either, but that didn't stop me.
"If she wasn't a lesbian, then what interest did she have in you," he says playing with his glasses peevishly.
"It was never about the interest that she had in me," I giggle, "it was about my interest in her."
"So you had an obsession," he says almost like it is normal.
I imagine he has had all sorts of perverts on his couch talking about their sex addictions and worse acting on them.
For me, my love of Katherine was normal, but to the outside world, it was an obsession. When I first saw her, I watched her. I watched her like a man watches a bird. No, I watched her like a man watches a woman. I stared at her just beyond the car and fondled my left breast in the process. She walked with skill on her high heels with her head placed firmly in the clouds. My nipple hardened at my touch and my breath escaped my lips. I'm in that moment again as I look past the man across from me and into her familiar eyes.
She moves further down the street and I contemplate following her. I wonder what her profession is. I wonder if she is married. I relay all these thoughts to the way my hand moves to touch myself. Heavy breath escapes my chalk covered throat.
"Did she know you were there?" Dr. asks me finally paying attention to my story.
"No," I say hushed, "she didn't know I had been there until I came."
"Do tell," he prompts.
I tell about the second time I saw her. She was at a bar and I had only been barely stalking her at the time. Her glass was half empty, so I filled it.
"Tula," I said extending my arm. She took it. She told me later that she would have taken anything I offered that night. She wanted to escape and she saw me as a way out. The sad part is that night I gave her all of me, and it had spilled over and through her.
We were at her place long before the sun would rise. She poured us both a scotch. I hated scotch but I loved to watch her long fingers pour for me. I waited until she was faced away before I came behind her wobbling on my own heels. My waist matched hers. My breasts pressed, imprinted into her back. She moans in a haze of scotch and disappearance.
"I've never been with a woman," she admits turning to face me, her hands holding mine.
"It's better, "I assure her kissing her honey flavored lips. I practically slurp her lip gloss off. I can feel myself getting wet as our nipples rub against each other. Her harden nipples feel almost like little animals growing against me.
I kiss her again pushing my lip-sticked lips against her teeth. She growls pulling my head back by my hair. She is so creature like as she bites my lip and turns me to the counter now.
I let her spread my legs and start to move up them with her manicured nails. I shiver against her as she thumbs the outside of my panties. My wetness is seeping through the fabric and onto her fingertips. Moving the fabric aside she sticks two fingers inside me.
"Let me touch you," I murmur against her mouth.
"I only give," she says scratching along my leg now.
I think I'm dreaming. I want to touch her so bad but the fact that she won't let me is making me forget who I am. I am slammed against the counter and my legs are opened wide. She slides to her knees and begins to blow delicately on my soaking wet cunt.
"Don't do that," I want to close my legs as the orgasm starts to build inside me.
"Don't do what?" She has me by the hips now and places her mouth on my cunt. I lean my head back against the wood cabinet.
She won't let up. She continues her assault on my snatch for a little over an hour. I cum so many times that I think I'm going to pass out. I love her.
"What happened next?" My Dr. is on the edge of his seat now.
"Nothing," I admit grabbing my bag to leave, "like I said before, she wasn't a lesbian."
We say our goodbyes and he says same time next week. I leave.
I see her. She is just across the parking lot in our shared Honda Accord. She holds the door open for me with her hair falling gently across her shoulders.
"How was therapy," she says kissing me as I take the passenger seat next to her.
"All lies," I tell her smoothing her hair to the side so I can kiss her cheek, "just like my marriage."
We share a laugh and we are off again.