Confession Time: Couples Therapy

I can't believe how much she hated him. Hated him.

Of course, it shouldn't have been a surprise. After all, I did meet them in couples' group therapy. It wasn't as if we had met them under the best of circumstances.

If you've read Confession Time: Motel Hijinks, you'll know that I've started to jot down some of my actual experiences and not just relegate things to pure fiction. I love storytelling as a rule, but sometimes there are moments that can be drawn from my life that make for short vignettes worth writing about. Some of them make me look like a hero, other times they can make me look like an utter asshole.

This one falls somewhere in-between, but probably closer on the spectrum to 'asshole', if I'm being completely honest with myself.

Let's face it. If you're in marriage counseling, you're not in a very good mental place to begin with. This was definitely true in my case. I had found myself in a situation that was abusive, but this was before it was acknowledged that men could even beI can't believe how much she hated him. Hated him.

Of course, it shouldn't have been a surprise. After all, I did meet them in couples' group therapy. It wasn't as if we had met them under the best of circumstances.

If you've read Confession Time: Motel Hijinks, you'll know that I've started to jot down some of my actual experiences and not just relegate things to pure fiction. I love storytelling as a rule, but sometimes there are moments that can be drawn from my life that make for short vignettes worth writing about. Some of them make me look like a hero, other times they can make me look like an utter asshole.

This one falls somewhere in-between, but probably closer on the spectrum to 'asshole', if I'm being completely honest with myself.

Let's face it. If you're in marriage counseling, you're not in a very good mental place to begin with. This was definitely true in my case. I had found myself in a situation that was abusive, but this was before it was acknowledged that men could even be abused in relationships. Back then, and even to a certain extent today, if a man is in a physically and emotionally abusive relationship with a woman it was seen as his responsibility.

I didn't want to get divorced, though, and was willing to do whatever it took to save our marriage. My wife, whom I'll call Ellen (the only untrue part of the story), claimed that she wanted us to 'get back to good,' as well. So when the counselor suggested we try group therapy, we went.

To be completely truthful, I didn't want to air our dirty laundry to complete strangers. I'm a very private person by nature, and to me it gave me the same panicky feeling of standing stark naked in the middle of Times Square blowing an air horn while flashing lights lit me up like a rave party. I simply felt far too exposed.

There were a dozen of us, plus the therapist, sitting in a large circle. We came in all shapes, sizes and colors. The one thing we had in common was that each of us - to a person - was profoundly unhappy. I think it was the first time any of us had been put in a position to lay all our grievances out in the open for the world to see.

Some of the women took to this new audience like fish to water. They held nothing back, raking their husbands over the coals. Other couples were the other way around, as the husbands were truly intimidating and the wives opted not to participate.

That's probably the reason why we tended to gravitate towards Glynne and Aaron. Aaron, like me, worked in tech. Glynne, like Ellen, had a mischievous, snarky sense of humor. All things considered, it appeared that of all the couples in the room the four of us might just have a chance of succeeding. Of course, we were wrong, but we didn't know that at the time. All I can say is that we hit it off very well before the session, and even found ourselves agreeing with each other during much of the hour.

Therapy had a strange effect on me. Ellen had no problem "being Ellen," bringing up any and all of my faults - both real and imaginary. "He's the kind of guy who would cheat in a heartbeat," she'd said.

Everyone turned and looked at me. I hadn't cheated on Ellen. It didn't matter, of course, because now she had managed - in one fell swoop - to paint me as a bad guy with a dozen people and her as the victim.

"Is this true?" asked the therapist.

"No," I said, firmly. I wasn't sure how to handle this. I was livid at Ellen, but didn't want to come across as "the lady doth protest too much" by overreacting, either. So, instead, I do what I normally do. I shut down.

"I think," one of the more vitriolic women piped up, "that you better think about why she thinks you'd cheat on her 'in a heartbeat.'"

There was general agreement from many of the other women in the room, including the therapist.

"Or, maybe you should stay out of it," the woman's husband scolded her. Then they were off to the races.

Grateful that the pressure was off me for the moment, I stayed quiet and pretended that the earth swallowed me whole.

"I didn't say that," Ellen suddenly said, snapping me out of my thoughts to the present. She was looking at the woman with unrestrained anger. "I said that he could cheat because things have been so difficult between us."

It was pure gaslighting, because that's not what she had said at all. The other woman stared at Ellen, gobsmacked, at her reversal. What about the unspoken wives' camaraderie? Women sticking together? Well, she didn't know Ellen like I knew Ellen. She just got a taste of what I had to live with on a daily basis.

Even so, I probably took away the wrong message. As bad as Ellen had been, at least two - maybe three - couples had been far, far worse. By comparison, Ellen looked like June Cleaver, complete with doting attitude and pearl necklace. All I could think about was, at least I didn't have it as bad as those other people.

I figured that if we weren't that far gone, then perhaps we may be able to come back from the brink. I had a terrible habit of trying to look for the light in a pitch-dark room with no windows and latch on to the possibility of finding a flashlight as my savior. I'd drive forward with the hope of finding it, rather than simply opening the door and walking out even when I knew exactly where it was.

Nevertheless, after the session we were gathering our things when Glynne and Aaron came up to us.

"Hey guys," Glynne asked. "We were wondering if you would like to go get a coffee or something. We don't often get the chance to socialize with other couples and," she gestured around the room, "it looks like we have some things in common."

After Ellen's performance, I had no idea why they would have asked us out for coffee. Maybe it was a matter of the fact that we were more approachable, comparatively speaking, than everyone else. All I knew was that I was dreading going back home with Ellen and was open to any distraction. Looking back, I wonder if they had the same thought.

I was a bit surprised when Ellen agreed. Maybe it was the vitriol of some of the other couples that made us feel like we were the 'normal' ones, but it turned out to be a great afternoon. Anyone who might have observed the four of us would have thought that we were longtime friends catching up.

It was the first time in a long time that things with Ellen felt like they used to. I think that anyone who has been in a bad relationship or having gone through a long period of tough times can relate. After walking on eggshells for months, never knowing when an innocuous comment will blow up into a full-fledged fight, being able to feel like a 'team' again can be like breathing oxygen after being submerged under water for too long.

Little did we know that it was just masking deep-seated disaster.

At the time, though, we all got on like a house on fire. All four of us interacted together; it wasn't as if Aaron and I talked tech and Glynne and Ellen talked about their own things. We all engaged.

"What do you do," Ellen asked Glynne during a natural pause in the conversation.

"I'm a real estate agent," Glynne said. "Wanna buy a house?"

"That's Glynne,' Aaron said, smiling. "Always selling."

I thought I saw Glynne shoot him a telling glance, but it happened so fast it might have been my imagination.

Ellen's response, however, was definitely unambiguous. "You should help him out," she tilted her head at me. "He's a terrible salesman. I'm surprised his business hasn't folded yet."

She then laughed, but I knew it wasn't a joke. I had no idea how Glynne and Aaron would interpret it, though, so I played it off as if it wasn't a sentiment that she wasn't shy about sharing with anyone in public or private.

"I could definitely help you out," Glynne said, ignoring the jibe. "You'd have to help me understand what you do, of course."

"I don't even think he knows what he does," Ellen said. Another "joke."

Aaron turned to Glynne. "I know what he does," he said, obviously trying to help me out. "I can explain it to you."

If I had said something like that to Ellen, in even the most innocuous manner, I would have gotten a face-full of attitude. I don't need you to explain anything to me. If you knew what you were doing you wouldn't need the help in the first place.

"Is it hard?" Glynne asked me.

"It better not be," Ellen said.

I was a bit shocked. Was that an innuendo? I hadn't heard one of those from her in years.

All of us turned to look at Ellen. "It wouldn't exactly be fair to ask for help when she can't understand it. How's she going to make any money?"

So, not an innuendo.

Much as I hated to admit it, Ellen did have a point. "Yeah, that's true," I confessed. "I'm kind of in that awkward period where I need help, but don't have the capital to hire anyone. I need help to get the business where I can afford the help."

Glynne waved her hand as if it was a trivial concern. "Oh, I work on commission all the time," she said. "It's how real estate works."

I found myself nurturing a kernel of hope. If she was willing to be trained and work on a pure commission, I might just be able to bootstrap myself and keep the business afloat. And then maybe Ellen would get off my back about how I wasn't "a good businessman."

"Wow, great!" I said. "Yeah, okay!"

Smiles all around. "Finally!" Aaron said. "Maybe you can help Glynne understand what it is that I do."

A few days later, Glynne was sitting at my kitchen table learning about my business and how she could help increase my sales. I've never really been much of a salesman, to be honest. At least Ellen was right about that (I just didn't think she needed to gloat about it to people we didn't know very well). Glynne, on the other hand, had all the qualities necessary: she was assertive, clever, knew how to handle objections and - most importantly - knew how to close the deal.

Still, high tech is a bit different than real estate, so she needed training. Lots and lots of training which can be boring for those who aren't used to technical discussions. In order to make our lives easier, I brought out some materials from a recent conference to go over.

"What's this?" she asked, picking up a bit of swag that I had brought home from one of the booths.

I couldn't help but grin sheepishly. "It's a 'stress toy,'" I told her.

She raised an eyebrow. It was a gel-filled casing, bright red in color, about six inches in length. Formed like a tube, the gel would shift from end to end as you played with it. It was an extremely simple contraption, soft and ridiculously addictive to hold in your hand and rock back and forth. The tube was hollow enough that you could fit your thumb inside either end, but nothing bigger than that.

That's the polite way of describing it. To be blunt, it looked exactly like a cock sleeve, and we both knew it.

She stuck her finger in one end. "It's a tight fit," she said. There was a mischievous sparkle in her eye. "Has it helped you, uh, relieve any stress in your current situation?"

I knew she was referring to my issues with Ellen. In that first session, Ellen had gleefully told everyone in the room that we hadn't had sex in more than three years, as there was no point until we got all of our problems solved first.

I confess I was mortified by that little disclosure, but did get a bit of validation when almost everyone in the room reacted poorly to Ellen's declaration. Withholding sex until every single problem was solved was not the way to build trust and maintain a marriage.

It was validating, but it was also embarrassing. Now a dozen strangers knew enough about my sex life - or lack of it - was humiliating. Now, it was an odd sensation, having a stranger sit at my kitchen table with intimate knowledge of my sexual frustration.

"If that could relieve my stress," I indicated her thumb's tight fit, "I wouldn't blame Ellen one bit for avoiding sex."

Glynne laughed. She pulled out her thumb, and looked at the narrow opening. "Yeah," she giggled. "But you never know."

I grinned. "Oh, I know.""

We both laughed again. She made a hand job motion with the toy, and the gel shifted from side to side. As I said, it was a rather comforting sensation in a bizarre way. It was so blatant a sexual gesture that she couldn't help but blush and giggle like a schoolgirl.

She lifted it up, and stared into the hollow opening. The plastic puckered so that the opening looked closed, but it easily gave way to her finger. "You know, the only thing missing," she said, looking at me with a crafty wink, "is something to hold onto with the other hand."

She lifted her other hand, palm up, as if she were cupping imaginary balls. With a quick shake of her other hand, the toy slid back and forth. It was a lewd hand job motion, and we both cracked up even harder. I think I might have blushed in turn.

"Now that would be a stress reliever," I said. "Though they probably wouldn't have those as giveaways at conferences."

She grinned. "You are going to the wrong conferences."

I chuckled, wistfully. "Right," I said, "As if Ellen would ever go to one of those."

She tilted her head. "Did she go to this conference?" she lifted the toy in her hand.

I shook my head. "No.

She thought for a moment. "But sales people do?"

"All the time."

She said nothing for a second, but continued tilting her hand back and forth, letting the gel shift across her palm.

"I could use a stress reliever," she said. "Let me know when the next conference is."

As I said, Glynne was direct and assertive. It was obvious to me that she wasn't talking about a toy.

The flirting came to a natural close, but I felt something that I hadn't felt in years. It was an excitement, a thrill. Talking about sex without actually talking about it. Masturbation humor. Hints of something more. The tension that comes from feeling someone out and seeking their boundaries.

My god, it felt like I was breathing fresh air after being trapped in a cave for years.

Glynne wasn't even overly attractive. She had a short, blond haircut and far too much makeup on. Rocked by acne as a teen, she now made up for it in her early thirties with layers of foundation. Clinical psychologists might have had a field day covering her need to hide herself under copious makeup and sardonic humor. Aside from that, though, there was a sexiness to her that was undeniable. I could see why she was successful in her real estate work.

She didn't put down the toy, but she leaned in over the materials I had laid out on the table. Her revealing top showed off some pretty fabulous curves, I must say. She kept shifting the toy back and forth, her hand close to her chest. The thought came, unbidden and unstoppable, about her jerking a cock onto her tits, which was her intention all along. I knew she was teasing me even though she was paying close attention, and I didn't mind at all.

It was working. I found myself getting erect and struggled to concentrate.

While Ellen and I had not had sex in over three years. Glynne would tell me later that it had been over six for her, ever since their son was born. Aaron didn't want to touch her after she gave birth for some reason. She confessed to me that my reaction that day had been the affirmation that she had needed that she was still a desirable woman.

That was an understatement. I wanted to get up from my chair, stand her up out of hers, bend her over the table and fuck her until we were both raw. I imagined her bent over, her tits falling out of that low-cut top and pressed against the tabletop, that damn toy still in her hand as she squeezed it over and over as my cock plowed into her pussy.

Instead, I found my mouth grow dry. She looked like she was absentmindedly playing with the toy but still paying rapt attention to our discussion. She asked pointed and salient questions, and picked up on the basics remarkably fast. For all the world, it looked like she had no idea how much she was affecting me.

She glanced up and looked at the clock. "Oh, I better go," she said. She sounded a bit disappointed. "I have to go pick up my son at school."

She looked at the toy again, and shook it. She blushed again, and laughed. "Yeah, I can't even..." she left the thought trail off, unfinished.

Gathering her things, she draped her purse around the crook of her arm and placed the toy on the table. "I better leave that here," she said, a knowing grin crossing her features once more. "It looks like you could use some stress relief today."

Such a blatant comment! She knew what she had been doing all along, and knew what she was doing to me. She knew I was going to jack off within seconds of her leaving, and she liked it!

"Thank you for leaving that with me," I said, making a pun. I didn't look at the toy and was referring to her incessant teasing, which she picked up immediately. "There is usually some stress that needs to be relieved, but thanks to you it's a different kind of stress."

She shot a pointed look down at my groin, where my bulge was undeniable. She looked... grateful, and licked her lips.

"Well, then," she said, looking me in the eye. "I better leave you to it, then."

With that, she was out the door. I waited for ten torturous minutes, just in case she decided to come back, before I had my dick in my hand, lotion smeared across the shaft. Part of me wanted her to return, and part of me didn't. I was still married, after all, and flirting was one thing. If she came back for whatever reason, I knew I'd never be able to stop myself.

I tried to drag it out, make it last. I fantasized about her jerking me off onto her tits, just like she had played with the toy. I fantasized about her driving to her son's school, fingers buried underneath her waistband in the driver's seat as she thought about me jacking off to thoughts of her.

That's all I could think about. She wanted me to fantasize about her. She wanted me to stroke myself while I thought about her. She wanted to be wanted.

I thought about her riding her fingers to a climax while driving, imagining me shooting into the air with pure, unadulterated lust. I put myself into her fantasy. She had been teasing me with those motions. She probably imagined me wanting to fuck those beautiful tits. Ellen had very small breasts - too small to fuck. But Glynne... now there were some very fuckable tits.

Life with Ellen left for a rich fantasy life and an active masturbation schedule. But I hadn't exploded this hard in years. In a weird way, I felt like I was honoring Glynne with each powerful rope that lurched out of my cock. There was so much height and distance that I even impressed myself. She had done that for me. And I felt immensely grateful.