Much Needed Therapy

My first novel, a murder mystery set in the early days of the American Revolutionary War, was published during my first year at Drexel and congratulatory flowers from her magically appeared at my office. I'd been at Drexel for three years and was on a local book tour to promote my second murder mystery, this one set with the First Continental Congress as the backdrop, when I ran into Julie purely by chance outside of Barnes & Noble on Rittenhouse Square. We went to Lacroix to catch up and she told me she'd read my first book. She had to get home to her kids, but wanted to stay in touch.

I assumed she was just being polite. It was the kind of thing people say to people they used to know.

I watched as another man materialized from behind the dumpster to crawl between Julie's legs. I shook my head, now mostly numb to what I was witnessing. I was mildly surprised several months earlier when she'd called my office out of the blue to invite me to coffee and had responded to my silence by telling me she'd meant it when she said she wanted to stay in touch.

We met and mostly talked about my books. We went for lunch several more times, which evolved into drinks at happy hour, and, eventually, dinners at increasingly expensive restaurants. Several weeks back she'd referred to our dinner as a "date" and I'd jokingly referred to myself as her "manstress." She'd blushed and I'd felt like I'd overstepped some unknown boundary.

To my surprise, she told me that her marriage to Roy had been a sham for years, that he spent most of his time away on "business" even though they both knew he had multiple ongoing affairs and was actually rotating amongst them, and that her only exposure to him in the last two years had been over the phone. Somewhere it registered in the back of my mind that her youngest, Noah, wasn't two years old yet, but she stole my attention by quickly transitioning into talking about our college days and the amazing sexual experiences we'd had.

She spoke at length about our last night together in our old apartment, reliving every prurient detail to the consternation of the old couple seated nearest us. As she went on she began massaging me under the table with her foot. We left before dessert arrived, hurriedly throwing cash on the table. In the parking garage she'd lifted her skirts to show me she wore no panties, just like the night after the Oklahoma State game in the Omni parking garage, and I, powered by thirteen years of anger and confusion and desperate wanting, gave not a single thought to Roy or her kids as I fucked her against the wall next to my car.

The following weeks quickly evolved into a full-blown affair. The formality of dinner, or lunch, or happy hour, or coffee, was discarded with no fanfare and we carried on shamelessly and without secret—even more so than I actually realized. Jules jumped enthusiastically into our former routine and before, during, and after sex she told me new stories about "helping those who really needed it," having realized at some point after moving to Philadelphia that "there were others in need of therapy."

I was amazed at the variation in her stories now, and the depths of her imagination. A few days earlier we had taken the PATCO across the Delaware River to a party in Haddonfield, an upscale township in New Jersey, and were late getting back to the station. We'd barely missed the next-to-last return train.

There was no one on the platform with us and Jules began rubbing my groin and telling me a story about how she'd provided "group therapy" with five "very troubled" men and that one of them was likely Tom's father because she was ovulating at that time and had been filled with so much come that it was still oozing out of her several days later. They'd taken her every way possible, she'd told me, vaginally, anally, orally, two at a time, three at a time. She'd even had two of them in her vagina at the same time when one had tried to mount her from the rear when she was riding someone else.

The last train back to Phila had interrupted us on the platform, but we continued when we were presented with a completely empty car. On the train as she rode me she told me a story about how she'd provided therapy to twelve different men in one night. "I'm certain," she said breathlessly as she humped against me, "that Noah was conceived that night."

I was completely exhausted by the time we made it back to her house. As we crashed, she told me a story about how she had gone with Roy to a "key" party at a stunningly large home in Gladwyne. They were supposed to pair up according to whose keys they extracted from a bowl, but she was so unfulfilled by her partner and so excited by what was happening all around her that she'd slept with every man there, including the staff. Thirty-six men in all. "Except for Roy," she'd added sleepily. "He was scandalized and left with someone else's wife after the third man."

She yawned loudly and snuggled against my chest, a hard nipple poking my side. "Anyway, that was the night Abe was conceived. Looking back, it was thrilling only because of how many men there were. The sex was actually pretty boring. But I just laid back in the living room and took them all, one after another." When we woke the next morning, she made me a stunning breakfast and told me she'd been thought about it quite a bit and wanted me to ghost-write her stories.

"I know it's not exactly what you do—not even close—but you're such a good writer. I know you would do them justice." She said her therapy calendar was blocked out for the upcoming weekend and I should be at her house by ten o'clock because that's when she liked to get started. "And I'm ovulating this weekend," she'd wickedly whispered in my ear.

*There were signs*, I concluded. *Was I that dense? Or was it just so fantastical that I refused to believe it? And what the fuck am I doing? I should get the fuck out of here.*

"Oh, Samuel! Oh, God! You're sooooo big! Oh, God, you're stretching out my dirty little pussy! Oh, no! Don't pull out! Come inside me!" I looked up the alley to see that Julie had wrapped her legs around 'Samuel' and had looked her ankles behind him. He had thrown his head back and was jerking around like he was the recipient of intermittent jolts of electricity.

I looked down at the bulge in my pants. "Traitor," I whispered. I ambled slowly towards them and was near enough when 'Samuel' extracted himself to hear the squelching sound her pussy made. 'Samuel' pulled up his pants and, glancing nervously at me, quickly retreated in the opposite direction.

Julie lay on the ground, her legs spread wide. There was just enough light to reveal the glistening mess between her legs and the goosebumps that covered the rest of her. Her breasts were firm and perfectly round on her heaving chest. When she was breathing normally again she sat up and looked at me, smiling. "I have other appointments, but I think I'm ready to call it a night," she said. "Unless..."

"Unless what?"

Jules looked at my crotch and reached out to touch the painful lump in my pants, then looked up at me again, her eyebrows raised. Then she laid back down on the concrete and spread her legs. I hesitated for a second, then undid my belt and fell on top of her. She smelled like sex and body odor.

As I stabbed, disgustedly, at the sticky mass between her legs, she interrupted me. "Wait! Wait a sec." She reached and fumbled with something, then, triumphantly showed me a slimy little thing that looked like a sailor's hat. "Cervical cap," she responded to my quizzical look. "Won't be needing it for you." She tossed it past her head and reached down with her other hand and guided me into her. I tried to think only about how warm and wet and soft she was and not about why.

As my pace picked up and I could feel the tingling in my balls, she whispered in my ear, "I hope yours win."