The Maneater

"I know, right? Lenny used to like it when we were younger. But after the kids came along, he changed. It's like he can't stand the thought of going down on me, and he doesn't want to feel obligated if I do it to him."

"Ted doesn't usually go down on me either, unless I tell him to. I think most guys are clueless and don't think about it. Maybe suggest watching porn together," I offered as a potential solution. "You could find out what he likes or suggest trying to act out some of the positions. Tell him how you think it's hot watching her go down on the guy and give Lenny an out by saying the guy going down on the actress doesn't do it for you. Then you'd know if it's all blowjobs, or the reciprocation that's turning him off."

"I tried that," Lisa said dejectedly, "but Lenny seemed too embarrassed to tell me which videos he'd like to watch. So, I think he's been going off by himself to masturbate."

"You need to find some way to communicate with him."

"I know," she said in a resigned tone. "That's why I was thinking of taking early retirement, so we could spend more time together. If he goes off on his own on a motorcycle, that's probably the end of us as a couple." She suddenly glanced at her watch, and in a rushed tone added, "... Sorry, Jan, it's nice talking to you, but I've gotta go. I have another meeting in ten minutes." She put the M & M bag back in the drawer and closed it.

"Why don't you take those to your desk?" I asked.

"Because I'm weak and I'd eat the whole bag in one day," she admitted with a smile. "... And it gives me another reason to come visit and talk. I'll try to see you later. Bye."

I watched as my friend and former boss stood and walked away.

Session 2

I changed clothes at work that afternoon, before heading out for my second session. Earlier at home, I decided to show Mark another side of me, rather than letting him think I'm a stuck-up prude. So, I brought skin-tight jeans to tuck into short black three-inch heel ankle boots, a blue silk pullover blouse with a relatively conservative but plunging neckline to show a little cleavage, a short, gold necklace with a small heart dangling about four inches below my neck, and my stylish glasses with thin lenses. But I left my hair pulled back in the athletic pony-tail style.

After going into his office and taking my seat across from him in the comfortable chair, I decided to dive right in.

"I talked to my husband last week after our first session," I began. "I told him we talked about the high school Bitch Squad. He knew them in school too, so it was easy to relate."

"How long have you known your husband?" he asked.

"Ted and I have known each other since junior high school," I said. "We weren't close friends for most of that time, because he lived further away in a poorer side of town. We were classmates, sharing some of the same classes. He was a math and science genius, and I barely passed those courses. It wasn't until half-way through our senior year that we became close, when I went to him in study hall for tutoring in chemistry. Then I told him he was taking me to the Prom, and we stayed together for the next two and a half years, through Community College. We both learned that we like sex together, so we were exclusive with each other during that time."

"What happened then?" he asked.

"Well, he went off to finish his four-year degree, staying away during the school year, and we both dated others."

"Did you have any other serious relationships?"

"Other than my husband, Ted, the other guys I dated were mostly okay. But they all had issues. Ted paid attention to me, and he learned how to turn me on. It was like we were in sync with each other. The others seemed to be in it just for themselves. Once a guy orgasms, he seems to lose interest in sex, and I would be left to finish myself. One guy was the extreme opposite, once he came in me, he wanted to cuddle with me, and I found that irritating. I mean, he was just distracting me. And after I get off with my orgasm, why would I want him hugging and pawing me?"

"Don't you like hugging or cuddling?" he asked, as if he expected all women to want such things.

"There's a time and place for cuddling," I explained. "And once the guy's done, I don't care about what HE wants, I need MY relief! And hugging doesn't do it for me. ... When I want to watch a romance movie, I might want to lean back and use him like a pillow. Or at bedtime, as I'm getting into bed I'll say, 'I want a shoulder,' and Ted knows to put his arm out for me to go to sleep with my head there and his arm around me. But after I've had the ultimate orgasm, I want to enjoy the afterglow and sit back with a glass of wine. I don't want a guy's hands distracting me."

"When you mentioned those other guys," he started as he looked at his notes, then back at me, "you made that sound like there were others for sex. Was it that often to use as comparisons? Was it that important in your dates?"

I had to pause to think. "Hmmm. ... I never really thought about it before. But now that you ask, probably. After my third date with Ted, sex became something we had fun doing. So, sometimes I'd date a guy for some relief."

"Did you have any bad experiences?" he asked. "Or were they just not as good as you had with your first boyfriend, Ted?"

I thought for a moment before starting "... I think the worst one was a few months after Ted went off to the university, when my girlfriend and I went to a nightclub. During a band break, the guitarist hit on me at the bar, and I was flattered. So, we snuck into the men's room and had some fun. Marlene and I went back to the club the next night, and he and I did the same thing, sneaking into the men's room. Then the third night, ... it was different, not as good."

"That was dangerous," he said, "going into a men's room with him."

"No, it wasn't what you think," I said somewhat shyly. "There were no other guys involved. He had some signal for the bartender to put an 'Out of Order' sign on the door while we were in there."

"Why wasn't it as good? If you don't mind saying," he asked almost apologetically. Then he added, "... If you're uncomfortable talking about it, we can change the subject."

"I can talk about it," I said. "My husband knows, and he helped me get over it, when I finally told him the details. ... The guy talked me into taking it anally for the first time. And he wasn't patient about it, so it hurt."

Mark sat quietly, patiently waiting for what else I might say. So, I went on, angrily saying "... He fucked me in the ass, and he insisted I say, 'I'm your ass slut!' "

And he still sat there, waiting, looking at me with no reaction. He was probably shocked with my use of that language, but no matter. He needs to hear how I feel about it in my own words!

"... I was so fed-up living at home with my mother's mental issues, I wanted anyone to help me escape. I even went back to the bar the next weekend. ... And during the band break, I saw him wearing his wedding band and sitting with his wife. THAT ... was when I found out he was married! I swore I'd never allow any man to use me, ever!"

"You said your husband helped you get over it. Did he confront the guy?"

"No. Not like that," I replied calmly. "... When Ted and I got back together, I told him about having sex with a band guy in a restroom, but I didn't describe that detail. I didn't want to admit that I had been so weak and naive! ... It was long after we were married. We drove back home to that area, and I took Ted to the bar when I knew the guy was there again with his band. ... I wanted some closure for what he did with me so long ago and never confronting him with his wife. ... I didn't know what I wanted, but ... "

Mark sat there ... not saying anything. It was as if he was daring me to describe EVERYTHING.

"So, I went there with my killer look, drawing him to me at the bar during the band break, like the first time. And I humiliated him in front of Ted. Then I took Ted to the lady's room. I made him do it there with me, so I could remember the place with my husband."

"You tried to supplant a bad memory with another one using your husband."

"Yes!" I said angrily. "That's what I eventually decided to do. And I insisted Ted do me in the ass, too!"

"Did it work?"

"It made ME feel more in control," I assured him. "So, YES, it works for me!"

After reading some of his notes, he sat back in his chair looking at me and thinking for a few seconds. "You said you went back for that guy, even after he did that to you," he noticed. "... to escape your mother's mental issues. Could you tell me what your homelife was like?"

"Until I was twelve years old, my home was like any other. My only sibling, an older brother, was out of the house and away at college, so it was just mom and me after school, waiting for dad to come home from work. Then late that summer, when my brother was home from college, he and mom were in a car accident. He died before the rescuers arrived, and mom was never the same after that."

"Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, PTSD," he pointed out. "That's what we call it today."

"Yeah, PTSD. In her case, she couldn't deal with the memory of one of her kids dying while trapped beside her in the wreckage. Any reminder of her children would cause another breakdown with crying spells. And I was a reminder of her having kids, ... another kid along with the one who died beside her. So, every time my mother would see me, she started crying, and I'd leave the house to run over to my best friend's barn to hide in the loft. Marlene's dad allowed us to use the loft as our clubhouse, I think because he knew I needed a refuge from my mom. So, I spent a lot of time helping their family on the farm."

"It sounds like you didn't have much family support in your teen years," he said with a hint of sympathy or pity.

"Mom's sister, my aunt June helped out for the first year after my brother died," I said. "And dad was there as often as he could be. But he didn't want to split up the three of us as a family, and he kept hoping mom would get better. So, I used my best friend's farm as my escape. It was good exercise."

"You didn't have much interaction with your mother," he said, as he wrote some notes.

"I once told my husband we both grew up in fucked up families," I admitted. "I think he said it best with; 'Our parents grew up with their own demons, so they were the best they could be.' So, ... yeah, ours were not the usual churchgoing or loving, easy-going families other judgmental type people think everyone has. Those judgmental types assume everyone is a human being and DESERVES respect, and that people always choose to be different. They conveniently ignore many things which MAKE us different. Some people are just screwed up, and there are no magic pills to fix them."

"How did you view women in your life as role models?" he asked. "You've said your mother had problems. But who else was there for you?"

"Mom's crying and whining was about something she couldn't change! She was weak," I insisted. "My aunt June was stronger, trying to help me and dad at least for the first year. But I think the best influence was from Betty, an older waitress at the diner where I eventually worked. She showed me how to act around customers to get better tips. And she advised me on how to change my look for my first date with Ted. Betty said 'Everyone has boobs, ours are just bigger. So, what's the harm in giving men a peek?' Aunt June didn't approve. But by the time she realized how I had changed; she couldn't stop me. I knew how powerful it made me feel."

"It sounds like Betty taught you to be an exhibitionist."

"It's just a body! ... Sometimes I fantasized about being a stripper, making money for showing guys what I see in the mirror every day. Men are so simple, paying money for a glimpse of skin!"

I raised my right hand and index finger, running the finger down my cheek. "This is my skin." Then I used that finger to trace the skin he could see on the top of my cleavage, from one breast to the other. "And this is my skin. There's more of it you'd see at the beach or swimming pool. But showing you here would be naughty. And the only difference is in men's imagination."

He took a deep breath before asking, "Did your aunt see you doing inappropriate things at work in the diner?"

"Not there," I admitted. "I never crossed the line of exposing myself at work. I would have been fired. Dad asked her to take me shopping sometimes for the female things a girl needs, and she saw my behavior changing when we were out together. But even wearing a conservative waitress uniform, ... I could work it. ... Place my hand on a single guy's shoulder with a flirty squeeze, ... maybe bend over when I drop my pen to give them a down blouse view of my cleavage. And after taking their order and walking away, I coyly glance back over my shoulder suggesting he caught my attention. Men were so easy! They don't need sex, just the hint of a girl being naughty gets to them. I could get them to add a few extra dollars to the usual tip for doing my job, taking their food and drink order, and delivering their food to the table ... while just being me."

"Were you leading them on?" he asked. "Or did you date the customers?"

"If you mean 'Did I date them for the tips?' ," I said, a slight anger building in my voice, "NO! I didn't do dates for money or sex for money. That'd make me a prostitute, and Betty warned me not to go that far. I dated guys I wanted, regardless of the tip they left."

"Did you date a lot of those men, ... your customers?" he asked.

"No," I said. "Only four over two years when Ted was away at college. Most of my dates were with some guys we both knew in high school. ... After we all graduated, going off in different directions, the bitch squad didn't control them. But they turned out to be duds."

"How so?"

"They were either too clingy or didn't care about MY needs. So, I tried a few of the customers when I was horny or bored. Of the customers I dated, one was a few years older, and I did end up moving in with him for a few months. He was good and taught me a few things. But he had to move away for his job, so I moved back in with my parents. Then summer came, Ted returned from college, and we got back together."

"Were there any tensions between you two when he found out you dated other guys?"

"No," I said in a derisive tone. "Ted and I were like best friends ... with benefits. We could talk to each other about everything, including sex with others, and not judge each other. Ted dated other women when he was away at college. And he always knew I flirted with guys at the diner, even before he went away. I told Ted, some men think all women are cheap and can be bought, and as a waitress, I'd flirt with them and take their money. It just becomes a costly lesson for them if they ever realize I won't be bought. But most of the male customers are just looking for a little attention, even the married ones."

"Do you flirt with married men?"

"Not usually in front of their wives," I cautioned. "And I don't flirt with the ones I suspect mistreat their wives."

"Can you give me an example of what would stop you from flirting with a married one?"

"I noticed it when I worked as a waitress. And I've talked to other women at work, and I think many husbands are two-faced. They want their wives to be sexy, but only when the husband is with them. They don't want their wives thinking about sex with anyone else, while those same husbands are trying to flirt with me when she's not there. If the wife came into the restaurant, I learned the subtle signs when they weren't comfortable around other men, as if they were afraid. And I just felt there was something wrong with that dynamic."

"Some women are right to fear men around them," he pointed out. "Maybe something happened to them."

"It was more than that," I said. "I could see the signs in their faces, not making eye contact, looking made up around their husband but frumpy when alone, keeping their eyes down when talking to their husband. That's why I learned to look for those telling body language signs. Their husbands at least verbally abuse them, and they accept it. Those are the type of men who watch porn, fantasizing about doing some young girl, while their wives sit alone, frustrated, and afraid. I could never understand FEARING men."

"Porn makers degrade and abuse women in those films," Mark said, thinking he was agreeing with me, probably trying to appear empathetic.

"That's not what I meant," I corrected. "There's nothing wrong with porn, ... unless it's some illegal fetish involving the unwilling. It's the husbands and boyfriends watching it, while at the same time insisting their wives must ONLY lust for their husbands. They're selfish, trying to flirt with me, being two-faced about sex, and I find it disgusting!"

"Do you know if your husband watches porn?" he asked a little surprised.

"Of course, he does," I assured him. "We watch it together. All normal men get excited with the visuals of sex, because that's what they see when they're doing it. Most women can't relate to those visuals when a man is looming over them and rutting inside them, because the woman doesn't see the penetration when they're getting excited. They feel it and see his face and upper body. I've learned to appreciate the look of excitement on a man's face as I stimulate him, and that's what turns me on; manipulating his excitement. When Ted and I watch porn together, I get into using my words to describe the scene and add to his excitement."

Mark was writing some notes, so I continued. "When it comes to those fearful women, I talked to some at the diner, and I've met other wives at parties and know they don't approve of their husbands' behavior ogling other women. They don't appreciate their husband's excitement. And most men probably believe their wives shouldn't enjoy sex, unless it's with their husband. And those wives describe faking her orgasms to boost a husband's ego. It's little wonder many women lose interest in sex with men. After a few years of marriage, husbands start losing interest in their own wives, then look elsewhere. ... I think many men look for wives who are like washcloths they can use, wring out, and put away when they're done. The guy gets his own dysfunctional jollies by leering at other women, and it gets them off in some diminished way. The stronger wives get bored and cheat, and their husbands get angry. Or a husband gets bored with his washrag and picks up another woman to cheat, until the wife finally grows a spine and rages."

"Do you worry about your husband possibly cheating?"

"Ted will never cheat on me," I said with confidence. "He's smart enough to know he'd never find anyone better than me. And I never allow my husband to get bored. ... But some of my friends worry about their husbands, and I've even helped a few."

"How did you help them?" he asked.

"Some women see their husbands subtly ogling other women, and they've talked to me about it. There were a few wives who asked me to see how far her husband would go, ... asked me to flirt with him. Then she sees how he acts with me. In one case, Sharon was proud of her husband getting embarrassed and moving away from me. But when Ronda's husband grabbed my ass, she dragged him out of the party. She said she made him masturbate in front of her until he shot into his own hand before she allowed him to go to bed. Later she made him apologize to me, even though I came on to him. He now avoids me at parties."

"She belittled her husband," he said, "for succumbing to your flirting?"

"He embarrassed her," I pointed out. "You need to trust your spouse when you're not there to watch them. As the years go by, people change. Ronda's husband changed from the loving guy she married, and he needed to know the cost to put it right again."