My First Session with Theresa — Friday Afternoon
I reviewed the patient information sheet for the day’s final client. It was her first consultation. She was a thirty-six year old accountant who worked at the local firm that did my taxes. Her health was good; she took no medication other then birth control pills. Her forty-four year old husband was an executive with a local commercial construction company. They had an 18 year old son. She has left the line asking for the reason for the consultation blank. This was not unusual. Many clients were cautious about disclosing their most personal issues in writing to what were effectively strangers. My staff had ensured she had the proper insurance. I buzzed the reception room to send her in.
I greeted Theresa [I have changed her name to preserve confidentiality] at the office door. Anxiety was evident on her face. She wore little make-up and was dressed in a brown pants, sensible flat shoes, and a colorful loose-fitting blouse. Nonetheless, she was a striking woman. She stood about 5 feet 5 inches tall. Her long wavy almost-black hair was pulled behind her head, reaching beyond her shoulder blades. Her dark complexion revealed her Italian ancestry and her slender face featured deep brown eyes, a narrow nose, and thick lips on a relatively small mouth. The blouse, although loose, could not wholly hide her charms. Considering her thin frame her breasts were ample. We shook hands. I directed her to my leather couch. I sat in my chair.
She was nervous. After a brief exchange of pleasantries I decided to open with a question to which I knew she knew the answer. “Theresa, why did you choose me?”
“Well, Dr. Barry, should I call you Dr. Barry?” She asked.
“Sally, will do. Why did you call me? There are many skilled therapists in this community.”
“Some friends recommended you. I was also told you have a teenage son.”
“That is correct,” I replied. Was this about her son? My mind flitted to all the people who come to my office or corner me at parties asking how to bring their son, who is really a good boy but just has a few bad friends, under control. “Call 1 800 ASK-GODD,” is an answer no one appreciates.
“And what brought you to my office,” I asked as I leaned forward. This was both for effect, I wanted Theresa to know she had my full attention, and because Theresa was soft-spoken, a trait I initially attributed to her obvious anxiety about our meeting but which turned out to be her normal voice tone.
“Well, I’m not sure if I am here looking for permission, or a way out, or to be told I am bad, or good, or simply to make sure I am not crazy, or to see if any damage I am causing can be cured.” I waited. Theresa’s background and manner confirmed her intelligence. She knew she wasn’t saying anything I could use. I was learning that she was confused and worried and looking for me to help. It would take a bit more coaxing before she would tell me why she was here.
I asked if she wanted some water. When she said yes I walked to the back of my office and retrieved the imported bottled-water my clients prefer from a small refrigerator in one of the cabinets. This short interruption was not an accident. Theresa needed a moment to compose herself, something she would do more effectively if I was not staring at her. My mind worked through the usual suspects of issues that would bring a thirty-six year old women with a teen-age boy to my office. I handed Theresa the water and sat down.
“Everything you say in this office stays in this office. All our conversations are confidential. The walls are practically sound-proof. The people out there,” I gestured to my office door and staff beyond, “don’t know what you and I are talking about. I don’t even let them handle my notes.”
Theresa considered my words, leaned forward, and said, with her voice tone dropping a level and her eyes on the floor, “Dr. Barry, Sally, my son and I are sexually involved.”
My initial thoughts were not exactly clinical. They were, in no particular order, “Omigod, I did not see this coming,” and a graphic mental picture of Theresa and her son, who I had never seen but imagined to be as attractive as his mother, making love. I pushed my mind back to professional mode. The look on Theresa’s face indicated my face had not betrayed my thoughts.
I had no significant training in incest. Theresa, was troubled, had chosen me to help, and the confession she had just made was tormenting her. She had asked me to be her therapist. Telling her I had to shuffle her off to an expert was not what she needed – it might come later, it would not come now.
I asked her to tell me her story. She said she was not sure how. I asked her to tell me the story in the way she tells it to herself. She seemed reassured.
“I met my husband when I was eighteen. It was the summer before my senior year in high school and I was working in the bookkeeping department of Coliseum gaziantep escort kadın Construction [again I have changed the name to preserve confidentiality]. He was eleven years older than me and worked as a job superintendent, running construction projects on a day-to-day basis. He was strong and assertive and tough and I had an instant crush on him.”
I took some notes, but mostly paid attention. Her choice to start with her marriage told me that whatever was happening with her son had a lot to do with her marriage.
“Pretty soon we were dating and pretty soon after that I was pregnant. I was not a virgin when I started sleeping with him, but I was fairly inexperienced and what experience I had was with high school boys who knew less than I did. Our sex was not gentle. Foreplay was not his thing. He loved intercourse, and he loved it hard and fast.
“A few years after our son, Miles [again I have changed the name], was born I went to college and received my accounting degree. My husband steadily advanced at Coliseum. He was promoted to project manager and then vice-president. His first love was his work and he was not around as much as I would have liked, but I loved my son and my job and, to be honest, the lifestyle our success brought us. The frequency and length of our sex decreased; his tendency to,” here she briefly paused, “mount and quickly dismount increased, but most of my girlfriends reported husbands whose declining libidos were complemented by atrophied skills. I accepted it as inevitable.
“To be honest, I was also no longer that attracted to him. He hadn’t taken care of himself. He happily complied with the construction industry’s norm that men display beer bellies. On the other hand, my professional success increased my own confidence and our financial success allowed me to take care of myself. I became a far more social animal. I liked to dress nicely, I liked men’s eyes on me, and I became something of a flirt. I was well aware of the advantage that an attractive woman has in the business world and had no hesitation in using it. However, although I had plenty of opportunities to cheat, I remained faithful.”
She shifted in her chair. Her story was about to take a turn.
“My husband, son, and I spend a week each summer at the beach. We have friends who are kind enough to lend us their beach house. We go at the same time each year to coincide with my son’s birthday and this year, like most, we had a passel of his friends with us. It’s a big place that can accommodate quite a crowd. We had fun. The atmosphere was loose. It felt good to relax and to know I still look good enough in a bathing suit to attract the attention of, and even a little flirtation from, young men.
She stopped for a second. “I don’t want to sound too self-centered, some of those boys had a few beers in them.”
I moved to validate her, “I doubt any alcohol was necessary, you’re a striking woman.”
She smiled, “Thank you, you’re sweet.” Turning back to her story she said, a bit wistfully, “It was nice, even the distance between my husband and I seemed submerged by all those happy teenagers.
“The kids packed up and left on Sunday. We planned to stay through Thursday, but my husband announced on Sunday night that he had to be back to work on Monday and would leave the next morning. We had a few words, which I am sure my son overheard, and we both went to bed angry.
“The next morning, however, he had that puppy-dog look that told me he wanted to have sex. I let him know that I wasn’t interested; he insisted. I pointed out that the last thing he told me the night before was that I was a selfish bitch who was happy to spend his money while complaining he spent too much time making it. Then it occurred to me: I did not particularly want his company. It was better to let him satisfy himself and leave. He crawled between my legs, thrust vigorously a few times, and came. I didn’t, and I didn’t even pretend. Within an hour he was on the road. I showered, threw the sheets in the washing machine, put on a robe, poured myself a cup of coffee, and took it to the porch to drink. The sun was bright, the sky blue, and I started feeling better.
“My son soon joined me, carrying his own cup of coffee. He asked if I needed a refill, which I did. After he returned, he sat down. After a few minutes of small talk he suggested that we take advantage of his father’s absence and go out on the town dancing. Now I love to dance. My husband and I had often done so while he was courting me and then occasionally during the first few years of our marriage, but we hadn’t gone in years. And another thing,” she now looked at me shyly, “it always aroused me. I am not sure if it is the dressing up, or performing in front of a crowd, or just the physical activity. After dancing I was always ready for serious love-making.”
“Did your son know this?”
“It turns escort gaziantep kadın out he did. Several years before he had been at a family dinner when my sister, after a few glasses of wine, pronounced that back-in-the-day I could be a wild women after an evening on the dance floor. I had forgotten all about the conversation. He had not. I also found out, later on, that he had been on the porch outside my bedroom that morning when my husband and I had our spat and its resolution.”
“Do you think he was spying on you?”
“I asked him about that and he says he was not. I believe him. However, he admits he hung out on the porch longer than propriety dictated.”
“So what happened next?”
“I told him he certainly did not want to go out dancing with his mother. He insisted he did, since, after all, I was the ‘foxiest woman’ on the beach. I told him I had nothing to wear. He pointed out that we had credit cards. I said he was too young to get into a nightclub. He noted that he was sufficiently built and mature enough looking to pass for a twenty-one year old — which is true — and in any case everybody’s eyes would on his hot date. I surrendered and agreed to go.
“He then looked at me, caught my full attention, and said ‘Good, but I want no more back talk from you. For the rest of the day I am the boss. Your job is to obey and have a good time; is that understood.’ I was not sure if he was serious, but I replied without hesitation, ‘Okay, you’re the boss. I’m in your hands.’ ‘Good,’ he said, ‘you and I are going shopping. But since a son picking out clothes to accent his mother’s looks might seem odd, we need a cover. Since you can certainly pass for a woman in her twenties, pick out some clothes appropriate for that age. I will dress a few years older, and with sunglasses you should be able to pass for a society lady enjoying the summer at the beach with a young man she picked up along the way.’
She stopped for a second. “It seems so crazy when I say that. I was agreeing to pose as my son’s beau, but at the time it seemed, well, if not normal, like it would be fun. I was going to spend the day with someone who was going to treat me like a date. That hadn’t happened in a long time.”
I nodded. It was supposed to indicate I had heard her. I think what she saw was that I fully understood her feelings.
“One of the girls who had spent the weekend had left behind a pair of jeans with strategically placed rips in them. I put those on with a white tank top, sandals, and an expensive pair of sunglasses. My son put on some Docksides, shorts, and a Hawaiian shirt. When I headed for the driver’s seat door of my BMW he reminded me who was in charge and held the passenger seat door open for me. I got in. After stopping to buy him a pricy set of sunglasses, we headed for the shops.
“It was so much fun, and so easy, playing his beau. Imitating one of those teenagers who had left the day before I held his hand, leaned into his body, stroked his back and arms, and rubbed his leg with my toes.
“We tried on a variety of outfits but he finally narrowed it down to two: the first one consisted of tight jeans, a white spaghetti top, and boots. The second outfit was a black leather skirt that made it about half-way to my knee, a white smock top, and a pair of red shoes. He initially wanted six inch stilettos. I held out for something more practical for the dance floor, a four-inch, chunkier, heel. I loved trying the clothes on for him. He spent enough time touching me — at times gently stroking my face, or putting his hand on my back, and once or twice (in secret, thank god) brushing my buttocks with his hand — to let me know he appreciated playing the attentive boyfriend at his girlfriend’s fashion show. After some consideration he told the sales lady, a pretty well-tanned blonde, we would take both outfits and both sets of heels.
“He then turned to me in front of her and instructed me on underwear. For the jeans I was to purchase thongs. For the leather skirt, I was to have panties, a garter belt, and black stockings. For both, sheer half-scoop bras with a good amount of support and the clasp in the front. At first, I couldn’t believe he was so brazen, letting the sales lady know that I had no objection to publicly being treated as a sexual dress-up toy. But at the same time, I played right along. There was something about the craziness of it all, something about being treated for the first time in years as a sex object, that was intoxicating. After all, nothing would come of it and no one would ever know. I put my hand on his chest, looked in his eyes, and said, ‘You are a bad boy.’ He looked right back and said, ‘We’ll find out.’
“While I was with the sales lady picking out the underwear she handed me her business card, on which she has written her cell phone number, and told me that the two of us looked like a lot of fun and that we should call her gaziantep kadın escort if we had the chance.
I wanted to ask what happened with this lady, but I refrained. I did want not to slow the momentum.
“My son paid for the clothes, using my credit card, and we drove home. As we carried the shopping bags into the house, he told me that tonight I would be in leather and, graciously, the shorter heels. I spent the next few hours getting ready. When I joined him in the living room he let out an appreciative wolf-whistle and asked me to turn around, which I did. He took his time inspecting me. His face showed his approval. He, in turn, looked dazzling. He had taken the time to make sure that his appearance was perfect; the contrast with my husband’s ever-slovenly presentation was manifest. At times I had noted that he was no longer a boy, but it was not until that night that I fully appreciated that he had become a beautiful young man.
“We went to the car, he opened my door, and I got in. I could see him admiring my legs. He let me know that proper etiquette required a young lady in a leather skirt and garters, while driving with her date, to make sure the garters are always visible. While I had not heard of this custom I did not protest. I scooted forward on the seat to comply.
“We arrived at Lilette, a French restaurant overlooking the bay. My son had reserved seats on the balcony, the better, he informed me, to show off his hot sweetheart. I was not presented a menu. My son had told the staff when he made the reservation that he would order for both of us. After placing the order he allowed me one glass of wine with the caution that he wanted to make sure I was alert all evening. The food was wonderful, the service warm and genuine, and the company great. He did have one unusual request after we finished coffee and dessert: ‘I have so much enjoyed watching your cute tush when you have left the table, I think you need to wash your hands one more time.’ I immediately complied, adding an extra jiggle to my walk when I went to the ladies room.
“I remembered the rule about garters on the way to the club, pulling my dress up to reveal several inches of the straps. We got there about ten. Although I heard that the place could rock until two or three in the morning, my son indicated we would not be out that late. He was right about getting in, we sailed right though the door, no one asked any questions or requested any proof of age.
“I sat down and he visited the bar, returning with a beer for himself and a pink drink for me. He told me it was called a pink lady. It had been popular in the 1920’s and 1930’s when proper women were allowed only lady-like cocktails. I tasted it and the look on my face must have revealed my disapproval. ‘Too sweet?’ He asked. I nodded. ‘Then it fits you perfectly.’ It was a goofy line, buy I couldn’t help but smile. He placed his leg against mine under the table and took my hand is his. I found myself leaning against him, my head nestled against his shoulder. We sat there for about fifteen minutes, nursing our drinks and surveying the club. He asked me to dance. I agreed. We headed for the dance floor.
“It was wild. My son is a good dancer and the place was packed. I let myself go, allowing the music to flow through me and lost myself in the sweating gyrating bodies around me. We were on the floor for most of the next hour. Then the music stopped. My son put his arm around me and pulled me close while the DJ announced it was time for the featured dancers to take center stage. He then pointed to my son and I and we entered a circle formed by the other dancers.”
“Do you know why he picked the two of you?” I inquired.
“No, I never asked. We were not the best dancers on the floor, but we were pretty good. It was a beach crowd, and they can be on the scruffy side. Maybe it was because we were the best dressed, maybe it was because we looked so comfortable together, or maybe it was just a magical evening. I don’t know.”
“I guess its not important,” I said. “Tell me what happened next.”
“The DJ played a sexy song, the crowd clapped and shouted, and my son and I put on a show. When the number ended we were both dripping with sweat and everyone cheered when I jumped in his arms. Then he kissed me. It was not a son’s kiss, it was a lover’s kiss. And I was right there with him. His tongue was deep in my mouth; mine was stroking his. I never knew something as small as a tongue could feel like it was exploring my entire body, but this one did. For a moment all I cared about was his body against mine and his tongue inside me. Then I remembered he was my son. He seemed to sense my thoughts. He broke the kiss, leaned down, and whispered that it was time for some fresh air. He took my hand and we headed for the door while people in the crowd whooped it up for us.
She looked at me. “There were all kinds of thoughts rocketing through my mind. I’m still not sure if I can explain it. It had been a game; then, all of a sudden, it seemed real.
“We walked outside to the club’s deck on the bay. I leaned against the rail gazing at the water. He held me from behind, his arms wrapped around my shoulders and breasts and his body pressed tightly against mine. I could feel his cock….”
She stopped, and looked up. “I didn’t mean to be vulgar.”