Blind Passion 02

Mother, daughter and John make beautiful music.

Just two days after his first semi-pro sex therapy session with Dr. Wright she left him a voicemail: You're going to get a call from Vivian's daughter. She's very protective of her mother and she's a bit more in-her-business than I'd recommend, but ya know...I can't control that. Anyway, I did share your contact info and tried to explain how your skills are being applied to her mother's recovery. How you're a professional, blah, blah, blah. Just be aware she's a bit much and kinda relentless. I know you're good with boundaries and you'll help her understand what we're doing for her mom. Yeah, I guess that's all....bye.

So he wasn't surprised to get that call less than an hour later that Sunday as he sipped his coffee in the breakfast nook of his restored mid-century modern in Sunnyside. He'd flip the house in a couple of months and not be sad to see it go. He'd learned not to hold on to his creations, instead to look forward to the next challenging restoration. Besides, this way he always enjoyed the fruits of his labors when they were as new and pristine as they'd ever be. Let the next owner put some wear and tear on it and refresh it again down the road.

It was a local number so he took the rare gamble of answering rather than have it screen to voicemail. Indeed it was Vivian's daughter, Carrie, she said, and as Dr. Wright indicated, she was insistent. Wanted to know if he had any idea how he could hurt her mom. John calmly insisted they have a face-to-face talk about it. They agreed to meet at the diner for a late lunch.

*********

Sitting with his eye on the door, John had a minute to think about the women who'd found his cougar restoration business through contacts at the diner. Happy customers all. Maybe it wasn't a coincidence that once restored, these women he also happily left behind, like he did his restored houses.

This booth was practically his office, as much time as he spent organizing both his enterprises from its worn vinyl bench. It struck him as funny that he was given the same kind of silent deference as the mafiosi who sometimes frequented the place. He was 'known' but no one talked about what he was known for.

He couldn't mistake Carrie when she walked in the door, punctually, he noted, and with determination in her step. Her sun-streaked blond hair was tied in a low, loose ponytail with a bright green ribbon. She wore a snugly belted, black, REI three-quarter jacket, chocolate brown corduroy pants and good, worn Merrell trail runners. Freckles sprinkled the bridge of her nose. An outdoor girl, he guessed by her short nails and the fact that her face had a tan even at the end of February. She could take care of herself, this told him - she engaged the world physically and confidently. He liked that a lot.

It occurred to him that he couldn't compare mother to daughter physically since he'd never actually seen Vivian. But they seemed about the same height and where he'd felt Vivian's nearly emaciated thinness, the woman approaching was slim but fit. She had some meat on her bones.

Carrie saw him immediately and he gave a small wave. She kept eye contact all the way down the row to take the seat opposite him, checking him out, too. He expected her to appreciate his six-foot-four, wide shouldered body in the plaid shirt and jeans. John kept his sleeves rolled up to show the ropey, muscled forearms that women liked so much, kept his hair just messy enough to make them want to reach over and straighten the wayward black curls.

It was clear to each of them, he sensed in her appraising look, that the two humans seated across from each other both had an animal charisma and confidence that made them instantly attracted to one another. He smiled, comfortable. Carrie looked mildly distracted by it, but determined to grill him about her mother. She was younger than he was, maybe not yet twenty five. He had to give her a pass for her youth.

She didn't extend her hand but started right in.

"What makes you think you know what my mother needs?"

"Call me John," he gave her his most confident and warm look, sat up straight and folded his hands on the melamine, "Carrie, your mother and I are both under the guidance of Dr. Wright."

"I've checked you out, you know."

"And..."

"You're a gigolo and nothing more."

John smiled broadly and said, "First, this is the after-Mass crowd so you might want to keep your voice down. Second, gigolos receive compensation for their services. I do not."

Leaning in, she hissed, "You fuck older women all over this rock."

"That's technically, if crudely, correct."

"You just do it for the sex?"

"It's a calling."

"Your dick is calling, is that it? All those pussies calling?"

John looked her in the eye and paused, giving consideration to why she was so angry that he and a number of women would be having good sex in a mutually consenting environment that hurt no one else.

"Are you bothered that your mother's having better sex than you are?"

She pushed back against the bench, her jaw dropped and her eyes blazed, silent for a stunned moment.

John said, "Every woman deserves good sex, Carrie."

"You arrogant asshole," through gritted teeth.

Just then the waitress came to the table, smiling. "What's your pleasure?" she said, with a noticeably saucy look at John.

"For God's sake," whispered Carrie looking out the window where the late February sun struggled to dry the parking lot of melting snow. "Just coffee, black, for me."

John ordered the Belgian waffles with his coffee.

"Let's start over," he said.

"I don't want you to hurt my mother. She's fragile," Carrie stubbed the table top with her finger, "Five long years of recovery and she's just now getting out of her apartment. I don't want her walking into some kind of meat grinder."

"Dr. Wright explained all this, I believe," he observed her looking at her blunt nails, not meeting his eye. "I'm guessing you were in high school when that accident happened. And you've spent most of your college years also tending to her recovery? That's a huge investment of love from you."

The girl got misty-eyed. "I took a year off. I thought she was going to die. Don't fuck it up."

"The doctor put your mom and I together solely to advance her recovery."

"My mom told me you had sex with her already."

"Entirely at her request and at her pace."

"I've never seen her so happy, to tell you the truth." Carrie kept her gaze out the window.

"I know you don't begrudge her that happiness. You're afraid that she'll develop an attachment or her expectations are now too high or something like that, right?"

Carrie turned her gray eyes to his. "That's the way it works, though." There was sadness in those eyes that he knew all too well from his older clientele. He also noticed that her eyelashes were an unadulterated blond and she wore no discernable makeup. Some women hid their freckles - she wore them proudly.

"Carrie, my calling, which I didn't go looking for, is to restore women's faith in their own erotic powers."

She scoffed, "What's that mean?"

"When you say, that's the way it works, I take it you haven't had a relationship that stayed on track, that lasted."

She showed ringless fingers. "I'm 'unattached' at the moment, yes."

"Many of the women who come to me have been through fifteen or twenty years of this disappointment."

Carrie looked horrified and turned away, pulled back. "Wait a minute. Why'm I telling you all this? I came here to make sure my mom doesn't get hurt." She shook her head.

"Your happiness doesn't depend on a man. But more on realizing that your own liberating power is in your hands. Or rather your loins."

"That's a damned smooth line, buddy. No wonder the milfs fall for it."

"I have many references."

Finally, she just laughed and it brought a glow to the booth that touched that newly found place in him that hinted at possibilities beyond his current excellent situation. His heart opened to this nature girl who loved her mom and hadn't found love yet herself. He hadn't ever intervened early, hadn't prevented disappointment, only done restorative work. Maybe...

He continued, "You intimidate guys."

"Not on purpose." She looked out the window again as if she'd rather be rock climbing somewhere.

Just then the waitress brought the food. She left the ticket by his plate with a date and time scrawled on the back. Carrie didn't miss that detail, he noticed as he slipped it in his shirt pocket. But she didn't say anything. She unbelted the jacket and pulled it open.

The Aran Isle sweater hugged her form, showing him a generous swell of breast under the heather-green cable knit wool. It meant something that she began undressing for him, dropping her guard, at that moment.

He put some time into cleaning his plate, letting the conversation gestate. She watched him eat, thoughtful. John assumed that at some time in their discussion she'd begun imagining the two of them having sex. He imagined it with nearly every woman he came across of course, but when he thought of this one in the booth with him there was something else about the attraction, something more than a simple calculation of physical compatibility. He wasn't used to it. It took him a minute to realize she reminded him of his first college girlfriend, Amanda.

His aunt Gloria had taught him about recreational sex and how to keep from becoming too attached. And Amanda'd been his first 'love' affair, the one where he learned not to fall too hard or fast after doing just that. Even though, back in that more naive time, the two had promised not to get emotionally involved, he'd fallen for her anyway. So though they'd had a lot of sex, together and with others, he never confessed to her his deeper emotional desire. And he'd been careful not to fall for anyone since.

There was a quality of transparency about both of them. Amanda had been assertive about her personal growth. Carrie was unreserved about her concerns for her mother. Both had an unmediated 'presence'. They each felt very real.

Maybe this attraction was an echo of that more innocent time. Was it a warning or an invitation from the universe? What would Dr. Wright say?

He wiped his mouth and paused as his waitress topped off the coffee. Carrie demurred, hand over her cup. He added maple syrup to his. As he stirred he said, "The main thing I find is that women in this culture are so conditioned to be part of a pair that they don't have the opportunity to become fully independent people before they can be interdependent."

"And guys do?"

"A rare few. Most men are stuck in that dyad pattern, too, and both parties are smaller because of it."

"What did you mean that I intimidate guys?" her guard still down.

"The ones you've encountered are stuck thinking they have to be dominant. Or they're still in need of a mother, a nurturing one, not a self-realized goddess of a woman."

"My mother's been talking about goddess shit alot lately." Carrie looked irritated. "Wait, you're a sneaky bastard, telling me I'm a goddess now."

"We are the earthly manifestation of all the divine powers."

"Oh, no...woo, woo alert! That's just another line to get you in my pants." She looked disgusted now. But her eyes sparkled. He could see she liked the repartee, took note of his points, might be flattered despite herself.

"When we bring the gods to our bed it's a mutually enriching encounter. Without the baggage of cultural expectations."

"Wham, bam, thank you Pan?"

This time he laughed. "The seedbed of happiness is expectations, those we set and those we arrive with."

"You're saying the culture is fucked up?"

"I'm saying - be aware of culture and what you've metabolized without knowing it, then set those aside and act independently of them until you can choose what's right for you."

Carrie was silent for a long time. The thing about our inner gods and goddesses recognizing each other is sometimes we get the hots for each other despite ourselves. John was pretty sure this conversation was making the woman wet. It was making his groin warm. She didn't yet know the goddess in herself. He'd learned to connect to and cultivate that goddess energy in so many women. There was growing in him by the minute a furious desire to greet the goddess in Carrie.

"Look, Romeo, slow your roll and let me make my point again. I can't stop my mother from getting herself in trouble, but I do make this appeal to you - don't hurt her, please."

He nodded and looked her in the eye with utmost compassion. There was an unguarded moment when the full power of their inner divinities sparked between them, a moment that took even his breath away. He wanted more than her body just for moment.

He reached for her hand, put his large calloused one over her smaller one, and she didn't pull away.

"Carrie, it is my most sincerely held intention that every woman leave my company better than she arrived." The woman quailed at that, pulling back her hand, grabbing her jacket. Her defenses were back up.

"Don't hurt my mom," she said, rising and throwing on the jacket as she hurried away.

John sighed. He knew they'd end up in bed and that she'd be the one to come to him. He felt something deeper stirring, too. She'd just run away, scared of his erotic power, and her own. And he felt a fear, too, though he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

*********

Later that week he swung by his father's millwork shop to pick up a dado blade that he needed for grooving some flooring he had to match on a current project. The old man was in his insulated office where the noise of the shop was muted. The elder man had passed his height and his raw masculinity down to his son. With his father in it the room seemed small.

"You see your sister out there running the place?" his father asked, grinning widely behind his heavy beard. The sawdust, familiar from childhood, layered that beard and his overalls. "Patsy's making this our most profitable year yet."

"She's a good businessperson, pop," John said, standing in the doorway, "I'm just stopping to say hi."

His father looked serious, "John, close the door. Sit."

John was far past his rebellious phase. And his parents had forgiven him for dropping out of Princeton. He sat in the only other chair. The room seemed really small now.

"Boy, I heard somethin' about you I can't credit."

"If it's about that job in Todt Hill you don't need to worry. A bad client that got past my radar. Runs his mouth too much."

"No, it ain't that," his dad rubbed his beard, "I hear they're some women out there callin' you the Italian Stallion."

John chuckled, "They've been doing that since high school."

"Well, like the way I heard it, this Italian Stallion's available to any bored wife or lonely-hearted older woman on the Island."

"I'm not suffering for lack of a sex life and I'm not breaking any laws," he looked sincerely at his father, "Or taking any money."

"So it is you?" He laughed, "My boy, the stud." John couldn't tell if he was proud or appalled. Or both. He waited.

His dad said, "You know how I found out? Your sister Bernadette told your momma, who told me. She didn't believe it and sure won't ask you about it." He had a wry smile on his face so John relaxed a bit. He honestly had no regrets - he just didn't like upsetting his family.

"Bernadette? She's only nineteen..."

"Yeah, and this is too much information, son, but according to your momma she was complaining to somebody about the quality of men in general and your name came up as a, how did she put it, an antidote."

"I have many references," it didn't escape John that he'd said that more than once that week.

"Just assure me you won't get shot by a jealous husband, John."

"I won't get shot by a jealous husband," it really was all he could say.

"If you cause any trouble for our family I may have to shoot you myself," but his dad said it with such bemused affection that John knew it would be OK. And now that his side work was known to his father he'd have to explain it better some time soon. He couldn't imagine that the older man would understand the worldliness of his cougar restoration practice in the modern context. Dad was old school. He might be proud to have fathered a stallion, but John didn't suppose he could really explain all that had brought him to his position. Not his Aunt's part in it, not his involvement with Dr. Wright, not the notion that bloomed in his mind when he heard that Bernadette had male problems. The notion that he could be the one to help her.

John stood to go. His father gave him a particularly stout handshake as he left.

**********

It took about a week for Carrie to reach out to him again. Since he was working he let her call go to voicemail. But the message she left only surprised him a little: OK, listen, I talked to Dr. Wright and she's alright with me sitting in on your next session with my mother. I mean, just to hear her explain what you're trying to do and so I can hear it from my mother and you two charlatans at the same time. I don't mean to be taking part in the...the...the sex...not the sex session, if there is another one. I don't know why Dr. Wright couldn't tell you herself, but she said I should call. Make sure you're OK with it. Just so we're clear - there will be no sex. With me. Umm, OK, uh, bye.

It was clear to John why Doris had suggested that Carrie call; so that she wasn't a passive actor in the inevitable sex that she claimed she didn't want. The doctor could tell as well as he could that Carrie's goddess self was screaming to awaken to his skills and attention. He and the doc had debriefed by phone after the first session and also made a plan to insure that Dr. Wright got whatever pleasure she might need afterward. She insisted that she had to retain some professional detachment even as John and her client copulated in her consulting room.

That session was on his calendar for the next day, a Tuesday evening. Now he was looking forward to it even more.

**********

At six-ten on Tuesday he arrived late, as required, applied a drop of three-in-one to each hinge on that fine old oak door to the doctor's consulting room and slipped on the blacked-out goggles before he knocked.

Dr. Wright led him in by the elbow again, and was again her calm, professional self. He found himself in the familiar spot on the couch. He sensed the room held other bodies.

"John, Carrie's joining us this evening. She's got some concerns that I'm sure you're aware of."

He nodded and Vivian said, putting a hand on his jeans-clad knee, "We're humoring her tonight." Well that said a lot about the landscape.

"Mom, you're putting yourself in the hands of some sketchy characters here."

"Yes, Carrie, and you don't want me to get hurt. I know, I know," the exasperation was clear, "And I'm asking you to trust me to take care of myself. I'm not senile."

A heavy silence filled the room for a minute. Dr. Wright let it steep.

"Thanks, John," said Vivian, "for honoring my request to stay blindfolded. I'm still not quite ready to be seen."

"And John," added the doctor, "we three are naked from the waist up, as you're familiar with."

Even Carrie? He thought, How'd she work that out?

As if reading his mind, Vivian said, "I told Carrie that she couldn't stay if she didn't follow Dr. Wright's practices. This bare-breasted-ness has been remarkably good for me."

"I explained," added the doctor, "that we three goddesses have nothing to hide from each other and, John, you can't see us, so your presence really doesn't bear on it."