7. Hailey
“How often do you pleasure yourself?”
I’ve asked this question hundreds of times. It’s never made my palms sweat before. I wipe them on my oversized cream sweater dress. I’m certain it’s because I feel guilty about crying in front of him at our last session, ignoring his trauma, and canceling last week.
“Daily.”
A zip of awareness caresses my intimate parts. I recross my tall leather boots at the ankle, glare at the clouds, and ignore the zing to the best of my ability. “That’s healthy and great for your hormonal balance.”
I swallow heavily, as though I don’t believe my bull. “About how many hours of sleep do you get a day?”
There’s a shuffle behind me. He's rearranging in his seat, I suppose. I don’t know because I’m still facing the window. I can’t blame him for not placing trust in me yet. After all, I’m a veritable stranger to him.
He’s not answering, and I find it interesting as hell. Most people clam up on the subject of masturbation, not sleep.
“On average, Mr. Judge?”
“Four hours,” he relents with a generous exhale. “Six on a good night.”
“Are those hours typically concurrent?”
“No.”
“How often do you exercise?”
“Daily.”
He’s closed off, and I hate it. All the progress we’d made is lost. I push forward. “Every day?”
“Yes.” He sighs. “Sometimes more than once, if I can’t sleep.”
“Sleep comes hard when our bodies are in fight-or-flight mode. I worry that your perpetual workout routine reinforces that autonomic reaction and keeps your resting stress level elevated.”
“Exercise is healthy.”
“Many things are healthy in moderation. Water, the thing we need most in life, can kill us, and I don’t mean by drowning. If we drink too much water, it can cause sodium levels to drop. When sodium is too low, water moves into cells and causes them to swell. Have you ever tried meditation?”
“Can it kill me too?” It’s hard to tell if he’s being snippy or funny because I can’t see his face.
“Quadruple.”
“Quadruple?” There’s a hint of amusement in his hazy voice.
“Yep, that’s what I’m charging you now.”
“You’re a terrible bluff. I received your bill and didn’t see an upcharge for my demeanor or your first name use fee.”
He isn’t wrong. I never gamble. I’m a terrible bluffer. “Meditation has been shown to decrease pain, anxiety, blood pressure, insomnia. When practiced, it allows your mind to quiet. It allows you to focus on the here and now. It ties you to your body. It can increase your self-awareness, creativity, and tolerance. I’d like to teach you how to meditate.”
“Isn’t it just sitting still and being quiet?”
“Not just. It’s quieting your mind. Focusing your thoughts. Connecting to your body. Your breath. Your pulse. It’s being present and letting everything else fall away.” I push a piece of hair back that’s slipped from my low ponytail. “Meditation can be done while moving. Yoga, Qi gong, and Tai chi are examples. There’s breath meditation. Guided. Mantra. Transcendental. It comes in many forms. The only requirement is willingness. You can let me know when you’re willing to start.”
He says nothing, and I let us sit in silence for more than a minute. I take the time to connect with my breath. I push it out into my diaphragm and exhale gently. Maybe he does the same. There’s no way to know. My pulse slows, and my shoulders relax.
Then I shift gears. “What do you fantasize about?”
“A woman…in a blindfold.”
My heart gallops through my chest. My stomach bucks. My body is a stampeding herd and no part of me knows in which direction we’re going. I’m suddenly burning up. I tug at my sleeves, fold my hands together in my lap, and stare at the pulse thumping in my wrists.
I am me. He is him. My hang-ups are not his. Focus on the task at hand.
“Why?” The steadiness of my voice surprises me.
“It’s safer that way.”
Don’t I know it?
“For the woman or you?”
“Me. She’s safe, no matter what.”
I have to retreat from this topic and fast. It’s not an uncommon sexual expression. Bondage. Domination. Submission. They’re popular for a reason. It allows control in a life we feel is never in hand. It allows freedom in a world with so many borders and rules. More than a dozen sex clubs are in a ten-mile radius of us at this very moment, and each is filled with people who express their anger, joy, sadness, and desires through kink. Nothing is wrong with that. I’ve dealt with clients with every fetish under the sun. But the blindfold is my particular hot button. I need to process this knowledge away from him to be able to continue professionally.
“Tell me about the first time you realized physical touch wasn’t for you.”
He clears his throat. “Not yet.”
I nod. “Thank you for leaving the possibility open for the future. Tell me about the first time you wanted someone to touch you.”
“Not yet.”
“Maybe a coworker caught your attention?” I press. “Someone walking down the street? A model at Fashion Week?”
“I have no interest in models.” He states it as though they’re not stunning creatures.
“Then a bank teller or a courier? Or a mom pushing a stroller through the park?”
“Why was my same answer to your previous question hopeful and accepted, and this one is not?” He’s getting irritated with me and my questions.
I bet he’d like me to ask him his name now. I smirk.
“My job is to nudge you out of your comfort zone,” I explain. “This question is easier to answer than the first. Unless you’d like to answer the first question.”
The room is quiet for a while. I wonder if he’s going to steal my line again about our time being up. I have a knot in the pit of my stomach, thinking he’s about to leave.
“I want you to turn around.” He says the words in such a way that I don’t believe them.
It’s a tactic to outmaneuver my questions. Still, I’ll take it, if he’s willing to give it. “But?”
There’s rustling behind me. For a second, I know he’s leaving. The swish of fabric against fabric permeates the air. Is he a flasher? Am I going to turn around to a cock in my face? Worse things have happened in my office. But I hope he’s not. I won’t be able to see him again. I won’t be able to help him and we’re just getting started with his therapy.
“Do you trust me?” His strange and special voice rasps close behind me.
“Should I?”
“I’ll never hurt you.” The words are small. The promise is big.
“You have to touch someone to hurt them.”
“No, you don’t.” A silk tie lowers in front of my face. It’s woven navy.
Instantly, I know what he wants. Curse me, but I want to give it. My pulse skitters, and my breath whooshes in and out of my lungs. I don’t know whether I will pass out or come on my chair.
Christ, Hailey. This isn’t about you.
I shake myself. “Is this for fantasy purposes or a step toward face-to-face?”
As I wait for his answer, I study his beautiful hands. His fingers are thick and long. They interlace in the ends of the fabric. His nails are neatly trimmed. The calluses on his palms and the busted and swollen knuckles release the lever on the roller coaster. I’m whirring and diving, rising and jerking.
“Can’t it be both?”
Another unexpected dip. “No, it shouldn’t be.”
“Tell me this is okay.”
It’s a command. Not a request. I can decline. I should decline.
Humans love the forbidden. The fruit you’re not to touch tastes so much sweeter. I know I should deny him. Ethically. Morally. I don’t want to. Sure, I’ll rationalize this as him taking steps in the right direction. Of him placing a bit of trust in me. When, in reality, it’s me taking steps in the wrong fucking direction.
Why, with this man? Why am I letting him push my boundaries?
Maybe it’s because I’ve finally met someone as broken as me.
I reach forward, pull the silk to my eyes, and hold it in place.
He reaches around and tugs the loose strands of my hair back from my face.
I forget all about the mask and how Astor would freak out if she knew I was letting my client blindfold me. I forget about Matt’s death. I forget about the mystery million.
All that matters right now is the triumph in that tiny gesture. He touched hair that is not his. It’s a small thing, and it’s oh-so big.
As he ties the fabric, I sense his strength and finesse all around me. His movements are measured and careful. It’s not too tight or too loose. I draw a deep breath, and my lungs are filled with a familiar scent. It’s sexy as hell. I ignore it outright, knowing it’s the blindfold playing with my head and my libido.
“Stand,” he orders, and I comply without thought.
Euphoria rushes through me, making my body limp and noodle-like, as though I just finished a great workout, mosh session, or turn on the bondage bench. I’m glad I’m wearing a thick sweater dress because I can feel my nipples fully erect against my bra.
I hear him lift my chair and turn it around. He situates it, and then everything is quiet for a moment. I guess I’m standing behind the chair now. On instinct, I almost lift my hand to him. I want him to have to guide me, to touch me. It would be a huge step, but I hold still and wait.
He’s so close, I can almost feel the heat from his body. I hear his soft breaths.
An eternity passes in silence.
“Reach your left hand out two inches,” he finally says.
When I do, I feel the back of the chair. He moves away and sits. I walk around my chair and do the same. It takes me a few seconds to ensure I’m not flashing him any of the gargoyles on my thighs that poke their little heads out between my tights and garter.
“You seem quite comfortable in a blindfold.”
He’s doing all this to gain the upper hand. To make himself more comfortable and me more uneasy. He doesn’t know I’m in my element.
“It’s not my first time.”
“Other clients require your blindness?”
“No.”
“Interesting, Doctor.”
Things are about to get interesting.
“Tell me about the first time you wanted someone to touch you.”
“Relentless, aren’t you?”
I don’t bother responding. I relax my wrists on the arms of the chair and wait.
“In a room filled with pretty people in fancy clothes, ten-thousand-dollar plates of food, and all the business leaders and dignitaries New York has to offer, nothing comes close to capturing my attention until I see her from across the room.”
“What is it about her that seized you?”
“She’s unique.”
I wait for him to explain, but of course, he doesn’t. “How so?”
“She’s stunningly gorgeous, but that’s the least interesting thing about her. She carries herself with such regal confidence it commands attention. There’s an innocence in her face but darkness in her eyes. She is deep, and her walls are high. They’re impenetrable and so well hidden most don’t recognize them. I do because they rival even mine.”
That’s saying something. Hope she’s in therapy. If she is, I feel bad for her therapist.
“For the first time, I wanted to grab her by her bare shoulders and demand her secrets. I wanted to dig until I found her center. I wanted to know what shattered her foundation. I wanted to know what makes her tick.”
“Because she’s like you?”
“Because I see her pain, and I want to make it better.”
I wish someone could do the same for him. “What if a person sees your pain and wants to make it better?”
He’s quiet for a while. Then his fingers strum. “There is someone who’s tried to make it better. I wish I could let him.”
“Hotaru,” I guess.
“Yes.” There’s such pain in that one word it makes my nose burn and my eyes water.
“You see her across the room that night. What do you do?”
“I watch her.”
Two people with high walls and loads of trauma between them rarely make a good match. Then again, who could understand you better?
“Another stalker, stalkee situation?”
“Mild,” he admits. “There’s no harassing. No aggression. Nothing overtly illegal.”
I press my lips into a line to keep from smiling at the adjective. He’s no stalker, not by definition. Sure, he could be lying, but his emotions and actions line up with my gut. I’ve counseled stalkers. He’s not even mild. He’s an admirer.
“You watch her that night. Does she notice you?”
“No, she’s working a bit, championing the cause of the night.”
“So what happens?”
“I go home and touch myself to thoughts of the heat of her against me, the smoothness of her thighs, the smudges my exploration could leave on her skin.”
My skin heats at his words. I hope my cheeks don’t show color. This is nothing compared to the twisted tales I’ve been told. This is nothing compared to the twisted things I’ve done. Yet my body is abuzz with the simple yearning in his tone.
“Is that the first time you’ve thought about touching and being touched while masturbating?”
“Yes?”
“Did you come?”
“Shamefully fast.”
For not touching or being touched, he seems completely confident in the sexual arena. Most people who’ve been fucking for decades can’t force themselves to speak about it. As though simple words will bring about a plague or STI.
“Have you spoken to her?”
“Yes.”
“Does she know you’re interested in her?”
“No.”
“If presented with the opportunity, would you want to touch her?”
The intimidating dragon is back, huffing out a long breath. “Want to? Yes.”
Bad phrasing on my part. “Would you?”
“I don’t know.”
A small smile takes over my face. “It’s not a no.” I shrug. “It’s progress."
“You’re smiling.”
“I tend to do that when progress is made.” I shift in my seat, suddenly aware that he’s watching me, and I can’t see him. “The next time you touch yourself, I want you to imagine her presenting you with the opportunity to touch her, innocently, on the shoulder or the hand or on the cheek. In this fantasy, I want you to take that opportunity.”
“Unique approach.”
“Positive association.” I smile once more. “Our time is up. Goodbye, Mr. Judge.”
I hear him stand and walk to the door. Then I remember my blindfold belongs to him. “Your tie?”
“Keep it for next time.” I hear the door open. “I’ll see you, Hailey.” The door closes.
I sit there in his blindfold for far too long.