40. Gold star for Lettie
Chapter 40
Gold star for Lettie
LETTIE
S imone looks at me over the top of her wire-frame glasses, a pleasant smile decorating her face. “How are you doing today, Lettie?”
“Doing great, thanks.” I gesture two fingers toward my eyes. “Are those new glasses?”
“No. I like to give my eyes a break from the contact lenses every now and then.”
This is day three of therapy with Simone. And I think I’m ready to talk about what happened the other evening. I’ve been trying to process it on my own, but I’m not coming up with much by way of an explanation. It’s making me feel like I’m broken.
Well, fudge that noise.
I’m not a scratch-and-dent appliance. I won’t be broken.
She pulls out her notepad, flipping pages in search of something. “Let’s see. I wrote out some topics for today. Before we get to my list, did you have anything specific in mind?”
“Yeah, I do.” Immediately chickening out, I hedge, “If we have time. It’s not a big deal.”
It only feels big.
As that thought swirls, please applaud me for not following it up with that’s what she said . For once. I cannot and will not promise to ever pass up the opportunity again.
Simone glances up at me, then back down to the notepad. “Absolutely. Ah. Here it is.” She hovers her pen over the page. “What did you want to discuss? I’ll add it to my list.”
“Uh.” My cheeks warm, and my lungs empty in a rush. “How can I phrase this incredibly embarrassing topic so it doesn’t make my cheeks so flaming hot I self-combust?”
Simone’s gentle laughter eases my blushing.
I point at her page. “Can you put down sexual issues?” My thumbnail immediately goes into my mouth.
Gah. This lovely new habit can hit the bricks any day now. It won’t be missed one iota.
“Also nail biting.”
Nice. Something to make my cheeks less incendiary to balance out the session.
Nodding, she jots down my suggestions. When she’s done, she folds the page back and sets it on the coffee table between us, resting the pen atop it. “My items may need to wait until tomorrow. Your first one might take some time. Do you want to do it last or tackle it first?”
Considering I’m hoping to see Tomer tomorrow, I better bite the bullet in case it morphs into sexy time, which is entirely possible since I’m a horn dog. “Let’s do the sexual thing first.”
“Bold choice.” She winks, then settles back into her chair. “Before we begin, I need to set your expectations. This topic will be something we have to address at different levels for a long time to come. It’ll be a layered approach. Remember, the primary focus of our work at this stage is about making you comfortable in your own skin while helping you to feel safe in your everyday life. Right?”
I nod, having heard this speech before.
“With that in mind, I’m happy to get the dialog started if this is something you’re itching to talk about, which seems to be the case.” She inhales and rolls her shoulders back. “Now that I’ve got that out of the way, let’s get started. Did you have a specific question, or do you want to just talk in general terms about the processing of sexual trauma?”
“Yesterday, when we spoke about my father situation, it was helpful for me to just talk, and then you jumped in to guide the conversation. Perhaps we can try that again?”
She flips her wrist, flashing her open palm at me in an after you gesture. “The floor is yours.”
For the next ten minutes, she lets me ramble on about my sexual history, occasionally asking questions and making observations. Fortunately, she already knows much of what went on in the nightmare house from the accounts of the other girls she’s been working with.
“With that background in mind, here’s my current situation.” Pausing, I lick my lips and unclench my fists. “About two or three days after I got out, I started feeling uh... extremely aroused. To the point it was overwhelming.”
No judgment works its way across her features as she lowers her head in a subtle nod.
“While I was staying with Tomer, it was a point of contention initially. He didn’t want to do anything sexual with me those first few days. He thought it was too soon. And I tried to respect that, not wanting to force him or make him uncomfortable. Yet the need was all-consuming. Eventually, he gave in and sort of... took care of me, I suppose you could say.”
Simone crooks her head to the side. “Are you feeling guilty about it?”
“No. It’s not that.”
“Sorry for the assumption. The way you said it made me wonder if you were concerned you violated his consent. If it is, we can work on that. If not, that’s fine too. I only want to ensure I’m hearing you correctly.”
Rather than rushing to answer, I pause to consider her words. “I suppose it’s possible I manipulated him unintentionally, but he’s never the type to do something he doesn’t want to do. Consent is huge for him, and it goes both ways with us. It was more of a case of him thinking he knew what I needed better than I did. Once he saw I was ready and could handle it— needed it, in fact—he was fully on board.”
“Good. Sorry to interrupt. Please continue.”
“Speaking of needing it, is that normal? Being that horny? I mean, if I was near him, I wanted him. And I was always near him because I was scared to be alone. As you might expect, he was very comforting and so he pulled me onto his lap a lot.” I pause to bite my knuckle. “When he did, I had to have him. I was burning up.”
My core tightens at the memories. “Simone, even when I wasn’t right on top of him, I was thinking about sex. Craving it. I’ve never felt such a compulsion for physical relief. Ever .” Pausing only long enough for a short breath, I ask, “That’s weird, right? Shouldn’t it be the other way around?”
“Not necessarily. What you’re describing sounds like hypersexuality. It’s one of the possible responses to trauma like you’ve experienced. It’s perfectly normal. There’s no need to feel shame or be overly concerned about having periods of heightened arousal. We only need to focus on how you handle them. The urges themselves and satisfying them safely are fine.”
A swell of air leaves my lungs in a rush, making my chest cave. “Oh, ain’t that the berries; let’s thank Mary.” My neck sags, and my spine softens. “Why does it happen?”
“Believe it or not, it can be a healthy way to begin the healing process. In your case, I’d bet it has to do with regaining control. Think of it as a way for you to reclaim your sexual expression. Power over your own body.”
I don’t speak right away, which is a miracle for me given my perpetually lose jaw and faulty filter. Her words resonate, and I want to soak them in.
“Sexual assault is all about control. For the perpetrator, exerting power over another is what drives them to do these horrible things. For the victim, it’s the loss of power that makes it so traumatic. In your case, the lack of control is especially triggering since you spent most of your life feeling powerless regarding sex. Your normal biological urges and desires—things you couldn’t control—were a source of shame for you from an early age. It took a long time before you even felt you had the right to do something about those desires.” With a pitying shake of her head, she adds, “That’s not a woman in control of her body. Right?”
I nod, following along.
“Thankfully, you moved beyond your purity trauma, which is to be commended. From what you told me, it sounds like you struck gold with a compassionate and loving partner. Unless you’re sugarcoating it, he was good for helping you uncover your sexual identity.”
My heart sinks.
He was. So much so.
Until he went and mucked it up.
“So you knew something beautiful, only for it to be taken away unfairly. All your control was gone. Again. The fact that you were at such a high with Tomer made the fall even more pronounced. Understandably, your body and subconscious are driving you to restore your sexual power. Get back a sense of a healthy sexual life. And replace the bad memories with better ones. Does that make sense to you?”
“Yes. It does. Explains a lot.”
“Good. Now, how did you tolerate it? The sex with him?”
Nibbling at the corner of my lip, I slope my head to the side and point both index fingers skyward. “I should clarify something. We didn’t have full-on sex. He took care of me.” Raising my brows, I lean forward, hoping to heavens she doesn’t make me explain.
My poor little cheeks can’t get any redder or hotter.
“Okay. Why not? Did you stop him, or did he stop? Or did you simply not want it?”
“That question is the perfect segue to why I brought this topic up.”
Why is it so embarrassing to talk about this? I worked in a sex club, for Dolly Parton’s sake. Yet if I could rip open my chest to have a looksee, I’d bet my insides would have bruises all over for how violently my heart is pounding.
“Take your time.”
Following her advice, like the gold star therapy patient I endeavor to be, I close my eyes and breathe deeply for the count of five before continuing. “I might be afraid of penetration. The times we fooled around before I left him, I focused on doing other stuff to avoid it becoming a thing . I don’t think he knew I was avoiding it. In fact, I didn’t even know I was doing it until two nights ago.”
“What happened two nights ago?”
Clever girl.
Eyes downcast, I admit, “I used a vibrator. The kind that goes inside. And I couldn’t finish that way.”
Even with Tomer watching me, which made it so much freaking hotter. Speaking of which, I know he was spying based on the texts he sent later that night. I was able to disguise my inability to climax by switching the vibrator to rubbing against my clit only. It took a while... much longer than normal. Ultimately, I was able to eventually finish. More than likely, he didn’t notice.
“When your boyfriend took care of you , as you said, did he put anything inside you? Fingers? Toys? Or was it all clitoral stimulation?”
“That last thing.”
So mature, Lettie.
“You were able to achieve orgasm those times, right?”
“Yes.”
Kill me now.
“Have you masturbated other times to completion?”
“Yes.”
I hate this. Seriously, kill me.
“Was the other night the first time you put something inside since your trauma? Even your fingers? Tampon?”
Note to self: look up how to take out a hit on yourself if this conversation goes on much longer.
With my eyes closed, I nod slowly, letting the pungent fog of shame surround me. Hopefully, it’s thick enough to hide me from her view.
On the off chance it’s not, I cup my hand over my eyes while I wait for her to speak.
“Lettie, sex is a normal part of life. Given your upbringing and recent events, it’s perfectly understandable how you’re embarrassed to talk about this. You’re doing great, though. I know it’s hard.”
Yeah, I can’t resist that setup.
“That’s what she said,” I mutter into my hands, unable to stop my lips from flapping.
Simone laughs. Actually laughs.
Full-on, gut-busting, loud, and joyous guffaws. I can’t help but join her.
When she finally collects herself, she says, “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I found that so funny. It’s a terribly played-out joke, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard it in a therapy session before.”
“That’s me. Making therapy oddly humorous since...” My sentence turns into a hum while I think. “Well, since three days ago.”
“You’re too funny.” Her grin slowly fades with a steadying breath. “Well, like I was saying. You’re doing great talking about uncomfortable things. Now, let’s focus on the issue at hand.”
“Excellent. Fix me, please.”
Her head sags toward one shoulder, and she rolls out her lower lip. “You’re not broken.”
I wave her off. “Figure of speech.”
Sort of.
For several minutes, she talks while I listen. Unlike the group therapy session, I’m able to focus. For the most part. When she’s done explaining about triggers and how we can work to identify them and overcome them, she asks something that makes my jaw drop.
“Prior to your recent trauma, did you ever climax from penetrative sex?”
My nose wrinkles, and I blink approximately five-hundred and seventy-two times. “Yes. Why?”
“Not all women do. In fact, most women don’t.”
Gasp. What? Why? How is the planet overpopulated?
“Well, that’s heartbreaking.” Lowering my forehead, I reduce my volume. “ Most women don’t?”
“Correct. But it doesn’t stop them from having rich, fulfilling, and satisfying sex lives with their partners. Penetrative sex without climax can still be a pleasurable experience. The closeness we feel with our partner. The joy you get from bringing them pleasure. The quality time. The physical touch. The kissing and general intimacy. All of those are enjoyable.”
General intimacy, reporting for duty.
But also... did she say enjoyable? I guess. In the same delightful way someone would enjoy driving all day, but the GPS keeps adding time, and you never reach your destination. Or a sneeze that tickles your nose but never comes to fruition.
“And there’s always foreplay,” she tosses.
“That’s true.”
Foreplay. The consolation prize of sexual fulfillment.
I kid, I kid.
I quite enjoyed all the foreplay with Tomer. He’s abundantly skilled in that area. In most areas, truthfully. Except the whole honesty thing. Still struggling there.
“Look, I’m only saying if you don’t get this particular issue resolved right away or never get that ability back, it’s not the end of the world. You can still orgasm from external stimulation before or after penetration. That said, it’s highly unlikely this is a permanent situation. If you could do it before, you’ll probably be able to do it again. Okay? No doom spiraling in that head of yours.”
“Um, excuse me. Have we met? Mental doom spiraling is my favorite hobby,” I quip.
Shaking her head at my avoidant humor, she glances at her watch. “We’re at the halfway point for this session. You’ve got a lot to process on this topic so far. I’ll send you some links to literature on this tonight before I leave. You can read those, and we’ll circle back in a few days. Let’s talk about this nail-biting.”
Did she just give me homework? Gross.
But fine. Sooner I fix myself, the sooner I can get on with life.
My hand shoots up like I’m in class with a pressing need for a restroom hall pass.
She bites back a laugh, her tiny shoulders shaking. “Yes?”
“Can I change the topic for the second half of the session?”
“Sure.”
“You’re so good to me, Simone. You should give yourself a gold star,” I jest, placing my hand on my chest over my heart and batting my lashes at her.
She narrows her eyes to slits. “Are you buttering me up for something?”
“Remember yesterday when we discussed my father?” I don’t wait for her answer because I’m far too eager to get her on board with my plan. “Well, I’m ready to see him. Like immediately. I’m planning to ask Tomer if he will arrange a meeting for tomorrow or the next day.”
This surprises her, judging by her head rearing back and her dead-eyed expression. She quickly recovers. “Well, I won’t stop you from doing something your heart’s set on. However, I’d like to remind you of what we discussed yesterday. Wasn’t it you who said it was good to simplify your life before overcomplicating it again with more stressors? What’s with the sudden rush?”
“We did agree to that yesterday, but I’m impulsive by nature and prone to flights of fancy. It’s high time you find this out about me.”
Her eyes bulge.
I smile, shaking off my failed joke. “Kidding. Here’s the thing. It’s not like I’m in a frantic rush to tackle everything at once. However, I gotta start somewhere, and this is the problem I need to work on first. Meeting my father. It’s risen to the top of the dung pile.”
Simone grins. “Dung pile?”
“All the shit I need to fix. It’s stacking up inside my psyche. A mountain of absolute crap that’s happened to me. That’s where that whole shit happens phrase came from, right? So the shit is there. It’s happened. The only way to fix my life is to cross over this mountain. Only my feet keep sinking with the first step I take because it hasn’t firmed up yet. It’s like quicksand, but smellier and more prone to staining your shoes.”
Pausing, I drag my palm across my forehead. “Sorry. I need to stop with the poop analogies. It’s getting distracting.”
Simone’s smirk is legendary. Never would have expected that. The way the arch of her brow matches the curve of her upper lip earns five shiny, sparkling gold stars. “Please do.”
Through a steadying breath, I attempt to organize my thoughts.
Ha. Attempt. Not succeed. Thanks, ADHD.
“Ah. I have a better metaphor. Less disgusting. You know how medications either treat the symptoms or the cause of a sickness?”
She nods.
“Right, if you only treat the symptoms, the problem will persist. You must fix the root cause. At a minimum, reduce your exposure to the thing that’s hurting you.”
“And meeting your father will do that?”
“Yes. Exactly.” I fling my open palm out in front of me. “My birth father is the root of everything. I think .” I scratch my head, realizing that doesn’t quite make the sense I thought it did.
Attempting a correction, I clarify, “I wouldn’t have come here if I hadn’t found out about him in the way I did. Eventually, I would’ve scheduled outpatient therapy. In fact, I was leaning in that direction before the dad bomb was dropped on me. However, the reason I’m living here is because when I found out about him, my entire world was shattered. I had to leave Tomer. Had to leave the comfort and safety he gave me. And now I’m so freaking mad about it. Mad at him. Mad at the situation. Through no fault of my own, my life went from pretty dang good— finally— to this shit show. I don’t want to be mad anymore. It’s time to fix that.”
“Lettie, this is a process. You’re in the very early stages of dealing with what happened to you. This isn’t something you can rush through. It’s okay to be mad. It’s okay to be resentful or sad. You don’t need to fix that right away. Feel your feelings. Don’t try to cage them.”
“I’m not trying to cage them. Not exactly. I’m more or less speaking about the healing aspect. Attempting to treat any of my wounds while I’m continuing to be wounded is pointless. I can put on bandage after bandage, but until the knife stops stabbing me, it won’t matter. We’re fighting a losing battle until I start to repair this injustice—one that affects not only me but my bio dad too. We gotta get at the root cause.”
Tears of anger flood my eyes, and I quickly wipe them before they spill too far down my cheeks. My breathing accelerates, coming fast and erratically.
“And you’re sure he’s the root cause, huh? Not the sexual trauma? Not the deceit by the man you love?”
“My father is absolutely the root cause of everything. Not only the cause of why I’m here. He’s also the cause of why I was hurt to begin with.”
“What do you mean?”
“The damn reason they took me was to get back at him for something he did. I was targeted by the motherfucking mafia because I’m the daughter of a man I’ve never met.”
Oops . I hadn’t told Simone that yet. And her stark expression change proves it.
With her hand cupping her mouth to shield her gasp, she asks, “Say what now? You were targeted because of your birth father? How do you know that?”
Fuck.
Eating my words isn’t possible at this juncture, so I roll with it and explain what Viktor told me. The creepy crawlies traveling over my body pass quickly because I’m so freaking mad.
“Wow. Lettie. Just . . . wow.”
I’m going to publish a book one day. How to Render Your Therapist Speechless by Violet Holt, certified walking disaster.
“Anyhow. The root problem isn’t resolved. It’s still happening. Not knowing him caused the entire clusterbiff. How can I heal if the thing hurting me isn’t done hurting me? Do you see what I mean?”
Her throat bobs with a forced swallow. “Yes. I do.”
Reaching forward, she picks up her pen and notebook from the table. She pointedly draws a line through one of the bullets on the list. Looks like it was at the top of the page, where the items she came prepared to discuss were listed. Not my two topics near the bottom of the page.
Curiosity gets the better of me. “What did you cross out?”
With a gleam in her eyes, she answers, “The item was,” she leans forward, reading it verbatim, “Lettie needs to realize she wasn’t responsible for what happened to her.” And she winks.
“Huh?”
“I can’t recall the exact quote, but you just expressed that your life went from good to bad because of something that was no fault of your own.”
Some of what I ranted and raved about swirls through my mind as I try to play it all back.
You could swat my behind with a melon rind . She’s right. I said it, and more importantly, I meant it.
I hold out my open palm, reaching across the table. My face slowly morphs, a grin blossoming into a wide smile until it overtakes my whole face. It’s lighting me up like fireworks on a summer night.
She tips her chin at my extended hand. “What’s that about?”
“Can I get my gold star, please?”