Chapter 16 Addictive
ADDICTIVE
Michelle
from: justjack@
to: michellewithtwols@
subject: Your email address
Been meaning to ask this—I take it there are no devilishly handsome CEOs of lingerie companies who have access to this email? That you set it up just for me?
from: Michelle
subject: Spotting it from across town
You have a bit of a jealous streak, don’t you?
And I assure you, there are no other devilishly handsome CEOs that I know at all, lingerie or otherwise, and they certainly wouldn’t be emailing me here, seeing as I just set it up for you.
But I have often thought the handyman in my building is quite cute.
from: Michelle
subject: Couldn’t resist
I’m just kidding. He’s not that cute. OK, maybe a tad cute.
from: Michelle
subject: Couldn’t resist either
Not as cute as you though, when you’re jealous.
from: Jack
subject: A mile wide
My jealous streak knows no bounds. Especially not after this weekend. Not after the hallway. Not after the couch. Not after the shower. Hell, not after what you did to me on the Met Life Tower.
from: Michelle
subject: WHAT I DID TO YOU?
I think it was the other way around.
from: Jack
subject: YES
No. It was not. What you did to me was make me want more of you. I have a large appetite when it comes to you.
from: Michelle
subject: I have to ask
Why?
from: Jack
subject: I have to answer
Why do I want you? Because you are smart. Because you are beautiful. Because you make me laugh. Because you are sensual and passionate and the way you give me your body drives me absolutely fucking wild, and now I am rock-hard again for you. There. Satisfied?
from: Michelle
subject: With you? Always satisfied…
Thank you. That was very nice of you.
from: Jack
subject: Nice is a bad word
It wasn’t nice. There was nothing nice about that. It was true, is what it was. Which is why I set up this email just for you. Why aren’t you here working in the same fucking building? I want you, Michelle.
Because if I were in the same building, I’d get nothing done.
I’d keep popping up to his office to visit him.
Better that he worked across town. Besides, I had a packed schedule, and another new client in ten minutes, so I clicked out of my email and skipped over to my patient notes from the office manager.
Another scant set of details, as was expected.
The only info I had on the man named Clark Davidson was two words long—marital challenges.
I closed my eyes, took several deep breaths, and let my mind clear of Jack.
The last thing I needed demanding space in my frontal lobe was that sexy, naughty, dangerously addictive man.
I scoffed quietly to myself. Addictive. Funny that I’d used that term.
I’d treated so many patients who had struggled with sex and love addiction; I helped them find their way to the other side. To peace. To calm. To real love.
Here I was, using that word as if it were a good thing that Jack was addictive.
But addictions were troubling. If Jack felt addicting, that could only mean one thing—it was damn good that our relationship had an expiration date.
We’d spent three nights together now, and each time I’d left around midnight.
“I turn into a pumpkin,” I’d say, then tell him how busy I was the next day.
That was all true—well, perhaps not the pumpkin part.
There was another side to the coin though, and that was the side where sleepovers unfurled into intimacy.
They translated into vulnerability. Closeness.
Cuddling and snuggling while deep in REM, then waking up next to someone in the broad light of day with the hope that the person would still like you was too risky.
That’s why I preferred to meet at his place.
If he came to mine too often, then he might fall asleep there.
It was easier to be the one to leave than to kick someone else out.
Meeting at his apartment gave me a small semblance of control.
I didn’t need Jack to have any questions about me. He viewed me as a sexual creature, a sensuous woman, and that’s all he needed to see of me. Any more would ruin the point of us. To help each other move on.
Right?
Right.
Once more, I pushed Jack from my brain. Soon, I opened the door for my new patient, and said hello to the dark-haired Clark Davidson. He had deep brown eyes, a square jaw, fair freckled skin and a close-cropped cut.
“Good to meet you,” he said, and shook my hand. He was unusually confident for a first-time patient. Interesting.
“And you as well. Please, come in,” I said, holding open the door.
“Thank you,” he said, and his eyes lingered on me a tad longer than I would have liked.
Fifty minutes later, I had the oddest feeling that he’d been studying me the entire time. That even as he unspooled bits and pieces of his challenges with his wife, he was cataloging me.
From my hair to my lips to my breasts to my shoes.
I wished he’d look me in the eyes.
The next evening, I mentioned the session to the consultation group of other therapists that I met with every week to share best practices.
There were five of them, all other women who specialized in intimate relationship psychotherapy.
Carla Kimberly led the group; she was my mentor and the president of the New York chapter of the Association of Intimate Relationship Therapists.
“I had a strange appointment today,” I began, then gave a brief overview of the session, and how his behavior and wandering eyes had made me uncomfortable. “Am I reading too much into things?”
Carla adjusted the gauzy blue scarf around her pale neck.
“Only you know if you’re picking up on a vibe.
But the key is always to refocus the patient, if this becomes an issue,” she said in her warm and friendly voice.
She was a pro. She’d been doing this for many years, and I was lucky for her support and her insight.
“Right. Of course,” I said, since I certainly understood how to handle matters if a patient were ever attracted to me. Refocus the patient on the inner emotional experience and the therapy work. That was the rule of thumb. “It just seemed that something else was at play,” I added.
“Maybe he recognized you,” Priya said with a smile coasting across her dark complexion. She was a newer therapist to the group.
I cocked my head. “What do you mean?”
“Maybe he’s seen you out and about around town? Do you ever think about that?” she asked the crew.
Carla nodded, tucking a strand of her dark brown hair neatly behind her ear.
“I do. You could run into anyone anywhere. I think it’s strange for patients to bump into their therapists in a public setting, but it’s inevitable.
It’s happened to me a few times at the grocery store or the movies, and then all of a sudden, the person you are trying to treat knows you buy Trader Joe’s Vanilla Almond Crunch cereal. ”
“Well, that’s just a good cereal,” I said with a smile.
“Or they know you went to see It’s Raining Men,” Carla added, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
My eyes widened. “No way. Did you run into a patient at the stripper movie?”
Carla nodded sheepishly, and covered her face with her fingers. “I did. It was so embarrassing. It’s as if we’re not supposed to have a life outside our offices, but I did love that movie.”
I laughed. This was one of the many reasons why I adored Carla. The woman could shift from stripper movies to serious talk in the snap of a finger.
Priya jumped in. “I agree. So how do we find the balance between going to see a stripper movie and being able to guide a patient through their challenges with love?”
“I think it’s fine for a therapist to behave like a human being. To kiss your husband in public; to pick up a celebrity magazine at the store. To see a sexy movie. You just have to know the lines not to cross,” I said.
Lines like getting involved with a patient, and I’d made damn sure that hadn’t happened.
At the end of our meeting, Carla pulled me aside.
“Your talk last week at The Pierson was well-received,” she said, and I was filled with an odd cocktail of feelings—professional pride chased with the slightest dash of cat-who-ate-the-canary syndrome.
That talk on new treatment strategies for love and sex addiction had set me on a collision course with Jack Sullivan and the best sex of my life.
If I’d only slept with him one time, I’d still consider myself one lucky lady.
As it was, I’d had more than a baker’s dozen of times with Jack in the last several days, each one better than the last.
“We’ve gotten a lot of great feedback from attendees,” Carla added.
“I’m so happy to hear that. It was an honor to have been asked.”
“I hope it’ll be an honor when I ask you for something else too,” Carla said, flashing a quick smile.
“Anything.”
“We have a workshop with other therapists coming up on learning to love again. It will look at love after infidelity, grief, divorce and so on. And, I was hoping you could lead it.”
My answer was instant. “Of course. I’d love to. Just let me know the details.”
“Absolutely. I’ll email them to you this weekend. I also have a referral to send your way. Are you still taking new patients?”
I glanced away briefly to hide my smirk. “Yes. I have an opening on Fridays at two.”
from: Jack
subject: Therapy
Looking forward to another “therapy” session with you this evening.
from: Michelle
subject: Healing aids?
Will you be bringing any battery-operated friends?
from: Jack
subject: Therapy
I have many toys slated for our time slot. Though I should warn you—I need more than the standard fifty minutes. Much more.
from: Michelle
subject: A few hours works for me
I look forward to being in your hands.
from: Jack
subject: Soon…
By the way, I told the doorman I’d be expecting someone at nine p.m.
from: Michelle
subject: Very soon…
So you want me out of there by 9?
from: Jack
subject: Open invitation to spend the night
No, beautiful. It’s you. I’m expecting you.
from: Michelle
subject: Maybe someday
Presumptuous.
from: Jack
subject: Someday very soon
Ravenous.
from: Michelle
subject: After last night
I can barely walk today.
from: Jack
subject: That’s what I like to hear
I should feel bad about that, but I can’t find it in me.
from: Michelle
subject: No guilt needed
Beating your chest instead?
from: Jack
subject: Like a caveman
Yes. Fucking you senseless has a way of making me feel damn good about myself. I’d like to see you bent over my kitchen counter in about an hour.