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Subject: {ASSM} Counselor 1, 2, 3
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<1st attachment, "C 01.txt" begin>
{ASSM}
Title: Counselor Part 1 MF, rom, oral, anal, feet) Author: One Gallus,
<OneGallus@yahoo.com>
Disclaimer Not to be read: by anyone under the age of 18, or if it
violates the standards or laws of your community, or if adult erotica
offends you.
Not to be posted on any other site, or changed, or used in any way
without author's permission.
THE COUNSELOR
Part 1
I am a Licensed Professional Counselor. And I been able to feel good
about helping some individuals, couples and families work out some of their
knottiest problems. I have also started and aborted some very sad
failures, knowing we weren't getting anywhere. I make private notes and
write summaries on my computer, and I review these frequently to keep me on
course with the client throughout our sessions. That, of course is in
addition to all the other official forms that we have to fill out, for
state auditors and insurance companies. My summaries are for my eyes only.
KC is my secretary, the best I ever had. She looks a little like a
younger Betty White, and possesses uncanny instincts. She is able to
filter out the uncommitted and non-finishers, and give me some valuable
perspectives I wouldn't otherwise have. That's aside from her
organizational ability, efficient record keeping and personalble phone
presence.
"A Mrs. Bartee on line one," KC said.
I punched the first button. "This is Clifford Allan, how may I help
you?"
"Oh, Doctor Allan, my name is Reilly Bartee. Thank you for talking with
me."
"Mrs. Bartee, I'm not a doctor, just a Licensed Professional Counselor.
If you'd rather have a psychologist, I can recommend some good men to you."
"Oh no, I-I want you, Mr. Allan, I've talked to several of my friends
and you come highly recommended."
"You can call me Clifford, we're very informal around here."
"Oh, that's nice. I like informal myself."
"Are you open to a two o'clock visit tomorrow?"
"That would be great, the sooner the better," she said.
"All right, Mrs. Bartee, I will see you then."
"It's `Reilly.' Remember I'm informal too."
"Very good, Reilly . Goodbye till tomorrow!"
"Goodbye Clifford."
I was impressed. I'm not usually so personally charmed by prospective
clients. That in itself should have been a warning, but that voice and
that spirit, were unique. I took a moment to think about this very
self-possessed woman. Her voice was calm and low, almost throaty, probably
a smoker, which I could do without. But I endure it, even if it means
leaving the friendly confines of my office and sitting on the park bench
out on the grounds. Many anxious people just must have a cigarette to
properly spill their guts, and my job is to encourage gut spills.
Reilly was evidently educated, at least she had an easy command of the
language. She was completely unintimidated, either by me, which is good,
or by her situation, which is bad. If a person can't appreciate the
enormity of their problem, then they may not be willing to work for its
resolution. But it was too soon to conclude that, and it was time for my
one o'clock today.
The next morning was like all mornings, I scanned my notes from all of
my sessions the previous day, and wrote my detailed observations into a
summary-to-date, or self-report on the computer. This went on a floppy
disk which was for my eyes only. Unfortunately, that's not all the written
work we do. I say we, because KC is so helpful here. She makes quick work
of insurance and government related forms.
At two o'clock on the button, KC rang me. "Mrs. Bartee is here, Boss."
I opened my door directly into the inner-waiting room with it's one easy
chair, and greeted my client of the hour. She rose from her seat and stood
before me with a tan linen skirt, a beige blouse, and a wide, brown belt.
Her hair was a light, nutty color, but red was actually glowing in it, cut
short and fluffy. Her lower legs (the only part visible) were covered with
a complimentary hose and her shoes were plain, lowheeled cordovan loafers.
Her figure was not exactly plump; but she would be quite a pleasant armful,
a large woman, close to six feet. Around her neck was a gold chain
suspending an inlaid green-stoned cross of gold. It's arms were enclosed
in a perfectly round circle, and I immediately associated it with the cross
atop the John Knox Presbyterian Church, just down the street from my
office. The rich green glowed against her blouse, and my eyes kept
returning to its presence.
I took her hand, a firm grip, and said, "Welcome Reilly , come in,
that's a handsome cross you have on there!"
She smiled, "Thank you Clifford, it's my favorite, I'm never without
it."
We walked into my office and I seated her in the chair at my small round
caf, table in the center of the room. She could conveniently put her
elbows on the table, and I, across from her, could do the same. She could
look directly into my eyes ("here is how it really is"), or at my print of
Robleis' "Polish Cemetery" directly over my shoulder ("I'm not telling you
the whole story"). The latter doesn't necessarily mean that she is
deceiving me; it's just that she may not be able to face all the truth she
might have somewhere in her mind. And while she is holding that truth at
bay, it's nice to have something to look at besides a blank wall. Besides,
in spite of its theme, the painting is very calming.
"Are you religious, Reilly ?" She looked up at me with questioning eyes,
and I patted my chest lightly, then pointed to her cross.
"Oh! Maybe," she said. "But, this is a Celtic cross. It has as many
pagan inferences as it does Christian." She knew the term. Most people say
"Seltic," as in the Boston Celtics, but hers was a definite "Keltic." Pagan
indeed, and I thought about the revelry below decks in the movie Titanic.
"Ah!" I said, "I didn't mean to probe where I shouldn't. However,
sometimes it does help to know a person's religious beliefs."
"You're not probing where you shouldn't, Clifford. You're the helper
and you need information, I am open for probing."
Setting aside the possible double entendre, it was a surprising
response. She already understood her side of this covenant of counsel, she
was willing to share and not to hide.
"Well, maybe we'll come back to that later. I want to hear about your
situation," Then I held up my hand, "But let me tell you about how it goes
around here."
"All right," she smiled.
"If I ask you a question, you don't have to respond immediately. You
can answer immediately if you wish, or you can give it some thought,
whatever is natural to you."
"Fair enough, I believe in natural." she said.
"Well, not quite fair enough." I smiled.
She looked at me, puzzled.
I explained, "I need to reserve that same right for myself. Your
answers are important-they are extremely important to what we are doing,
and they deserve some thought. So don't be distressed if I don't
immediately respond to your statement. We're not in the business of
shooting from the hip around here."
"That's good, I like that," she smiled.
"Now, go ahead and tell me your problem."
"Well," she said, "I'm forty years old," she was looking straight at me
when she said it. I've been married fifteen years, and my husband and I
have been very much in love."
"Have been?"
"I still am, and I think he still is, but he's found out some things
about me that I've kept secret all these years, and it has understandably
upset him."
"What sorts of things?" I asked.
"Well, other men," she said, again looking directly into my face.
I nodded and blinked at the same time. I hate it when I blink. "You've
had an affair?"
"Maybe," she said, "but there have been more than one."
"So you've had several affairs."
"Maybe."
"Reilly ," I said softly, "what does that mean?" I laid my hands flat on
the table, "You've said that three times."
"I'm sorry Clifford, I don't exactly know how to answer it. That's why
I said `Maybe.'"
"Go ahead, explain as best you can."
"Well, these men have not exactly been in my life."
My eyebrows lifted in question.
"I mean.I mean I am not emotionally attached to any of them. That's
what I tried to tell Delbert, but he can't understand what I'm saying."
"Do you mean you have no feelings toward them at all?"
"Well, I do at the time. When we're together, it's like I love them,
but I detach from love as soon as I leave them. I am completely aware that
it's only momentary," she said. She now cast her eyes down, looking at her
reddish brown, thumbnails between her folded hands, which she flicked
together, making a ticking noise. Her hands were smooth with a few
freckles on the backs.
"Momentary love?"
"I know it sounds crazy, Clifford, but that's what it is."
"How could it be love, if it's only momentary?" I asked.
"How can you have sex if it's only momentary?" she countered.
"Explain."
"OK, I know you know lots of people, probably mostly men, who can have
sex, and then afterwardit was just a fuck, and nothing more."
"Yes?" I said, a little surprised at her word, which so far did not fit
her persona, or did it?
"Well that's the way I am about both the sex and the love, at least love
with other men."
"Do you mean like a one night stand?"
"Not necessarily," she said. I may have many sexual contacts with the
same man, and I give him a kind of love during those times together, but I
don't carry away the love when I leave. "I have quite a different feeling
with my husband."
"What do you have with your husband?"
"I have what most devoted wives have toward their husbands. I love
him."
"But not sexually?"
"I didn't say that," she said flatly.
"Then you do have sexual love for him?"
"I do. I give him all the sexual love he can take."
"But, he's not giving you enough?"
"Well, yes and no. I mean, I don't resent him for giving me no more
than he can. It doesn't hurt me, it doesn't bother me. I don't love him
any less."
"But you are bothered now."
"Only because he found out, and now he wants to end it." she said.
"How do you think I might help you?"
She slid down in her chair, the toes of her shoes brushed my pant leg.
Her posture suggested that her ankles were crossed. She stared at her
thumbs, clicking away.
Her eyes teared. "He doesn't want to end the marriage. He wants to
save it, but he wants me to end what I want."
"And what do you want?"
"Oh Clifford, I know I sound like a whore, but I'm not! I'd give my
life for that man!" This time her tears fell. I reached toward my bookcase
and fetched a box of Kleenex. She took one and dried her eyes, and then
looked at me closely, "You don't believe I'm telling you the truth do you,
do you?"
"Reilly, I really believe that you're not lying to me." That was not
exactly an answer to her question, but it was truthful.
She peered into my eyes, then she went back to clicking her thumbnails.
"Tell me how Delbert discovered your involvement with other men?"
"Well, we ran into one of them at a Celtic Festival in Cincinnati.
Strange isn't it, We both live in Toledo, and we have this so-called
coincidental meeting. Anyway, the wife was very intuitive and confronted
us both, him more than me. It was, `Why don't you take care of your wife's
needs?' So-it was confession time. I think Bel and Bridget must have
planned it, she glanced up at me, head down, eyes up."
"How much do you really believe in all of that, Reilly ?"
"You know about it?"
"Vaguely."
I'm Celtic Music fan and I did know that the incessant beat and driving
tempo of the music was a throwback to pre-Christian sensual-paganism.
Presiding over all this revelry was Bel the male divinity, and Astarte the
goddess, also known as Bridget. The Celtic Cross was not only atop
Presbyterian Churches, it was found carved into rude Celtic tombs dating
back before the dawn of Christianity, the era of Bel and Bridget. Much of
its significance for that era was unknown.
"Are those Bridget's symbols on your pockets?" I asked.
"I'm impressed, Clifford, no, they are just Celtic patterns, and no, I
guess I don't believe it. Pause, thought, "But I feel it sometimes." When
she said "feel" I received a distinct impression that she was speaking from
her breasts, gathering up their fullness and plumping up the word.
Suddenly, I had a mental flash of this big woman, barefoot on the soft,
damp turf of Ireland, wrapped loosely in a coarse, woven tunic, undulating
to the beat of a lone bodhran.
"Yes? Clifford?"
I started at her voice and realized I had more than just a flash. I had
been somewhere else for awhile.
She said, "You really do give my responses a bit of pondering, don't
you?"
"I'm sorry, Reilly," I shifted in my chair. "There is a book I would
like to recommend to you. It's written by one of my teachers, Dr. Embry
Hanover. He is a modern scholar, but some of the things he has to say may
surprise you. It's called, `Visceral Insistence' and he speaks of
tendencies ever bit as ancient as the Celts." I wrote it down on a small
notepad. "Would you pick it up this week, and read into it as far as you
can?" He handed her the paper. "We'll talk about the parts you've read
next week. What you've said has been very helpful to me, Reilly." I stood
up.
She said, "You can't realize what a relief it is to talk about all this,
Clifford. All Delbert does is lay down the law to me. You're really the
first one I've ever discussed it with. That's fifteen years of holding it
all inside. Thank you,"
She took my tanned hand into her white hand and covered it with her
other one. I looked down at the freckled softness and thought, "This woman
is all here." She reminded me somewhat of Angelica Huston, the actress,
only with fluffy, reddish hair.
Then she walked out, a little troubled, but poised and focused, leaving
no trace except for a grassy fragrance that I could not identify.
<1st attachment end>
<2nd attachment, "C 2.txt" begin>
{ASSM}
Title: Counselor Part 2 MF, rom, oral, anal, feet) Author: One Gallus,
<OneGallus@yahoo.com>
Disclaimer Not to be read: by anyone under the age of 18, or if it
violates the standards or laws of your community, or if adult erotica
offends you.
Not to be posted on any other site, or changed, or used in any way
without author's permission.
THE COUNSELOR
Part 2
When I saw her again, she was in jeans. She was no teenager, but she
definitely was attractive, in a rounded, big boned sort of way. Her blue
denim shirt had two beige patch pockets nestled over each breast, and each
pocket had strange, blue geometric symbols stitched into them. The
greenstoned Celtic cross was between them and had twisted backwards on its
chain. It was just as stunning underneath as on top, exactly the same, in
fact, except for the color, a deep coral. She wore tan sandals with thin
straps, revealing perfectly shaped creamy feet splashed with freckles,
nails tinged with that russet polish, matching her finger nails.
She stirred her black coffee, nothing in it, but she stirred. She was
very pensive today, and had not spoken except to say hello.
"How was your week, Reilly?" I asked.
"It was quiet, I didn't answer the phone, just left the answering
machine on.
"Is your phone usually that busy?"
"I didn't think so till I stopped answering it, now I'm amazed how often
it rings. But I was determined to be good this week, even though Delbert
is gone."
"Good?"
"Yes, I did not play."
"Oh, your phone calls were to come out and play?"
"Yes," she smiled, "but I have been a focused woman."
"Focused on what?"
"Why the book, of course."
"How far did you read?"
"Why, I read all of it." she said.
"How did you find time to do that?" I asked.
"Well, as I said, I didn't play, and school is closed for the winter."
"Oh, do you go to school?" I hadn't even asked.
"Well, I teach some courses at night at Maumee Community College, and I
take a few classes during the day too.
"What do you teach?" I asked.
"Um, Creative Writing, things like that."
"Really, I'm impressed. I have some interest in that myself."
"Teaching?" she asked.
"No, writing. it's quite a high for me to take the everyday events and
characters of life, and turn them into a fascinating picture with words."
"Let me see some of your work," she said, sitting up in her chair."
I chuckled through my nose, "Oh no! I'm not ready for that yet!
Besides, what I do, you might not like."
What I was talking about was the erotic nature of some of my writing.
Also, at that particular time, I didn't realize I would be writing about
her case.
"I should think that a counselor's office is a rich source of material
for a novelist or short story writer," she said.
"I-I try to be very discreet." I knew she could already see the
implications of this.
"Do you think you'll write about me?" she asked bluntly.
"I-I don't know, would that be objectionable?" I shifted in my chair.
"I have put you on the defensive, haven't I?" she smiled.
I could give no answer; I was frankly embarrassed. "Clifford, I know
how these things work, I know what fiction is, bits and pieces of reality
melded with invention. I know that I would end up with another face and
body, probably a half-starved model who doesn't know her ass from an
adverb. I would love to see my story in print-but Delbert better not be
able to recognize me."
"Reilly, I have not even thought about that!"
"But you will, because my story is too good-or maybe bad for you to pass
up. I am just saying it's OK in case you do."
"But I don't know enough about you yet to write anything, except my
computer summaries."
"Oh! Now that would be interesting to see!"
"I do it with all my clients, every morning, it's just records. Reilly,
that's enough about writing, don't you think?"
"I think it was you who brought it up, Clifford."
I blushed. "Indeed it was, and I apologize."
She laughed musically, alto notes, no soprano here. I loved that deep
voice. "No apologies necessary," she said, but I will now be quiet let you
do your work."
"By the way Reilly, do you smoke?" I ventured.
"No, why?"
"It's just that that lovely deep voice of yours, it's really yours?" I
thought to myself, why did I say that? It contributed nothing to the
counseling.
She laughed again, each note rich, and round. "Thank you Clifford."
I looked at my watch. How could I justify spending all this time in a
t^te-...-t^te with this charming client when we had not made the first step
in resolving her situation?
"Tell me how you liked the book?" I said.
"I loved it all, but I disagreed with everything."
"How's that?"
"Well, not everything, really; I was fascinated by his studies, and case
histories; all the men had this "visceral insistence" that the woman be
exclusively his, that they have it born into their guts to expect their
women to be monogamous, as if they couldn't help it."
VISCERAL INSISTENCE was the title of the book. She had stabbed right to
the heart of the thesis. "Born into their guts" was her phrase, not
Hanover's, but hers was better.
"Besides," she said, "what about women? Do we have it born into our
guts to also expect our men to be exclusively ours, and no one else's'?
Most men don't act like it."
"Your husband does."
"Who says?"
"Are you saying he is unfaithful?" I asked.
"How could he be unfaithful to something I don't expect of him?"
"Ah! Then it isn't `born into your guts after all!'"
"I never said it was, I was asking you what Hanover, or you yourself
thought. No, it isn't true of me. Why should I expect exclusiveness from
him when I am unwilling to give it back to him?"
"So he does have other women?" I queried.
"Who says?"
I let a whole minute slip by, trying to figure a way out of this corner
into which I had painted myself.
"Reilly, you are right. I have assumed too much. Your situation may be
much more complex than I know. Your attitude is not conventional, and I
have pressed you too much into that mold. Every person is different and
you-you."
"I'm more different than most?" she offered.
"Yes, but I don't mean that negatively."
"Do you mean it positively?"
Again, I missed a beat, my mouth open, nothing coming out.
Then finally, "Yes, I guess I do."
"In what way?" She looked at me directly with hazel eyes, just a hint of
a smile in them.
"Gosh, Reilly, I can't seem to be the least bit objective with you, can
I? First I assume that you are like most other women, desiring monogamy
from your husband. Then I assume you are unfair, because he keeps himself
solely for you, and you don't. Then I let it slip that I think you are
insightful, intelligent and fascinating. I may have botched this whole
process. Maybe you should let me put you in touch with somebody else who's
not charmed so easily."
"You are charmed?" She shifted, sat up in her chair, and crossed her
legs, her sandaled foot stretching to a point, and then back.
I shook my head, and blushed, and looked down.
"I was only sparring with you Clifford, I like to do that."
I nodded my head, "I know, but I'm supposed to be able to set aside this
sort of thing."
She stood up, and pulled her chair over in front of me. My right elbow
was on the caf, table and my legs were crossed in a relaxed way, when she
stood, I uncrossed my legs, and sat up, knees together. She sat down on
the edge of her chair, her denim knees on either side of mine. She placed
her white, freckled hand on my right knee, and said, "You are the most
honest man I have ever met."
"Yeah, well my mother's honest too, but she is not a counselor."
"You really care, I mean about my quandary, don't you Clifford?"
I didn't answer, just looked at the backs of her hands on my knee, her
almost long nails, that deep, dark red color.
"Are you not able to do your work under these circumstances?"
"Even if I hadn't admitted it, you're intuitive enough to have caught it
eventually. It wouldn't be long till you'd say, `This man finds me
delightful and refreshing. He is under my spell, he can't be objective
about me.'
"Really?" she asked, eyes wide.
"What I would have to say will lose its force, it's impact, you'd not
take my guidance seriously."
"Clifford, you have the most appealing way of putting your feet into
your mouth," she smiled, and squeezed my knee, stood up, bent over my knees
and kissed me on the lips.
"Reilly, I resign as your counselor as of this moment."
"But-I."
"No, I can't ethically do this, you need objectivity, and I don't have
it, besides."
"Besides what?" she asked, I could smell the grass, she was so close.
"I'm a grandfather," I said.
"I don't know what that has to do with anything, but do you want me to
just walk away?" she asked, seriously.
"Maybe," I said.
She searched my eyes for a moment, and then she fell back into her chair
breaking into beautiful, low laughter. I laughed too, somewhat more
subdued.
"Clifford, I trust you, I know you can help me, I'll be good from now
on. I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry too Reilly, but I just can't."
She sat a long moment, staring at me. I had to blink.
"Will you be a friend?" she asked.
"Reilly, I have a grown, married daughter."
"OK, Clifford," she stood up, "I'm sorry, I messed up too." She stood
and shook her head, silent for a few moments. Thank you for what you did."
She reached to shake my hand, her face white, her freckles seemed more
pronounced.
"Reilly, I'll have KC send you a referral list."
She said nothing else, just walked by me and out the door.
I sat there, dumbly, with my hands on my knees. "Whew!" I just barely
dodged that bullet. Had wanted to dodge it? No, I wished I were bleeding
all over the floor right then. On the other hand, I was glad I didn't have
to mop up the mess. I was still sitting there when KC poked her head in.
"Are you through, Boss?"
"Yes, did Reilly Bartee ask you about a list of referrals?"
"No, she didn't even stop by the desk," KC said.
"Why? Is she quitting?" she asked.
"Yep. Mail her the list, will you KC?"
"You got it, Boss!" starting to close the door.
"And KC?"
"Yes?"
"Don't put any men on that list."
<2nd attachment end>
<3rd attachment, "C 3.txt" begin>
{ASSM}
Title: Counselor Part 3 MF, rom, oral, anal, feet) Author: One Gallus,
<OneGallus@yahoo.com>
Disclaimer Not to be read: by anyone under the age of 18, or if it
violates the standards or laws of your community, or if adult erotica
offends you.
Not to be posted on any other site, or changed, or used in any way
without author's permission.
THE COUNSELOR
Part 3
I don't suppose I have unique from any other older, middle-aged man.
Some people may rush to my aid and say, "Oh, Clifford, your not really,
middle-aged!" But, there are some things I know I cannot hide. For
instance, when I visit the barber, it is for my monthly circumcision.
"Circum"= around. "Cision"=cut. That's what my barber does, cuts around
my head, since there isn't really anything else to do. However, I never
reveal this bit of genuine witticism to anyone, lest it should give rise to
the cruel label, "dick-head."
Speaking of "give rise," I will now make another confession. There are
fair number of situations at which I give rise. A woman such as Reilly can
induce me to give rise. A particularly erotic movie can also promote such
an upsurge. I frequently give rise when I sit here writing my little
stories, or reading someone else's story. Sadly I had problems giving rise
in my wife's presence for over a year before she died.
She, of course, blamed our age, and perhaps that had somewhat diminished
the penial perkiness of that era of my life when the mere thought of
"woman" (excepting my mother) could send me spiraling toward the heights.
And since I have mentioned "Mother," I also now confess that she may have
been at the root of my difficulties with my wife.
Mother lived with us two years. The reason? She was widowed after
sixty-five years of marriage, and felled by a stroke that left her weak,
and somewhat confused about medications. She sold her house, and most of
her goods cashed in her CD's and placed the modest results into my hands as
a gift in exchange for looking after her.
With this arrangement, my wife, Emily, was quite happy. She was a full
time homemaker anyway, and she and Mother had always got on well together,
but that all changed. One Sunday, Emily I returned home from an afternoon
movie. Mother herself was a bit curt in her conversation with me,
obviously displeased that she was excluded from my "date" with Emily. I
shared this with Emily, laughed a little at Mother's childishness. Emily
was not amused. In fact, she was incensed and suddenly exploded.
"Clifford, I wish to God that we'd never done this!"
Things became worse. Emily found a trail of feces across our living
room floor, would not allow me to clean it up. She cleaned it in a silent
clenched-teeth rage. Ever after that Emily refused to speak to Mother.
Her attitude toward me grew hard and cold. I know that from then on, she
begin to hate Mother and the milk of human kindness was drying up in her
breasts.
It was during this period that I ceased going to my wife's bed.
Whatever sexual tenderness I felt toward her had numbed away. I still
loved her, but like she was an obstinate sister. I worked to find ways of
rekindling the fire, actively remembering old passions, but all I did was
futile. One night, after Mother was settled in her bed, I sat at my
computer, writing at a story with very little success. When Emily switch
off her bedroom light down the hall, I left my computer and came to her
bed. "Honey, could you move over and let me lay down?"
She sighed, and scooted over. I lay down beside her, both of us now on
our backs in the dark. I reached over at placed my left hand on her upper
thigh and began a gentle movement. "Honey, I need help. Maybe you could
help me try to revive things between us."
Nothing.
"Is there anything I could do, or you'd like me to do?" I asked.
Long pause. "I can't think of anything," she finally said.
"You know, I like oral sex, and we used to do it occasionally. Would
you like to try that with me again?" My hand continued making small circles
on her thigh, covered by her thin nightgown.
Silence.
"Maybe we need to see a counselor." I said.
"You are a counselor."
"Yes, but even then, it may help to have a third party's input. You
know, it's like the old saying about a lawyer who represents himself has a
fool for a client?"
"I know what the problem is."
"What?"
"We're getting to that age."
"But I'm still interested, Darling, and we need to do something to
revive this sexual relationship."
Silence.
Silence.
I stopped stroking her thigh.
Silence.
I didn't break it with another word. I quietly slipped out of bed and
back to my computer. My bed was in the guest room, waiting for me.
Seeing a counselor would mean we would have had to answer some
questions, explore for the right answers. Before it was over, I would have
known what I already had concluded: if that old woman were out of the way,
everything would be fine. Emily would have learned that she essentially
hated someone whom I loved. She would have learned that I had grown to
resent her for that. She would have learned that I looked upon sex as an
integral part of marriage and was unwilling to continue a marriage without
it.
Mother died. A final, devastating stroke took her. That old woman was
out of the way. If Emily ever thought our relationship would find its
former level, she was wrong. She was not stubborn, or hateful, or abrupt
anymore. There is no longer any reason to be. We have a daughter and
granddaughter who idolize us both. We have a son-in-law whom we cherished.
Emily loved me. I loved Emily, but there was a void sexually, and she will
not move on the issue, and I had stopped trying.
Reilly, of course, didn't know this, but it was into that kind of
setting that she had come to to cast her charm, put her knees on either
side of mine, her hands on my leg, and kiss me. The current was electric,
and in any other context, I probably would have melted and relented, but my
vocation was at risk, maybe my family, and I just could not.
It's been almost a month since that truncated case history, but not a
day has passed that I have not thought of it. So, here I am tonight,
putting together a story that may sell to a magazine that deals in this
genre, or may not. I write under a pseudonym that only my agent and I
know. Writing has been my solitary solace and outlet for numberless
frustrations. Emily was not aware of my avocation, except for some young
adult stories written from the standpoint of an adolescent boy.
I exit my word processor and take a break from the story. I sign on AOL
and bring up the Toledo Today Web Page to take in the local scene. Side
Item: "Night Classes at Maumee Community College." I click on it. Up comes
the schedule for the fall classes. My eye falls on "Department of
English." I scan down the column and locate "Creative Writing 201. Course
Explanation: Natural Writing, Outlining, Circling, Thought Maps, Personal
Context. Class meets: Tuesdays and Thursdays 7-9 PM., beginning September
5. Instructor: Reilly Bartee, BA, MA, University of Ohio. Cost: $200.00
per semester. Enroll Online with Credit Card. I did.
END OF PART 3
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