Ready Fire Aim

03) READY, FIRE, AIM

The one where Tara helps Damian with perspective. And manhood.

Damian continues his therapy to recover from his Dominatrix wife's brutal, traumatizing attack when she demanded a divorce publicly. He's relearning to build his sense of sexuality and manhood with an unconventional Alt sex therapist.

Oh, I'm struggling. I'm struggling with my feelings.

A tall, tight blonde walks by in her form-fitting gym clothes on the way to another machine and I don't even know what to think. I just have to pump this iron.

I replay the conversation with Anne yesterday. Reviewing my "date" with Tara was mind-blowing. Tara was able to take away in one brief session so much of the anxiety that I'd been nurturing. It's been like I was purposely growing weeds in the garden. Yes, Anne can

tell

me and that talks to my brain. But Tara

shows

me and that talks to my soul. I learn by doing.

The first thing that shook me in the conversation is when Anne just dropped "PTSD" into the conversation like it was already a given. I'd thought that that was all about returning Vietnam vets, but she explained that trauma is trauma and that's what I was going through. And then she looked at me intently and told me how many PTSD suffering vets ended their pain the easy way and that's why she'd taken me

so

seriously back when I 'had' a gun. (She still thinks that's a past-tense, thankfully, and I tried not to give away my secret with my eyes.) She says it like an apology. I think she's accepted my deception - that I wasn't really going to do it. But I may yet.

The TV monitors on the wall of the gym all blare for a moment - apparently, someone accidentally turned on the volume and quickly turned it off.

I related to Anne how I was feeling during the encounter and get to the unfamiliar reaction to Tara's playful ass-smacks, the feeling of being objectified and ordered, controlled... and that I kinda liked it and found comfort in it. Anne seemed to lean into the conversation more when I said that. She drew it out of me and I confessed to my titillation and curiosity in the ways of domination, swearing her to secrecy. She reassured me that what happened with her stayed with her and then we opened a whole new conversation. I don't exactly know how she got through that wall with me, but Tara made it possible.

She pointed out that to do her dissertation on aberrant BDSM behaviors, that she needed to learn a lot about healthy ones. And she reassured me that there could be healthy ones. To be honest, that rankled me a little - thinking always about Cassie's dalliances and how much I feared for our boys. We talked about what was healthy. And my responses.

She went through a long list of questions with me and said that she'd rate me sixty five percent dominant and thirty five percent submissive. Sticking her pen in her mouth she shrugged and said "That makes you a 'switch'", but had to explain the term to me. I was really curious why she even did that.

I guess I need to read up on this, I thought.

CLANG! Some lunk grunts and dropped his barbell.

She explained that my submissive side was from my emotional intelligence: that I was in tune with the person I was with and just wanted to make her happy. Then she blew me away by saying that's what "will" (what? she said "will" like it was a foregone conclusion?) ...what will also make me a good dominant.

I protested that I didn't plan to go into the lifestyle, just understand it and she smiled knowingly. "Damian, you said it yourself. You learn by doing. But at the end of the day, it's all about choices and you get to make your own."

"But let's explore that: you've said that before this thing with your wife, you were always a 'man's man' in bed. Describe that."

There's a lot of noise as a Zumba class lets out from the exercise room and people are walking down the hall.

"Um... well... taking control. Making her feel protected by someone unconditionally strong. F...fucking her brains out and driving her to orgasms. Taking her like a man does. Making babies."

"OK, good. But... why?"

That's a harder question than it sounds. "Because that's what real men do...?" She looked at me skeptically and it was clear she thought that was a cop-out answer. "OK... because... that's what women need, right? A feeling of strength and protection. A feeling that they are... stimulating to their man. They need... fuck, I don't know... they need the role model... An Alpha."

She took the pen out of her mouth to say, "so... you really acted that way because you thought it was what your wife needed from you...?"

I nodded. That was the right thing to say, wasn't it? Really, I liked the feeling of doing it for them. I like that they get off: it validates me.

"What did she need?"

That question seemed easy, but again: hard. The more I thought, the more it made me sad. "I don't know anymore. Something... different, maybe?"

"Look, Damian... don't get me wrong. Your motivations were noble. You were doing it

for her

. That makes you a helluva guy. Maybe next time, you could to learn how to communicate better about what your next partner

really

wants and needs. And maybe you could communicate better what you want and need. And to do that, you need to start with communicating to yourself."

Why does this idiot next to me feel like he has to grunt each time he pulls the weight?

"So, what I'm saying is... maybe macho-man works for some women. Maybe gentle-man works. Maybe sensitive-man works. Maybe... maybe submissive-man works. Maybe dominant-man works. Maybe equal-partner-man works. Or maybe all those guys have to adapt to the situation... what she needs at the time.

"But the important thing goes back to your motivation. You've already recognized that you act as you do because you're trying to meet your partner's needs. That is so... so... wonderful, Damian. You are the perfect man in this. Maybe it's just time for you to learn more repertoire in

how

to do that...?"

So, we tentatively agreed to add light dominance/submission play to my goal list with Tara, but holding it until Anne could teach me more about doing it right. She said it would be good for my recovery: to understand Cassie a bit better will help me toward truly forgive her, freeing me to move on.

She said I'd made great progress with Tara.

I left her office wondering if I would ever be the same man again, still unsure if it was even a thing that I wanted to do... really. But, yeah... I did. I spoke it to the universe and the universe accommodated.

I pack up my stuff, hit the shower and go home.

--

This time, we skip the dinner part and go straight to my place.

"Maybe next time, we'll do it in the park or something," Tara teases while awkwardly jumping on one foot trying to get her too-tight jeans off the other one.

When the doorbell rings, she giggles and runs her naked body into the bedroom as I pay the pizza delivery guy with a little extra tip: I am feeling generous.

We eat the pizza, her in the nude chatting away - like her nudity was nothing and we are at a street café somewhere. "I don't like clothes. They cover the body, but also cover the soul. I am who I am... What you see is what you get and all..." she laughs at her trite repartee and encourages me to try it: "go on, handsome... take off your clothes. I'd love to see you again..."

"Ummmm..." I think awkwardly. After being conditioned conservatively for years by having kids in the house, it felt unnatural to be natural. "Okay, I'm game. You've seen it all anyway" as I strip and ultimately pull down my underwear, I remember she hasn't

actually

seen it all, but she's seeing it now: in all its raging glory.

She whistles and asks if she can touch it. I gird myself and nod. She reaches and touches it, gently, reverently. Then she bends over and gives it the gentlest of kisses.

I imagine myself exploding on her face... but that only happens in porn.

She thanks me, whistles again and says, "now,

that's

what I'm talking about. When I call you my 'big boy.'" She turns her head a little to the side and points coquettishly "that's what I'm talkin' about." Then, like a dog distracted by a squirrel, her attention snaps and she devours the pizza on her plate as if she'd been discussing the weather. She's such a contradiction of on and off. Hot and cold. Invested and detached. Animal and witty intellectual. And I find all of that a major turn-on. We finish and she hands me the massage oil and drags me to the bedroom. "Now you do me. I've been looking forward to this all weekend."

I don't know what I expected when Anne told me I'd be seeing a sex surrogate, but this was not it. I liked it, but it wasn't at all what I expected.

She flops on my bed face-down like a child flops in a pool and giggles "do me!"

I laugh and she laughs back. I guess I still expected something more reserved and subdued, but I realize she is very intuitive. She reads me like a book, finds the chapter on "how to break walls" then executes it flawlessly. I'm ensnared.

I start working her shoulders, conscious and slightly embarrassed of my hard-on bouncing off her back. I ask her to give me feedback about what works for her - harder, softer, faster? Just asking the question makes her say "awwww" and moan in delight about how thoughtful I am... she says she likes it slow and very, very deep. I'm afraid I'll hurt her, but somehow feel good and macho about showing her, also, that I can be strong and make her like it. Maybe that's the dominant in me. (Why am I thinking in these terms?!?!) We chat idly and she moans a lot as I move down her back.

Then she says it.

"That bitch Cassie has to be crying for what she lost."

BOOM! My thoughts explode. I stop. Breathe. Carefully and in a controlled monotone, I say "She's not a bitch."

I still feel in my primal heart that I have to defend my mate. But she's not my wife. My wife is gone. And she

is

a bitch. But she's really that sweet girl I married and... AAAARRRGH! I start shaking, suddenly feeling vulnerable and like I want to cry. I'm embarrassed that I reacted over such a small thing as if I were a soldier when a hand grenade went off nearby. I get up and sit on the edge of the bed. Tara asks if she can hold me: I think she realizes she said the wrong thing; or maybe it was the right thing and she intended this, I don't know. Maybe I had to confront it. Maybe it was too early. But. I give Tara permission and she holds me from behind. My erection is gone. There I am again: emasculated. She apologizes and asks me if I want to talk about it. I can't find the words, so I just say "No. No thanks."

The mood is shot. After a few minutes, I sigh and look at her over my shoulder apologetically. We both know it's ruined. As I'm putting my gym shorts on, I feel guilty that I gave her only the start of a backrub and ask halfheartedly if she wants me to finish. But neither of us has heart in it so we don't.

On her way out, she apologizes again, hugs me and kisses my cheek. She doesn't feel obligated to give me the attachment lecture tonight, since it's really clear. So, she leaves, encouraging me to talk to Anne. It strikes me hard that they're doing a team therapy, so she'll probably call Anne in the morning to tell her what happened and they'll be talking about me behind my back. Like everyone. It makes me feel exposed and little again.

I pull the key to the safe from out of my pocket...

--

"Yeah, Damian... I

was

debating against myself about starting this therapy so early in your recovery. You need to put your wife behind you to move on and clearly you haven't."

I'm staring at that damn yellow water spot on the ceiling. I feel so defeated that I've let myself lie down on the couch. Now I'm the cliché.

We talk about my feelings... not my strongest conversation area, but it flows smoothly. We talk about unresolved feelings and the dichotomy of loving and hating Cassie at the same time. And how I'm weirdly impressed and phenomenally disappointed and... was that a trichotomy of feelings? A quadchotomy? I could go on. I laugh to myself: a googlechotomy.

We talk about the boys. I truly think Anne is almost as concerned for them as I am. They really are devastated that we've broken apart, but without Cynthia coming over anymore, they are no longer projecting the sense of betrayal they feel on my behalf; I think they're still convinced that I left their mother because of something she did and they feel like Cynthia was a part of that something. We both are telling them it's all stuff that is between us, and doesn't affect our love for them: they have loving parents who care about them. I do everything I can to make sure they don't hate Cassie: they need the reassurance that they have a healthy mother... err... even if she's not.

Anne also arranges for me to attend a "group therapy" session for the victims of cheating and abusive spouses. Ironically, I wonder if I'm going to see Cassie there: what was my cheating compared to her BDSM cheating and abuse? Anne reassures me that I don't have to say anything there, but just knowing I'm not alone will be helpful.

Then the conversation turns back to Tara. Anne and I agree that I should keep trying with her and play it out at least one more time. I make my next appointment with Anne for Monday and she says she'll take care of scheduling the next appointment with Tara the Sunday before.

I leave the office feeling a tad bit better; I'm trying to put the difference between how I was before and after Tara's visit into perspective. Really, not that much had happened for it to swing my mood so hard. Objectively, nothing has changed between me and Tara. Man up, Damian. What is wrong with me?

Anne calls me later and surprises me by explaining that I was going to start my next session with Tara at my gym. I was to play her "personal trainer." That's unique; is it roleplaying?

I'm thinking about it, then, as I'm going into the elevator at work, my cellphone chimes and I look at messages.

Oh, god... there it is. I've been praying for and dreading this text for three months.

It's from Cassie. "I'd like to talk. Can we please meet for coffee or something?"

One part of my brain is screaming "finally!" and another is screaming "FUCK, no!" But I have to put that war on truce as the elevator door opens. I'm feeling more confident at work finally: a little more in control. I can't let Cass's ghost follow me off the elevator and sabotage me. Again. So, I tuck that away back in my brain somewhere, blow it off and resolve for a good day. I pound through the work and by redoubling my attention I accomplish a lot and really do some things to help motivate my team. I finish the day feeling good about what I did and let Cassie's message stay archived in the back of my brain. I grab a couple drinks on the way home and crash.

I awaken Saturday morning to another message from Cass... "please don't ghost me. It's important that we talk." I slam a fast, sharp reply into the phone but hesitate before I hit 'send.' The end of a relationship is like the beginning... every word you say matters so I need to consider my reply. About ten minutes later, she amends "To be clearer... I need to talk. I want to talk."

Shit. Delay delay delay. I don't know how to respond before I talk to Anne. When did I lose all my confidence? "Hi, Cassie. Was working hard yesterday... sorry. Give me a couple days to get my head together about this, OK?"

Then she replies like the consummate therapist I knew. "That's fine. Take the time you need. I'm here and ready to talk when you are."

This is Cassie's weekend with the boys. Saturday is usually my gym day, but I decide to wait so I can work out on Sunday when Tara does. I laugh to myself; I'm not really trained as a personal trainer, but, heck, why not? So, I spend the day shopping, of all things. I'm lost. I'm looking for something, anything, that I can put in my apartment that's all me. A statement. Something new. I want nothing with memories of my shattered relationship with my damn wife. I envision a grand statement of a centerpiece for the table, a flowing abstract sculpture for the shelves, an exotic piece of furniture or a wall hanging that just cries out "masculine world: females beware!" Something that gives the place a more personal touch.

After the whole day shopping, I finally get a coffee mug. It's my favorite shade of blue.

At least I got something.

I go home too depressed to even drink. I turn on the TV, but don't turn up the sound. I open my laptop and search for porn... but there's nothing there that does anything for me. Limp dick city. I search out BDSM porn with guys whipping women, find one and try to imagine that that's me and Cassie: but the faces blur and it becomes Cassie whipping me; I slam the laptop shut and go make myself a protein shake with a shot of whiskey.

I grab the key and get ready for bed. Maybe I just get it over with tonight. Fuck.

--

Sunday comes and weirdly, I feel good about it. Energized. I can do this! I'm supposed to meet Tara at 11:00. I get on my running gear and pound a couple laps around the park, go home and shower, then off to the gym. I put on my best gym clothes - and a sleeveless shirt because it looks good on me. Shows the guns: the other ones. I'm feeling good!

As I go to the gym, I hear that schoolboy voice in my head... something about getting laid. With an effort I try to stop the many dissenting voices and let my mood carry me.

Tara shows up a couple minutes late, clearly out of her element. She's wearing a pair of jean shorts and a t-shirt without a bra. A little sweat and she's going to regret that choice: or, heck, nudist that she is, maybe not.

I hug her for a minute, until it all feels okay again. She hugs me in a sensuous way: virtually melting her soft body into mine and holding me way too long. I sign her in and show her around. I ask her what she ate for breakfast and give her advice on a better pre-workout meal, promising her a pile of protein after our workout.

I show her how to use the machines as we go. Somewhere in the mean part of my brain, I scoff momentarily at the tiny numbers she's pushing, but I have to hand it to her that she's really putting in the effort.

There's something beautiful about her strain. And the way her pierced nipples shape her t-shirt. I can't help feeling like I'm seeing a new kind of beauty here: one I've never fully appreciated. First, I didn't need to concern myself with other body types for sixteen years. Cassie was mine and I was hers and she stayed pretty fit for me. That was great! Then I was with Lily and she's got that hot young hard bod going on. Now I've spent three months in the gym looking at hard bodies walking by. Tara is a complete change from anything that ever even started to represent lust for me. But still, the little brain thought for the big one and started to point the way. She

was

attractive! In a new and exciting way.

Ironically, Tara rests between reps on the abs machine and takes that moment to point out a hard-bodied gymnast-type in tight colorful spandex; she whispers to me that the girl was checking me out when my back was to her. Then she sits up and points to a girl in yellow and says "she was too." And then she points to the MILFS on the treadmills "and them.

"It really turns me on that they want you but I have you" and she winks at me and bites her lower lip hopefully.

My heart swells... and my little buddy too. I smile back. Then she gets back to work until I slow her down a couple machines later, admonishing her not to push it too hard all at once. We do stretching exercises, then head back to the locker rooms.