If you don't read "Mania" published November 7, 2016, this will make no sense to you. The only summary I provide here is that Dave has been told by his shrink that since his wife Jennifer is almost certainly impregnated with Dave's fraternal twin brother Rob's kid that Dave is in a totally fucked up situation and he needs to simply get the hell out of there and move 1,000 miles away.
*************
Siri gave me the location of two cities roughly 1,000 miles away. I picked the one in the state that hadn't voted for Donald Trump and was soon on my way in my six year old, but highly functional and reliable, Ford Fusion. I stayed in a motel only one night – then I was able to get a small furnished apartment in a very mediocre part of the city near a hospital. That same day – a Thursday – I called my previous employer, a hospital where I worked as a lab technician.
I always had a good relationship with my supervisor. I was completely honest with her about how fucked-up my life had become, and what the shrink advised me. She was understanding, however because I hadn't given two weeks' notice she couldn't pay me for my accumulated sick leave, although she could for my annual leave. I gave her the address to send my final check after getting her to swear that she would tell no one what it was, and also assured me that she would give a great recommendation to a potential new employer – and not mention my sudden departure.
There were dozens of calls on my iPhone when I checked after my talk with my former employer; several from Jenny, several from Rob, one from Cathy, and one from my parents, in addition to a few non-related calls. I deleted them all without listening to them, tried the best that I could to delete all personal information from my smartphone, canceled my account, and gave the phone to a charity. I bought a simple old-fashioned flip "burner" phone, added money from a card to it, and walked over to the hospital a few blocks from my new apartment.
Something finally went my way; the hospital had two immediate openings for lab technicians and interviewed me and called my old supervisor right on the spot. They hired me that same day and asked if I could start work the next day – which I happily did.
**************
For the next five months I primarily worked, ate, slept, and went to movies or minor league sporting events. I had almost no social life outside of work, although there was a married couple in my building that I did do a few things with, and a single guy in accounting at the hospital that I palled around with a little. I didn't apply for or use credit cards, only used the hospital's credit union for cashing my paychecks, and essentially paid for everything in my simple life with cash.
The only people that I had any contact with from my previous life were my parents, who I called about once every two weeks, normally on a Saturday morning. However, I early on established the ground rules for contact with them. I told them that they could never ask where I was, nor did I care for any information about Jenny, Rob, or Cathy. I told them that as much as I loved them if they violated those guidelines I'd cut off contact with them too.
My Mom was very sad; but she's a strong woman and sucked it up and went along with my conditions. My Dad was actually understanding; the only comment he had in our first conversation was that even though he had incomplete information he had accused Jenny and Rob of driving me away and reamed them out; and then said nothing further about it.
I had no expectation of staying married to Jenny. I was sure that she'd divorce me for abandonment, which suited me just fine. Rob could raise the kid he had with Jenny if he wanted to, or she could be a normal single mom. Except for when I woke up in a cold sweat during the night sometimes, my mania, obsession, or whatever you want to call it, for Cathy had almost disappeared. More often than thinking about Cathy, however, was my recollection of Jenny's thighs and pussy which I admittedly had not revered enough when I was married to her, but that Rob apparently had.
On a Saturday morning five months and several days after I took off I called my parents' house and the male voice that answered didn't sound exactly like Dad. "Dad," I asked, "is that you?"
"Dave – don't hang up; Mom and Dad were killed in a car crash," was Rob's hurried response.
"What?" I asked, not believing what I had heard.
"Sorry, man; it's lucky that you called. The funeral is Wednesday at Robinson's funeral home on Forest Lane near their house. We can talk about the estate when you come," Rob continued.
"What time?" I asked.
"11:00 a. m. with a luncheon to follow. When you come we also need to talk..." he started to say, but once I had the time of the funeral I hung up.
I was depressed the entire day. However, when I woke up in the middle of the night for some reason I had the strangest feeling. I don't know why – it may have been the lack of emotion in Rob's voice, the background noises when I was on the phone with him, or maybe something in my psyche – but I suddenly was overwhelmed with suspicion.
Sunday afternoon – when if standard procedure was followed Rob would be at a football game – from one of the few working pay phones left in America I called my parents' house again. "Hello," came my Mom's voice.
I did my best not to faint or be startled. "Hi, Mom; I was hoping to get you today. Are you and Dad doing OK?"
I was starting to choke up. "Yes, of course. We were hoping that you would call today because yesterday we took Kyle out...Oh, I'm sorry,...I forgot I wasn't supposed to talk about that...Anyway, Rob came over to put in some new smoke detectors for Dad."
We chatted some more; then my Mom got solemn and started to cry. "Please, Dave; will you let us tell you about Kyle? I really need to..." and then I could no longer understand her she was sobbing so much.
"Sorry Mom, it's too soon; listen I'll call you again next Saturday. Say hi to Dad."
I didn't want to tell her what Rob had done – it was amazing that in less than a year I had come from loving Rob completely to despising him. I did emit a minor chuckle, however, at the thought of Rob and Jenny waiting at Robinson's Funeral Home to sandbag me on Wednesday but that I wouldn't be showing up.
***************
Even though I rarely interfaced directly with doctors at work, the hospital did have a program where all employees had to see a psychiatrist on a random basis, usually once every two years, for an evaluation. My number came up only about ten days after Rob had given me the misinformation about my parents' deaths. Because I had never had a psych evaluation before, the shrink knew nothing about me. She was really skillful at drawing me out, and the session that was designed to last thirty minutes lasted ninety five as I spilled out all my issues.
"Dave," Dr. Susan Bremer said at about the ninety minute mark, "you're going to have mental health issues in the future unless you deal with your situation now. The doctor who advised you to take off had it only partially right. You need counselling and a series with a sex therapist, and to get on a regular exercise program."
"What?" was my intelligent reply. "Why a sex therapist?" I asked dealing with the part of her advice that hit me hardest.
"You presently have a poor self-image relating to sex. I'm quite certain that it is uncalled for, and brought about just because of your wife's reaction to your brother; but you need to improve your self-image otherwise you won't have a satisfying sex life in the future.
"How much will that cost?" was my next question.
"Given what I'm going to write up after our session, the hospital's insurance will cover more than 90% of it. You NEED to do it; here's who I recommend," she continued, handing me a business card. "If for some reason you don't feel comfortable with her I can provide you with other alternatives. Also, you MUST start a regular exercise program. The hospital offers cross-training classes for all employees as part of our wellness program, or you can take up a martial art; and in any event you should join a health club."
I readily accepted the advice about an exercise program, and started cross-training classes the next day, and got a membership at a health club the day after. The "sex therapist" advice I stewed about, however.
Despite my angst, a week later I was nervously waiting in the anteroom of the office of Madeline DuBois BSc, MSc, AASECT. The wall hangings indicated that she had a Master's degree in psychotherapy from UNC-Chapel Hill, several years of clinical experience, a state regulatory license, and most importantly – according to Dr. Bremer – an AASECT certification (a national sex therapist certification). My heart was beating so hard that I was sure that the petite receptionist could hear it. At the exact moment my appointment was scheduled, Madeline DuBois came out of her office.
Ms. DuBois looked exactly like I pictured a sex therapist would look like. She was well put together, but her dress was understated. She was not close to a raving beauty but she did have a pleasant, open and friendly face, her celestial nose adorned with a pair of rimless frame glasses. The visible portions of her arms and legs looked to have just the right amount of muscle definition.
"Hello Dave; so nice to meet you," she said with a genuine smile as she approached me and I stood up. "I'm Madeline – we don't use last names here," she continued as she clasped my right hand with both of hers, which seemed strong but soft at the same time. "Come right in," she continued, holding my right hand in her left as she led me into her office.
Madeline and I sat knee-to-knee in her office, most of the time with her holding one of my hands between hers. Despite my apprehension in the waiting room, I was relaxed within five-ten minutes, enchanted by her bright smile, sparkling eyes, and easy manner. Our first session was only talk, getting to know each other, speculation about what issues I might have, and information about how we would proceed in the future. Madeline wasn't just a talk therapist, however – she was also hands-on. My only real assignments after the first session were to get a complete STD screening (which of course is what the laboratory I worked in did all of the time), and to be able to articulate what my major issues were when it came to sexual performance.
Although I should not be, I am embarrassed to describe in detail the therapy sessions that Madeline and I had. The first hands-on session was extremely embarrassing because Madeline's understated clothed appearance gave way to an almost Aphrodite unclothed one, and my excitement resulted in two premature ejaculations. By the third session, however, I was making good progress and could look at things more (all though far, far from completely) clinically. During the seventh session I had the most complete sexual experience of my life up until that time – one that left the always professional and in-control Madeline panting and speechless. She was groggy when I left her inner sanctum that day, and her diction was unsteady as she gave me information about my eighth session.
When I arrived for my eighth session, Madeline pronounced me cured, gave me written pointers to keep in mind, and an instruction sheet and DVD of male Kegel exercises. I guess as is common, I developed an attachment to Madeline, but she was entirely professional during our last session, and sent me off only with a quick hug, no other expression of intimacy.
I actively started daily male Kegel exercises the next day.
I could not believe what two months of sessions with Madeline, along with my now six days a week cross-training classes or visits to my health club, did to improve my self-image and psyche. It made my libido soar. I badly needed to get my rocks off, and fortunately there was a woman who I saw almost every day when I walked to work who seemed to be attracted to me.
Leslie worked at a coffee shop between my apartment and the hospital, and she normally was sprucing up, and moving tables and chairs around on, the outdoor seating area for the coffee shop when I walked by. I don't know if that was her regular job or she just did it to see me, but she was there almost every day at the same time. She and I would chat for two or three minutes every day, and she'd give me a nice smile.
