Miles' Session with Sally
I considered decapitating my alarm clock. Last night's adventure had kept me up well past my normal bed time. Still, I headed for the gym accompanied by a cup of coffee, my tablet pc (to make notes), headphones, and the recording of Monday's session with Theresa. Thankfully, my surmise of the preceding evening was accurate: while the hard exercise dulled my libido I carefully reviewed Monday's session with Theresa.
I returned home to dress. I put on the garters and stockings, a lambskin red leather top, and a black leather skirt. The skirt fell just below my knees. I finished with a pair of ankle boots with a 3 3/4 inch heels. I checked the mirror; I did look good. If the boy wanted leather, he was going to get leather.
After the staff left at 5:00 I checked my hair, freshened my make-up, straightened my outfit, pick up my office, and reviewed my notes. Miles arrived promptly at 5:30. I put down the notes, shook his hand, and directed him to the couch.
He was a good-looking young man. A bit over six feet tall, he shared Theresa's dark complexion and dark hair. Unlike her warm brown eyes, his were hazel. He was well-dressed and well-groomed. He also spent time in the gym; his body was lean with a good muscle tone. I could see why Theresa found him attractive.
There are many problems interviewing teenage boys, starting with their default position: never tell adults the truth. Moreover, even a straightforward teenager often does not have the vocabulary and experience to talk about him or herself. An adult may know his or her anger is a mask for fear or frustration, a teenager may not. I could pierce almost any wall erected by a teenager, but it could take time. I decided to test his honesty immediately.
We exchanged pleasantries and I confirmed he knew why he was here. His mother, it turned out, had related her experiences with me in explicit detail. I asked how he had prepared for our session.
"What do you mean?"
"Who did you talk to or what did you read in order to learn about the session and how you should respond?"
He looked surprised. "How did you know?"
"Why don't you just tell me."
"I have a friend, Scott Stone, his mother is a psychiatrist, Lauren Stone."
"I know Dr. Stone." Lauren Stone was among our community's most respected mental health professionals. While she and I were not particularly close, I had worked with her on several occasions. She was meticulous and detail-oriented. Her appearance reflected her work. While she favored top-of-the-line designers, her clothes were never flashy. She was trim and her make-up and hair always perfect. I also remembered meeting her son, a tall lanky kid who was still growing into his body. He did not have his mother's cool grace. Another image then popped into my mind: Lauren on her knees, not a hair out of place, her make-up precisely applied, jerking off her son until he came, spraying his jism onto her perfectly coiffed face.
Miles was continuing his story. I was able to determine from context what he had been saying during my lapse of attention. After his mother's Friday session he had wondered whether I would want to talk to him. He called his friend Scott and invited himself over. While there he asked Dr. Stone if he could talk to her for a few minutes. She agreed and he told her there was a chance he would be visiting a therapist to address certain family issues. He wanted to know what his spin should be, how he should approach it.
"What did she say?"
"She said if I wanted to fix the problem, I would tell it as straight as I could, including saying I wasn't sure when I wasn't sure. She also warned me that the good ones would know I was spinning it. This meant not only that I wouldn't fool them, but that they would then have to ask themselves whether whatever else I said was, at best, designed to game the system or, at worst, flat-out dishonest. I asked who were the good ones. She rattled off about six names, and said she was sure she was forgetting several others. Yours was one of the names she mentioned."
Inside, I glowed with pride. Lauren Stone did not hand out compliments lightly. Of course, she didn't know how far over the line I had already gone with Theresa. That would, I suspected, rachet me closer to the bottom of her list. If I could get this consultation behind me, I could get back to the straight and narrow.
"So how are you going to play it?"
"Well, Dr. Stone says play it straight, my Mom adores you, and you've already figured out I talked to another shrink, I mean mental health professional. I will do my best to answer your questions."
I had not really said that he had consulted with a professional, my inquiry was more general, but I let it pass. Having a client think you're omniscient can be helpful. I also let the "shrink" thing pass.
"When did you first find Theresa sexually attractive?'
"As long as I can remember I thought I had the prettiest and nicest Mom in the neighborhood. My first explicit memory of seeing her sexually, however, was when I received my driver's license. She had driven me to Department of Motor Vehicles. After I got the license, she said I should drive home. I opened the passenger door for her to get in. She said I was more of a gentlemen then Dad and sat down. Her dress pulled up above her knees and I thought, it seemed out of nowhere, Mom's got great legs."
"What was your reaction to that thought?"
"Its hard to answer that question. I've thought about that moment thousands of times since it happened. I not sure if I remember what I thought or if I only remember what I thought about what I thought. If that makes any sense?"
Actually it did. The research was clear that the more often a person recalled an event, the less trustworthy the memory. The repeated contemplation of an event changes the memory of the event. I also noted that he had passed on an opportunity to tailor the story to his advantage.
"It is probably the right answer," I told him. He seemed relieved.
"Let me ask you a slightly different question. It was two years from the time you remember first seeing your Mom sexually to the time you became lovers. What was your sexual attitude towards her during that time?"
He shifted position. "There were a lot of attitudes -- it depended on the time of day. I spent a lot of time telling myself I was a frickin' perve. I mean, it's weird checking out your Mom. Then I would tell myself if I looked at her often enough she would revert to being my Mom. But part of me knew I was lying to myself, the fact is I just liked to look. But in any case, it was all pointless, you've seen her, she's hot. Looking at her was not going to help.
"I would tell myself it was some weird passing fancy. I actually started to spend more time with her, thinking that hanging with her would move me back to normal. It didn't. I loved her company. After awhile I had to just admit I had a crush on my Mom which I hoped, as you adults like to say, I would grow out of. Not that I would have turned her down if she reciprocated, but she showed no interest."
"Did you consider talking to her about it?"
"No, I was way too chicken for that. The last thing I needed was to tell my Mom I was a pervert. But, still, I paid attention to her and learned what she liked. Mom would drop some hint about what she wanted to do Friday night. Dad wouldn't hear it, but I would. So she and I would end up at some show in the city and Dad would go to bed early. In my head I would pretend it was a date. Like, when we want to the symphony I would spend much of the performance rubbing her neck. But I got no response from her and I'm sure she had no idea what I was thinking. At the end of the evening, in my room, I would imagine that we were still together, that we were lovers and, y'know...."
His voice trailed off.
"Play with yourself?" I suggested.
"Yeah, that."
"It became sort of an ongoing fantasy for me. It was like a crush on a movie star, its fun to think about but you know nothing is ever going to happen, although you wish it would. It probably would have never gotten any further than neck rubs except for that day at the beach."
"Please, go on," I said.
"I had heard them fight the night before and was on the porch when the argument picked up the next morning. I listened to them start and then stayed longer than I should. I guess I spied on them. And while I was not all that experienced, I knew I could be a better lover than Dad. Since her sister had talked about how she loved to dance I had often fantasized about talking her out dancing. I decided to ask her. I figured if she objected I could pretend it was all in fun. I did not really expect, but I guess I hoped, something would come of it."
"How did you feel that night."
"Scared shitless."
"Your mother described a confident guy full of bravado."
"That was the guy from my fantasy. I'd been rehearsing him in my head for months."
