Homework
MY PHONE VIBRATED WITH a text.
Staying sane?
My buddy Hugo had sent it. I met him at the mental hospital when I’d checked myself in. I loved the fact that I had a close friend from a mental hospital. It led to interesting answers to the question, "Where did you two meet?" We were the same age, and we clicked in therapy sessions, and while going through the program.
I found recovery from my suicidal ideations to be easier with a friend. We understood each other's issues and we understood that sometimes we just needed to talk with someone. So our friendship worked on a lot of levels. He was one of the few who knew all of my secrets.
A beautiful man, half Caucasian, half African-American, he had greenish eyes, dark skin, tattoos, and serious biceps. Time at the gym meant that he had a brawny body, which matched his rough-around-the-edges personality. He was also bisexual and extremely sexual, at all times, with essentially anyone attractive and available.
And he was a felon, which frankly made me laugh, because even though I was a lawyer, I was also prissy; I didn’t hang out with criminals, except him. His felony conviction stemmed from some marijuana charges that he got before he received his marijuana card. Well, that plus selling to an undercover police officer in San Diego. And some other, um, crimes. I liked to tease him about it. But we had a lot in common since he liked Harry Potter too. Well, specifically, he liked Lee Jordan's character, and told me about it in intricate, sexual detail. Perv.
Never was sane, darling.
Me neither. Busy?
Oh, and he repeatedly asked me out. Even though he lived with a woman, he checked Tinder—and Grindr—constantly, and he spent his time constantly trying to hook up with, well, humans, including me.
Yep. Trial. Will need to blow off some steam after though.
After I sent that text, I questioned it. I couldn't go drinking with him because he was an alcoholic and I wasn't. But of course he picked up on my text in a different way:
I can help you with that.
Flirt. Still, I was used to fending him off.
Love ya darling but never.
Never say never.
I texted my friend Marie, the one who has been by my side since third grade.
Hugo flirted with me again.
I felt a bit like I was tattling, but I normally told her everything. She knew how good-looking he was, but she also knew how flirty he was since he flirted with her, too.
That boy …
Then I realized that I hadn’t told her about Ryan. That discussion would need to be done in person, I thought.
Yeah. Come play with me after trial is done? Need to drink.
Wouldn't miss it.
She certainly wouldn't, the party girl.
I spent the remainder of my week and the weekend preparing for trial. But finally, our exhibit books were made, trial briefs marked, pretrial motions all taken care of, and I’d spent more time than I cared to preparing my client and other witnesses for their testimony. In the back of my mind lurked my homework from my therapist.
Was I really buying a vibrator? Breaking my rule of no toys? Did that count as a toy? It wasn't, like, a spanking bench. Maybe I would just buy a book. So much for focusing on my trial.
I became an attorney six years ago, and after the next year I’d be considered for partnership. The mid-size firm that I worked for in Santa Barbara had a great clientele, region-wide presence, and dedication to excellence. Or so we told ourselves and our clients. But seriously, it was a great place. Since I was "just" an associate attorney, and had not been promoted to partner—meaning that I was an employee, not an owner of the company—I worked with a partner on this trial as his second in command. The first-in-command partner was gorgeous, intense, and clearly not interested in me: Jake Slausen.
Four years older than me, and practically a foot taller, Jake embodied the definition of tall, dark, and handsome. During these late nights, I totally ogled his blue eyes—I swore they were made out of cut gemstones—and chiseled cheekbones. I just hoped that I did it in stealth-mode. He was good looking in a way that was completely distracting. Lucky for me, he was also completely unavailable because one, I worked for him and two, he was a serious workaholic. A further good thing, for me, was that his personality stunk. He had no time for anything but work. I had heard from the guys in the office that if they needed to talk to him, they had to follow him down the hall and talk in the bathroom because he wouldn't take the time to talk in his office if he was focused on a case. Weirdo.
Nevertheless, eye candy was always a good thing.
By Sunday night, we were as ready for the trial as we were going to be and I went home. I decided that what my bank thought of me didn’t matter—it probably didn't scrutinize the purchases on my statements anyway—so I downloaded six naughty books on my e-reader and bought a deluxe vibrator from some Swedish company, paying for expedited shipping. I had a break on Monday because the trial didn’t start until Tuesday. In the meanwhile, I had a few appointments to keep.
The next day I went to my therapist. Even though our trial would begin the following day, I made a point to see my therapist. I might even add an extra day this week because of the increased stress of trial—and the way a certain Sun God affected me.
"Have you been having any fantasies lately about suicide?"
"No, not anymore." I said. Then I admitted in a quiet voice, "Other type of fantasies, though."
She smiled.
I need to stop here and mention the name of my therapist: Christian Gray. With an "a" in Gray. And she's a woman. She was a lightly plump, elegant African-American, with bright eyes. Nevertheless, it made me giggle to no end to put a date with Christian Gray on my calendar each week. Not that I had read That Book. That Book was for other people, not me. I read Shakespeare. Well, that and the six books that I had downloaded on my e-reader. But I digress.
Something that I had learned from my therapy sessions over the past year was that a definition of depression was "anger turned inward." Perhaps. Before, I didn't even know that I was angry: Angry at my ex. Angry at God. Angry for what I had lost. Angry for the way my life was turning out. Angry at wasting my time feeling guilty or depressed about things that were part of my upbringing or environment, but were not who I really was. I was moving past all of those things. Now that I had processed some of the anger, it had opened me up to being able to feel other things. Therapy also helped me realize that the depression was not my fault, which was something easy to say, but not easy to believe. Nevertheless, as I talked with my therapist about the guilt that I felt about my sexuality, I knew that I had a lot more to do. Including a few more homework items before I went to trial the next day.
After I left my therapist and drove to my next appointment, I wondered if I’d ever see Ryan again. All I needed to do was go to the coffee shop and see him. I wondered if I could just take him behind the counter and have my way with him. He didn't seem like he’d mind.
It's funny. As a lawyer, advocating for my clients, I was used to being cocky, saying my mind, and arguing. But when it came to myself, I could be shy and often I wouldn’t ask for what I wanted. I needed to work up the nerve to see Ryan again—and then to be brave enough to actually talk with him and be myself with him. And then I wanted to see where it would go.
"YEEEE-OWWWWWWW!!!!!"
I could taste blood in my mouth.
That HURT. Fuck!
I sat, no, lay on my back in a small, white room at a salon. I wore nothing under my belly button, and the bottoms of my feet pressed together so that I looked like a frog. Yeah, I felt exposed. And holy hell, that hurt like a mother.
Thankfully, the friendly, but no-nonsense, attendant made this completely surreal situation bearable. She merrily told me that she had done this to all of her friends. So she didn't have issues about ripping the hair off of a hoo-ha or anywhere else down there. I didn't even know you could get hair in some of those places. I guess I’d never explored those parts.
Now that I thought about it, it was pretty funny that I had yelled so loud. I was normally a quiet, retiring sort of girl.
Well, sometimes.
But after a few more applications of warm wax, a few more rips, and a dash of a spray, she deemed me fit for consumption—so to speak.
I hastily put on my panties and pants and shoes and felt very, very funny in that sensitive area. It was now an ultra-sensitive area. Smooth, waxed, and ready. Now I needed to walk out of here and face the receptionist and pay. Funny how that embarrassed me. Like, uh-oh, she knows what I did.
I found myself signing up for a year's worth of waxing.
As I made my way to my car, I passed a lingerie shop that I noticed on the way in.
What the hell, I thought. Might as well do that too.
I normally wore matching bras and panties, but nothing special. I usually shopped for underwear in nude, white, or black, and it certainly was nothing that I wanted to be photographed in for a boudoir shot.
But when I walked in the store, the beautiful red satin, black lace over cream, and turquoise lingerie struck me as something necessary to living.
The saleslady, who must have been about seventy years old, and looked tough as nails, said, "Need some help?" She scared me a little bit. Still. Onward.
"Uh, yeah." I was loquacious with her too.
"Have you been measured lately?" she asked briskly.
"Uh, no."
"Let's get you in here."
She pushed me into an elegant, but tiny room to change in, and climbed in there with me, seriously invading my personal space. Before I knew it, she poked, prodded, and announced my bra size. "Honey, I've been doing this so long I don't need a measuring tape. I'll be back, wait here."
I waited for just a moment, and she returned, loaded down with gorgeous bras, and gave me one to try on.
She stepped out, I put it on, and opened the curtain tentatively to show her. She came in and invaded my personal space again, by adjusting straps and the cups (hello, girls), and then she stepped back to admire her handiwork.
"That's lovely, dear."
I looked in the mirror. She was right.
A lavender bra, with underwire and lace, held me up in all the right places, and my girls were in there like little eggs in a nest. Or something. But it made me look … right. I looked sexy.
I wanted more.
"I'll take it," I said, and she gave me a pleased smile. "And the matching panties."
An hour later, I loaded up the trunk of my car with bags of pretty lingerie wrapped in tissue paper. I’d never owned so many pretty, lacy things. I treated myself to nice things sometimes, and dressed professionally, but I normally didn't go for the overtly sexy look. But these purchases were a treat just for me and were something that only I would know about.
And perhaps a certain surfer.