She doesn’t respond for several long minutes.
I let her think.
“No offense, but I find it hard to believe that you’re getting nothing out of this.”
“Oh, I’m not getting ‘nothing’ out of this,” I assure her candidly.
“Then what is it that you want? Because I’m not…”
“That’s off the table. We’ve already addressed that.” I fall silent for a few steps, debating how best to explain my position to her. “Samantha, I was being honest when I told you that I fight this…desire of mine. Maybe I’m hoping that by fixing you, I can fix me, too.”
“Can I ask why? You seem perfectly willing to embrace it.”
“There was a time when I was. But things change. Things happen. It’s not something I’m entirely comfortable pursuing anymore.”
“Why?” she asks again.
I frown down at her. “Who’s here to help whom?”
She searches my eyes for a few seconds before she looks down at her feet. I hear her sigh. “So, what is your plan then? How do you think you can help me?”
“Why don’t we start with you telling me what’s bothering you? And I don’t mean right now. I mean, what is it that has brought you here, to this place in your life? What are you afraid of?”
If hesitation and uncertainty were tangible things, they’d be flying off her and hitting me in the face. I know she wants to trust me, to trust somebody. I know she wants help, wants to live a normal life, whatever that means to her. But she’s afraid.
I don’t speak again until she answers. I wanted us to have time. And quiet. And distance from the world around us. We have that here. And she has more privacy, walking in the dark on a lonely stretch of beach, than she would in an office, in a clinical setting with me sitting across from her, staring at her as I await answers to her most personal questions.
“I told you before that my mother was an escort. I don’t know if she ever got paid for sex, but she did bring men home sometimes. Not every night she worked, but she did it more often than not. I could always hear them,” she admits quietly as her mind goes back in time. “Screams and moans and grunts and growls. I was young and I always wondered what they were doing, but she made me promise never to come into her room. So I didn’t. For a long time. But one night when I was nine years old, her door came open. I don’t know if it wasn’t closed well to begin with or if someone on the inside opened it. I just know that when I got up to go to the bathroom, it was open.
“I was curious, of course. What child wouldn’t be? So when I saw that the door was open, I went to look. That first time, I was more confused than anything. I saw my mother tied to the bed, face down, and some guy spanking her while he…did things to himself.”
Even in the pale moonlight, I can see the pink stain her cheeks. I find it interesting that a woman who writes erotic tales about vampires and virgins blushes over the mention of mast***ation. I file it away to ponder later.
When she falls silent, I ask a question to prompt her to continue. “How was your mother reacting?”
“She looked like she was in pain, but when he stopped, she told him to spank her harder.”
“How did that make you feel?”
“I was angry. And confused. And torn. I wanted to say something, to make him stop hurting my mother, but I knew I’d get in trouble for watching, so I didn’t say anything.”
“Did you go back to your room?”
She gives a long, tell-tale pause. “No.”
“Why not?”
Samantha shrugs. “Fear. Curiosity. I’m not sure.”
When she doesn’t go on, I ask another question. “Was that the only time you saw her?”
“No.”
“Did you like watching her?”
“No!” she says emphatically. “Oh, God! It was horrible.”
“Then why did you?”
“I didn’t for a long time. I would put a pillow over my head to drown out the sounds. It wasn’t until I heard more than just one woman’s voice that I ever went back to her door at night.”
“And how old were you then?”
“Fifteen.”
“Tell me about it.”
I see her chest rise and fall with her deep inhalation. “I went because I was afraid for my mother. I didn’t know what more than one person might do to her. So I crept down the hall and stood in front of her door. I just listened for a while. It’s when I started to hear some banging around that I got up the nerve to twist the door knob and crack the door just a tiny bit. I did it and then ran back to my room, just in case someone inside noticed.”
“And did they?”
“No, no one noticed. I’m sure they were far too busy enjoying themselves.”
“You must’ve gone back.”
“I did. I waited until I was sure no one would notice and I crept back down the hall and pushed it open just enough so I could see inside.”
“And what did you see this time?”
“My mother was with another woman and a man on the bed. Both the woman and the man were doing things to her. To each other, too. When I was satisfied she wasn’t being hurt, I started to back away.”
“But you didn’t?”
“No. That’s when I saw the other couple in the room.”
“And what were they doing?”
“The girl probably wasn’t much older than I was. She was on her knees with her face on the floor. Her hands were tied behind her back and he was holding on to them as he pushed something in and out of her. Hard. And fast. She was moaning and he was telling her to take it all like a good little girl.”
“Did that scare you?”
Her mouth opens and closes twice before she speaks. “A little.”
“Why?”
“Well, the two times I’d seen people having sex were both…unusual and, to a child, almost violent. Painful looking. So yes, it scared me.”
“Could you not understand that she was enjoying what he was doing to her?”
“Yes, but I think that was part of the problem.”
“How so?”
“To a kid’s way of thinking, it looked like the only way to find pleasure in sex was through violence and pain.”
“Were these the only times you saw things like that?”