An Intimate Life (32 page)

Derek was now wedged between the lattice and the rope. I asked him if he was ready to take the next step. His breath picked up and his face and body were flushed.

“Uh-huh,” he said, nearly breathless.

I stood about three feet away from him and started circling around him.

“Does that feel good?” I asked. “I hope so because I’m going to leave you there for days.”

With each revolution I got a little closer until I was close enough to touch him if I stretched out my arm.

I lightly crossed his chest with my fingers and wiggled them as I moved along his warm skin. Derek watched me as I pranced around nude. For a few seconds I felt self-conscious and awkward. To pull myself back into the moment I thought about the long nights with Bob when we spent hours tasting and touching, caressing and masturbating each other. We had intercourse sometimes three or four times in one night, and as I recalled this I started to feel more aroused and my discomfort faded.

I tweaked Derek’s nipples, soft at first and then a little harder.

“Oooh, what’s going on down here?” I said looking at his hardening penis.

Derek let out a few little squeals.

Then I backed off and started orbiting around him again.

“Do you want to kiss me?”

Derek nodded his head.

I brought my lips within a hair of his and then pulled back.

“You’ll have to be quicker than that,” I said.

Derek panted. His lips were engorged and had turned a bright cherry red.

I licked around his nipples and then moved my tongue up his chest and throat.

“What’s this?” I asked as I wiped pre-come off the tip of his penis.

I smeared it on his lips.

“Do you like that?”

Derek licked his lips.

I rubbed my breasts on his abdomen.

“Am I exciting you?”

He tried to maneuver his hands to his penis, but he was too tightly bound.

“What’s that you’re trying to do?” I asked.

I circled around him a few times.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you wanted to touch your cock.”

I traced around his penis with my index finger.

“Oh, aaahhhh,” Derek said.

“Ready?” I asked.

He nodded, and I undid the rope at the top. I pulled it quickly through the first loop and then worked my way down to the last one until it fell on the ground with a soft thud.

He grabbed my shoulders and kissed me while we walked to the bed. I quickly unrolled a condom onto his penis and we lay down next to each other. Soon he was on top of me and we were having intercourse. After he came, he rolled over next to me and panted, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

I put my arm around Derek and led him in some deep breathing. This was an important moment for him, and I wanted to be as supportive as I could. Our work together was less of a shared experience than with most of my clients, and it was also simpler and more straightforward. We weren’t exploring and trading feedback. We were together solely to bring Derek’s fantasy to life, so that it might loosen its grip on him.

In each of our four remaining sessions Derek and I acted out his fantasy. I also did some of the standard surrogacy exercises with him. Despite the alternative focus of our work together, I still thought it might help Derek discover and cultivate other sources of arousal. I grew more at ease with my role as midwife to Derek’s fantasy, especially when I started to see a change in him.

Samantha and I were curious if her theory would prove right. Would finally living out his fantasy help Derek to become less obsessed with it? It was in the fourth session that he first reported to me that his fixation with being tied up was fading, and he didn’t get as aroused as quickly as he did in our earlier visits. The idea of being restrained still excited him, but it wasn’t intruding into his life as much, and he was able to enjoy sex with Melanie more. When I spoke with Samantha after my last session with Derek she reported that he and Melanie has started to find mutual sources of arousal, and while he still indulged in his fantasy, it no longer had a monopoly on his desire.

Working with Derek reminded me of the need for flexibility in the surrogacy process. Sexuality is complicated and some clients benefit from stepping outside of the protocol. I had been a surrogate for close to two decades when I saw him and I never imagined I would work with a client in this way. That Derek responded so well reminded me of the value of hands-on work, even when it takes a form that stretches beyond the usual parameters. That traditional therapy and surrogacy can be a powerful combination was underscored for me once again.

18.

monsieur reaper

M
ichael’s two children with Meg spent a few weeks in Northern California with us every summer. They were delightful kids who had bonded with Jessica and Eric, and had stolen my heart. At forty-eight, having two wonderful younger kids who I didn’t have to provide for was a joy. In addition to his daughter, Michael now had a second son. By the late ’80s they were both old enough to travel without Meg, and when summer arrived they came with us to Berkeley Tuolumne Camp near Yosemite, where we took long hikes, went swimming, and did other fun activities as an unconventional family.

Michael still made regular visits to see the kids in the Pacific Northwest, but when the oldest was four-and-a-half, he asked if she could come visit and I couldn’t refuse. No matter how angry I was at Michael, I couldn’t justify denying his daughter a chance to see her father and become a greater part of his everyday life, even if it was only a few times a year. Later his son began making the trips too. I soon went from allowing the visits to looking forward to them.

My kids also bonded with their half-siblings. Telling them that their father had made a baby with another woman wasn’t easy. After the birth of Michael’s daughter, we sat them down one evening and I explained that they now had a little sister. Their first concern was for me. I admitted that I wasn’t happy with their father, who was uncharacteristically silent at this family meeting. I stressed that the new baby deserved to be loved. I felt no resentment toward her, and I hoped that they didn’t either. When the second child came along, their concern, again, was primarily for me. Jessica and Eric had been raised in an unconventional household, so this news probably wasn’t as shocking to them as it might have been to other kids. They had met Meg and had even traveled with Michael a few times to visit her.

As far as I knew, Meg was happy to have a part-time husband and father for her kids, or at least that’s what I told myself. Michael never said anything to the contrary, but then Michael knew better than to raise the subject of Meg with me. It was just one of the many topics that could spark an argument.

For virtually all of our marriage I had harbored a jumble of feelings toward Michael. I showered him with adoration and affection, while only occasionally giving voice to the anger and resentment that quietly brewed within me. It had to be like that. I loved Michael so deeply and I was so grateful that he was my husband that I couldn’t risk alienating him. That changed, however, when he had his second family. The anger hardened into a contempt I had difficulty concealing. I could feel myself turning bitter, nursing a rage that could poison not just my marriage, but my life. The slightest jolt could release a flood of the vitriol that simmered below the surface.

In truth, this wasn’t just about Michael. Without a doubt, I had changed too. A couple of years shy of fifty, I had more confidence and self-esteem than I had ever had in my life. I deserved better than the indignities Michael had foisted on me. His reckless, insensitive behavior and my hard-won confidence combined to give me a new perspective on Michael. Having a loving, supportive partner in Bob also boosted my sense of self-worth. He loved me unconditionally and it changed how I saw myself.

I was sick of never feeling good enough for Michael and tired of fighting with him, and for him. Life without him no longer seemed like a death sentence. In fact, I could imagine getting along just fine without him as my husband. My confidence may have come late, but there was no mistaking that it had arrived. Jessica was now twenty-seven and Eric twenty-four. They were busily creating their own lives, and they could continue their relationship with their father without me staying married to him.

I knew the process of separating from him would be difficult. Michael, after all, was deeply enmeshed in my life. I had spent most of my life with him. I wasn’t even sure I would be able to look at him and tell him it was over. When I thought about it, I got teary. Our relationship was on life support, but that didn’t mean pulling the plug would be easy.

In 1992, Michael and I went to Boston to attend my thirtieth high school reunion. In public, Michael donned the charming persona I had seen him cultivate over the years. He smiled and looked into my eyes as we danced together. Anyone watching would have thought our marriage was as solid, as permanent as the nearby Berkshire Mountains. If only they had seen us on the plane, or a few days earlier when Michael acted like talking to me was a favor. I suspected his coldness had something to do with Andrea, his new girlfriend.

Michael met Andrea at SFSI, the same place he’d met Meg. The first time I saw them talking together I knew they were sleeping together, and when I confronted him he didn’t bother to deny it. So much for my Ahwahnee declaration that Meg would be the only woman he saw outside of me. With Andrea and Meg he now had two women on the side—that I knew of. To discover that he had betrayed me once again hurt, but it was no surprise. That he didn’t feel the need to deny it, however, was a relief because it spared me the struggle of teasing it out of him, and it was yet another signal that the marriage was nothing more than a shell.

On the flight back to Berkeley, Michael barely spoke to me. When I asked him to lift my bag into the overhead compartment he shot me a sour look and snatched it out of my hand. I don’t think more than ten words were exchanged on the entire trip home. By the time we settled in to bed I was fuming.

“What’s the problem, Michael?” I demanded.

“Nothing.”

“Oh, come on. You’ve been ignoring me since we left for Boston.”

Michael paused for a few seconds, as though he were deliberating.

“You want to know what the problem is? I miss Andrea. I missed her the whole time we were gone. I’ve never felt this way about anyone—including you. I feel something for her that I’ve never felt for you, and I never will.”

That was it. A few years ago this would have crushed me. Now it enraged me.

“Get up. Get out of bed now and go to Andrea. We are not married anymore. I’m not your wife anymore. This marriage is over.”

Michael didn’t move.

“Get out, Michael!” I screamed.

He stormed off to the living room, slamming the door behind him. I jumped out of bed and locked it so he couldn’t return. I was too angry to sleep. I stomped around our small bedroom. I looked at the drawer where I had found Meg’s letters years earlier. That was the beginning of the end, I thought. Then I started crying. These were tears of grief. I was mourning a marriage that was irreversibly, unmistakably dead. At around 3 AM I finally faded into a short, fitful sleep.

When I woke the alarm clock read 5:15 and the dawn was gradually bathing the bedroom in a soft light. I was sad, but also relieved. Now it was out in the open and any lingering doubts or misguided hopes about salvaging the relationship were extinguished. I had come to the marriage with a fantasy about where it would lead and what it would be like. I made Michael into who I wanted him to be, not who he was. There had been wonderful times, to be sure. We’d raised two kind, bright, beautiful kids together, and on some level I would always love Michael. But, after three decades together, I had to face the fact that the marriage was never what I had told myself it was, and Michael was never the husband I had created in my mind. That was an illusion—one that I had crafted, and I was now ready to let it go.

I walked out into the living room and found Michael sitting up on the sofa. He turned his head when he heard my footsteps. Dark circles shadowed his eyes and his hair looked like it had been through a cyclone.

I almost felt sorry for him, but I wasn’t backing down.

“Cheryl, I didn’t mean it. I was just trying to hurt you.”

“Anybody who would do that to me . . . talk to me like that after all the years we’ve been together. I can’t be with you anymore, Michael.”

I looked out our back window at the cottage that sat on our property. It had come with the house when we bought it in 1978. The only question now was how soon Michael would move into it. Within the week Michael had packed up his books, records, clothes, and other belongings and decamped to the backyard.

By April 1993, Michael and I had lived as neighbors for almost a year, and had settled into a kind of friendship. Bob stayed with me several nights a week, and Andrea lived intermittently with Michael. When Jessica and Eric came, we got together in the house that I had now assumed full ownership of and had dinner, watched movies, or just hung out together. As I acquired some distance from Michael, I also gained clarity. Michael had brought his own issues to the marriage. I no longer believed that he couldn’t love me because I wasn’t good enough. Instead I saw how he’d always battled his own insecurities and demons. I wasn’t sure he could love any woman. This helped me to have some compassion for him and to dial back my anger enough for a friendship to grow.