Mr. Peek-a-Boo Eyes and Ms. Heartache

Mr. Peek-a-Boo Eyes and Ms. Heartache  
     
     Rosie and I are a strapping young lass and lad, fresh out of the madhouse. Our compass points true north but leads us to icebergs. We need a navigator to take our marital rudder. Our quest takes us to a group therapy center for the poor in our home of New Orleans.      
     The leader, whose group we are assigned to, is absent that day. In her place is a raven-haired priestess whose dark and smoky mezzo timbre gives me a natural high. Her name is Amber. I instantly trust her.      
     On our first day, I decided to tease our therapist. I am dressed like a Chippendale dancer about to strip. My denim shorts cling to me like tight briefs in an underwear commercial, revealing the growing bulge beneath my zipper.    
     Amber ignores my exhibitionist clothes focusing instead on the therapy at hand. She probes our soft underbellies with her penetrating heart to heart.      
     The ragged souls sit around the room. They seek solace from their storm lashed lives. Amber conducts the orchestra of therapy. Her soft curves and smile soothe the tempest-tossed madmen.      
     In the quiet presage of the session, our conductress sits and gazes in contemplative beauty. Her sage words play on the piano of our hearts.  “Women and men are made differently. To deny that is to deny the truth.”      
     Our calm sea of communing is threatened by a tidal surge. A former prison inmate is spooked by a patient’s eyes. He rises from his chair like a wrathful deity. He slips his jacket off prepared to smite my new found friend, David.      
     Our petite therapist rises from her chair. She pinions the man with her fingers on his neck. With her other hand, she presses womanly energy into his back. His eyes glaze and his jaw goes slack. Her velvet hand is wrapped snugly around his fist of aggression. She soothes his testosterone-addled psychosis. Like a tropic storm, she gathers strength for her feminine foray. She escorts him gently but firmly out the door.    
     Amber takes Rosie and me into her office for a private encounter. She opens, “Paul, if you keep being late for the session I’m going to report you to your Mama!”      
     I reply, “Are you going to use the ruler on me?”    
     She spanks the air with her imaginary ruler while breathing “Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.”
     Rosie asks Amber, “Were you in a sorority? Did you get paddled there?”    
     “Rosie, when I was in college in north Louisiana any group of seven or more women living together in a house was considered a brothel!”
     Rosie says, “Now that you’ve broached the subject a confession is in order. Amber, you may have already seen this in my records from the hospital but I gave erotic massages.”    
     “Hey, I can see why they came to you. You are a blonde bombshell. But all kidding aside you were wise to give it up.”    
     Rosie replies, “Well you know I was young and the men tipped generously.”    
     “You know I’ve always been fascinated by courtesans. Though I’ve never done sexual favors for money it has been a fantasy of mine. My boyfriend and I have even role played the scenario. But to do it for real would be an amazing experience. Massage could be my moonlight job. Instead of just doing counseling my healing energy could be harnessed into doing erotic therapy. It is a very common bedroom game for couples. Why do we women get turned on by it? Maybe because it is the ultimate sexualization of us. We become sexual beings.”    
     “Yes, and one of my clients gave me a dozen red roses for my birthday every year.”    
     Amber laughs. “That was your icing on the cake.”    
      Only at session’s close does Amber take note of my provocative dress. “Paul, if you were in high school I’d report you for dress code violation.” My scantily clad tease turns to a guilty blush.      
     “I probably underdressed. It was a hot day” is my lame excuse.    
     Rosie says, “No doubt the heat wave was below your equator. When this happened to me the principal would send me home.”    
     Amber tells Rosie, “Don’t think I won’t put Paul in detention where he will repeat ten times after me ‘The art of the tease is to leave much to be imagined.’”    
     “You busted me. I’m so embarrassed,” I say.    
     Amber tells me, “Well your style appeals to me. Your punk rocker look, while audacious, is anti-materialistic, edgy, and only lacks a Mohawk.”      
     Amber does more private sessions with Rosie and me. She believes we’ll be more open to working on intimacy issues one on one. Our meeting begins with my sociopolitical rant. “We’ve failed our children.”    
     Rosie says to me, “Paul, you are childlike which is beautiful to me.”      
     Amber says, “You are right.”    
     I ramble on like a drunken sailor who is about to pass out. “We could have European socialism. It isn’t lack of resources. We don’t because we choose not to” concludes my sermonizing.      
     Amber says, “I agree.”    
     I sink into self-pity. I proclaim, “I am disabled!”    
     Amber replies, “I am too.”    
     I am puzzled. “How are you disabled?”    
     She smiles warmly, “I am a woman.”    
     Rosie giggles, “Me too! Now, where’s my disability check?”    
     I retort, “That isn’t the same as my mood disorder.”    
     Amber softly says, “I know. You are right.”    
     Finally, I wind down. I say, “I really got blustery didn’t I?”    
     She says, “You did indeed. I’m going to enjoy working with you, Paul.”      
     Rosie says, “Paul, you play with a full deck. In fact, your hands are so good that my desire trumps my need to tease. But you sounded like the guy at free speech alley warning us about extraterrestrials impersonating politicians.”    
     During the hot months, Amber wears summer dresses which ride high on her hips. Their hemlines reveal the curve of her derriere with her milky thighs laid bare. Her legs fold and then part with the space between barely concealed. Her gentle curves soothe my wild testosterone.      
     My eyes dart from her legs to her face. She winks at me. She jots notes with a smile. Our sessions pick up steam. We ride each other’s waves as her warm words lap my shore. She browses our life stories. My trust opens chapters for her tender care. Doors open to our future. She ushers us forward into books yet unwritten.      
     Her counsel is sometimes soft as down and at others tough as leather. At times, out of necessity, she whips me with words in an act of disciplinary compassion. Her husky voice puts me in my place.      
     “Can we talk freely about sex?” I ask.    
    “What do you mean?” she inquires.    
    I say, “I mean openly talk about sex. Feel free to.”    
     Amber replies “Paul, I don’t talk graphic in session. Not that I don’t talk that way. But when I do it’s with my bartender. And what we say is between me and the bartender.”    
     Rosie ties in, “Paul, listen to Amber. But don’t worry, you’ll get plenty of dirty talk at home from me.”    
     I say to Amber, “Let’s do a role-playing game to teach me appropriate boundaries. My sexuality is out of control.”    
     Amber replies, “We can do that.  Oh, Paul, I am really going to let you have it.”      
     I begin our game. “Amber you should try another shade of lipstick. The one you’re wearing doesn’t look good on you.”    
     Amber answers, “Paul I really am offended.”      
     I retreat, “I’m sorry. I was just trying to play our role-playing exercise.”    
     Rosie tells Amber, “Two women are better than one when educating bad boys.”    
     Amber says, “Rosie, between the two of us we can teach Paul the ABCs of etiquette.”    
     Rosie says, “Paul, the only woman’s lipstick you need to look at is mine. But don’t you dare say mine doesn’t look good.”    
     Amber says, “Rosie, you are a very effective collaborator. Paul, if you don’t listen to us, we’ll take turns whipping you. If you’ve never had two bitches on your ass you’re in for a surprise.”    
     Rosie says, “Amber, your colorful language says it all. Paul, it won’t be ruler or hand. Your choice will be bullwhip or cane.”    
     Amber regroups, “Paul, people don’t say things like that. Be rude to me as people in the real world are.”    
     I take two, “I can teach you about child raising. I’ve read a lot about it.”      
     Amber purses her lips like a queen about to declare war. “Sir, have you ever raised a child? How dare you tell me how to raise my daughter” she      
tongue-lashes me. The session comes to a close. She stands in the doorway facing me.    
     She says, “Rosie and Paul, I let my personal issues into this session.” Little does she know that her genuine feelings are just what I need in my lessons.    
      “Paul, I’m sorry for being rough with you.”    
     Rosie replies, “No he needed it. You took him to the woodshed.”      
     Amber says, “Yes, I took Paul to the wood-shed.” She feeds me the nectar of her lilt again.      
     I reply, “I’m grateful to you for using the rod on me. I need discipline.”      
     “That’s what therapists are for. Paul, Rosie and I will modify your behavior with the rod when you need it.” Her smile blossoms like tulips in spring. She continues, “Is there anything else ya’ll need to talk about?”    
     Rosie’s lips part as though she is on the verge of telling a closely guarded secret. “Paul gets friendly with women in coffee shops.”         
     Amber tells Rosie, “One night I was at a bar to have a drink and wind down after work. Men often ask me to take nude pictures of them because I’m a      
photographer. However, this night something unusual happened. A man started rapping to me.      
     He asked me, ‘Are you married?’    
     ‘Yes, I am.’    
     ‘Are you happily married?’    
     ‘Yes, I definitely am.’    
     ‘Then why are you here?’    
     ‘Just to relax after a long day at the job.’”    
     I inquire, “What happened next?”    
     “He left the barroom” Amber concludes.    
      Rosie says, “Amber, Paul has wandering eyes.”           
     Amber shares, “My husband’s parents accompany us to football games. My in-laws gaze at the cheerleaders with their binoculars while commenting on their physical attributes. This raises a red flag for me. I asked my spouse, ‘You don’t do that do you? Is this genetic? Please reassure me.’ Looking at those girl’s butts is disgusting.”    
     Rosie wipes her eyes with her handkerchief. She says, “Oh Amber, my man has peek-a-boo eyes.” Rosie covers her mouth to keep from laughing.   “So long as there are no names like Bambi or Kitty on our caller ID, I can consider myself lucky.”      
     Good Friday comes. We platypuses among mammals who defy taxonomies gather under the sun. Our conductress charms Rosie and me with tropic smile waves. She leads us into calm pastures where the sky streams in a blue sea of harmony. Amber is a counselor priestess to the mad.      
     She invites our inner children to play. We shed our shoes to walk barefoot in the grass together. I feel the sensual touch of mother earth beneath my naked feet. The wet leaves of nature’s carpet lick my skin like a lover. I drink the wild air like a cup of sun-steeped tea and Rosie is the twist of lemon whose flavor is love.