Mom In The Magic Mirror - Trios

Mom In The Magic Mirror - Trios

    On my first visit to Amber, my quest is for a psychotherapist to fill the role of mother for me, a college-age lad in need of maternal nurturing and discipline from a woman who is no stranger to giving a tongue-lashing. My second chance to grow up comes from repeating my childhood under a capable schoolmistress in the academy of life. She is a strawberry-tressed priestess whose smoky mezzo timbre gives me a natural high and I instantly trust her.
     In one of our early sessions, I get a surprise reply to my proposition that “All beautiful art and literature has its source in deep pain.”
     Amber looks shocked. She says, “Paul that is a revolting and cynical way to view art.”
     I reply, “But look at the painting ‘Scream’ or the one ‘Love and Pain’ by Edvard Munch better known as ‘Vampire.’”
     Amber says, “Yes that Vampire lady by Munch has a full head of red hair just like me. But I won’t bite you even if you want me to. However, you may make me scream.”
     I reply, “Not all screams have their source in pain unless one considers the subsuming of one soul to another as a form of pain like that of being born.”
     She says, “Sounds Freudian and deep. Look at that painting on the wall.” I look at the painting of a nature scene she points to. She continues, “Does that look like it comes from pain?”
     My reply, “It comes from reverence for the creatrix, mother of all that ever was or will be.”
     She lilts, “How refreshing to hear you say that.”
     Time blows by like a zephyr and we converge once more. I say, “You know I have mixed feelings about feminism.”
     Amber cocks her head and looks at me sidelong.
She says, “Well you know Paul, I was a feminist before there was feminism. Long before women were allowed in the locker room for professional sports I got to interview the football players in their dressing room for the high school newspaper.”
     I ask her, “Did you see them naked?”
     Amber laughs and says, “I think they were more
audacious because I was there.”
     “Were there any rules?”
     “Women in the locker room was uncharted territory. So I made up the rules as I went. For instance, I would go into the shower room while they were drying off. But something about being with them while showering without the towel felt a bit invasive even though their privates were also uncovered when drying off.”
     “I find it amazing that women athletes in games like basketball have taken up the football player’s slap on the buns.”
     Amber replies, “I got to see the guys do the bun slap thing one better than what the spectators in the stands did because in the locker it was done on their bare bottoms.”
     “I occasionally covered the women’s basketball page for our school rag. However, I never was invited into their locker room.”
     Amber says, “Trust me there were no lesbian orgies going on in there. You weren’t missing out on anything.”
     “I could have seen more at a strip joint,” I say in a slip of the tongue.
     She replies, “Well you know John, at the Chippendales Review some of the girls get close to the stage, scream, and put money in the guy’s thongs. Other girls stay far away from the stage and are quiet.” We have a moment of silence.
     “This is another example of female privilege. Women get to stuff the banana hammock whereas the delta of Venus is off-limits for men who have to settle for a leg garter.”
     “If we are going to talk about how men get a bad deal in life, I sure could use a partner of my own gender by my side.”
     Amber invites my wife to join our religion of emotional massage. Amber awakens me to our need for a navigator to take our marital rudder. Amber says, “Just think of it as a ménage à trios but clothed.” Our initiation as a couple into the church of psychotherapy is to be part of a congregation.
     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 the briefs on a guy in a commercial for underwear.
     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 newfound 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 tropical storm, she gathers strength for her feminine foray. She escorts him gently but firmly out the door.
     Amber takes Rowena 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.”
     Rowena asks Amber, “Were you in a sorority?
Did you get paddled there?”
     “Rowena, when I was in college in north
Louisiana any group of seven or more women living together in a house was considered a brothel!”
     Rowena 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 bombshell with those espresso-tresses. But all kidding aside you were wise to give it up.”
     Rowena 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 the reason is that it is the ultimate feminization of us. We become Aphrodisian 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 the session’s close does Amber take note of my provocative dress. “Paul, if you were in high school I’d report you for a dress code violation.” My scantily clad tease turns to a guilty blush.
     “I probably underdressed. It was a hot day” is my lame excuse.
     Rowena says, “No doubt the heatwave was below your equator. When this happened to me the principal would send me home.”
     Amber tells Rowena, “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.”
     Rowena replies, “Paul, you would look beautiful dressed as a woman. I am sure Amber wouldn’t mind. Would you Amber?”
     “Of course not, but if he wore a skirt I would require him to shave his legs as most proper women do.”
     I say, “Dressing in female finery would make me pretty. But darling, surely you don’t want me to undergo the final step of gender confirmation surgery. I am feeling a little intimidated.”
     Amber intervenes, “Is emasculated the word you are looking for, Paul?”
     Amber does more private sessions with Rowena 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.”
     Amber says, “You are right.”
     Rowena says to me, “Paul, you are childlike which is beautiful to me.”
     I ramble on like a drunken sailor who is about to pass out. “We could have European socialism. It isn’t a 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.”
     Rowena 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?”
     Amber says, “You did indeed. Your progressive rant is refreshing to hear in the stale air of catchphrases designed to trigger the brain into a synaptic meltdown.”
     Rowena concludes, “Paul if everybody was like you there would be no problems in the world.”
     During the hot months, Amber wears summer dresses that 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 them barely concealed by the shadow.
     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 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 trainer at the health spa and only when it is relevant to my muscle fitness. Our conversation can even lead to a massage of my hip flexors that happen to be located between my hips. What we say is between me and the sports coach.”
     Rowena 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 because 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 because 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.”
     Rowena tells Amber, “Two women are better than one when educating bad boys.”
     Amber says, “Rowena, between the two of us we can teach Paul the ABCs of etiquette.”
     Rowena 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, “Rowena you are a very effective collaborator. Paul, if you’ve never had two bitches on your ass you’re in for a surprise.”
     Rowena says, “Amber, your colorful language says it all.”
     Amber regroups, “Paul, people don’t say things like that. Be rude to me as people in the real world are.”
     I take two, “You know, vocal inflection is very important in communication. I can teach you how to modulate your voice.”
     Amber purses her lips like a queen about to declare war. “Sir, my tone is appropriate to the situation. Would you want me to wear kid gloves with you when you need me to be tough? How dare you” she tongue-lashes me.
     “I think I’ve been misunderstood.”
     “No, but you needed a dose of my shrill pill like castor oil in capsules for medicinal purposes to treat your emotional constipation.”
     The session comes to a close. Amber stands in the doorway facing me. She says, “Rowena and Paul, I let my personal issues into this session.” Little does she know that her genuine feelings are just what I need for my lessons.
     “Paul, I’m sorry for being rough with you.”
      Rowena replies, “No he needed it. You took him to the woodshed.”
      Amber says, “Yes, I took Paul to the woodshed.” She feeds me the nectar of her lilt
again.
      I reply, “I’m grateful to you for using the rod on me because I need discipline.”
      “That’s what therapists are for. Paul, Rowena, 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 you all need to talk about?”
      Rowena’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 Rowena, “One night I was at a bar to have a drink and wind down after work. However, this night something unusual happened.
A man started rapping at me.
     He asked me, ‘Are you married?’
     ‘Yes, to Zeus.’
     ‘Do you truly fancy being on the pedestal of Olympus in the airy heights?’
     ‘Yes, I definitely do.’
     ‘Then why are you here on earth?’
     ‘Because mortals are so amusing, don’t you agree?’”
     I inquire, “What happened next?”
     “He ordered me a scotch on the rocks, but I left it for him to drink. He looked like he’d come just two numbers short of winning the Powerball when I walked out of that joint with a sidelong glance at him admiring what his liquor couldn’t buy,” Amber concludes.
     Rowena says, “Amber, Paul has wandering eyes.”
     Amber shares, “When I was in college my best girlfriend was gay. One night she invited me to a lesbian bar and I said, ‘Sounds like fun, something different, let’s go.’ When we got there my friend spent the entire time mingling with the other women. She left me at the bar all alone. Several of the ladies offered to buy me a drink. I told them, ‘Sorry, my date will be back any minute. Don’t want
to make her jealous.’
     When we got back to the dorm I told my dear friend, ‘Honey, you are my sister from another mister. But you left me all by myself at that place. If you want to take me to the movies or to a dance I’d love to and will even dance with you but no more girl’s only bars.’”
     Rowena wipes her eyes with her handkerchief.
She says, “Oh Amber, my man has peek-a-boo eyes.”
     “Paul, as a woman to a man be assured if you were my husband, my kisses would be reminders of the whoopie we aren’t making.”
     Rowena 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.”
     Amber’s eyes are glazed like a priestess in the throes of Orphic mysteries. She is a vision of Druidess’ exotica with autumn red tresses. Rowena and my eyes are drawn to seek the bullion of her bottom where Pegasus preens under her black flag skirt. She sits on the couch with her aquamarine gems sparkling like magic stones aglow with occult
secrets of starry-eyed pentagrams.
     Rowena asks, “Amber, I don’t want to be rude, but is crimson your natural hair color?”
     “If you were a man asking me that I’d be incensed. But yes my head isn’t the only place my hair is red.”
     I say, “Apologies, Amber, my wife asks the darnedest questions. One time she asked me if I’d like to be abducted by a UFO. I told her only if the aliens use clones of Rowena to mate with me for scientific purposes. She didn’t like that answer.”
     “Rowena your hands are clenched in fists. You look like you’re ready for a boxing match.”
     “Amber, I am ready to put up my dukes. But you are not my sparring partner” Rowena says.
     “I hope you wear gloves for the sake of whoever you’re in the ring with,” Amber replies.
     “Oh, velvet gloves are what I have in mind.”
     Amber says, “Relax, no one here wants to hurt you.” Rowena’s butt sinks into the sofa. Amber continues, “Rowena, are things ok between you and your hubby? Paul, have you been playing around on Rowena? I’ve known quite a few like that. Most men think with their penis!”
     Rowena replies, “Oh my no, his penis belongs to me.”
     Rowena commences with her male-bashing rant.
“Have you noticed there are phallic symbols every-where?”
     Amber says, “You are right.”
     Rowena blows on like a tropical storm which has made landfall and is losing strength. “Skyscrapers, church steeples, baseball bats, and chimneys.” concludes her angry verbosity.
     Amber says, “I agree, and the moon rockets.”
     Rowena proclaims, “How could I forget the God damn missiles; the nuclear-tipped phalluses?”
     “Rowena, are you having penis envy?”
     “No way, I’m proud to be a woman! I believe in the natural superiority of women. Amber, I’ve been reading books by women that prove that women are more evolved than men. The author says that men are big hairy apes whom women should shun. The technology of ovular merging will make men obsolete. At last, women will have complete reproductive freedom. The role of the father will be a thing of the past. And to be truly liberated from men women must seek other women as sexual and
romantic partners.”
     Amber says “We do have multiple orgasms. Men can’t do that.”
     Rowena concurs, “The clitoris is a marathon runner while the penis peters out on the first lap.”
     “My dick may not do a triathlon, but it doesn’t need wooing to get into high gear” I assert.
     “Hush little boy” Rowena counters.
     I shift my derriere in my seat. Amber says, “Rowena, he looks uncomfortable over there.” Amber looks at me, “Paul, are we making you nervous?” I fidget in my chair some more without making eye contact with Amber.
     Rowena intervenes. “Paul, are you feeling pussy whipped by us two women?”
     I say, “Oh, I feel like the sausage in an omelet between you two.”
      Amber sighs, “Hitch your wagon to a star.”
     Rowena says, “Paul you couldn’t keep up with the two of us together.”
     Amber replies, “Rowena if you don’t quit picking on Paul I’ll have to spank you.”
      “I wish you would,” Rowena replies.
      “Touché,” Amber says.
      Rowena says, “You know Paul, in spite of your being so God damn über-rational I love you. Amber, his penis is no more than six inches long even when erect. But when he fucks me it feels like a Pink Floyd concert while on acid.”
     “Sounds like he drives you crazy in a good way too,” Amber says.
      I interject, “Girls, leave me some modesty.”
     Rowena says, “Paul, don’t kid me. You love your penis size being bandied about between two women. Really, you’re just embarrassed by me revealing how small your wang is. You feel undressed by me in front of Amber. God, I’m getting my panties in a wad.”
      “Don’t use the sexist language of patriarchy. Just say he subverts your feminism” Amber says.
     “You know I could forgive the sexism if he’d just quit treating me like a porcelain doll whom he has to handle so delicately,” Rowena says.
     “Wouldn’t that conflict with your women’s lib?”        
     “Even a feminist needs a man to be rough sometimes,” Rowena replies.
      I fidget and say, “Amber, a man only has so much rope to pull himself back to shore. Once the lifeline is loosened too far even his swimming can’t save him.”
     Rowena tells Amber, “I miss the passion sex once had. Now it just seems like cream of wheat. No flavor.”
     Amber smiles, “Is your sex drive the problem? Or is Paul not putting out enough?”
     “It’s both. My orgasms are like the song of a sparrow which starts off loud but ends after a few seconds on a muffled trill. I get myself off a lot.”
     Rowena’s eyelids eclipse the light. Amber’s smooth as bourbon voice summons her eyes open. “Listen, don’t be embarrassed. Masturbation is God’s gift to humanity.”
     I say, “Now Rowena, you’re a good girl. I won’t tell your Mama what you do.”
     “Oh, you are so bad, Paul. Please don’t tell my mother. She thinks I grew out of it.”
     Amber says, “Now, now, Paul, what’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander.”
     “Amber, I’ll become a lesbian. A woman knows best what a woman needs.”
      “Rowena, it isn’t like joining the Rosicrucians”
Amber quips. Amber changes the subject.
     “Rowena, do you have any more thoughts to share on men? Your feminism while militant appeals to me.”
     Rowena says, “Did you know that testosterone poisoned apes masquerading as people cause most wars?”
      Amber says, “Not all wars?”
     “There are bitches.”
     Amber says, “Are all men beer-drinking brutes named Bubba?”
     “There are some good apples.”
     “Yes, there is a little bitchery in every woman just like every man has some bastard in him.”
     I interject, “I like some shrew in my woman. It makes her sexier.”
      “Paul dear, you men are liberal in bed but conservative when it comes to chores,” Ro says.        
     Then Rowena proclaims, “Boy if men had PMS they would market it as being machismo. I can just hear the TV commercials ‘Real men have PMS.’ ”
     Amber says, “If men had periods, tampons would be free.”
      Rowena replies, “Yea, and if men got pregnant maternity leave would be guaranteed.”
     Amber says, “If men got pregnant the Pope would be pro-choice.”
     Paul implores, “Dear ladies, should I excuse myself from the room?”
     Amber says, “Oh Paul, you are privileged to hear what we girls talk about when the men aren’t around.”
      Rowena says, “Paul, I’m just blowing off steam.
You know Paul for all my bitchery I’m not a Lorena Bobbitt.”
     Amber says, “You know I couldn’t believe how she got off with an insanity plea and a stay at a psych hospital.”
     Rowena counters, “Yea but Lorena was from another culture. And she was a rare exception. How many women rapists do you hear about?”
     Amber parleys “Yes but an Ecuadorian militant feminist group threatened to kidnap and castrate American businessmen in their country if she was convicted. Well, I would never maim a man who abused me. I’d just leave him.”
     Rowena smiles and says, “I know, like most women, you’d never do that.”
     Amber says, “Paul you look like a contortionist
over there. Your legs are crossed in a knot. Relax.”
     Rowena says, “Paul, you are twisted like a pretzel. Is it because of our talk about castration? Really, Paul, I want your penis right where it is. The only thing I’d use a fillet knife on is fish.”
     I say, “I like, fish.”
     Rowena says, “Oh honey, you’re going to get flounder seasoned to perfection tonight.”
     Amber says, “You see, she’s a vegan but cooks fish for you. That is true love.”
     Rowena says, “I have a confession of a bizarre nature to make. I have a craving for a goldfish. Yes, I mean the kind in a tank.”
     I reply, “Well I’m not a vegetarian but please don’t serve that up on my plate. Both Rowena and I have made a decision. When you retire we want a female couples counselor, but she has to be as cool as you are.”
     Amber explains, “Both men and women prefer female social workers. Women have this emotional connection ability that heterosexual men don’t have. Women and gay men have it.”
     I am wide-eyed. “Gay men have that talent?”
     “A gay man is a girl’s best friend,” she says with
a smirk.
     Amber and Rowena rub my phallic ego with soothing aloe words in deep penetration. They gently stroke the slick clay of my self-esteem. My Argil rises under their spell into the shape of an erect dignity.
    I proclaim “I wish Rowena wasn’t so dominant.”        
     Amber rolls her eyes. She sternly corrects me.
“Paul you know you’ve been attracted to dominant women all your life. You’ve been engaging Rowena and me in psychosexual games of female dominance for a year. Of course, you want Rowena to be a dominant woman.”
     Rowena says, “Paul, remember when you came out of the shower and your bathrobe was gone? Then you bent over to look for your clothes in the dresser drawer and low and behold they had disappeared. All of a sudden you yelped when I whacked you on your butt with a wooden spoon. I chased you around the house smacking your buns with that multipurpose kitchen utensil until your cheeks were nice and pink. I never heard you complain afterward.”
     “Maybe one day the smolder of my spanked
bottom will lose its magic and I’ll drop my drawers no more,” I say.
     “When men get pregnant,” Amber quips.
     “Transgender men get preggers,” I retort.
     “But not you wombless wonders,” she ripostes.
     Amber closes our therapy with, “I flunked cosmetology school because my hands were too clumsy. So my field became personality makeovers. Like a Brazilian wax, my technique accentuates your hidden lusciousness. You may have wondered why I am not taken. Well, it is that old cliché that all the good men are either gay or married. But once upon a time, I entertained the notion of tying the knot. I was engaged. My fiancée and I were traveling down Route 66. We pulled off the road to fill the tank. My mascara was smeared and I went to the station to wash it off. Tom followed me into the building and low and behold there was a gang of hell’s angels hanging out and shooting the breeze. Those road warriors are typically very protective of women, an honor among bandits thing. But what if they had been on drugs? When I came out of the powder room Tom had left me to fend for myself with the brutes while he pumped gas. That is what I tell my friends who wonder why I called off the engagement.”
        Good Friday comes. We platypuses among mammals who defy taxonomies gather under the sun. Our conductress charms Rowena 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 Rowena is the twist of lemon whose flavor is love.