Counseling Muriel

^{Table of Contents}

Chapters: Prologue | One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six |

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Foreword

This is what is sometimes called a slow story. You can think of it as a molasses-slow seduction story. If slow frustrates you, I suppose you could skip to the last chapter or two but it wouldn't give you the same thrill. It would be like looking at the last page of a murder mystery and it said, "The butler did it." You would immediately want to know why the butler did it. That's the part you skipped over and it isn't a satisfying read.

So be patient and try to feel what this woman feels as her eyes are opened by a counselor and she discovers things about herself that she had no clue about. It will expand her life. It will expand the life of her husband, and it will expand the counselor's life as well.

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Prologue

My name is John Fredricks and all I did was try to get my wife to act like a wife in bed. She was a fine wife in all ways except that one. In bed she was a frigid, stiff woman who submitted to me only because her religious training said she had to. She was taught that enjoying sex was a sin.

I guess most men would have known this before they got married. These days most men have sex with the woman they marry before the question is even popped. But that's not how I was raised. And maybe that's part of the problem, oddly enough. I was raised to believe that sex was fine, so long as it was something a man and woman engaged in after they were married. I barely dated in high school because I felt urges about a girl if I took her out. I handled those urges with masturbation, which I liked pretty well, but I had bad thoughts about a girl if she kissed me and we both liked it.

I'm also not the best looking guy in the world. I'm what they call "average height" and I weigh right at two hundred pounds. My job takes up all my time and I don't get to exercise that much, so I have a little pot belly. It doesn't help that she's a good cook and I eat too much. They say baldness comes from your mother's side of the family, so I guess I have my mom's ancestors to blame for my receding hairline, even though I'm only twenty-seven.

It was my mother, in fact, who arranged for me to go on a date with Muriel, who was the daughter of one of her friends. My mom and dad got divorced when I was little. I don't even remember him. And my mom got counseling and went to support groups but never remarried or even dated much, so there was nobody living in our house who had sex of any kind except me. I'm quite sure my mom never masturbated. No way.

Anyway, a guy I work with heard me say my wife was so cold in bed that I got frostbite from sleeping with her and he said, "Oh, all you need is for her to go to counseling with Bob Greer. He worked a miracle with my wife." He leaned toward me with a whisper. "Turned her into a proper slut, he did."

Well, another thing my wife was taught is that the man is the king of the castle, and the woman should submit to her husband, so I made an appointment with this Bob Greer fellow and told Muriel that she was going to go to him for counseling until he told me her condition was fixed. She asked me what condition and I told her the counselor would explain it.

A week later, she drove herself to Greer's office and went in.

I know this because I followed her. She knew that and she also knew I watched her go inside.;

Now I wish I had never told her to go.

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Chapter One

My name is Muriel Fredricks and it's not my fault that I crave sex and want to get pregnant … by a man other than my husband. It's my husband's fault, in fact. I wouldn't be like this if he hadn't made me go to counseling. How that happened was complicated, and I did not anticipate anything like it to happen.

Perhaps I should begin at the beginning.

I was adopted from a Vietnamese orphanage when I was a baby. In America I had one sister, who was also adopted from abroad, except she came from China. I don't know how it happened, but my mom, Linda, was single when she adopted us. Adoption agencies in America want there to be two parents in the home, but maybe they aren't as picky in those countries about what the home is like that the child is being adopted into.

I'm not saying Linda was a bad mother. She wasn't. In fact, I thought I was the luckiest girl on the planet, once I was old enough to understand where I came from and what my life would probably have been like if I had stayed in that orphanage in Vietnam. I was happy as a child and I didn't think my life was any different than that of all the other girls I met.

I didn't know, however, that Linda was seriously hung up about sex. I know she had been married, at one time. I knew she was divorced, but she never talked about her husband except in very circumspect ways. Whenever she thought about him she got a look on her face I didn't understand until I was an adult. It was the look of intense, emotional pain. Whenever she spoke of him she said he was like all other men. She talked about them as a group. They were men, and they acted like all men did. That's what she taught us.

Not to put too fine a point on it, but she believed – deeply – that all men wanted was to fuck women, and that meant any woman under any circumstances. Men were pigs and not to be trusted. Sex was the devil's trap and needed to be avoided at all costs until after marriage. After that, it was a woman's duty to obey her husband when he wanted sex, though she must never enjoy it. She told me the woman isn't supposed to enjoy sex because it makes her weak if she does. She said there was a name for a woman who enjoyed sex. That name was dirty slut, or whore.

I would not know until Mother was on her death bed that her husband had made her get two abortions. He had told her he didn't want children. All she needed to be, according to him, was a hot pussy who never argued. That's why, after he divorced her because she wasn't that woman, that she was driven to find us … to replace the two babies she never got to raise and love. And that's why she taught me what she did about men and sex. I wish she had told me all that when I was a girl. It might have saved me a lot of angst and stricture in my emotional life. She scarred me and she didn't even cut me open.

Obviously I wasn't allowed to go on dates alone with a boy until I left home and went to college and my mother wouldn't know I did it. In fact, my mother said my bosom was too large and would attract the wrong attention, so she taught me to bind my breasts and make them look flat.

I had to work my way through college, and I got a job as a waitress at the truck stop on the edge of town. I didn't choose that place or that job to work. It was just what was available and I needed money.

Mom was right. Men were pigs, as it turned out. I couldn't tell you how many of the truckers who came in for a meal said the most awful things to me. One even called me a slant-eyed bitch and said I should get down on my knees and suck his dick because I spilled coffee on him. And it was just a little, tiny splash! That man wore a greasy, dirty hat that said he was a Vietnam war vet. I didn't understand, back then. He was scarred by things that happened in his life, too.

Hundreds of the truckers propositioned me. Others touched me. They'd slap me on my behind or pinch me there. They said all kinds of things to me. More than one asked if my pussy went sideways, like my eyes. Over time, I learned to just tune them out. If a man got too handsy on me I accidentally pushed his plate into his lap. I was always so sorry and I told him I'd get him another plate. They all got mad, though, and lost interest in me. I knew there were women who wandered around among the parked trucks, "asking for a ride." If the men wanted sex it was available. They certainly weren't going to get it from me.

So, when I met John, I was surprised that he didn't say any of those things, or try to touch me, and he certainly didn't try to have sex with me. Outside my persona as a waitress, which was a role taught to me by other waitresses, I am very shy. Now I understand that was because my mother smothered me and made it so I was so busy trying to avoid being raped that my fear kept me from being social in any really meaningful way. While other girls went on dates, Hannah and I sat in our living room, putting jigsaw puzzles together or playing board games like Chutes and Ladders, Parcheesi, or The Game of Life. Yahtzee was popular with us and I was an expert in Backgammon by the time I was fourteen. We also played Canasta or, if everybody else was busy with a chore, solitaire.

So John didn't try to rape me and when he didn't even touch my breast until the night before our wedding I was sure I had found the one man who I could admire and trust.

And then we got married and he took me on our honeymoon to Hannibal, Missouri, so we could find out more about Mark Twain. We got on a boat that looked like an old time paddle wheeler and took a three day cruise up and down the Mississippi River.

That was when he turned into an animal.

He knew I bound my breasts before we got married. I had told him why and he said that after we were married I wouldn't have to do that anymore. In Hannibal, the first time he saw them unbound he went a little crazy. He wanted sex all the time. I couldn't get away from him because we were on a boat, on the river. When he destroyed my maidenhead I thought I'd die from the pain. I'm sure I walked bowlegged when we went down the gangway and back to our car. He took me home and kept wanting sex almost every day. I dreaded the night. He had tried to get me to sleep in the bed without any clothes on, but I put my foot down at that idea. He could make me pull my nightgown up far enough to get between my legs, but I didn't have to act like a slut.

And the sex always hurt. Always. He yelled at me for crying, but it really hurt. Finally he got tired of what he called my cold shoulder and left me alone, most of the time. It went from once a week to once a month. That wasn't so bad. I could put an ice pack on where it hurt, after he went to work. I didn't know that a simple dab of Vaseline would have made it painless. Apparently he didn't know that, either.

It got to where most of the time I thought I was happy. I kept busy washing all the floors every day and dusting, even though it looked like there was no dust. I baked bread and cooked good meals, like my mother taught me to. My mother belonged to a group of women who had been divorced and "understood each other," as she described it. I didn't have a group to go to and I didn't make any friends, but I thought that was fine. I hadn't had many when I was in school. I had two years of college, where I pursued a degree in Old English Literature. They were proper back in those days and knew the dangers of frivolous behavior and … sex.

Oh, there were plenty of whores and sluts in the books I read. Mr. Shakespeare made fun of them a lot. He knew men were crude and arrogant. Perhaps he was crude and arrogant himself, but he could write a good story. My professors said there was lots of the use of double meanings or entendres in the literature we studied, though I didn't see it, like other students did. I didn't finish my degree because I married John and he wanted a stay-at-home wife. Perhaps if I had finished I would have understood what the other students laughed at and called ribald.

We had been married a year and I prepared a special dinner for our anniversary. As we ate it he said I was going to go see a counselor and that there were no ifs, ands, or buts about it. I asked him why and he said the counselor would explain it to me. I was confused, because I kept a good house for him and obeyed him, as the Good Book teaches. Or at least how my mother told me the Good Book teaches. It says a wife must submit to her husband. When we got married it must have been pure torture for Mother. She said the Good Book said we were supposed to, and that was that. That's one book I never got to read because we didn't have one in the house.

So, on the appointed day and time I went to the address on the piece of paper John had given me. I went in and told a happy-looking woman behind a desk that my husband had made an appointment for me. She welcomed me and smiled. I understand why she smiled, now, but back then her smiling face looked like I suspected a lion's face looked like as it got ready to pounce on a poor Zebra. If a lion had a human face, that is. She had me sit in a chair that was much too soft and had high arms on it that were unfamiliar to my body. It was good they were there, though, because when the counselor called me into his office that chair would have been impossible to get out of if I hadn't been able to pull myself up on them.

This man's office looked like a showroom for chairs. There were, I would find out, eleven chairs in the room. Some were against a wall and some were standing alone in various places around the room.

"Choose any chair you feel you might be comfortable in," the man said. "You may end up sitting in different ones as we progress."

Now why in the world would I choose a chair and then change my mind? I wondered if John had chosen the wrong counselor for me. But since I didn't know why I was there, I couldn't tell.

"My name is Robert Wilson, but I'd like it if you called me Bob. And you are …?"

He should have known my name. I had an appointment, after all.

"Muriel Fredricks," I said. "I thought you'd know that."

"Introducing ourselves is a way to begin the creation of a social bond, Mrs. Fredricks. May I call you Muriel?"

"It is my name," I replied.

He looked at me for long enough that I thought there must be something wrong. Was there a thread hanging? Had I missed a button? I had worn my best dress, which had what seemed like a hundred buttons, but was quite modest. It covered me down to my calves. My peers in college had worn jeans and short skirts and tops that were so obscene they showed their nipples. Some of them didn't even wear a bra! But I didn't own any of that kind of clothing. I didn't dress like a whore or slut.

"Is something wrong?" I asked, nervously.

"I don't know. Is there?" he asked in return. "You look very uncomfortable."

"It would help if I knew why I was here," I said, boldly. I felt proud that I had stood up for myself.

"What is your greatest fear, Muriel?" he asked.

Now that was a ridiculous question. But I had promised John I would let this man counsel me. On what I didn't know, but perhaps he'd tell me now.

"I don't know," I said.

"Well, then, we have nothing important to talk about. I'd like to get to know you. You're still standing, which is fine, but I'm going to sit down."

He went to one of the chairs in the middle of the room. I realized there were actually two identical chairs, not quite facing each other, with a small table not quite between them. If I sat there and looked straight ahead I wouldn't have to look at him. These chairs were padded, but not like the one in the waiting room. I looked around. There was one of those chairs against one wall. I didn't understand. I felt like I was in an alien world.

I didn't know that he was using psychology with me already. It was pure instinct to sit in the chair opposite to him. I hadn't wanted to sit at all. I think I must have been like a deer, alert for anything, paranoid, even, and wanted to be ready to run. But when he sat down I sat down and I sat down in the chair opposite to him … which was not a chair I would have chosen, by the way.

"I don't understand," I said, as I sat, gingerly on the edge of the seat. It felt ridiculous to talk to the wall so I looked at him.

Perhaps I should describe Bob. He was taller than I am, which would put him about five feet and ten inches tall. I was sure he didn't exceed six feet. His hair was brown and thick and wavy with just a few dozen gray hairs at his temple, which made him look wise. It had shape to it but didn't look styled. His face was tanned and he had lines on it that I would find were caused by his incessant desire to smile. He didn't grin, though, like the woman in the waiting room had grinned. At this point his face almost smiled, but not quite. It was like there was a smile underneath, just waiting to come out. I thought of an alligator under the water, with only its eyes showing.

Of course he wasn't an alligator. He was a man. I was wary of him … because he was a man.

"You're obviously of Asian descent," he said. "Tell me about that."

There wasn't much to tell. I knew Mother had adopted me when I was seven. She adopted Hannah when she was nine and then, two years later, adopted me. I didn't understand a word she said, at first, and even though Hannah looked a little like me, she didn't speak English, either, when she was adopted. She was eleven when I got there and she helped Mother teach me English. Being able to talk together at night, when we went to bed, helped me a lot. Hannah didn't speak Vietnamese but her Chinese language was close enough that we could understand each other. With that similarity, I was able to learn English quickly.

"Did your mother speak either of those languages?" he asked.

"No. Why would she?"

"Well, she adopted you from a specific country and culture. She didn't go to Thailand, or Cambodia or Indonesia. She didn't adopt a child from Africa, where there are thousands and thousands of children who need a parent. If she had visited Vietnam in her life and spent time there, she might have picked up some of the language."

"I never thought of that," I said. "She adopted me and I was her daughter and we spoke English. We never talked about Vietnam. I spoke Vietnamese when I first got here, but I barely remember any of it, now."

"If you met another Vietnamese person do you think you could have a conversation?"

"If she was speaking English," I said. Was this man deaf? I had just told him I couldn't remember my native language.

"You said 'she'. Why did you think I was talking about another Vietnamese woman, instead of a man?"

"Because I wouldn't talk to a man," I said.

"Can I ask why? What is there about males that causes you to say that?"

Slowly, over the rest of that initial two hour session, Bob pulled out of me what seemed like my entire life in great detail. He learned the things I spoke of before, which I now understand choked me and starved me from meaningful human interactions. I was so busy avoiding the pigs that I didn't actually examine any of them. Some of the girls I knew compounded that by saying things like the boy on her date had eight hands, like an octopus, and touched her everywhere.

REM: You may, or may not, want to act on this. But you have her saying above that this initial session is for two hours; then, after the "makeup" lesson, Bob tells her that from then on they'll be having two-hour sessions. I infer from this that the intervening sessions are only one hour each, but you never say so.

And that is what I understood when I left his office that day. I understood that, while the world can be a dangerous and uncomfortable place, it can also be a place of interest, like the people in the books I read. And I had missed almost all of that. I could have had friends, instead of merely acquaintances.

We did not talk about sex in that session. He asked me about everything else except sex. I mentioned it, but he didn't ask for more than I gave him.

And he did not turn into a crude, threatening man who obviously had sex on his mind. That was something else I left there with.

I had met a man I could actually have a conversation with, without worrying that he might try to rape me.

He said my future sessions would be an hour long unless I advanced enough to do two hour sessions.

I still didn't know where I was going to advance to, but I knew I would go back. I had to obey my husband.

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By the time I got home from the first session with Bob my fears had returned. He had asked such personal questions! He had somehow gotten me to tell him things that were none of his business. He knew more about me than my husband did, actually. I had never told John some of the things I told Bob.

Still, when the time came for my second appointment, I went. I was prepared to confront him about asking things that were too personal.

Barbara – she insisted I call her by her first name – greeted me like we were old friends. It may have been that which put me off balance, because when I was in Bob's office again, and sitting in a different chair across from him – a remarkably comfortable chair - when he said, "Let's talk about sex," I forgot to tell him to keep his nose out of places it did not belong. I was too shocked.

I remember that moment as if it happened yesterday. He was sitting across from me with an electronic tablet in his hands. He didn't smile. His face was calm and he looked like saying that was no more important than asking what I had for breakfast. But he didn't ask me what I had for breakfast. He said he wanted to talk about sex.

I froze. I literally could not move. I couldn't even breath until all the oxygen in my lungs was used up and I had to gasp just to stay conscious. I wanted to flee, but my legs wouldn't work.

"Muriel," he said, softly. "We're only going to talk about it, not engage in it."

I had forgotten completely that I had mentioned to him the things Mother said about men.

"I can't!" I managed to blurt.

"Can you tell me why you can't talk about sex?" he asked.

Over the next hour I somehow was able to relax as, again, he pulled bits and pieces of my life out of me. He asked how I felt about me … and John … and our sex, which were the things I didn't want to talk about.

Then he let me go and I returned to the real world, where there were honking cars and big trucks to avoid and my attention was taken off of what we had discussed.

The strangest part, though, was that when he said my hour was up I wasn't ready to stop. I can't tell you what I wanted to keep doing, because I didn't know what I wanted back then. It was like I was in a dark room, trying to find the door with outstretched hands.

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I said Bob and I had a "discussion." That is not true, really. He asked questions and I talked. That was what I remembered when I got to my third appointment. When Barbara took me into his office he was standing there, waiting. When he put his hand out to shake mine some drive inside me made me put my hand in his. I don't shake that many hands. In fact it's possible there have been no more than five men whose hands I have touched. Other than John, of course.

His hand was big and warm and he held my hand for much longer than a handshake should take. He led me to yet another different chair than I had sat in before and did not let go of my hand until I was seated.

His chair was almost beside mine instead of across from me and there was no coffee table to set anything on. Barbara had brought me a bottle of water during the last session. If she brought one during this session all I could do with it was hold it.

"How did you feel as I took your hand and brought you to your chair?" he asked.

I must say this, at this point, Bob was good at his job. He was an expert at getting me to open up and tell him things I didn't want to tell him. And the way in which he did it made it seem like we had talked about nothing more personal than whether, while I was making a PBJ, I spread jam on the bare piece of bread or the one that already had peanut butter on it, before I put the pieces together.

"Scared," I finally said.

"Are you afraid of me?" he asked.

"Should I be?"

Now that was something I wouldn't have said before I met Bob. I would never have been confrontational.

"You have told me what your mother taught you about men and sex," he said. "I want to talk to you about what she did not teach you."

"I don't understand," I said.

"When I took your hand, did you think I might force you to have sex with me?"

Now, I know how ridiculous that might sound to a normal person. But I wasn't normal; not by most people's standards.

"Think about it before you answer," he added.

So I did. I thought about what went through my mind as he held my hand. There was panic and … what else?

"I don't know," I said. "All I can remember is panic."

"Your fight or flight impulse took over," he suggested.

"I suppose it did," I replied.

"What was it you were afraid to fight and wanted to flee from?" he asked. "Think about that before you answer."

He gave me all the time I wanted. At first I didn't want to think about it at all. Then I remembered how big and warm his hand was. That wasn't frightening. He didn't grip my hand in a way that I couldn't pull it back. I just let him keep it because I was so shocked. So, what was I so shocked about?

"I can't think of another man, other than John, who has held my hand that way," I said. "I think I was shocked and I don't understand where the panic came from."

"Good," he said.

"Good? How can being shocked and in a panic be good?" I was confused.

"You were touched in a manner you were not prepared for. Anyone would be shocked at that. Whether they panicked or not would depend on the circumstances. In your case, your mother taught you to panic if a man touched you. With that out in the open, we can move forward."

"Move forward to where?"

He held out his hand, palm up. It was only a foot or two away from me.

"Touch my hand," he said.

I stared at him.

"You know I won't hurt you," he said. "You have an irrational fear of men that is not your fault. You can learn to control that panic, though. I want you to start that by holding my hand."

I don't know how long I sat there b