Music of Change #1:
Nice Girls
By Valerie Hope
Jenna slumped down beside him, hard, the sheen of her sexual
sweat still reflecting amber candlelight from her smooth,
unblemished skin. She buried her head in the covers and Heath
could hear the telltale growl that announced she was fighting
tears.
He tried to keep it going, somewhat frantically, his hands
caressing her skin gently and designed to keep her desire alive.
"Forget it," he panted. "I love you. Please, let's keep going."
She flinched from his touch and his heart shattered into a
million razor-edged shards. "Damn," he breathed.
"I'm sorry," she whimpered, unable to meet his eyes.
He forced words from his throat. He didn't want to talk, but she
needed him to. "I'm not angry."
"I know," she said. "Sometimes I wish you'd get that way."
He sighed. "I shouldn't have asked."
She sat up, tears streaking her pretty face and rimming her
clarion blue eyes in harsh, sickly red. "And why shouldn't you
have asked?"
"Because you always react this way," he said simply, closing his
eyes.
"You have every right to ask," she told him. "Every right."
"Not if it makes you that uncomfortable," he concluded with
finality.
"You're a part of this relationship, too," she said.
For answer, he just rolled over, licking the tips of his fingers
to snuff the bedside candles. "I'm not going to fight about it
anymore," he said.
She clicked on the lamp by the opposite bedside and leaned on his
broad, slightly overweight torso heavily. Her elbows dug into his
ribs uncomfortably and his eyes opened reflexively in response.
"Don't you think I want to?" she asked. "Don't you think I would
love to be the woman you want me to be?"
His voice was emotionless. "Of course you do. You say so all the
time. But you can't. No matter how hard you try, you can't stop
hearing your parents' voices in your head. And the damned bed
isn't big enough for the four of us. Look, I'm sorry that 'nice
girls' don't say or act certain ways, no matter how much that
might excite me. I'm sorry that you got 'nice girls' hammered
into your skull every day of your childhood. I'm sorry for asking
you to try and change any of it. Just turn off the goddamned
light and let me get some sleep. I don't want to talk about it
any more."
He flexed the muscles in his broad chest heavily and she couldn't
stay atop him any more. She slid to the side of him and before
she could recover he was cocooned in blankets, facing away from
her.
"Heath," she tried.
He didn't answer.
***
Four hundred and seventy-seven. More, if you counted the little
half- and quarter-tiles along the edge where the ceiling met the
walls. She turned a baleful eye on the waxing moon through the
window. She wished sleep would claim her for just a little while,
but the practical part of her mind knew otherwise. She'd hurt him
again. The latest in a long, long line.
They'd met on a fluke, at a trade show two years ago. His shy
smile and quirky humor had netted Jenna Hawthorne in record time.
Six months of dating before he even kissed her passionately.
Another three before he even put a hand on her in a
'questionable' area, and only then after he'd proposed to her on
bended knee and she'd tearfully accepted.
Which was not to say Heath MacGowan was a prig. Not by any
stretch - the few times she'd been out with his friends from
college, they'd regaled her with stories of the campus 'wild man'
whose sexual and libational escapades were still whispered
legends among the residents of his old dorm. He'd gone the slow
and easy route with her because he loved her, and she had a very
strict Baptist upbringing and even stricter Baptist parents who'd
told her over and over that there were certain things that 'nice
girls' never did.
She thought with no small amount of fondness of how long he'd
spent with his mouth on her sex, his tenderness and firmness in
all the right places, constantly and unflaggingly, for the four
months it took her to push past her sexual repression and self-
loathing and finally achieve her first orgasm at the age of
twenty-seven. How his mastery of the 'boudoir arts' (as he termed
it laughingly) now had her elevated to a sexual satisfaction that
would easily be the envy of any woman.
But still he hadn't come for her. He finished with his hand, or
he ignored his erection and frustration and just held her close.
His orgasm was far, far away from her and she was at a loss to
why. It wasn't until she'd point-blank asked him (which took
courage, since she wasn't entirely comfortable even raising the
subject of sex with a man - nice girls didn't discuss such
things) that it was clear.
"Everybody is made up of three parts," he explained softly. "A
body, a mind, and a heart. And you can only go places when all
three things go at the same time. You have the attention and
cooperation of my heart, babe, and my body too. My mind's not in
it. I've always needed a certain amount of... I guess 'fantasy'
is the only word I can use, in my sex life. And unless it gets
added to the mixture, I don't think I'm going to be able to
finish. I'm sorry, love. Really I am."
She'd wondered, puzzling over and over, about what kind of
fantasy he was talking about. She didn't have much in the way of
fantasy - it wasn't something a nice girl would really think
about. Most of her fantasies were very tame - holding hands and
candlelight and walks on windswept beaches. She was pretty sure
that was not what her husband was referring to.
So she did what she thought was best. She snooped. Looked through
his book collection, the movies, the computer. Nothing very
'personal' to be found there, but no surprises there. So she dug
deeper. He worked much later than she did most nights, so there
was ample time for her to try and do her 'research.' There were
no clues to be found among his old friends, whom she emailed with
questions designed not to be blatant but rather to conjure up
reminiscences of Heath's old girlfriends so she could search for
clues there. She even tried to track down an old girlfriend, but
she thought that might have been too awkward for everyone
involved.
It wasn't until she thought to take a peek through his old
college footlocker that she found the pieces of the puzzle.
There, below a series of keepsakes from his college baseball
days, high school yearbooks and letter jackets that she found the
photo album. It was full of all manner of seamy stuff - pages
ripped from pornographic magazines, Polaroids of naked
girlfriends, and love letters.
Reading only one page of a letter from 'Kim' (whom Jenna knew as
an old college girlfriend) was enough to make her blush beet red
and her eyebrows rise well into her scalp. Jenna had figured out
that Kim had been a stripper ('Exotic dancer,' Heath had always
smilingly corrected her) and something of a wild woman in her own
right, but she'd never expected the explicit language of the
letter, the graphic depictions of everything - down to the
smallest detail - that this woman intended to do to her husband,
and then the wild series of Polaroids in the envelope of the
woman masturbating herself in a phone booth at the airport.
Jenna started to brush her hair out of her eyes, aghast at the
forwardness of the woman, when she noticed a passage at the
bottom of the third page, written in the bubbly 'cheerleader'-
type script:
"...and I'll keep doing it until you come in my mouth and all
over my face like you did Friday night..."
Jenna dropped the letter in shock. He came for this woman? This
was the kind of 'fantasy' her husband was craving, the push he
needed to get his mind into it with her?
She hadn't noticed, but over the course of going through the
letters, she'd become very aroused. Her nipples peaked sensuously
against the satin softness of her bra and her panties were
quickly becoming heavy with a musky dampness. Flustered, she
replaced everything back in the footlocker like she'd found it
and ran into the living room, turning it on the Weather Channel
until the dull, repetitious broadcast drowned out the other
thoughts in her head and she didn't have to think about it any
more.
***
She tried - she had to give herself that. She'd gone all out at
first, getting the sexy underwear and trying to talk dirty to
him, to coax him into giving his mind, the final piece of the
puzzle, to her. But the naughty lingerie from Frederick's of
Hollywood had made her feel silly, she didn't have a very deft
hand at makeup or hairstyling so she couldn't achieve any kind of
'magazine sultry' look, and the dirty-talking wouldn't force its
way out of her throat - it was so embarrassing and it made her
feel nasty. She wound up just repeating the same things over and
over, like a broken record.
It had been awful. Heath had been very tolerant and patient of
the whole thing, assuring her that she wasn't cheapened by trying
and how much he appreciated her efforts, but she could tell that
his disappointment was huge. She supposed she could understand.
Probably better to have no inkling that the brass ring existed
than to have this mockery of what he wanted in his life. But the
fears and the inability and the repression were so strong, and so
old, that she wondered if they even could be beaten, much less
whether or not she could beat them. So she hid. In books,
hobbies, television, anything other than trying anything else.
God, how she wished she could be what he wanted. How she wished
she could make him happy, satisfy him the way he satisfied her.
How she wished...
She walked aimlessly through the crowded mall, not even seeing
the stores or the press of people starting their early Christmas
shopping like she was. She was in her work clothes - very prim
and proper, thick and concealing, and her hair was pulled sharply
away from her face. She told herself it was to maintain the
integrity of the law office where she worked as a paralegal - she
couldn't tempt fate by wearing something feminine or sexy and
risking some kind of sexual harassment. But the truth of the
matter was that she didn't want to look alluring. Heath joked
that she didn't even like looking like a girl sometimes. Maybe he
was right. Girls were sexy and beautiful, and playful and
flirtatious, and she didn't want that.
She took a little peek at her hazy reflection in the window of
Wet Seal. A slumped, shy, frumpy creature stared back at her
sadly. She'd noticed, on the rare occasions when she'd been able
to coax Heath into coming shopping with her, that the stores like
this one were where his head turned as they walked, with the
sexy, flashy and revealing clothing in the windows and the cute
salesgirls in the skintight sweaters and flared jeans which
coated their backsides like second skin selling sexy and flirty
clothing to sexy, beautiful young women.
Jenna swallowed hard, trying to force her resolve into a hard
knot, but she just couldn't go in. She couldn't wear anything
like what was on the racks in those stores. She'd look like a
slut. She could hear her father's disapproving eyes on the back
of her neck, just like when she'd been a girl in church.
Shuddering, she wrapped her coat around herself a little more
tightly and walked on, scanning the crowd to see if she'd been
spotted looking into that scandalous store.
"Hey, lady. Lady!" a young voice called. Jenna turned to see a
young teenage girl chasing after her. The girl wore a tight
'girlie' tee shirt with the number '00' displayed across the firm
hug it gave her budding breasts.
"You dropped this back there," the girl said, handing her a small
business card. "It fell out of your pocket."
Jenna didn't think, she just wanted to run, out of the mall and
away from all the judging eyes. Taking the card, she stuffed it
back into her pocket hurriedly and mumbled a thanks.
"Merry Christmas," the girl said brightly, but Jenna was already
on her way out.
The girl turned back to the older man who sat on the bench not
far from their encounter. He had a gentlemanly, lined face with
deep creases and a head full of lush silver hair.
"Was that good enough, mister?" the girl asked, smacking her gum.
He smiled broadly. "That was excellent, Leanne. Well done indeed.
I think it deserves a bonus."
"A bonus?" the girl asked.
"The twenty dollars I promised you, and twenty more," he said,
passing over the bills. "Now you can buy that skirt I saw you
eyeing in the window of Rave a moment ago."
She looked at the teenage fortune in her hands and grinned.
"Thanks, mister. Merry Christmas."
"And best wishes of the season to you, as well, Leanne," he said,
still smiling. With his other hand he brought up a small cassette
recorder and pressed 'Play.' A strange, keening sound filtered
over the crowd noise and the tinny Christmas carols in the mall's
promenade and the young girl, Leanne, took on a look of confusion
and suspicion for just a bare moment before her features smoothed
over and she looked at the older man with large, guileless eyes.
"Why do you want such a skirt, Leanne?" he asked. His voice
melded with the music to the point where one couldn't tell where
the eerie tones started and his voice truly began.
"I'd look hot in it," she said.
"You would indeed, my dear," the man said. "But you want someone
else to think you look hot in it, though, don't you? That's
really why you want it."
She smiled and blushed. "Brad Lancaster," she said earnestly. Her
little nipples hardened beneath her second-skin tee shirt at just
the mention of the basketball star's name.
"He'd have to be blind not to want you in it," the old man said
fondly.
"He won't, though," the girl said sadly, completely in contrast
with the wide-eyed smile on her face. "He said he only likes
girls with big tits."
"And you still want him to like you, even after that?"
"Of course I do," the girl said. "He's a babe."
The old man smiled fondly. "I see. Look down at your chest,
Leanne. Do it now."
She looked down at her budding, teenage bosom.
"What do you see?" the man asked.
"My boobs," she said simply.
"Aren't they big?"
Leanne paused. "No. They're little."
"I don't think so, Leanne. Look again."
Her brow furrowed. "You're right. They are big."
"How big?" the man said.
Leanne smiled broadly. "36D. Bigger than my mom's. Brad will love
them."
The old man clicked his tongue. "What about you, Leanne? Will you
love them?"
She smiled up at him. "Oh, yeah," she breathed. "I love my big
36D tits. I love to hold them and play with them at night before
I go to sleep. I love how the other girls get jealous of them
when I wear tight shirts. I love my tits."
As she spoke, the music seemed to take on a crescendo, a slight
change in tempo and timbre that vibrated the air around Leanne
and the older man. As she spoke so lovingly about her breasts,
the old man watched proudly as her breasts began to enlarge in
front of his eyes, thickening and filling out, stretching her
tight shirt with their increased girth until it rode up to bare
her midriff. The erect nipples stuck out proudly through the
material as the enlarged mammaries settled easily into their new
configuration, slightly lower than before but still firm and
gravity-defying as only a teenager's body could effectively do
without surgery.
"And you should," the old man said gently. "They're magnificent.
Now you should go buy your skirt and try to find young Mr.
Lancaster, don't you think?"
She smiled even more broadly. "Yeah. I'm going to suck his dick
tonight."
"That's nice, my dear. I'm sure you'll make him very happy like
that."
Her grin became a little lascivious. "Oh, you know I will."
He shut off the music as she scampered away, back to her friends,
her enormous tits jiggling wildly in the confinement of the
little shirt. He did know she would. Soon, she would be able to
be the woman she truly longed to be, the one, which would make
her happy, without fear of reprisal.
He sat down heavily. He'd field tested the Music of Change
several times now, on young girls and old women and everything in
between. Now it was time to see if it could be the power for
change and healing that he hoped it could be, and that required a
subject. Jenna Hawthorne was a godsend, and she was perfect. The
music was written for women like her. Like his beloved daughter,
Sarah. She, too, had needed to be the woman inside, but her
mother hadn't allowed it. Words like 'slut', 'tramp' and 'whore'
had been an everyday part of the girl's puberty. Sarah couldn't
help what she needed to be. It was inside her. It was a part of
her. If only her mother had seen that, seen that Sarah couldn't
live without being free. If only she'd seen before Sarah had...
He sighed. Christmas was not the time to be thinking of such
things. He stood stiffly, took his umbrella and walked out into
the parking lot, following the sidewalk around the contour of the
building until he found the loading dock for one of the
department stores. He heard the telltale sounds of his wife -
Sarah's mother, the woman who'd tried to lock Sarah away from the
woman she longed to be - and tracked the sound to a small
workers' lounge just inside the delivery area.
The three dockworkers were in the midst of play. One lay on his
back across the low Formica table, with a luscious platinum
blonde with enormous breasts lay across him, taking his hairy,
erect penis frantically into her rectum while another, standing
at the edge of the table, drove himself into her hairless vagina.
The third was across the table from his standing partner,
watching his considerably-sized prick slide in and out of the
blonde's mouth between swollen, red-painted lips. She moaned and
writhed, grunted and groaned in time with their thrusts until the
men had spent themselves in and on her, in long white gooey
stripes across her belly and down her throat, over her lips above
and below.
The workers stopped in shock and dismay as the older man walked
in calmly and leaned against the doorframe. The blonde licked
semen from her lips with a long pink tongue and slid long-nailed
fingers across her still-throbbing slit, pausing only to lick the
remnants of the other man's cum from her fingertips.
"Come, my dear," he said to his wife. "It's time we headed home."
The blonde pouted. "Please, honey, can't I stay? I want some more
cock, and these men say they have friends who'd just love to fuck
a wild little whore like me. Please? Can't I stay for one more
fuck?"
The older man seated himself heavily on the vinyl sofa next to
the soda machine. He never could say no to his darling wife. "Of
course, my dear. But just one more. We have a busy day tomorrow."
***
Jenna made it all the way home without thinking about the mall.
She shucked out of her coat and scarf and was plucking off her
gloves one finger at a time when she noticed the business card on
the tiled floor of the entryway. She snatched it up nervously and
looked at the tiny print:
Dr. Karl Renfro, Specialist
Trans-consciousness Music Therapy
Treatments for Phobias, Obsessions,
Compulsions and Stress Management
She sighed. The sheer amount of business cards she collected, as
a paralegal would doubtlessly result in her finding several she
didn't remember receiving in the first place. But stress
management? She certainly was stressed, and even though she
hadn't a clue what trans-consciousness music therapy was, maybe
it might be nice to have a doctor to talk to at some point, if
only to have someone who wasn't so close to the problem to talk
to. It wouldn't necessarily be a betrayal of Heath.
She set the business card next to the phone with a mental note to
call later.
***
Heath sat naked on the couch, staring out the balcony window over
the trees and smoking a cigarette. She tried so hard - he wanted
her to succeed, he really did, he loved her so much - but she
just didn't get it. It wasn't what she was doing that would
excite him. What excited him was the prospect of knowing that she
wanted to do it. That she was getting off on getting him off. It
was really simple, but she just didn't get it. So she went
through the motions with this leaden monotone voice and a look of
sublime distaste on her face and it was the most colossal turn-
off imaginable. He couldn't stand the thought of her forcing
herself to do something so anathema just to make an attempt to
gratify him. Jesus, he would rather she didn't even try at all.
But this had become insanely important to her and she couldn't
leave it alone.
He paced a little, trying to be silent - she'd only just fallen
asleep and he didn't want to wake her. Instead he tried to settle
himself down, even though his soul wanted to run for a while,
maybe to take a drive or a long walk. He knew if she woke up
without him in bed beside her she'd panic, think he'd left her,
as if his daily protestations of love weren't any kind of bond at
all. It was exhausting.
As he went into the kitchen to find a drink, he noticed the
little business card beside the telephone cradle where the
cordless was recharging. Trans-consciousness music therapy.
Obsessions and stress management. Maybe that would be a good
thing for his Jenna in the long run. Hell, if the stress
management worked, he might try it. Christ knows he was stressed.
It was then that Heath noticed the fine print on the very bottom
edge of the card. "24 Hours a Day, free phone treatments." Free?
It would be nice to talk to someone.
Shrugging in what was a very 'what-the-hell' way, he picked up
the phone.
The first thing he noticed when the line opened was music. There
wasn't really a melody, or really a harmony, or any kind of
recognizable tonality. It was almost like whale-song in a way,
and in some ways like listening to the rain or the surf crashing
into the shore. He felt knots in his shoulders disappear
immediately. He lay back, just wanting to listen for a while, but
a deep and resonant man's voice began speaking to him. It meshed
with the music perfectly, making his words seem like they were a
part of the unearthly tune.
"Hello, Jenna, I'm glad you called. This message is recorded for
you and is played on a special number, which only you know. I'm
aware of your problems through a mutual friend, and I want to
help you. If you'll let me, I might be able to let you find
yourself. The first thing I need is for you to relax, Jenna.
Completely relax. Feel the stress and the tension flowing out of
you, through your fingertips and toes and nipples and hair. Float
on the music."
In spite of himself, Heath found that he couldn't fight the lure
of the voice and the music. The tension leached out of him and he
was floating along, completely engrossed in the words.
"You're a good woman, Jenna, and I know you love your husband.
That is strong, and I want you to believe in it strongly. Cling
to it. Now, close your eyes and imagine a woman. Imagine the
woman you would most like to be. Hold her image tightly in your
mind."
Behind Heath's eyelids he saw a lovely young lass, with
voluminous soft blonde hair cascading over her shoulders. Her
body was tall, trim and lithe while still possessed of lush
curves, a lovely fluted backside and a slender waist. A flat,
well muscled belly. Tan, unblemished skin that was soft as satin.
Huge, liquid brown eyes like his own, so dark that he couldn't
see the pupil. Long lashes that brushed high, soft cheekbones,
full kissable lips with just a little of the 'eighties 'bee
stung' look.
"What is she like, Jenna? What is this woman like?"
She's free, Heath thought. Proud of who she is and not
embarrassed by anything. She's strong and tender at the same
time, fun and flirtatious, sexy and alluring, smart and funny and
she loves being beautiful. She loves men and women both to want
her. She loves to tease and also to deliver on her promises, to
shock and to be a dream come true. She gives of herself, that's
how she feeds her soul. She's unafraid, she can take care of
herself, she does the things she does because she wants to do
them, not because she feels like she has to.
"Good, Jenna. Excellent. Hold her tightly, Jenna. Imagine her
breathing. Laughing. Imagine her with eyes blinking and moving.
Make her alive. Bring her to life."
The beautiful woman moved in time to the otherworldly music, arms
and legs and hair. She smiled a dazzling, chalk-white smile.
Suddenly she was clad in sexy, exciting clothes - tight leather
pants and high-heeled boots, a midriff-baring halter top which
barely restrained her lusciously proportioned chest, her hair in
a wild but carefully designed style. Her long fingernails were
buffed shiny with white tips.
"Imagine her laughing and talking. What does she sound like?"
A breathy, sensual and husky contralto with a hint of a Texas
drawl, a lot like Heath's own voice.
"What does she like to eat? How does she spend her evenings? What
does she do for fun?"
Suddenly, the woman was dancing sensuously in a crowded club,
with flashing lights and thumping bass through the press of half-
seen bodies. Then she was at a hole-in-the-wall little Mexican
restaurant, digging into a plate of chicken enchiladas with
chipotle sauce - the hot stuff. She finished the meal with a
frozen margarita and a cigarette.
"Imagine her alive, Jenna. Imagine her moving, talking, eating,
sleeping, and... imagine her fucking."
In a flash, he saw her, hair in wild floating disarray,
straddling her unseen lover, riding his pole up and down with
ecstatic tosses of her head and wild blonde mane. Her fingers dug
into the muscles of her lover's belly as she climaxed loudly,
thrashing her head and body in abandon. She cried to him, teased
him and excited him with her words, urging him and coaxing him
into greater pleasure.
"Look at yourself, Jenna. Look down at yourself. What do you
see?"
Myself. My body. Lived in, worn out, but still mine.
"Look again. What do you see?"
Heath's eyes barely opened and through his lashes he saw his
generous breasts, heaving in time with his deep, relaxed
breathing. A flat, toned belly peeked from out of the hem of his
oversized t-shirt, exposing an adorable little navel in tanned
skin. Flared, womanly hips filled out the flannel boxer shorts
and hairless, smooth and trim legs extended to the floor, ending
in delicate little feet with the toenails painted a deep shade of
metallic blue. Long blonde curls settled on his shoulders and
dangled mischievously across his eyes.
"I see myself," he mumbled.
"You see yourself," the voice confirmed. "Remember what you see
here, Jenna. Remember who you are, inside. The outside follows
the inside, Jenna. It always follows the inside. You're
beautiful, Jenna. You're sexy and alluring and fun and free.
Always remember that."
The line went dead. Heath stood fluidly and replaced the phone
and the business card next to the recharging cradle and walked
silently across the floor to the bedroom. His hips and behind
swayed provocatively as he climbed into the bed next to his
sleeping wife. Ignoring the dampness on the pillow from her
tears, he kissed her forehead and brushed her long, soft hair
away from her eyes before spooning up against her and closing his
eyes in restful sleep.
***
"Heath. Get up, Heath. You're going to be late for work."
He groaned. The light streamed in through the windows, promising
a beautiful winter day for him, and the thought of spending it
cooped up in an office in front of a computer monitor made him
cringe inside. He ran a tongue across his teeth (to check if
something really was growing there) and buried his head under the
pillow.
"I'm not going. I don't feel well."
She smacked him playfully on the shoulder. God, who did he piss
off in order to get married to a 'morning person?'
"C'mon, sleepyhead. That excuse isn't going to work. Get up and
get going."
He mumbled something that could have been a malediction as he
swung heavy legs over the edge of the bed. Instead of the heavy
thud that his oversized feet usually made when they hit the
floor, he noticed that the balls of his feet just barely brushed
the carpet. Strange. Scratching his head, he felt his hand tangle
in hair that was getting very long, shaggy and unkempt.
"I need a haircut," he said roughly, yawning.
"Yes, you do," Jenna said. She walked over from the dresser where
she was putting the finishing touches on a very body-hiding and
prim business suit and kissed him on the lips. "I'm sorry about
last night, love."
"Forget about it," he said, this time scratching his face. At
least he wasn't going to need a shave this morning - his face was
still pretty smooth from the last one. But he was going to have
to trim his nails. They were starting to get long and scratched
the hell out of his face. Maybe he just had a little extra
sensitivity this morning, but it seemed like he could feel the
slightest touch on his skin today. "I told you I wasn't angry."
"I know you aren't angry. You're disappointed. I think that's
worse. Sometimes I think I could handle you yelling and screaming
at me much more easily than this tired, hurt patience."
He looked at her levelly. "Can we please not start this now?"
She sighed. "You're right. 'Forget about it,' right? Until the
next time it happens and we get to do it all over again?"
He hid his head in his hands. "Jenna, please. Not now."
"Then when?"
"Oh, so it's my decision to make again, is it?" Heath snapped. He
made a very sarcastic cross in the air over her forehead as he
intoned, "De re responsibility, te absolvo in nomine Patri, et
Filii, et Spiritu Sancti. Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et
semper, et in saecula saeculorum. Amen."
I absolve you of responsibility in the name of the Father, Son
and Holy Spirit. As it was in the beginning, is now and ever
shall be, world without end. Amen. Jenna flinched visibly.
Sometimes her husband's vast intelligence made it very difficult
to make a point with him. And when he hit, he hit hard and in
places calculated to hurt. He was no fun to fight with, not at
all.
"That was a cheap shot," she said, fighting tears.
His tone softened, already regretting hurting her. He never meant
to. "But it's true, Jen. You always put the decision back on me.
It's always got to be my idea or my plan or my suggestion. You
never take responsibility for anything that happens in this
relationship."
"Because everything I try to do winds up being a disaster," she
said simply.
He stood quickly. "Bullshit. You hide behind that every time,
Jen. What has turned out to be disastrous? Nothing. Because you
don't try. You have ideas, but you never follow through. You
never do anything about them. That's the disaster, sweetheart. If
you'd only work for something you wanted - just once - you'd see
what you're capable of. But you're so damned convinced that
you're a failure that you talk yourself right out of trying
anything. You've heard me say it a million times..."
"Even if you're going in the wrong direction, at least you're
moving," she finished for him.
He took her in his arms. The embrace was silken. Usually he put
his chin on top of her head when he held her close like this, but
in her heels she was closer to cheek-to-cheek with him. "Baby, I
just want us both to be contributing members of this
relationship, that's all. Equality. Partners, fifty-fifty. That's
all I've ever wanted for us. I'm willing to do whatever it takes
to keep us happy and together. But I can't do all the work. You
have to shoulder some of the load sometime."
She sniffed, pulling away and fighting back the tears. She didn't
wear makeup, thank god, or it would be ruined. But she didn't
want to show up for work with red-rimmed eyes. "I'm going to be
late," she attempted feebly.
He smoothed her lapels, a very 'wifely' gesture. "Then go," he
said. "I guess the problems will still be here waiting for you
when you get back." He sounded completely defeated. And she hated
herself a little more. He never accused her outright of hiding in
her job, but she knew he felt that way. And she hated to admit
that he was right. She actually felt herself looking forward to
escaping all this hurt and worry in a world of phone calls and
schedules and research. Another eight-hour respite from all the
complications. She knew it hurt him, but she couldn't do anything
about it.
Oh, sure, she could call in sick with him and they could stay and
have it out, but that wouldn't be proper. There were meetings she
had to attend, and a couple of depositions that she had to be
present for. The plan of action solidified in her head and she
resolved herself.
"I have to go," she said.
He just sighed and walked heavily into the bathroom.
***
Jenna hung up the phone in something of a daze. She couldn't
really remember anything but that soul-deep and relaxing music
and how comfortable it had made her feel. She placed the business
card on top of her day-planner with every intention of scheduling
an appointment with Dr. Renfro as soon as she could. Although she
was leery of head-doctors as a general rule (after several
catastrophic failures in their care, who could blame her), but
even a pre-recorded session with that wonderful music already had
her feeling, if not better, then at least more comfortable and
able to work within her present situation.
But, first things first. She brushed cracker crumbs from the
front of her blazer and swept the nearly-finished contents of her
soup and salad from the cafeteria into the wastebasket beside her
desk. She stood and walked briskly into the ladies' room, found a
stall and did her business quickly.
Checking her appearance in the mirror, she gave herself an
appraising glance. She really was attractive, even though she
didn't always like feeling that way. Wetting her fingers, she
finger-combed her long chestnut hair a little and tried to give
it a little more shape. She slid her blazer off of her shoulders
and undid the top two buttons. Maybe Heath was right - there was
no crime in showing a little cleavage now and then, and she did
have nice skin. Pale and decorated with a light spray of
freckles.
One of the other paralegals, Mary, emerged from a stall and stood
beside her, rummaging in her purse for something. "Have you done
something with your hair, Jenna?" she asked.
"No, why?"
"It looks different," Mary said, pulling out a compact and
dabbing the puff in the powder. "I thought maybe you got some
highlights or something. It looks really good."
She smiled at the compliment, getting a really nice feeling from
being told she looked good that she hadn't really expected.
"Thanks," she said brightly.
"I've always thought you had beautiful hair," Mary said, working
the powder across her face.
"That's sweet of you to say," Jenna replied. "I like yours, too.
Who does it for you?"
She grinned. "I go to Miguel at Salon Z, downtown. He's great. I
heard he used to work with models and celebrities. He even has
autographed pictures of Melanie Griffith and Sigourney Weaver at
the salon."
A strange urge struck Jenna. "Do you think he'd take me? I'm
tired of my guy and I was thinking of making a change."
Mary brightened still more. "Oh, Miguel is always looking for
clients. He wants to open his own salon someday. I think I have
one of his business cards here somewhere. If you tell him I sent
you I get a discount next time I go in." She rummaged around in
the cavernous purse a little more, fishing out more cosmetics, a
hairbrush, a change purse, and finally she passed over a dented
but serviceable business card.
"Thanks so much," Jenna said. "I'll definitely give him a try."
Jenna exited the ladies' room with a little bounce in her step -
that had been fun. And she hadn't pampered herself at a salon in
she didn't know how long. It was kind of a kick feeling like a
pretty girl for a change. She knew it couldn't last - she had to
go to a deposition soon and it would be back to being plain old
Jenna for a little bit, but she could definitely make it last as
long as she could. She thought back to the cheerleaders back in
high school, how they used to strut around in their tight clothes
and make all the boys go crazy as they 'posed' around their
lockers in that tight little clique they'd formed. Jenna had
always been jealous, wished she were one of them, but her thick
glasses and braces didn't let her make the 'cut.'
She spied some of the cute little young things from the
secretarial pool out on the balcony, having a smoke break.
Another cheerleading clique, that. None of them had been hired
for their typing abilities, of that everybody in the firm was
sure. All seven of the women out there were statuesque and
gorgeous, and proud of it. Jenna felt some of the old wishing
from high school, a desire to be one of them, accepted and
wanted.
And why are you standing out here, then? Jenna asked herself. The
glasses and the braces were gone, the chest filled out. She was
more than attractive enough to be a part of that clique now, and
here she stood like the school geek looking through a window at
them and wishing she could be a part of it. Nothing was stopping
her, was it?
Taking a deep breath, she pushed through the glass door onto the
balcony and walked up to Keri, the tall blonde with the enormous
assets who worked for one of the partners.
"Hi... Keri, right?" Jenna asked.
Keri turned, fixing her with her large blue eyes. "Yes?"
"Do you remember me? Jenna?"
Keri thought a moment, pouting, and then a (very dim) light came
on behind the gorgeous blue eyes. "You're one of the paralegals
working for Mr. Patterson, right?"
"Right," Jenna said. "Listen, I feel like a complete dummy. I
walked out of the house this morning and left my cigarettes on
the bathroom counter. Can I steal one of yours?" What am I
saying? I don't even smoke! I don't even like it when Heath does
it!
The girl gave her a wide and guileless smile and a chuckle.
"Don't feel bad. I do that all the time. How come I never see you
out here? I didn't think you smoked."
"I don't usually do it at work. New Years' resolution. But today
has been one of those days, y'know? I decided the resolution
could wait long enough for me to have one cigarette."
"I know exactly how you feel," Keri said, passing her the box of
Marlboro Lights. Jenna fished one out and accepted a light from
the pretty blonde. She pulled the smoke into her mouth to cool,
like she'd seen her husband do, and inhaled carefully. It didn't
taste bad, like she'd thought it would, and it didn't burn or
make her cough like she'd expected. It tasted kind of good. She
exhaled it in a long plume and felt some of her tension exhale
with it. It felt really good. She started to understand why Heath
did it.
"Thank you so much," Jenna said, trying unconsciously to hold the
unfamiliar cigarette like Keri was, between the tips of her first
two long-nailed fingers. "You're a lifesaver."
Keri grinned - it was unconsciously sultry, as was most of the
mannerisms the girl had, but it was still genuine and friendly.
"Any time," she said. "We're all bums out here, anyway. If one of
us has smokes, then all of us have smokes."
"That's sweet," Jenna said.
"Except when you're the one buying," Keri giggled, and Jenna
giggled with her. Keri took her by the arm and led her into the
gaggle of gossiping secretaries with no preamble.
"Hey, guys, this is Jenna. She's one of Old Man Patterson's
paralegals. Jenna, this is everybody."
***
Heath walked heavily into Ambo Design, where he'd worked for two
years as a graphic designer. It paid well and kept him in stock
options, but it was far from exciting. He'd always wanted to do
something flamboyant or exciting for a living, something
interesting, but meeting Jenna had convinced him that he needed
to stick to the nine-to-five for a while, get used to the idea.
Jenna wanted kids someday, and that would mean that he would have
to serve time as the breadwinner.
He booted up the computer and got a cup of coffee while he waited
for Windows NT to go through its morning routine. He logged in
with a feeling of dread and went back to the catalog he'd been
designing for Monique's, a local clothing designer with extreme
delusions of grandeur. But hell, she had the money to hire a
design firm, and she'd liked Heath's sketches more than any of
the others and had asked for him by name. It was a terrible job -
a huge web catalog of what appeared to Heath as the exact same
clothes, page after page after page. He went through the morning
email - junk - and gritted his teeth and went to work.
Luckily, he found the zone early and time ceased to have any
coherent meaning. It was a matter of rote then, cropping and
resizing images, making thumbnails and putting them into the
layout. His fingers could do it more or less automatically after
the last week of doing nothing but, and his mind started to
wander. He started looking at the local models and the designs a
little more carefully. Maybe he'd judged Monique too harshly.
There were some really nice things in that catalog. He looked at
a really pretty cropped cashmere sweater and immediately started
pairing it up with some of the other items he'd already worked on
during the week. It would look fantastic with a pair of those
tight leather jeans and suede boots. Blinking his eyes, he saw a
sultry woman with long blonde curls and a smoky look in her eyes
in the clothes and she looked fantastic. Where had he seen that
woman before? She looked familiar.
He thought he heard a song in his head, but it was just outside
of his grasp, like someone humming in the next room. But it
sounded really familiar as well. The vision of the woman was so
vivid Heath felt like if he reached out, he could touch her. And
he could swear that the vision winked at him.
He looked at an old email in his inbox from a few weeks ago, when
he'd met the deadline for the original layout and design. His
boss had written him saying, "Monique is thrilled with the look
and feel. She's offered you and Lyla discounts on anything in the
catalog to say thanks for all the great work."
He'd originally kept it against Jenna's birthday, but there was
nothing in the catalog that was 'tame' enough for his wife's
tastes. Lyla, the e-Commerce designer, had ordered a few things
and Heath had overheard her saying that Monique had given her
almost a 75% discount, very generous.
Seizing a wild impulse, he fished in his desk drawer for the
little card he kept with Jenna's sizes on it. He thought for a
moment, wondering if he'd actually be throwing away money, but
decided to hell with it. It was something fun and exciting, and
there wasn't much of either commodity in his life right now.
Hell, maybe if Jenna didn't want the clothes, if he could
remember who the sexy blonde woman was he'd seen he could make a
gift of them to her.
***
Jenna pulled up right in front of the little office in the strip
mall (of all places) and walked into the pleasant office of Dr.
Karl Renfro. The doctor had seemed overjoyed at her call and made
an appointment for that afternoon. The office had been on her way
home from the depot and she was in a very good mood. She'd even
stopped off at a convenience store on the way and bought herself
a pack of cigarettes (that had felt scandalously naughty and
quite good, and she was enjoying the nicotine buzz immeasurably).
It was shaping up into a very good day.
The receptionist was a real beauty, a statuesque blonde with an
enormous chest and a sultry, come-hither smile. She was cordial
and very professional, but she looked at Jenna like she was
something tasty for dessert. It took the paralegal aback a
little, but both flattered and thrilled her a little bit. She was
led straight in to the nicely appointed back office just as Dr.
Renfro came in through a small door in the back.
He walked to her with a bright smile and a warm handshake. "Ah,
Jenna. I'm so glad you could come."
She couldn't resist returning the smile. "How could I not? The
pre-recorded session was wonderful. I'd not been that relaxed in
a long, long time. I had to see how well the real thing worked."
He motioned her to a seat. "I hope it meets all your
expectations," he said, sitting across from her. "What,
precisely, are your expectations?"
Jenna, firmly in the thrall of the man's easygoing and open
demeanor, set about explaining the situation between herself and
her husband, leaving out no details, even going into great detail
about her childhood and her upbringing. Dr. Renfro asked
insightful questions at some points, and made copious notes in a
small leather-bound notebook.
"I believe I can help you, my dear," he said at length, lifting
his glasses to peer at his notes a little more closely. "Your
problem is one of division within yourself. You're searching for
approval from two different sources, you see. You desperately
want to be the woman that your parents approve of and you
desperately want to be the woman that your husband desires. And
your 'paralysis,' as your husband terms it - very aptly, I might
add - comes from those two women being irreconcilable. You cannot
be both, my dear. You simply cannot. You would go mad in the
attempt."
Jenna nodded. "I think I'm going mad right now, Doctor," she
said.
He chuckled, a warm and grandfatherly sound. "You seem very
stable to me, my dear. But in order to proceed, Jenna, I need to
ask you a very important question, and I need you to give me the
most complete and honest answer you can."
"Of course."
He cleared his throat and poised his pen for more notes. "Which
is more important to you, your husband or your parents?"
Jenna sat in stunned and thoughtful silence for a while. "I don't
know how to answer that."
"It's very complicated for such a simple-sounding question, I
know," he empathized. "But it's the most important question in
your life right now. Do you seek the approval of your parents and
risk never fulfilling your husband in the way you want to, or do
you seek to become the woman your husband desires and risk your
parents' disapproval?"
She wrung her hands. "I don't know if I can answer that, Dr.
Renfro."
He smiled, setting her more at ease. "Perhaps I can clarify a bit
more," he said. "You're terrified of losing either one of them.
So ask yourself these questions. Could you live without your
parents?"
Her voice was soft and emotional. "I've always known I'd lose
them someday. Physically, I mean. But even with distance - I
don't know, it's strange. They seem almost omniscient to me
sometimes. That no matter how far away I am or how different I am
from the girl I used to be, I still feel like they're watching. I
doubt that will go away, even when they're gone."
Dr. Renfro scribbled more notes. "And could you live without your
husband?"
She didn't pause. "I'd die without Heath. I'd curl up and die."
He sat back, satisfied. "Then I think you answered your question,
Jenna dear. Yes, it's a hard decision to make. You'd like to keep
everyone happy. But if you were forced to choose, to prioritize
who's more important to you, you would choose your husband."
She nodded. "I would."
"Do you believe that if you go on the way you are, Jenna, that
you'll lose your husband?"
She shuddered. "I lay awake nights thinking about just that," she
said.
"Then here comes the hardest part of all to swallow," Renfro said
with importance. "In order to keep your husband, my dear, you
have to let him go completely."
Jenna's eyebrows climbed. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that you have to separate yourself from him. You have a
picture inside of a woman that your husband will desire. A sense
of this woman, what she wears and eats and how she looks and
moves. She's got a life of her own. You can't let your husband
interfere with that. He'll want to help. He'll want to comfort
you and assist you with the process if he's any kind of man at
all. But you can't let him. Understand? You have to separate.
This is your process. Your work. It's something you have to do
alone."
"Like childbirth."
"Exactly," Dr. Renfro said. "Do you think you can do that?"
"I do," Jenna said with tremulous strength in her voice. "I do."
"Good," Dr. Renfro said happily. "Because I think I have just the
thing. I have pre-recorded sessions, which I'm going to give you
to listen to. At the end of these sessions, I'm going to give you
a customized session with myself to make sure everything is solid
and in place. You can listen to the tapes as often as you like,
in any order you like, for as long as you like. You'll know when
you're ready for the final, personal session. Just call me and
I'll arrange for it that same day."
Jenna stood. "Doctor, thank you."
"You're very welcome, my dear," he said. He handed her a stack of
five compact discs and a portable player. "Call me when you're
ready."
***
Jenna was too excited about the prospect of healing the rift
between herself and her husband to even think about waiting.
Dropping her briefcase and four of the CDs in the car, she loaded
the first into the player and walked around the little strip mall
listening to the remarkable music, smoking a cigarette and
peering through the little shop windows.
She sat back down heavily in the car, wondering where the time
had gone. She seemed to have only walked around for a few
minutes, but her watch easily said two hours had passed. She felt
completely refreshed, rested and happy. It was wonderful, but a
little scary. She remembered nothing but starting to walk around
the little mall and then 'coming back to herself' in the car. She
made a mental note to listen to the other recordings only at her
home. What would have happened if she'd listened to one of them
while she was driving?
She reached into the passenger seat for her purse and was
surprised to see the seat filled with sacks. She hadn't bought
anything, had she? The first, from the drugstore, was full of
cosmetics and the other drugstore sacks contained hair styling
products, a curling iron, a new hair dryer and a set of hot
rollers.
Another was from the little lingerie shop two doors down. Silk
stockings, the thigh-high kind that stayed up without garters,
and a couple that needed a garter belt, of which she'd bought
two. There were also a few pairs of thong panties and some lacy,
barely-there push-up bras, which would enhance her cleavage.
There was also a bag containing three shoe boxes - one held a
cute pair of black leather wedges, another a really sexy pair of
snakeskin-look pumps and the third a pair of adorable high-heeled
suede go-go boots which would look fantastic with her short black
wool skirt.
And her hands! In her haze, she barely remembered going into the
little manicure place and getting the long square-cut acrylic
'falsies' with the glossy French manicure. She'd never worn long
nails in her life! But it did look good, she thought, as she took
a cigarette out of her purse and lit it. She imagined Keri's
hands as they held the cigarette between the fingers and thought
that she looked much better smoking with long fingernails now. It
might be a little more difficult to type with it, but she knew
she'd get used to it eventually.
Strange that she didn't remember any of it, but it seemed rather
inconsequential in light of how good she was feeling about
herself. For the first time in a long time the problems between
her and Heath didn't seem insurmountable. She started the engine
and pulled into traffic.
***
Heath dropped the packages from Monique's into the back of the
hall closet where they'd remain hidden until he was ready to
surprise Jenna with them. He was very glad to be home - the day
had not only been long and frustrating, it had been boring. He
wanted to go do something exciting and there was nothing to do.
He'd stopped off on the way home and had a quick beer, but that
didn't seem to be a good lead-in to anything promising. It was
all so damned frustrating; it made him want to scream.
Which was why he found himself redialing the number of the 24-
hour stress line from Dr. Renfro and settling back in the chair
by the balcony window to try and get a grip again.
"Jenna, if you're calling, that means you've hit a rough patch.
So this session is just to help you through the tough parts of
what you're trying to do. Remember that woman you envisioned."
The vision of the flirtatious blonde sprang into Heath's mind.
She was smiling and laughing, having an excellent time. Heath
envied her a little bit.
"Remember who she is, Jenna. She's you. There's no distance
between the two of you."
In the background, the music shifted a little bit. It got -
larger somehow. Thicker. Heath sank into it like it was a down
mattress and it pillowed around him, bathing his body in soft
coolness.
"There is no distance. You're one and the same. When you look in
the mirror, Jenna, you'll see the woman you want to be just
behind that reflection. Reach out for her, Jenna. Stop making
different people out of it. She lives inside you, she is you.
Give her the life she deserves."
Heath looked down at his body, trying to see the woman inside
him. It made so much sense. He looked as hard as he could, and he
could feel the music tracing over his skin like streams of warm
water. His mind reached out, grasped. He could see it. There, on
his chest - the hair becoming sparser and the little budding
mounds of breasts pushing up behind his swelling nipples. The
spare tire melting away to reveal a flat, toned belly. The hips
widening, the ass spreading out, the waist tucking in. Long,
lissome arms instead of his stocky, hairy ones. The hair
lengthening, softening, filling out and becoming lighter. The
feet and hands becoming delicate and slender. The movements full
of grace and sexuality. She was in there. There was no distance.
Heath could almost reach her.
The key in the lock snapped him from his reverie. He hung the
phone up and stood just as Jenna swept into the room, dropping
packages on the kitchen counter. She was positively beaming with
- health? Happiness? Contentment? Excitement? It looked like a
mixture of all of them, and something more.
"Hey, baby," Heath said. His voice was very breathy and kind of
husky, but neither of them seemed to notice at all. "How was your
day?"
"It was great," she said, kissing him.
"You look different," Heath said. "Your hair is different?"
"I didn't do anything to it," she said.
"It almost looks like you had it colored."
Jenna peeped into the mirror in the hallway. She hadn't noticed,
but Heath was right. Maybe it was all the sunshine this late in
the winter, or whatever, but her hair was definitely lightening
from its customary chestnut hue and taking on reddish-gold
highlights. And it seemed to be getting longer. She touched up
her bangs in the mirror, distracted.
"Look at your hands!" Heath exclaimed. "You did your nails!
What's the occasion?"
Jenna shrugged with a happy little grin. "There's not one. I just
felt like doing something special for myself, is all. I'd never
gotten a manicure before, so I figured what the hell."
"What's in the sacks?" Heath asked.
Jenna felt a little sense of shock. Dr. Renfro said to separate.
"Just girl stuff," she said, gathering up her packages. "Nothing
you'd be interested in."
"Oh," Heath said, trying hard to hide his disappointment.
She smiled. "It's a surprise, honey," she said kindly.
"Really? For me?"
"In part," she told him.
"When do I get to see it?" he asked.
"I'd forgotten how much you like surprises," she said with
fondness. "You'll get to see it soon, love. When the time is
right."
***
Heath couldn't stand it any longer. He had to try and peek.
Waiting until Jenna was safely asleep; he went poking through the
closets and cabinets looking for where she might have stashed his
surprise. He found nothing. Maybe it really was girl stuff - sexy
underwear or something. If it was, he really wanted to see it
anyway, but on her. Or on the blonde woman, one. Maybe both.