Audrey Exposed (3 page)

Chapter 5

(Audrey)

My student teaching supervisor, after speaking with my principal, worked it out so that I could leave school three days a week at 3:30 in order for me to make my 4 PM appointment. Dr. Markson had sent a formal letter to my supervisor explaining that I’m involved in an important experiment with the psychology department. Whatever it said, must have worked, because no further questions were asked. She then sent over the contract for me to sign and return. I’m now officially part of this program.

I may pee my pants.

Dr. Markson isn’t going to be there today and she gave me instructions to enter the apartment by the other door, the one marked 806 in the hallway. She felt it would be best for me to meet Graham, my partner, without a third party present.

Ugh. Everything about this is so weird.

I have obsessed for hours over what to wear for this first meeting. It’s not a first date but at the same time, I feel like I should make a good impression. Because my student teaching assignment is with third graders, I typically wear something casual. Today though, I have settled on a green print wrap dress and boots. I wore my hair up in a ponytail, which I think looks nice but not too sexy. It also doesn’t look like I spent hours in front of the mirror curling or straightening it, like I would before a date. Because this isn’t a date.

Ugh. Everything about this is so weird.

I wipe my hands on my dress, staring at the numbers 806 on the gold metal plate.
This is it, Audrey. You’ll walk in that door a girl and eventually come out a woman.

“I’m such a loser,” I mumble to myself
, and twist the doorknob.

A man hops up from the love seat when I enter. He has dark hair and a defined
, closely shaved jaw. He’s handsome, definitely not smelly or gross, and strangely familiar.

“Have we met before?”
I blurt, trying to place him.

“
Um… I don’t think so,” he says, flashing a heart-stopping smile. His eyes meet mine and they’re bluer than blue. Henry Cavill.

“Oh, I saw you going up the elevator last week.”

“Right. Of course, I remember that,” he says with an even brighter smile. Adorable dimples appear on his cheeks. He holds out his hand. “You were loitering in the lobby. I’m Graham.”

I
remember why I’m here and my face burns, surely, turning bright red. I take his hand anyway and say, “Audrey.”

“Right.”

“Right,” I repeat feeling like an idiot.

“Would you like to sit down?” he asks.

“I guess so, thanks.” I take the same spot as the other day but this time I sit in the middle, hoping he doesn’t try to sit next to me. What am I doing here?

Graham
sits across from me and says, “I know this is all new for you, but please don’t be uncomfortable. Dr. Markson has told me all about your situation and I just want to help. I think together we have a really good chance of defeating your anxiety.”

His speech is so sincere and he’s giving me the most empathetic smile. I want to die of humiliation. Covering
my face with my hands, I groan, “Oh, God, this is so embarrassing.”

“Why?”

“Because you know I’m a defective misfit; and you’re here to help me with something I never share with anyone. Like ever, yet you’re just talking about it like its normal.”

“It’s your normal,” he says.

“Yeah. Whatever.” I cross my arms over my chest and nervously look around the room, anywhere but at him. I notice a small black journal on the coffee table. “What’s that?”

“Those are our instructions and guidelines for the day.” He picks the book up
, and says, “Want me to read them?”

My stomach burns from anxiety
. I want to run from the room and never look back. “I guess we may as well see what this is all about.”

He flips open the cover and reads, “Day one: Greetings and introduct
ions. I’d like you to begin stage one of the exposure therapy. Graham will massage Audrey’s shoulders, hands over fabric. No skin touching, for a minimum of twenty minutes.”

“For the record,
I’m not big on people touching me.”

“Well,” he says, putting the book back on the table
, “I guess that’s why we’ve got a time limit and specific instructions. We’re going to approach each of your anxieties one at a time.” He stands. “Will you move over to the chair by the window? I think it will be better for the massage.”

“Okay.” I reluctantly stand and eye the door. There’s no way I can escape without looking like a bigger fool than I am already. “I mean, it’s not that I don’t like to be touched. I just don’t like to be touched by strangers
,” I tell him, sitting in the seat with my arms wrapped around my body.

Graham
walks across the room and adjusts the lights, lowering them across the room. The gray, overcast sky outside tinges the whole room in gray light. “Do you mind if I turn on some music?” he asks. Anything is better than the oppressive quiet, so I shrug. He spins through his iPod and stops on something, an instrumental. Next, he lights a couple of candles scattered across the room. When he finally stands behind me, I tighten my grip on the seat of the chair and hold my breath, bracing myself. He leans down and says quietly, “Are you ready?”

“Yes.
I guess so.”

“Tell me if I need to stop or something. You’re in control.”
The first thing I feel is the soft touch of his fingers moving my hair over my shoulder. The movement is light and fluttery. My entire body tenses in reaction. Then he begins the massage. My muscles are tense and taut, even my jaw is clenched protectively. He can touch me, I think, but I don’t have to relax. Graham’s doesn’t seem deterred by my hunched shoulders and lack of cooperation.

Just like
instructed, he never strays from the area of my shoulders or near my skin. After a while, I have to admit the pressure feels nice, good even, and my shoulders slump. I inhale the spicy scent of the candles and close my eyes.

“Se
e? That wasn’t so bad,” he says a short while later, lifting me from my thoughts. I open my eyes. He’s standing before me with a pleased smile.

“It wasn’t. Thank you
, for the massage.”

“You’re welcome.”

We face one another in awkward silence, the parameters of our relationship new and strange. “Are we done for today?” I ask.

“Yes, I think so.
” He shrugs a little and smiles. “You know, this is sort of new for me, too.”

“That makes me feel a little better.” I laugh and walk over to get my bag by the door. “I’ll see you on Wednesday?”

“Yes, I’ll be here.”

“Don’t forget to
bring those magic fingers.”

He laughs and it’s hard not to like him based on that laugh alone. And the dimples.
“I won’t.”

Chapter 6

(Graham)

I’ll admit meeting Audrey for the first time took me by surprise.
What is my first impression? She’s attractive, gorgeous would be closer to the truth with long, red hair and extremely pale skin. Freckles cover her nose; her eyes are a brilliant green. They also carry a tinge of sadness, even when she smiles. I can’t help but notice she carries herself with a defiant air. If I met her on the street (or on the elevator), I would never assume she had a crippling anxiety disorder.

She left
our first session joking about my magic fingers. I take it as a good sign that, at the very least, she’ll come back for our next appointment. I’m documenting these things from our session at the small kitchen table when I hear a sharp knock on the apartment door.

“Come in,” I say, assuming
it’s Dr. Markson. She’s the only person who knows I’m here.

“How did it go?” she asks, walking
past me to the refrigerator and removing a bottle of water. “Want one?” I nod and she places a bottle on the table in front of me.

“I think it went well,” I say
, unscrewing the cap and taking a sip. “She’s nervous but willing enough.”

“No major panic attacks?”

I shake my head. “No. It’s more like she’s unconsciously protective. Arms crossed. Muscles tense. Jaw set. By the end of our time, she had relaxed substantially.”

“Excellent. Make sure you write all that down.”

I gesture to the laptop. “I’m already working on it.”

“How about you? Any problems?”

“No. I feel confident that we can work through this.”

“Me
, too,” she says. “If you stick to the program, you’ll be fine. Veer off and things may get ugly. We can’t afford to let that happen.”

I think of Audrey’s sad eyes. “No, we can’t.”

She stands and leans her hands on the back of the chair. Silver rings flash on her knuckles. “If you need anything let me know. If you feel unprepared or need additional training or assistance, I’m available. Don’t forget that.”

“Thank you.”
Dr. Markson is a fantastic therapist. She’s also my mentor and I’m lucky she’s given me the opportunity to assist on such a groundbreaking experiment. Countless other graduates would kill for a spot on this team. I would never jeopardize her work. “I won’t. Moreover, you can trust me. I have high hopes for this experiment.”

She smiles, taking her bottle and
going out through the back entrance, leaving me to my thoughts and notes.

Chapter 7
(Audrey)

To my
surprise, the instructions for Wednesday and Friday are the same. Massage. Outside the clothing. No skin touching. Twenty minutes. With the routine set, I’m able to relax a little faster each day. Graham follows the rules with strict precision and, increasingly, I have no concerns that he’ll go beyond the parameters. We’ve never touched, skin to skin, other than our handshake on the first day. Obviously, this is intentional and part of the therapy. I can appreciate the concept. It works.

Graham
is incredibly patient and careful. No sudden moves  and no veering from the script. Once he snagged my hair and he apologized softly in my ear. In our short time together, he’s made me feel comfortable and safe. I struggle on a daily basis with those two things. Am I ready to have sex? Do I feel safe? Do I trust the person I’m with? In this room, I’m beginning to feel protected, like I’m wrapped in squishy bubble wrap. Because of this, I think I may be ready for him to go to the next level, touching my neck or arms. I would let him do that. He’s earned my trust.

It doesn’t hurt
that he’s handsome and funny.

“How were the magic fingers today?” he asks once the music has ended.

“Fantastic.”

“Good.” He wiggles them in the air. “I
aim to please.”

“Are you a trained masseuse? Because really, you’re very good at it. I feel very relaxed. And spoiled.”

“I’ve taken some classes to prepare for working with Dr. Markson.”

“Oh, right,” I say, recalling she’d said he
would be trained to work on the experiment. “What other kind of training have you done?”

“Various things. I’m not sure I can go into them all.” He wrinkles his nose and shifts on his feet. It’s obvious I’ve crossed a line.

“Well, what can you tell me about yourself? I feel like you know this huge “thing” about me
, but I don’t know anything about you.”

“I don’t know much about you, really.”

“You know the biggest thing.” We stare at one another, in a standoff of sorts and I totally cave first. “Fine. Let’s see…I like pizza with feta cheese and artichoke hearts, scary TV-shows; I work with kids but I don’t always like kids; and my dream is to sleep until 10 AM every day. Is that enough?”

He pulls up
a chair, sits across from me and pauses, thinking. “Okay, well, I’m the oldest of five. I have three younger sisters and a baby brother. I, basically, grew up on a commune in a tiny town in West Texas.”

“Are you for real? Like hippies?” No wonder he works with Dr. Markson
, kindred spirits.

“I guess.” He laughs at the idea. “Mostly
, they just wanted to live off the grid.”

“So you lived there with your mom and dad?”

“My mom. The exact identity of my father is a little harder to pinpoint.”

“Wow
,” I say, feeling beyond awkward.

He shrugs and I
don’t sense that he’s concerned. “Part of the downfall of living in a free spirit community, I guess. I had a lot of male role models in my life though. It’s cool. That’s where I learned carpentry, plumbing, and stuff. I can fix almost anything.”

“Texas is a long way from here
; how did you end up in North Carolina? Did you even have the internet on a commune?” I ask, half-serious.

“
Yes, we had the internet,” he laughs. “Life there wasn’t bad; but something about West Texas can be a little stifling. I managed to get a scholarship to a small college out here and that led me to Duke for graduate school.”

I notice he’s left
out his college name, but it’s a start. I’m intrigued by the fact he can do such skilled work, carpentry and such. Why not make that a career, I wonder? But then again, something about Graham that makes me think that he’s right. He’s bigger than some small town or menial labor. He looks strong and confident. At ease. Although I have no idea what he looks like under the baggy shirts and jeans he wears every session, I’ve caught a hint of lean arms and broad shoulders.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-five.”

I nod, satisfied with the small amount of information. “So how long do you think we’ll keep up the shoulder massage?”

“Do you think you’re ready to move on?”

“Maybe. I guess it depends on where we go from here, you know?”

“Dr. Markson is taking this one step at a time. It may seem slow but that’s better than too fast. She wants you to feel completely at ease with each step before we move on.”

“I understand.” I want to say something else
, but I don’t because the thought I’m having is a little embarrassing. If I’m being honest with myself, I know that I want to go to the next phase. I want to feel Graham’s fingers on my skin. Someone’s fingers. To prove I’m ready.

“See you next week?”

I smile
, feeling more confident than I have in a long time. “Yep.”

*

“So he massages your shoulders.”

“Yes.”

Reese gives me a funny look. “And this is helping?”

“Strangely, I think so.”

“Huh, how weird is that.”

“I know. I mean, we’ve just started and it’s nothing complicated
, but I feel really good about it.” I fight a smile because, even though I do feel good about it, I also feel dumb. The emotion is exaggerated by the fact we’re celebrating our friend, Jessica’s wedding. To make matters worse, it’s a lingerie shower. Probably my fourth circle of hell. Reese and I have gone to the bar to refill the margarita pitchers for the group of four girls across the bar.

“Well, sure, getting three massages in a week by a guy you think is
kind of hot
sounds pretty awesome to me.” She takes a sip of her drink. “Maybe I should get a therapist.”

“I know. I thought it would be a lot harder than this.”

“When do you get to see his cock?”

“Reese!” I shout and look around.
Luckily, the bar is packed and there’s a band playing in the front corner. No one else can hear how gross my friend is.

“I’m just wondering.
I guess it won’t be for a while,” she says. I ignore her smug smile. The bartender pushes the clear, plastic pitchers filled to the brim to us. “Put it on our tab, handsome.”

He gives her a stunning smile and holds up a finger. We wait as he fills up two
additional shot glasses. “You guys have fun,” he says, handing those over as well. Free booze? Only with Reese. Married or not, she works it.

“Ready to go back over?” She downs her shot.

“Yes. It’s a wedding shower, not an execution.” It’s a lie. For me, lingerie showers are a battle of emotions. Jealousy. Anger. Embarrassment. I hold my shot glass in the air and mutter, “Bring it on.” Then I down the clear, fiery drink.

We weave through the crowded tables and clumps of p
eople, stopping at the table. Four girls wait for us. We haven’t known them as long as we’ve known each other, but they’re a good group of friends. Reese is probably the glue that keeps us together as we all move in different directions post-college.

I smile at the girls and I’m (or rather, the drinks are) greeted with an excited cheer
. Sophie, Bella, Claire, and the guest of honor, Jessica. She’s wearing a tiara with “bride” written across the front and a silly, satin sash. The shower now feels a little premature as the wedding isn’t for several more months, but our busy schedules make it hard to arrange a good time nearer the wedding. Reese pushes the pile of gift-wrapped boxes and bags to the side to make room for the pitchers. I start refilling glasses.

Sophie is the first to raise her glass in a toast. “To the wedding.”

“To the honeymoon,” Claire adds, with a sly grin. Her engagement ring flashes in the tacky bar lights. It’s nestled next to a wide diamond encrusted band. She got married last fall. “Word of advice; don’t drink too much at the wedding if you want a solid fucking, that is.”

Bella’s eyes pop wide. “Is that what happened to you?”

“Steve drank half the keg and his dick was limp all night. Then he was hung over on the plane to Cancun. We had a room mix up at the resort and then we were both exhausted from the entire ordeal. I didn’t get any real action for three days.”

In situations like
this, I try to blend in; pretend I understand what it’s like to crave sex; to get a
solid
fucking from my lover. I nod knowingly at the right times and laugh when everyone else does. However, what I do most is hope no one turns the attention on me. That’s when things get even more awkward.

“But then it was good, right?” Bella asks. She’s the opposite of me and can’t seem to get enough information.

“God, yes; I didn’t marry Steve for his brains. I mean, I love him and he has a good landscaping business; but his real talent comes in the bedroom. He’s very generous.”

Oh,
shit. Here come the details, the TMI details. I pick up my drink and sip. Glancing around to make sure no one can hear this. Thank God, the room is dark and they can’t see how red my cheeks must be.

“
Do you mean he’ll eat you out?” Jessica asks.

“Oh
, yeah.”

“Alex
, too,” Reese chimes in, her voice slurring. “There are days when I just want to sit on his face.”

“Bart won’t do that,” Jessica says
, in a defeated voice, “even though he shoves his dick in my face at the first opportunity. Why do they do that?”

“They’re pigs,” Reese says.

Claire shakes her head. “You gotta establish this now. Tit for tat, babe. No BJ if he won’t lick your pussy.”

All the girls nod. I spin my phone on the table
. “What about you, Audrey? Was Dylan into oral?” I freeze when Jessica says my name. They all know about the break-up. I thought it would keep me out of the conversation tonight.

“Uh, yeah
; he was into it,” I lie. Sort of. He may have been into it. I just didn’t let him go that far, that way. It seemed too intimate; too encouraging.

“Fuck,” the bride-to-be
says. “Okay, starting tonight this mouth isn’t touching his cock until he reciprocates.

The girls cheer, holding their glasses out as though that statement was a toast of its own. I join in, wishing we cou
ld talk about wedding cake and invitations.

“I have another question,” Bella says.
She has a new boyfriend. “Anal? Yes or no?”

All three girls groan and jump into the conversation, but my stomach twists. I can’t do this one. I can’t fake it or pretend. I flick my eyes to Reese and mouth, “Bathroom.”

“Aud, where are you going?” Claire calls. I point to the back of the bar, but even over the crowd, I hear her say, “You know she’s a prude. She never contributes to the conversation. Are you sure she’s not a virgin?”

“Claire, not cool,” Reese says. I walk away with her w
ords ringing in my ears. I wipe the back of my hand under my eye.

There’s nothing wrong with being a virgin.

Unless, you don’t want to be.