The Half Hour Rule

Regret is a funny thing; it's practically a chemical property as it can take on so many forms. Over the weekend, I’ve had opposing feelings of regret. 

On the one hand, I regret my dalliance on the couch with Nate. I also regret that I didn’t let it go further. There I was, pinned underneath him, feeling his hardness press against me, and I go and ruin it by reminding us that we have to maintain a professional relationship. Maybe if I had met his mouth with my own or let his hands explore and discover how wet I was, I wouldn’t be regretting how I coped with my frustration.

Saturday breakfast with Kat and Ashton at Mediterraneo revealed their similar experiences when lust got in the way of logic.

“You should have applied the half hour rule,” Kat said, practically tsking at me. 

The “half hour rule” is something Kat, Ashton and I developed to avoid post-orgasmic regret. Yes, there really is such a thing, but one can stay clear of this humiliating condition simply by waiting a half hour after being turned on by one source (human or battery-operated) before jumping a surprised, but now very happy new bloke. We like to think of it like waiting a sufficient amount of time after eating before going swimming. It allows either a meal or lust to settle.

“Mia, why?” Kat asked. “You know what happened to me after my last Chinese foot massage?”

Ashton and I nodded dutifully. Kat looked at us and shook her head at the memory. “I still regret it. If only I had waited after Mr. Magic Hands hit every erogenous zone in my feet, I’m sure I would have had the sense to not ask him if I could see what was in the back room!” 

“It’s not all your fault,” Ashton consoled. “It had been a really long time since you had, you know.”

“She’s right,” I agreed. “Kat, you have jars in your cupboard with expirations that come sooner.” 

“Still, I can’t ever go back to YouRelax! again.”

Ashton patted her hand. “Thankfully, those places are cropping up in every strip mall throughout the city. You never have to see Mr. Magic Hands again, unlike me and Pool Boy.”

Ashton was at home mid-week with a cold and decided to test if it were true that an orgasm can relieve sinus congestion. Having gone to bed with her favorite toy and a paperback compilation of Letters to Penthouse, she became aware that the pool boy and his hose had arrived. 

“That was a matter of bad timing,” I said recalling the incident. 

“Yeah, but if she had waited...or just finished the job herself,” Kat chided. “Honestly Ash, that’s what you get when you walk out to the pool in a white see-through cover-up without your bikini on underneath.”

“I just asked if it was ready,” Ashton said innocently.

“I always wondered about that,” I asked. “When you said it, did you mean the pool or It.”

Ashton took a sip of her coffee. “It was a mistake that could have been avoided if I had just waited.”

The three of us clinked our cups, recalling the multitude of men that experienced our random acts of kindness simply because they were in the right place during our lustful time. Like Kat and Ashton, I had succumbed and didn’t wait for my thoughts to return to rational. I didn’t think about where my actions would lead. I didn’t realize that calling Adam may be my biggest regret.

The Human Touch

I’ve barely slept in the last few days. Tossing and turning with thoughts that Adam placed in my mind about Nate. I started to play out different sexual scenarios...

I imagined Nate being my last client of the day. We would leave together and once in the elevator, we agreed that our professional relationship was left in the office. We started making out, his lips traveling down my neck, his hands exploring my body. It wasn’t right.

What was even more wrong was that I wanted something to happen with Nate only so I could run back and tell Adam every sordid detail because I knew how it would turn him on. And maybe, if I turned him on enough, I would be rewarded in just the way I wanted. 

Knowing what Adam expected, combined with my own not-so-pure thoughts, I took a different approach to my session with Nate yesterday when he told me that he didn’t think he could get past his wife’s infidelity.

“I can’t bring myself to touch her. I can’t be sure the affair has ended, so I’m not sure she would even want me."

I stood up and moved from behind my desk to take a seat on the couch next to Nate. “From the moment that we are born, humans crave touch,” I said taking his hand in mine. “A healthy marriage involves touch and if yours is going to survive, you need to find your way back to each other.”

He looked at me with his incredible hazel eyes, his blond hair slightly tousled, looking a bit like Beckham. “I’m not ready to try that, but you’re right about one thing, I feel so empty, so lacking in human companionship.”

I opened my arms to him and he leaned into me for an innocent hug. It was just a gesture of support. But he kept holding me and I felt his erection through my thin dress. As it grew stronger, he pressed against me, a small moan escaping him. Because I didn’t want to risk him feeling rejected, I allowed him to hold me. I stayed too long for feeling him against me made me want him too. I was dealing with my own needs to connect.

He pressed harder against me, using his leg to spread mine beneath him. My dress rode up and I could feel myself becoming wet. My breathing was heavy, but I managed a weak, “We have to stop.”

Adam had only one thing to say after I told him about my hour with Nate.

“I want to see you.”

“I’ll text you my address.”

Sexual Cyrano

I’d spent another night imagining what I would do with Nate if he weren’t my client. I had been too transparent in describing his tenderness because it sparked Adam’s interest, a man who was so opposite of Nate and yet, equally compelling.

“You look like something’s bothering you,” he noted.

“One of my clients is going through a bad patch,” I answered before heading to the bleachers. With lightening reflexes, he reached for my arm and led me into the field office. 

“You like this guy.”

“He’s my client. Of course, I do.”

“I mean, you’re attracted to him.”

Something about the way Adam slowly whispered “attracted” made me sense a spark between us as well.

“Tell me about him,” Adam insisted.

My mind flashed to my session with Nate earlier that day. He walked into my office standing tall, doing his best to hold onto his pride in the wake of his wife’s infidelity. But once the doors closed, a tenderness was revealed along with his fears that he hadn’t satisfied his wife and was therefore responsible for what happened. 

“You wanted to prove that he was wrong, didn’t you?” Adam urged.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Adam moved closer to me, staring into my eyes. It was undoubtedly that moment when a kiss follows, and so I closed my eyes. The waiting was agony. I could feel his breath on my neck. His lips barely grazing my skin, until he allowed his tongue to weave its way from my collar bone up my neck. I realize I had been holding my breath, which I finally let out when all movement ceased. I opened my eyes cautiously and was utterly surprised by what was in front of me -- an empty room. 

He had disappeared to the field leaving me breathless and wanting more.

“What was that?” I asked when practice wound down. I didn’t care that there were still a few straggling boys hanging around the field.

“That was a prelude. You tell me what Nate says and I’ll tell you how to get him.”

“He’s my client. I don’t want to ‘get’ him.”

“You do.”

Maybe it was because I was newly single and still stinging from the rejection, but I did want Nate, and even worse, I wanted Adam as well.

“That’s perverse. Why would you do that?”
“Let’s just say I like hearing all the sordid details of other people’s sex lives. I also know how men think. I’ll tell you how to get this guy.”

“I can’t discuss clients. And I certainly can’t do anything with them.”

“That’s too bad,” he said before brushing a hair from my face, using feather like touches to tuck it behind my ear and then trace the outline of my jaw. “I would have rewarded you.”

Age of Attraction

When I was still an undergrad and aspiring to be a psychologist I wondered how therapists handled clients they didn’t particularly like. I swore that my clients would only consist of people with real needs whom I could lend a sympathetic ear. And then I met Laura.

I’ve already mentioned her love of Botox and disdain for her husband, Steven. Today I learned about her twins, whom she affectionately refers to as the “pretty one” and the “runty one.” What does that mean, you ask? She took the pretty one to meet a child modeling agent and was shocked when the agent wanted to sign the runty one due to her “edgy look.” I spent the session trying to get Laura to realize that we often place too much value on one’s looks, which can be perceived differently to everyone.  

“I suppose,” she concurred. “But you're not really one to talk. I don’t see you chasing down the doogie door.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You’re a size 4, with a yoga butt and perky boobs. You’re not going to exactly attract the leftovers.”

I wasn’t going to give up this fight. “I wouldn’t go out with someone strictly because of their looks. A relationship based solely on looks will never last.”

Laura weighed what I was saying in her mind. “I guess even ugly people fall in love.” 

I know. She’s horrible.

And then I drove home unable to escape my darkest fears. What if there's a speck of truth to Laura? Are any of us able to escape raw attraction. Would we want to?

There’s the maid who captured Marc’s attention. (Attention -- defined in ancient Chinese text as groping hands with wandering dick.) 

My client, Nate, whose wife cheated, has the cutest dimples that I could just kiss, along with his gorgeous mouth, broad chest...but I digress. You can tell that I’m having a wee bit of trouble being impartial to his desire to save his marriage. (I’ve actually given serious consideration to the mental health benefits derived from taking him on the couch.)

And then there’s the devastatingly handsome Adam. That one will be my downfall. If ever there was a man to stay away from...Or perhaps I should get to know him and then I would certainly realize that looks are meaningless when your personality is dominating and controlling. Unless, of course, that’s what I’m after.

Cure for an Insomniac

Ever since I met Adam I’ve suffered from the worst insomnia. It’s not just a tossing and turning sort of thing; it’s waking up from dreams of him, feeling myself completely wet with thoughts of what I want to do and not being able to rest again until I fully satisfy myself. And, it’s as if he can read my thoughts.

My experience at field hockey today is sure to result in a repeat performance of my subconscious tonight. When we arrived, the other boys were already in the midst of their warm-up run. Adam gave me a stern look, told Ben to catch up, and then asked to speak to me privately.

Still in my work attire consisting of a black pencil skirt, a top with shoulder cut-outs and heels, I hurried to keep up with his long strides. He opened the door to an office adjacent to the field, small and dark with only one chair and a desk, which he sat on. Knowing that I had somehow gotten off on the wrong foot, I chose to stand in front of him rather than sit in the chair and look up at him like a scolded child.

“You’re back.”

“I am.”

There was something about his pleased, almost smug look, that took me by surprise.

“Is this going to be a regular occurrence?”

“My sister’s work is pretty demanding and I’m able to make my own hours. So, yes.”

He regarded me for a minute, his eyes meeting mine and daring not to look away. “Then you should know that this is a competitive program. These kids are working to get to the Olympics, which means you are accountable for his commitment. Be on time.” 

Ridiculous. He's 23 and I'm 33, and yet there was something about his tone that made me just nod submissively. 

“I’m glad we understand each other,” he said taking my hand for what I thought would be a professional handshake. But in contrast to his stern tone, his thumb gently stroked the inside of my wrist. I inhaled sharply, previously unaware of the erogenous zone. He smiled again mischievously. I swallowed hard, unable to fathom what was happening. 

He let go of my wrist, allowing his finger to slowly move up my arm to circle my exposed shoulder and then ever so lightly, he tucked the wayward strap of my bra into my top. 

“That’ll be all.”

I can’t be sure whether he was referring to his lecture, his remedy for my naughty strap or any hope of having that experience continue, but he immediately left to attend to the team. All I know is that I get tremors deep within me when I recall his touch and I fear that I will be useless to my client tonight due to my own preoccupation.

A Very Good Friday

When my sister called on Good Friday to ask if I could take my nephew to field hockey practice I never thought that she would actually be doing me a favor. 

“They’re practicing on a holiday?”

“There’s a tournament next month and the coach is a bit...” She searched for the right word.

“What?”

“Let’s just say he’s very serious about the game. Actually, controlling and pompous are probably better descriptions. Just ignore him.”

My nephew is quite possibly the best 12-year-old on the planet and since my relationship status is now single and motherhood may escape me, helping out was a no-brainer.

But my brain became a jumbled mess when I saw his coach and I knew that he was not someone one could ignore. I watched as he led the boys through their training. He spoke quietly, but with authority. According to my nephew, he was only 23, but he commanded respect. And how my sister managed not to mention that he was gorgeous was a mystery.

He glanced up at me once during the practice as if to make it known that nothing got past him. If there  was someone new in his midst, he would notice. And when he came over to introduce himself afterward, I could only assume that his self-assured manner was what made my sister label him as pompous, but was probably better described as swagger. 

"Do you like the game?" A smile crossed his face that I hadn't seen when he was with the boys. My response should have been so simple and yet, the only thing that came to mind was that I could imagine playing all sorts of games with him.

"I do," I finally managed.

"Then I'll see you again," he said as if he knew me better than I knew myself.

Fire my Client?

After my morning session told me that his wife had just admitted to having an affair, I naturally felt a kinship for my client. I wanted to tell him about Slug (the husband formerly known as Marc) and his affair. But in my job, one has to be a good listener, but in this instance, I truly felt that my ear was not the body part that would provide the most comfort.

Did I mention that he’s a bit god-like in the looks department? That little distraction combined with the fact that I haven’t had sex in ages made me want to take him under my wing. It also made me just want to take him. 

We’d be perfect. So much in common. His wife cheated; my husband cheated. Neither one of us were observant enough to see the writing on the wall. It was a fuck made in heaven. It was also totally not allowed, unless I was aiming to lose my license.

When our hour came to a close, I hurried to meet my two BFFs (Kat and Ashton) for some much needed advice on how to keep my legs closed. Here’s the cliff notes...

Kat: “You should fire him as your client so you can do him.”

Ashton: “It’s amazing you’ve gone so long without it.” (BTW, this hasn’t been my choice; Slug was regularly “stressed” or “tired”.)

And my personal favorite rationalization for behaving like a slut...

Kat: “If you were in a movie, you’d already be having sex.”

As someone who has spent the better part of her life as “the good girl,” I could use your opinion. Care to offer your top reasons for being naughty or nice?

Charity Case

I really need a day off with lots of chocolate, tears and girlfriends, but I received an “emergency” call. One of my clients was in tears, but when I met “Laura” (name changed to protect the not so innocent) at my office I was reminded of what constitutes stress in Westlake Village woman speak. Not a sick child, not a loss of a job, but the Westlake Village Junior Women’s Club. Really? 

Not a day goes by that I’m not amazed by the social pressures facing wealthy women in Westlake. Life was so simple before I moved here. No cheating husband (at least not that I knew of), no women with an insatiable desire for $400 handbags, and no blackmailing “friends” of said cheating husband. 

Anyway, there’s nothing better than throwing oneself into work to forget your own problems, which is what brings me back to Laura. She was invited to be a member of an exclusive club, where she would hob-nob with other women whose handbag budget could feed and clothe a third-world country. But Laura was stressing that her home and husband wouldn’t measure up to the club’s scrutiny.

Fixing up her home would be easy. Her decorator (“the one who does everyone in North Ranch”) said she could get an updated look for just shy of $20K. What a bargain! But “fixing” her husband would be another story. “Steven needs to lose at least 15 pounds,” she declared, “and he could benefit from a little Botox.”

As our session ended, she decided to be charitable, as is the mission of Westlake Village Junior Women. She obviously noticed the puffy, red, blotchy look I was sporting. Handing me the card for her dermatologist she told me to give her name as a reference because apparently you just can’t get in without one and according to Laura, I was in need of Botox as much as Steven. 

Poor Steven. At least I'm not the only one deficient in spouse selection skills.

The Ground Rules

Finding out about my husband’s affair wasn’t as bad as learning that he’s been cleaning out the cleaning girl from his office. I have a master’s degree and she has a mop. Could it get more humiliating? So this is what he’s been doing “while working late.”

I have obviously not come to terms with my now defunct marriage, but keeping busy is helping me to heal. It also keeps my fantasies at bay. (The one where I bust in on my husband and his cheap chickadee while wielding a terribly intimidating weapon and well, intimidating the hell out of them if my fav.) 

And, I’m finding clarity thanks in large part to those of you who have offered insight, along with dear friends who are able to understand me through my sniffles. One thing I’ve realized is that women (with the exception of the one who thought it was okay to shag a married man) typically want to be labeled as “good,” “responsible,” “reliable.”

I’m no different, but I’m starting to wish I were. I pride myself on being on time, remembering birthdays (even before Facebook reminders) and basically, not doing anything crazy. But look where it’s gotten me.

Wouldn’t it be great if we could act on our impulses instead of always worrying how things would look to other people? Of course there would have to be certain ground rules. 

On the “don’t do it” front:

1. No unsavory public behavior. (If the urge to skinny dip in a public fountain ensues, ignore it!)

2. No unsavory use of married men. (There are plenty of fish in the sea, no need to swim with someone else’s.)

On the “go for it” front:

1. The next time that cute guy at Trader Joe’s asks me if I need help with my groceries the answer is going to be “Yes!”

2. When a cute stranger catches my eye I will not look away!

I’m sure I must be missing a few more. Care to add to either list?

What a Difference a Day Makes

Does anyone know what it feels like to totally have the rug pulled out? I’m not talking a little trip, but a full-blown crash to the ground, flat on your pretty face. 

You would think that after spending years with clients who tell me they’re married to bitches, bastards, liars and cheaters, I’d know how to spot one. Yeah, you’d think. But last night the phone rang and a stranger with a mind toward blackmail pushed my husband into admitting the truth.

“Tell her yourself,” he said and handed me the phone. After hearing the words “ongoing affair” I hung up. Marc looked at me sheepishly and told me the voice belonged to some guy who saw him kissing someone who wasn’t me. And now, they wanted $1,000 to keep quiet. Turns out Marc is a cheater and a cheapskate. Or maybe he just wanted out.

Everyone thought I was crazy when I told them we were getting married...after only six  months. Yes, I know I’m supposed to know better.  But he was cute with a James Bond accent and I wanted him to stay in this country. This is what I get for wanting an adventure.

So what now? 

1. Revenge: I could ask my gorgeous Tuesday at 5 p.m. if I could lie down on the couch next to him and then fuck his brains out. Unprofessional and grounds for losing my license, but I’m not exactly feeling totally rational.
2. Pity: I could call a girlfriend and the pizza delivery guy (for large amounts of carbs, not a threesome).
3. Survival: Fortunately, my first instinct after spending most of the night crying is to write. Pour it all out and ask others for advice. 

So give it to me straight. This is the perfect place to hear your advice, whatever it may be, since there’s total anonymity. I know that there must be plenty of people who can relate. So tell me your sure fire ways to get over a man.