Of course not, dear, said the therapist. But I would only care to know—
(what happened next!)
—why you wish to tell me this. Why do you think it is important that I know you in this way?
The patient hummed; then was silent.
(In the quiet of this pause, I struggled to contain my excitement. The problem was not merely my tumescence, the possibility of a consequent need for repositioning, the sounds I might make. The problem was … oh, God … my shame. The person who had had the sexual encounter—please God, let me not demean her!—was my dear patient, whom I had come to love as a daughter.)
Said the patient at last: I think you will see what it means, if you let me go on.
Why, of course, said the doctor. It is not a question of “let.” Please go on as you will.
(I prayed again to God: Help me, remember she is the patient, my beloved patient, not like the others, nothing like them at all!)
47.
Dorotea’s room was enormous, said the patient. A living room. Kitchen. Dining table with four armchairs.
How did you rate this? I asked her.
She turned, put her hand on the nape of my neck. Darling, she said with a laugh. I was just promoted to managing director. It was a horrible crawl. So let us not discuss this now. Except to say I at least get a suite.
I’m also … I am a “quant,” an econometrics analyst, I said.
So we are …
Together, I answered.
She laughed and touched my cheek. Instantly I knew I’d met a person of substance, said the patient. Her direct gaze. The forthrightness of her sex play in the pool—I knew it must have come from somewhere. Someone confident, substantial, accomplished.
And the obstacles you had to overcome, I said to her. As a woman.
The bedroom is here, said Dorotea.
There was an enormous bed. A patio, its door open, sheer curtains floating up like they were breathing.
Yes, said Dorotea, as she stroked my face. As a woman, she said.
We turned, gazed at each other, inches apart. I said to her: Kissing is very important to me.
Now why would I say that? the patient asked Dr. Schussler. In the middle of … Why would it matter to talk about kissing?
As you said, replied the doctor. She was someone of substance, you sensed. As are you. Two women of substance. About to have sex.
There was a pause. Yes, said the patient. Yes. I suppose you’re right. I suppose that’s why I said to her:
Kissing is very important to me.
She replied by exploring my cheeks with her her lips—God! what succulent lips!—all around my mouth.
Sshh, Dorotea whispered. No more talking.
Our kiss was soft, exploratory. We pulled back, delayed; then kissed again, this time much more … urgently.
I don’t remember how this happened, said the patient, but at some point I tore off her robe, she tore down my bathing suit. Then we roamed our hands all over.
The patient looked again at Dorotea’s breasts, then at the rise of her belly, the dark ruff that hid between the swelling bell of her thighs. Now she could feel it: the soft density of her skin, the curve of her hip, the womanly weight of her backside, a soft layer over a hard-muscled core.
Suddenly Dorotea fell to her knees. (A posture of subservience! yelled Charlotte in the patient’s head. Women should not do this!) The patient’s bathing suit was still around one ankle when Dorotea took her ass in both hands (Shut up, Charlotte!), pulled her hips toward her, then drove the patient’s clitoris through those wax-red lips.
Oh, God! the patient moaned.
She had no choice but to yield to Dorotea’s plans, to the hands at her ass that were driving her forward, to those lips over her inner lips, the tongue that circled and licked and flicked. Dorotea pulled the patient’s hips forward, then pushed slightly back, forward and back, then around, and around again, so that the patient was performing a sort of belly dance, the performance all for the sake of Dorotea’s mouth.
Then suddenly the dance stopped.
Dorotea let go of her. The patient was so aroused, confused. She looked down.
But Dorotea did nothing, only sat there, five seconds, ten. Then she reached forward and gently spread the outer lips: The clitoris was now naked, exposed. It seemed to have grown, in sensation, to enormous size. The slight breeze teasing the surface was almost more than