Chapter 1

The psychiatrist looked up as his newest patient entered his office. His examination began with an evaluation of her physical appearance.

The face she showed the world looked entirely normal for a young woman of twenty-three. Her attire was business casual, consisting of a maroon colored silk blouse, tucked into a gray wool skirt that fell to perhaps an inch below her knees. She had good legs to go along with a body that appeared to be in excellent condition. She was slim in a willowy way, but not so thin as to suggest an eating disorder. Her hair was shiny and clean and fell to her shoulders. Whatever issues she had in life hadn’t caused her to let herself go. She looked nervous, but only in the sense that most patients who choose to enter into a dialogue with a member of his profession might be.

“Good morning, Miss Chambers,” he said, his voice mellow. He glanced at a folder lying open on his desk, which was otherwise clear of any object. “How may I help you this morning?”

“I think I have a problem,” she said, tentatively.

“We all have problems,” he said, smoothly. “Please, make yourself comfortable. Would you like coffee? Tea?”

“Do you have any black chai?” she asked, still standing.

“I believe we do,” he said.

He punched a button and asked someone named Helen to bring the tea while the patient surveyed the options in the office for “relaxing” in. There were two straight-backed, upholstered chairs that faced his desk. The couch she had expected to be there was along an inside wall to his right. Two overstuffed arm chairs formed an L with the couch, and had an end table between them. Wall sconces provided a low level of lighting that somehow made the room feel warm, though not oppressively so.

“Should I lie on the couch?” she asked. Her cheeks blossomed pink. “I’ve never done this before.”

“Maybe later,” said the doctor. “You don’t even have to sit. The agenda for right now is simply for you to feel as comfortable as possible.”

“I’m nervous,” she admitted.

“You have nothing to fear in this room,” he said, softly.

“Oh, I know that,” she said, sounding impatient. Her appearance gave no hint of impatience, though.

“Why don’t you tell me why you think you have a problem,” he said, making her decide on her own whether to remain standing, or choose a place to sit.

“That’s easy,” she said, standing stock still and looking at him with an unflinching gaze. “I’m twenty-three and still a virgin.”

His eyes widened, but he concealed his surprise, otherwise. She was a beautiful young woman, obviously attractive to men. The forms she’d filled out prior to being shown to his office indicated she was an interior decorator, so she obviously had the opportunity to meet men.

“Virginity is not a disease,” he offered.

“So you believe that a twenty-three-year-old woman in America who has still never had sex is completely normal?”

“It’s a little early in the process to proclaim you either normal or otherwise,” he said, calmly. “Please. Sit down. Or lie down if you wish. I will admit I am intrigued. I don’t want to sound unprofessional, but you are a beautiful woman, and I suspect there have been many other men who observed the same thing. That your virginity is intact is a valid concern, if only because it causes you to worry. I hope we can find a way to help you remove that worry from your life.”

“You’re too kind,” she said, her tone acerbic. “Are you going to stretch this out as long as possible? Eighty dollars an hour is a pretty good reason to do that.”

“Anger is rarely productive,” said the doctor. “I can promise you I won’t make you spend any more time in this office than is required to resolve your concerns.” He glanced at her folder again. “Believe it or not, I’m not in this for the money. If your financial situation requires it, we can come to an agreement to reduce your fees, but please, let’s not worry about that right now. Instead, let’s proceed with this initial visit so I can determine how best to help you.”

The patient folded her arms across the maroon silk of her blouse, under breasts that seemed to thrust almost insolently from her chest. The doctor amended that thought, understanding that it was the insolence in her facial expression that he had applied to those delightfully full breasts.

Finally, she dropped her arms and sat in one of the chairs facing his desk.

“I think I know why I have this problem,” she said. “At least I know who I blame for it.”

He waited, just looking at her. He did have questions, but, initially, he wanted her to reveal whatever she was thinking at the moment. He didn’t need to ask her who she blamed. She wanted to talk about that. She wouldn’t have brought it up, otherwise.

“I blame my uncle,” she said, her voice tight.

“Your uncle,” said the doctor. Simply repeating what a patient said often caused more information to flow forth, concerning the comment. It was an odd facet of human interaction. By repeating the comment, you verified that you’d heard and understood it. For reasons still not understood by science, however, such repetition seemed to demand further explanation.

“My mother’s brother, my Uncle Bob,” said Miss Chambers.

“You blame your Uncle Bob for the fact that, at twenty-three, you haven’t had sexual congress with a man,” said the doctor.

“Or woman,” she added, her voice whisper soft.

“You have interests in that direction?” asked the doctor.

“I have interests in every direction,” she snorted. “I blame him for that, too.”

“Let me tell you what I heard you say,” he said. “If I’m wrong, please feel free to correct me. I heard you say that you’re still a virgin because of your relationship with your Uncle, and yet that same relationship caused you to have sexual interest in relationships with both genders?”

“Exactly.”

“I admit, I am intrigued,” he said. “Would you feel comfortable talking about that some more?”

“It’s why I’m here,” she said, her gaze level with his.

He closed her folder.

“Then let’s begin,” he said, softly.

She was lying on the couch. Her shoes were off and her ankles were crossed. The skirt had ridden up a few inches, exposing her knees, and perhaps two inches of skin above them. She wasn’t wearing hosiery and had the legs to pull that off beautifully. The fingers of both hands were interlaced and lying on her abdomen. She seemed to have no concern about lying on her hair. She stared at the ceiling, instead of the doctor, who sat beside her in his desk chair, which he had rolled away from his desk. That chair was probably the most comfortable one in the room.

“Let’s go back to the beginning,” he said. “Tell me about your relationship with your uncle. What is your oldest memory of him?”

“Oh my,” she sighed. “I can’t remember a time when he wasn’t there. Even before my father left, Uncle Bob was there a lot. He and my mother were very close.”

“Tell me what you remember about your father leaving.”

“I thought we were talking about my uncle,” she said, rolling her head to look at him.

“Your uncle wasn’t the only influence in your life,” he said.

Her head rolled back and she stared at the ceiling again.

“He left when I was eight. Mom would never tell me exactly why, but when I grew older I figured it out.”

She subsided and he waited, letting the silence make her uncomfortable. As expected, she spoke to fill it.

“He left for another woman.”

“Why do you believe that?”

“Because I remember them fighting. He used to come home late sometimes and they yelled at each other. I remember Mom asking him why he smelled like perfume. One time she asked what was wrong with her and then cried when he left the house. I didn’t understand at the time, but when I was in my teens that all began to make sense. Except it didn’t make sense. My mother was beautiful, the nicest woman in the world. She was a good cook and a good mother. As far as I was concerned, he had to be an idiot to leave her for some other woman. I still feel that way.”

“Passion can cause erratic, incomprehensible behavior,” suggested the doctor.

“Everybody knows that,” she snorted.

“It sounds like you have some unresolved feelings about your father,” he said, ignoring her barb.

“Not at all,” she said. “I hope he suffers from boils that cover his entire body. I hope his hair falls out and women find him repulsive. I hope he catches a sexually transmitted disease that causes him to waste away in terrible pain.”

“I see,” said the doctor. “Just for the sake of argument, let’s talk about how you hope your father has no options for romantic or sexual involvement with a woman. Is it possible that has caused you to feel that way about all men?”

“Not at all,” she said, immediately. “I don’t hate all men. I don’t hate sex, either. I’d love to find a man to have that kind of relationship with. I’ve tried. I’ve dated tons of guys. And I’ve felt passion plenty of times. But none of them were the right man.”

“And you know this because... ?”

“Are you married, Doctor?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“We’re not here to talk about me,” he chided, gently.

“You’re not a bad looking guy,” she said, ignoring him. “You have a nice office, and at the rates you charge you’re not hurting for money. I assume you’re not gay and I doubt that your profession requires you to work late night after night, or be gone for extended or frequent trips away from home. So why hasn’t some woman snatched you up? Are you opposed to marriage or long term relationships?”

“All right. I concede your point. You want me to say I haven’t met the right woman.”

“Thank you,” she said. “It’s not that easy to find the perfect mate.”

“Of course perfection is elusive, and I understand that relationships are complicated. But discussing your feelings about those relationships is important if we’re going to resolve your conflict.”

“I suppose so,” she sighed.

“Let’s get back to your uncle,” he suggested. “Did he become the father figure in your life, once your biological father left?”

“I wouldn’t have called it that,” she said. “Though I did always feel safe and protected in his presence. I thought of him more as a special friend ... a very special friend.”

“What made him special?”

“You used the right word for it, earlier,” she said. “Our relationship was complicated. I’ve thought a lot about this, and I think it was because he was responsible for ushering me into puberty.”

“You say that with conviction.”

“That’s because I’m sure about it.”

“Puberty is amorphous, in terms of how it plays out and how each person responds to it,” said the doctor. “Most people have difficulty remembering what it was like to go through that period in their development. It’s a tumultuous time in a person’s life, and is often the root of many problems that surface later in one’s adult years.”

“I remember it very clearly,” said the patient.

“Why do you feel your uncle ushered you into puberty?”

“Because he taught me about my body ... about the feelings I was having ... about sex,” she said, softly.

“Your uncle molested you?” The doctor’s voice was tight.

“Most people would have called it that,” she said, sounding unconcerned. “But I didn’t feel abused. Nor did my mother act like he did anything wrong. She knew about all of it, and never ... corrected ... his behavior.”

“I want to hear more,” said the doctor, “but I have another appointment. Would you be willing to come back for more sessions?”

“Of course,” she said, sitting up. “I want to resolve the issue.”

“I wish I didn’t have to put you off now. I think it would be productive if you could tell your story without interruption. I don’t usually work on Saturdays, but if we met then I’d have more time with you.”

“Saturdays are no problem,” she said. “I usually go to the gym on Saturday, but I can do that in the morning and then come see you afterwards. Would that work?”

“That would be fine. Let’s make it this coming Saturday. Is that all right with you?”

She stood and smoothed her skirt with delicate hands.

“I’m looking forward to it,” she said. “I’ll see you around ten.”

He chose to dress down, both because it was Saturday and because he wanted the atmosphere to be as casual and comfortable for the patient as possible. He was mildly surprised when she arrived still wearing what she’d worked out in. That consisted of a one-piece spandex upper that hugged her body like a second skin. He imagined the gusset was narrow, because she’d covered her loins with a pair of running shorts, loose and made of cotton, the complete opposite of what covered her upper body. Her blond hair was done up in a ponytail. The overall effect was one of blatant, healthy sexuality, and he felt a tightening in his groin. His eyes went naturally to her breasts, looking for her nipples, and he was mildly disappointed when all he saw were smoothly rounded tips of breasts that were tightly confined by the stretchy fabric.

“Jennifer,” he said, choosing to use her first name to establish a less formal atmosphere. “Please come in. You didn’t have to rush right here.”

“Doctor,” she replied, formally, apparently not wanting things to be as casual as he did. “I usually prefer to shower at home. I hoped you wouldn’t mind if I came straight here from the gym. I was on the climbing wall and didn’t want to stop until I reached my goal.”

That explained the traces of white chalk still on her hands.

“So you’re a climber,” he said, just making conversation.

“And a kick boxer, and a runner, and a swimmer,” she said, easily. “I play racquetball, too. I have a lot of stress in my life, and I’ll do pretty much anything to work it off.”

“I wouldn’t have thought an interior designer would be subject to an overabundance of stress,” he said, smiling.

“Sexual stress,” she said, looking directly at him without embarrassment.

“Ahhh,” he said. “Which brings us to the issue. You have chosen other than the ... shall we say conventional ... methods of reducing your sexual stress. I understand the issues surrounding finding that ‘right’ person we talked about before, but in this day and age young people often engage in sex with no ties, simply to deal with those feelings.”

“I’m not interested in casual sex,” she said, choosing the couch again. Again she crossed her ankles and lay her hands on the tightly stretched spandex covering her flat abdomen. “I want something with more substance. Something that will last. I think I have a lot to offer the right man, and I don’t want to waste my time doing what amounts to complicated masturbation with the wrong one.”

“I don’t mean to compromise any moral stance that may support your position on this, but sometimes building a good, long-term relationship involves a certain amount of preliminary sexual intimacy. I think of it as a pathway to happiness. One must walk the entire path. You can’t just jump to the end.”

“I don’t think my moral stance has much to do with things,” she said. “I think my uncle ruined me for other men.”

“That might be a little extreme, considering the fact that you are, as you said, still a virgin. Perhaps we should talk about a definition of that word. What does ‘virgin’ mean to you?”