Chapter 33: Bittersweet Symphony

After the night I freaked out in the car, Jack and I started couple’s therapy with a sex-positive psychotherapist. We figured that was probably the first requirement—find a therapist that was accepting of nonmonogamy as a viable model of relationship, who had some insight as to how to help people trying to navigate it for the first time.  

Jessa had recommended him, although the relationship she’d sought counseling for—not Bobby, but a boyfriend—had ended, which was not exactly a ringing endorsement of the therapist’s skill. But it didn’t occur to me at the time to research therapists with Jack and choose someone together.

Over time it would become increasingly apparent that, whatever his methods, they weren’t working. But once we were invested with him, it seemed like too much work to start over. Were sex therapists that common? I didn’t know. So often we handicap ourselves with questions we fail to ask.

One useful thing about the therapist was that he helped us identify that Jack and I both fell on the submissive side of the Dom/sub (D/s) scale. In other words, we both preferred the other person hold the power during a sex scene. We both wanted to be dominated sexually. This similarity in our sexual dispositions explained a lot: Jack and I lacked polarity. In the same way positively charged protons repel other protons, and negatively charged electrons repel other electrons, Jack and I, on some level, repelled instead of attracted one another. Thinking about it this way helped me think about our lack of sexual harmony as an objective fact. It’s just who and how we were. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. I was not to blame because I didn’t feel erotic fireworks. It was a simple fact, same as our biological sex, same as our birthdates.

I wanted to be dominated sexually because that was how I knew my place. As I learned when I was young, my sex and my worth were one and the same. I was to be adoring, to caretake and receive my partner. This is the way I was erotically wired. In exchange for my submission, I gained his attention, affection, and desire for me. And that was everything I wanted. It’s what I didn’t know I was after when I had sought out The Musician after five years of silence. It’s the reason I was so receptive to Viktor. Both of them conveyed authority and control and I ate it up. It was such a relief to be met there. It made me feel sated and calmed. I imagine it might be like a baby who cries for comfort, who is picked up, held, and soothed. For me it was like this…or maybe more like an addict finally getting their hit of smack. The cycle made me dependent. It meant I needed him—his affection, his approval, his validation—to feel okay.

If I had to be triggered this way emotionally to feel strong “chemistry” with a partner, then it’s no wonder why I didn’t feel chemistry with Jack. Not only did we lack polarity in our desires, but Jack was safe. He was loving. He was naturally affectionate, easy to be with, and kind, and I didn’t have to do anything to earn it. In other words, he didn’t trigger the attachment wound I was unwittingly carrying from childhood.

Two months after I met Viktor we scheduled our second overnight. He was having dinner with another woman before he met me at the hotel. Somehow, I didn’t mind this. It didn’t occur to me to wonder, let alone ask, why he planned two dates for one evening. I remained hypersensitive to Jack’s actions around Kat, because that’s where I was authentically vulnerable. But when it came to Viktor, I would take what I was offered. I had little invested apart from what I wanted: validation through sex.

Another reason I didn’t think too much about Viktor’s date is because I was so preoccupied with my plan for the night. Earlier in the week I’d had an idea. I’d never done anything like it. I was practically squealing with anticipation by the time I walked into the hotel room.

The door had barely closed behind me when I started to put away everything extraneous. I stashed the brochures, remotes, guidebook, and luggage rack. I took a quick shower so I’d be fresh as could be, brushed my teeth, and refreshed my makeup. I teased my hair until it looked artfully tousled, then cleaned up the errant water droplets and rinsed my toothpaste down the drain. The space needed to look pristine, like a furniture showroom. I wanted a blank canvas. I retrieved my phone and speakers and the elements of my outfit and put everything else away, out of sight.

Viktor texted that he was on his way.

Please let me know when you’re parking, I replied.

I started with stockings—thigh high fishnets. Then a red lace bodysuit with an easy-access snap at the crotch. I had learned by then how much he liked lingerie, especially crotchless, and loved dressing for him. I finished the outfit with black fuck-me boots—knee high, pointy toe, stiletto heel. I realized I had forgotten jewelry and hoped he didn’t miss it. I turned on Marconi Union—ambient sound that broke the silence but preserved our blank canvas—and tinkered with the volume. He texted he had parked.

I quickly put the ball gag in my mouth, not too tight so I could spit it out if the scene got too intense and I started to lose myself. I put the eye mask over my forehead and grabbed the handcuffs. I looked around the room for where I was going to sit.