Tomaso, the gift of the Upper East Side has the true healer’s touch. Looking up at him, “I don’t think I’m in the mood for, you know, the sexy part.” Tomaso places one hand on my stomach, the other on my heart over the towel. Funny how fantasies change because now when I think of him with his oily, black mustache, I picture myself punching him in the face. This fantasy was entirely controlled by me, directed by me, and owned by me until I threw it out because I didn’t need it anymore. And it’s in the way he looks at me as he fucks me, like he’s going to spit me out, that pushes me over the edge. He tells me to touch myself and that he’s going to heal me and not to tell anyone. I’m in that same room and I’m 15 and I don’t know any better. What haunted me most, though, is for many years I often masturbated to that scenario.
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He asked why but I didn’t know how to tell him. When I got home I told Dad I was never going back there again. He wrapped his arms over my hunched body and creepily whispered, “Don’t worry, I’m going to make you better.”īut I no longer believed him. I sat up and pulled my knees into my chest. To my relief, he announced they were normal. I can’t remember the reasoning, but luckily it was over my Packer High School T-shirt. On our last session, he decided to give me a breast exam. “Like this?” I asked because I wanted to get it right. “You should stroke yourself like this,” he ran his fingers along my upper thigh, “now show me how you do it.” When he’d have me alone in the room, he’d ultrasound my groins and get a little too close. And yes, he’s been to Capri, but because it gets so touristy in summer … Within the span of five minutes, I find out he’s from Milan, a Kundalini practitioner, lives in Williamsburg, has a golden retriever named Michelangelo (of course), Skypes regularly with Mama, has a younger sister in London and visits his family yearly in Palermo where his father keeps a boat.
When I feel his warm hands on my back, I naturally decide this is the moment to bombard him with questions. The ocean’s gentle waves lap from his iPhone 6. Tomaso has prepared the room with the scent of Palo Santo wood, which I recognize from yoga class. I’m soon half nude on my stomach under a towel.
Maybe I should allow myself more sexual liberation? Is my need to always feel “safe” and “take it slow” puritanical, patriarchal nonsense? I catch his brown eyes and avert my gaze. He’s straight from porno casting: Italian god in his mid-30s with a big folding table under his muscular arm.