day after our regular session with Leo, she reached out and touched my hand.
“You know something?” she said. “I really liked that today. I couldn’t help myself. It’s just that when I’m with you, I really start to get it on.”
“Don’t tell me about that, please, Melody.”
“I can’t help it, I’m starting to really love you. I do love you. You’re so beautiful and nice. I’ve been with a lot of girls but when I’m with you, I get a very warm feeling. Do you know what I mean?”
“Please don’t tell me about it, Melody. You’re my only friend, and I don’t want anything to happen to that friendship. I need you as a friend.”
“But I could do so much for you, Linda. You’re going to get away from Chuck someday. As sure as I’m sitting here, you’re going to be free of him. And then you’re going to need a place to stay. You could stay with me and I’d take care of you. You would learn to love me.”
“I can’t. I couldn’t. Please don’t.”
“Linda, honey, I know how you feel, believe me. I know you’re not into being with another woman, not now, but there’s always a chance that you’ll change your mind.”
“I won’t change my mind.”
“If you do, you’ll know where to find me.”
There were a few encounters like this one, and they’re the reason that I don’t look back at Melody as a close friend—but at least she was a human being with me. She cared and that was enough. Maybe she was doing things for her own benefit. But whatever her motives were, she did manage to get Chuck Traynor off my back and out of my sight from time to time. Escape seemed a possibility.
And escape was all I was thinking about those days. Some of the people who know my story wonder about my inability to get away; they wonder whether I didn’t begin to enjoy my new life. They wonder whether it is possible to go through weeks and months of incredible sexual activity and receive no sensual pleasure at all.
Did I enjoy any of it? Did I ever have a moment’s pleasure? I want to state this as clearly as I can. There was no pleasure. There was no love, no affection, no normal sex with anyone from the day I met Chuck Traynor until the day I finally got away. I did not have a single orgasm for six or seven years. I never had any enjoyment from any of it at all.
In fact, the only trick I could ever have a decent conversation with was a mortician named Jason. The first time Jason came to the house he told he just wanted to talk to me, nothing more. He didn’t touch me that first day, but he still gave me a ten-dollar tip.
“My problem is that I’m an incurable romantic,” Jason told me. “I couldn’t stand the thought of going to bed with a prostitute, so I’m going to ask you for a favor. Whenever I come to see you, I want you to pretend that we’re lovers, that we’ve just fallen madly in love.”
“I’ve done stranger things.”
“Okay,” he said, “and next time around, we won’t just talk. But for today I just wanted to get to know you.”
And so Jason and I had what he called “our love affair.” He was extremely romantic, always calling me “lover” and “darling.” He was extremely upset when he learned that Chuck was spying on us and insisted that we meet at a motel. That was just fine with me.
Even though he was a paying customer, Jason never did a cruel thing to me. At first, the fact that he was a mortician gave me the willies but that feeling faded as I spent more and more time with him. Pleasure? No, it was never a pleasure—but it was a relief. He was a gentleman and he wasn’t into anything too weird, unless bringing me flowers and calling me “sweetheart” could be considered weird.
One day, as his hour of romance was coming to an end, Jason made the mistake of asking me a question I had already heard a dozen times.
“How’d a nice girl like you ever get involved in doing this?”
“You wouldn’t want to know.”
“Try me.”
“Okay,” I
“You know something?” she said. “I really liked that today. I couldn’t help myself. It’s just that when I’m with you, I really start to get it on.”
“Don’t tell me about that, please, Melody.”
“I can’t help it, I’m starting to really love you. I do love you. You’re so beautiful and nice. I’ve been with a lot of girls but when I’m with you, I get a very warm feeling. Do you know what I mean?”
“Please don’t tell me about it, Melody. You’re my only friend, and I don’t want anything to happen to that friendship. I need you as a friend.”
“But I could do so much for you, Linda. You’re going to get away from Chuck someday. As sure as I’m sitting here, you’re going to be free of him. And then you’re going to need a place to stay. You could stay with me and I’d take care of you. You would learn to love me.”
“I can’t. I couldn’t. Please don’t.”
“Linda, honey, I know how you feel, believe me. I know you’re not into being with another woman, not now, but there’s always a chance that you’ll change your mind.”
“I won’t change my mind.”
“If you do, you’ll know where to find me.”
There were a few encounters like this one, and they’re the reason that I don’t look back at Melody as a close friend—but at least she was a human being with me. She cared and that was enough. Maybe she was doing things for her own benefit. But whatever her motives were, she did manage to get Chuck Traynor off my back and out of my sight from time to time. Escape seemed a possibility.
And escape was all I was thinking about those days. Some of the people who know my story wonder about my inability to get away; they wonder whether I didn’t begin to enjoy my new life. They wonder whether it is possible to go through weeks and months of incredible sexual activity and receive no sensual pleasure at all.
Did I enjoy any of it? Did I ever have a moment’s pleasure? I want to state this as clearly as I can. There was no pleasure. There was no love, no affection, no normal sex with anyone from the day I met Chuck Traynor until the day I finally got away. I did not have a single orgasm for six or seven years. I never had any enjoyment from any of it at all.
In fact, the only trick I could ever have a decent conversation with was a mortician named Jason. The first time Jason came to the house he told he just wanted to talk to me, nothing more. He didn’t touch me that first day, but he still gave me a ten-dollar tip.
“My problem is that I’m an incurable romantic,” Jason told me. “I couldn’t stand the thought of going to bed with a prostitute, so I’m going to ask you for a favor. Whenever I come to see you, I want you to pretend that we’re lovers, that we’ve just fallen madly in love.”
“I’ve done stranger things.”
“Okay,” he said, “and next time around, we won’t just talk. But for today I just wanted to get to know you.”
And so Jason and I had what he called “our love affair.” He was extremely romantic, always calling me “lover” and “darling.” He was extremely upset when he learned that Chuck was spying on us and insisted that we meet at a motel. That was just fine with me.
Even though he was a paying customer, Jason never did a cruel thing to me. At first, the fact that he was a mortician gave me the willies but that feeling faded as I spent more and more time with him. Pleasure? No, it was never a pleasure—but it was a relief. He was a gentleman and he wasn’t into anything too weird, unless bringing me flowers and calling me “sweetheart” could be considered weird.
One day, as his hour of romance was coming to an end, Jason made the mistake of asking me a question I had already heard a dozen times.
“How’d a nice girl like you ever get involved in doing this?”
“You wouldn’t want to know.”
“Try me.”
“Okay,” I
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