But Timothy Wheaton had been impotent from the drugs.
Examining the bulletin board, the photographer wondered which of the new shots should be sent to the paper. That front-page placement of Phil Maur’s photograph had been gratifying, even though there wasn’t a photo credit. Obviously, nothing could be done about that. It was too bad the paper hadn’t used those long shots of the beautiful naked body depleted of all its energy and vigor, but had instead used the simple shot of the man’s feet. His numbered feet. Red numbers from the middle of the ball of the foot to the heel. A 1 on the right foot. A 1 on the left.
Now there would be a new photo in the Times with a 2 on the right foot. And a 2 on the left.
Everyone would assume there was going to be a 3 to follow.
Everyone.
Fear of being next had to be a powerful inhibitor, didn’t it? They had to be thinking that if two of them had been killed, any one of them might be next, right? The photographer was counting on it.
Seventeen
Wednesday was rainy. A strong wind ripped the turning leaves from the branches and they lay plastered on the pavement, slippery but brilliant against the concrete streets.
Because of the weather, and because I’d scheduled a consultation with a new patient at 1:00 p.m. and only had a half hour for lunch, I ordered in vegetable soup and seven-grain bread and ate at my desk.
Nicky Brooks arrived on time, only minutes after I finished eating. Once he was sitting on the couch, I asked how he’d found me, assuming it was from the Today show, but it turned out Shelby Rush had recommended me.
“I told her I was looking for someone to help my wife and me. Shelby knows us. Knows what has been going on with us. What the issues are. She suggested you.”
Nicky was in his mid-thirties, dressed well in a navy suit and sky-blue striped tie. He had a high forehead, thick chestnut hair, dimples and a determined chin. He looked like someone who moved through the world getting what he wanted.
“Have you been in therapy before?”
He nodded.
“When?”
“About six years ago.”
“For how long?”
“About a year.”
“You said that Shelby knew you and the kinds of issues you have been dealing with. I’d like to know what they are.”
“My wife and I are separated.” He looked around, taking in the room. I wasn’t sure if it was interest in his surroundings or a way of avoiding looking at me.
“How long have you been married?”
“Eighteen months.” He looked back at me when he answered.
“And how long have you been separated?”
“About four months. Couldn’t even make it through two years.” His voice dipped down, expressing disgust. With himself? With his wife?
“Who instigated the separation?”
“Daphne.”
“Why?”
“We had issues.”
“With what part of your lives?”
“Our sex life.”
The way he said the word “our” made me wonder if, indeed, the problem belonged to both of them.
“I’d like to hear your take on what the problems are. If we go forward with the therapy, I’ll be asking your wife the same question. Do you feel comfortable talking about the problems without your wife being here?”
He seemed surprised, as if it had never occurred to him that there might be anything wrong with talking about it without her. “Daphne and I met at the Scarlet Society almost three years ago. She was a member.”
He was watching for a reaction, but I had been doing this for years and knew how to hide my feelings if I wanted or needed to. Nicky continued, “I’d found out about the society from a woman I’d been seeing who thought I’d enjoy it.”
“And did you?”
“For the first time in my life, I was sexually satisfied.”
“What had happened previously?”
“I’ve been uncomfortable with several of the women I’ve been with.”
“Why, Nicky?”
“It’s embarrassing. To explain what you like. It can turn some women off.”
“What do you like?”
He sat back in the chair and crossed his arms over his chest. For the first time since he’d come into my office twenty minutes earlier, he was resisting going forward. His body language spoke more loudly than any words. His eyes darkened and narrowed. He lowered his gaze so that he was no longer looking at my face but rather at the cup of coffee that sat on the small end table next to my chair. He crossed one leg over the other.
“This isn’t going to work if I don’t tell you, right?”
“Right. You said you were in therapy before. Did this subject come up?”
“Yeah. But we never resolved it. And then I found the society and stopped therapy. I didn’t need to resolve it.”
“What about the society made that possible?”
He didn’t say anything. It was time for some reassurance.
“I don’t want you to worry about shocking me or embarrassing yourself. I’ve been a therapist for eleven years. The only thing I consider problematic is when a patient’s sexual desires, or lack of them, gets in the way of how they want to live their lives, or if it endangers their partners.”
He let out a long breath. “I’m not hiding anything dangerous. I just like to be told what to do. It’s not such a big deal.” He was arguing with someone who wasn’t in the room with us. Someone who had tried to convince him that it wasn’t normal for a man to enjoy being sexually submissive.
I nodded, encouraging him. “And the society offers you a place to do that without being judged?”
“I don’t like the leather-and-high-heels dominatrix scene. I tried that. Dirty clubs. Expensive services.” He shook his head. “I didn’t want to be with those women. I wanted consensual sex with women who were like me. Not too far afield. Not taking my money.”
I nodded again. He was finally talking in complete thoughts and I hoped he’d go on.
“I’m a wine merchant. I have more than one hundred employees. I tell people what to do all the time. I’m in charge all the time. So every once in a while, I like to give up being in charge.”
“What is that like?”
He thought for a few seconds. “To have a woman standing there, hungry for you, telling you how to touch her…seeing her mouth part and her tongue slip out…and to hear her breath come faster and faster…knowing your job is to please her before you can please yourself…the wait of that…knowing that if you fail you will be punished-” He stopped, not sure he could describe it to me after all.
“How do you feel about the way you prefer to have sex?”
“Now?”
“Now or before.”
“I’m okay with it. Wasn’t at first. I was frightened by it. By the difference of it. For a while I wondered if it meant I was…gay. But this isn’t about wanting to be with a man, or even wanting to be a woman. I just like having to perform. And being rewarded. I like the exchange and the parameters.”
“Do you ever wish that you weren’t turned on by being submissive?”
This took him aback. He didn’t say anything. He recrossed his legs. He shrugged, but still he didn’t answer.
I waited. The silence continued. I could hear the rain beating on the windows.
“I suppose my life would be easier if I weren’t. But I need to be told what to do.” He looked straight at me, unashamed.
I’d worked with men before who preferred to play a sexually passive role. Some were able to integrate it into their relationships-with wives or lovers-while others acted out with dominatrixes they hired or met in sex clubs. Two previous clients were only turned on by extreme S & M and I had referred them to another therapist at the institute who is an expert at behavior modification. But the Scarlet Society was a sandbox compared to a hard-core S & M club.