Thearpy

Therapy

Let me introduce you to John.

John is forty-three and has been married to Rosie for eighteen years. They have three children, Gemma, Josh, and Kyle, a dog, two cats, a three bedroom semi-detached house and a rusty blue Ford Escort. John works at the local timber factory; the same place he has been for the past nine years, and has achieved the position of shift supervisor. He works rotational shifts, one week on earlies, the next afternoons, the following on nights and then back to earlies again. His body is used to this timetable but his heart is not; he lacks contact with his family and his only friends are the people he works with. He has no ambition, is distant and deathly apathetic. And what’s more, John is bored.

Imagine you are John.

You wake up at 4.43 am, the regular two minutes before your alarm is due to go off. You roll over and kiss your sleeping wife on the cheek before reaching over and switching off the alarm. The morning feels cool on your feet as you get out silently from the bed and put on your slippers. You go into the bathroom, take a hot shower through which you find yourself waking up and functioning as usual. You beat off while thinking about a black woman’s breasts you saw in a magazine yesterday; come unceremoniously and switch off the shower. You get changed hurriedly as it is cold and the central heating isn’t due to start for another two hours. You walk downstairs, through the hall and into the kitchen where you switch on the kettle. Ignoring the cat’s plaintive meows you make yourself a cup of tea and a bowl of unsweetened bran-flakes which taste like cardboard; munching monotonously your eyes linger on the mould growing on your window ledges. After finishing your breakfast you take out the tuna sandwiches that Rosie prepared for you last night, along with a freshly made flask of black coffee, and make your way unnoticed out of the house into the dark morning.

It’s before dawn and the world is still asleep, with only birdsong to accompany you, you make your way to the car. You drive to work, keep to the speed limit, and stop at the red lights, although there is no other car in sight. The sky brightens into a water wash of colours, giving the promise of another light winter’s day. The streets have a surreal feel to them and your chest tightens with the weight of some indescribable melancholy. You pull over into the local Shell garage for some petrol, and fill up your tank. Nodding to the sales assistant as you enter and make your way to the magazine rack. The magazines shine at you in a rainbow of glossy colours, each with their own catchy headline or model. You settle for the usual Razzle, which sports a young blond with huge sagging tits on the cover, her breasts obviously fresh from the surgeon’s table. You buy it, along with a king size snickers and a packet of chilli-flavoured crisps, paying with your HSBC Master-card. You get back in your car, after two attempts, it starts up reluctantly with a cluttering spurt of carbon monoxide. Following an uneventful twenty minute drive you pull up at your regular parking space at work. You pick up your Razzle, flask of black coffee, lunch and snickers and make your way through the car park, squinting at the glare of the sun as it rises.

You nod to your colleagues as you enter the old warehouse, but avoid conversation. The warm smell of timber, oil, and metal hits your nostrils and they flare momentarily. You enter the staff room, open your locker, put your lunch and the magazine inside, then punch your employment number into the clocking-in machine. 100763. The numbers spring to your fingers without thought. Like everything in this place; automatic. Your mind flashes to yourself at eight years old, and you remember how you had always wanted to be a policeman, ever since you first heard the fantastic sound the sirens made. It occurs to you that your eight year old self would be shocked if he could see you now, however you push this idea aside and begin yet another shift.

You spend your day the same as every other, processing and preparing wood, tending to the machines and watching the second hand on the industrial size clock going round slowly. Eventually it is break time and you join your colleagues outside for a breath of fresh air; you come in half way through the conversation and stand silently for a moment trying to catch up.

“…so I said to her, only blondes, you got that? Only blondes with small, pert little titties, titties I can get my mouth round. I mean, any more than that and it’s a waste, right?” Gary says, as he waves his lit cigarette in the air to punctuate his speech. The guys are gathered around him and laugh encouragingly.

“So she brings out this tiny waisted girl right, must’a been a size six or sommin’ and she’s all like, ‘Hi, my name is Andrea. I’ll be your masseuse for the evening, is there any particular area you would like me to start on?’” The guys roar with laughter at Gary’s impression of a girl’s voice, the now unlit cigarette being brandished about like a conductor’s baton. You find yourself laughing along too, trying to give the impression that you know what they are talking about and that you fit in.

Like any good performer, Gary waits until everyone quietens before continuing. “And I’m like, ‘Hell yeah honey, there’s a particular sore spot down here that really needs some attention.” He grabs his crotch and rubs it in a grotesque manner, the guys around him laugh and urge him on. “And I’m telling you boys,” he says after the laughter subsides, “it was the best fifty quid I ever spent. I mean, damn she was good, really took her time on it; not like the missus.” He says this last bit rather solemnly as he reaches inside his jacket pocket, takes out a green zippo and relights his cigarette. A quiet sensation settles over the group, each man lost in his own thoughts for a second; but the moment is interrupted by a loud buzzing sound signalling the end of break.

Work is uneventful after that, but you can’t seem to get the story out of your head. In an effort to clear your mind you go to your locker and take out your copy of Razzle. Although you’re meant to be working you go into the toilets, find a relatively clean cubicle and beat off while flicking through the pages. The blank faces of countless naked models stare soullessly up at you from between the glossy pages as you try to fantasise yourself with them. You close your eyes and imagine yourself touching them, smelling them, tasting them. After around five minutes of relentless masturbation you get frustrated with your inability to come. Your mind plays with the idea that one of the models is called Andrea, and you imagine yourself fucking her from behind like a dog. However, even this new fantasy fails to excite you, and you finally give up after the constant friction begins to chafe. You fold your magazine and put it in your back jeans pocket while you wash your hands in the sink. You consider how the act of self indulgence didn’t make you feel any better, indeed now you feel worse. Your thoughts linger on the fact that you and Rosie have only had sex twice since Kyle was born, eighteen months ago. You realise that you feel deathly bored. Bored with your job. Bored with your marriage. Bored with your life; and occasionally masturbating in a cubicle at work isn’t going to bring you solace any more. It is time to take action. At that moment Gary walks in.

He smirks at you, and for a fleeting second you wonder if he knew what you had just been doing, or indeed, failed to do. You push the familiar feeling of guilt and panic down in your gut and turn to face him, your hands dripping with soapy water.

“Alright John.” He nods at you as he starts making his way to a cubicle.

“Er…Gary,” You begin, nearly losing your nerve. He stops mid stride and looks at you. “You know what you were talking about during break, the er…masseuse…” Your words trail off into a mutter and you can feel your cheeks begin to flush.

“Yeah, what about it?” His lips curl into a sneer and he eyes you scornfully, you sense he’s determined to make this as uncomfortable for you as possible for you.

You take a deep breath, “I was wondering…er…where you went, I mean, how did you know where to go?”

He barks a short mocking laugh that only serves to unsettle you further. “Jesus John, what the hells the matter with you? Calm down, it’s not that big a deal. My brother Sean goes all the time, calls it therapy. He gave me this card.” Gary reaches inside his jeans, takes out his wallet and holds out a lurid bright pink card with the words ‘Tiffany’s Massage Parlour’ on it in fancy black writing. You take the card and inspect it, scrawled at the bottom is both an address and a phone number. “You have to show that at the door,” Gary continues, “So they know what kind of thing you are after, if not, you wind up getting a regular massage, without any of the er…perks. You can keep that, they already know me.” He winks at you, goes into the cubicle and shuts the door.

“Er…thanks” you call after him, as you put the card in your pocket and go back to work.

The day passes painfully, with the pink card’s presence pulsating through your mind for the rest of the shift. You can’t concentrate on anything you do: your mind keeps jumping from one dilemma to the other. The idea of being unfaithful to your wife does not disturb you as much as you thought it would. It excites you. You give yourself excuses about how such an act can be justified, that you are a man and have needs. That you are a good husband, but if you don’t commit adultery with a prostitute then you might just end up having an affair, which is so much worse. That what Rosie doesn’t know won’t hurt her and that it will be ‘only sex’ after all. You spend your entire day like this, mulling things over in your mind, and before you know it, it is 2pm and the shift is over. You avoid eye contact with Gary as you gather your things from your locker and head out into the bright day.

On the drive home you consider what believable excuse could get you out of the house that evening. Perhaps it is someone’s birthday at work and you want to go out for a drink with them, or a stag do, anything that would give you a few unquestioned hours by yourself for some ‘therapy’. You pull up in your drive and sit for a moment gathering yourself and see your son Josh playing with the dog in your garden; it’s 2.40pm and he is meant to be in school. Puzzled, you lock the car and enter your house. A smell of freshly baked bread greets you as you enter your kitchen and watch Rosie cook. It takes her a moment to realise you are there and she jumps when she sees you. Her round cheeks are flushed as she walks over and gives you a brief hug while taking the empty flask of coffee.

“Hello Darling,” She smiles at you “Did you have a nice day?”

You sigh inwardly at the predictability of the conversation that has already begun, before fulfilling your role in the inevitable scene that unfolds. “It was OK honey, the usual you know. The only thing that was different was that it’s Dan’s birthday today. Other than that it was boring.” You know what your wife’s response will be mouth it as she turns her back on you.

“That’s nice dear,” Rosie replies, in keeping the tedious charade. She is obviously not listening and is distractedly fiddling around with the settings on the bread maker. “Oh no. I tried making some banana bread but it’s just turned into banana mush. I suppose Kyle might like it, but I can’t see the others liking to it too much.” She tuts under her breath as she uses her hands to scoop large globs of brown goo from the bread maker.

“Actually,” you continue, seeing a window of opportunity and trying to remain casual. “Some of the lads are going out tonight for a drink, you know for Dan’s birthday? I think I’ll join them. Is that OK?”

“Oh sure, sure. You want me to tape ‘Corry for you?” She turns round to face you, brown dough oozing from between her fingers.

“That’ll be great” You smile at her and feel a rush of love wave over you. In that instant you remember why you married her. You walk over to her and give her a kiss on the lips, in an unusual display of affection. She smiles but pulls away from your embrace. “John,” she chides, “My hands are dirty and I might get dough on the carpet. What’s got into you?”

You sigh and pull away from her. Feeling empty again you turn to face the window. Outside you can see your eldest son playing in the sandpit you bought in the summer. “Why is Josh not at school?”

“Oh he woke up and said he had a bad stomach ache, you know what he’s like. He seems fine now though.” She casually says as she washes her hands in apricot soap.

You think fleetingly about telling Rosie not to be so lenient with Josh, how it won’t help him, but you stop yourself, instead you say: “Look honey, I’m tired, I think I’m going to go lie down. See you in a bit.” You lightly kiss her on the cheek, walk out the kitchen and up the stairs. Fully clothed you lie down on your perfectly made bed and fall asleep in seconds.

*****

You wake up with a start. Something has jumped on top of you. You look down to see your cat Molly staring up at you with big hungry amber eyes. You push her off your chest and turn to see the numbers on the alarm clock glowing at you through the darkness like florescent street lights. Taking a moment to collect yourself, you recall the day’s events and reach down into your jeans pocket. The pink business card is still there; you pull it out and inspect it closely, its glossy veneer reflecting your gaping mouth in a pink shimmering haze. The card is your ticket into a world that you had only dreamed of in your dirtiest fantasies. You smile slowly and a slither of drool oozes from your mouth as you do so. Putting the card back safely into your pocket you walk into the hallway.

Upstairs the house feels lifeless. You walk past your daughter’s bedroom door and hesitate for a moment, considering whether or not to knock. You reflect that it has been four days since you last saw her, and remember a couple of days ago Rosie had told you that Gemma had started to stuff her bra: a fact that had alarmed you greatly as she is only thirteen. Your eyes follow the various pictures and posters pinned to the door, all framed around a large pink poster with the words ‘Only Luscious Babes Allowed. Keep Out!!!’ in the middle. Your hand lingers over the door handle for a second, but it occurs to you that you would not know what to say to her. You move on, consoling yourself that you can talk to her over dinner, with the security of Rosie to help you out of any uncomfortable moments that might arise.

The smell of warm food hits you when you enter the kitchen and you feel your stomach grumble. Rosie is busy setting the table and doesn't look up at you as you make your way towards her; but Josh and Kyle do. Josh greets you with a loud “Hello dad!” and Kyle with a high pitch squeal, waves his spoonful of banana bread mush in the air as he does so. The mush flies high into the air and lands on Kyle’s head as he kicks and swings his legs about happily in the high chair; paying no attention to the goo oozing down his head and onto his shiny cheek.

“Oh John” Rosie chides, rushing to wipe the mush from your son’s face. “Look what you made him do.”

“Hey, that wasn’t my fault” You grin, and wink at Josh who is also wearing a smile as he laces up his new football boots. “He’s just happy to see me. Where’s Gemma?”

“She’s staying round Daniella’s house again.” Rosie says as she sits down, “It’s the third time this week. We should really have her stay over here some time. I don’t want her parents to think we’re free loaders.”

You sit down at your place at the table, noting that it is sausages and mash for dinner again. Wasn’t it only last night you had the same meal? You lean over and start dishing up Josh’s dinner while telling him to take his shoes away from the table. The mash is lumpy and the sausages are burned but you say nothing as you settle down to eat and try to ignore you wife’s chattering about how you need a new tumble dryer as Kyle’s socks got clogged up in this one. The meal is long and tedious and you find yourself unable to focus on your children or your wife; your mind keeps floating back to the card throbbing away at your thigh, demanding your attention. After the meal is over and you have helped Rosie clean up, you go upstairs and get changed into some clean jeans and a freshly ironed shirt that smells of lavender. A mixture of excitement and nerves boil inside you as you charge down the stairs. Shouting goodbye over your shoulder you open the front door and close it swiftly behind you.

Outside the air feels electric, as though the heavens are going to open up, despite the absence of clouds in the sky. You drive quickly into town, keeping within the speed limit, and trying to resist the urge to go faster. Finally, after what seems like hours, you reach your destination. You drive the car further up the road and park it outside a shabby pub called the Horse and Carriage. It is then, and only then, that you realise that you haven’t properly considered what you are about to do. What would happen to Rosie if she found out, how would it make her feel? As quickly as the wave of guilt washes over you, it is swept away by your thirst for something different in your life. Some excitement. Something to make you know you’re alive. You lick your dry lips and get out of the car. The air is colder now, and your skin prickles. Taking long strides you walk to the massage parlour, its windows lit with pink florescent lights. You pause for a second, fumble in your jeans pocket to find the card, and then push the glass door open.

Inside everything is that cheap, tacky pink your daughter loves. In fact, the reception area could be a mirror of her bedroom if it wasn’t for the two big men in sharply cut suits standing at either sides of the desk immediately facing you. Unlike her two companions, the lady behind the desk smiles as you approach her. She has long brown hair, orange fake tan and claw-like fake nails, which she is meticulously painting with red nail varnish that clashes garishly with the bright fuchsia walls. You look down at her, lick your lips and try not to appear nervous.

“Hi there.” She says, flashing her white teeth at you.

“Hi there,” You say, returning her smile. “My mate Gary gave me this.” You lean down and hand her the pink card, now slightly damp and glistening with sweat from your palms. She glances at it then hands it back to you.

“Cool,” She says, nodding her head up and down. “I’m Tiffany. You’re new here aint ya? Well, first thing I gotta tell ya is that every room is fitted with hidden alarms. That means any funny business and my guys here will be there to sort you out, you can count on that.” At this she nods her head right, then left at the men towering over her. They show no sign of acknowledgement, preferring to stand and stare intently at the other side of the room, their pupils dilated to the size of their irises. “But you look like a nice guy, so I don’t expect anything like that will happen, will it?”

“Oh no.” You say, your eyebrows furrowed together to show your sincerity.

“No, I thought not. You pay for our ladies time here, not what they do. Not unless you want some specialist shit: bondage, anal, golden showers, that will cost extra, and you’ll need to specify now. Is that what you’re after?” She isn’t even looking at you as she speaks, her concentration is fixed on her nails. You get the sense that she has gone through this pitch so often that it has become routine to her.

“No, I just want…the..er…regular…er” You fumble, trying to get find the right words.

“Right then,” She says, cutting you off. “You got it. Go through that curtain and into the room on your right. There’s a massage bed with a robe on it. Get changed into that and one of our girls will be with you shortly.” She points with her freshly painted claws at a doorway with a curtain of pink flowers and hearts hanging over it, the kind of curtain a young girl would choose. You start making your way to the doorway when Tiffany calls you back.

“Oi, sorry. I forgot to tell you. You need to leave your card here.” She stares at you expectantly.

For a moment you’re confused, “My card?”

She sighs, reaches out her hand and wiggles her fingers at you, “Your credit card. That has to stay with us, you know, for insurance. This shit isn’t free you know.” She motions to her body with her other hand, drawing your attention to her breasts protruding dangerously over her top.

“Oh right,” You mutter and reach inside your wallet, pull out your MasterCard, which you hand over to her. She puts it inside a small drawer in the desk, and looks up at you, surprised that you’re still there. “The clock’s ticking.”

“Right, of course” you say, as you pull aside the curtain and walk through the doorway. After your conversation with Tiffany you feel unsure of whether you are doing the right thing. The fact that everything reminds you of children is killing your appetite for sex, and you begin to feel a sick sensation swirling around your stomach. Nevertheless putting these doubts aside, you push open the door and walk through into the room.

The first thing that hits you about the room is the smell: it is a mixture of old musky aftershaves and deodorants, masking the strong smell of stale sweat beneath it. How many other men have been in this room before you, were they all in the same boat as you, seeking thrills outside of marriage? Or perhaps they were just lonely and in need of some comfort. There is a single bed on one side of the room, the sheets pink to match everything else in Tiffany’s Massage Parlour. On top of the bed is a blue dressing gown and you change into it as you survey the place. The abundance of pink is overwhelming, giving the room a prepubescent feel. Perhaps that’s what some guys get off on you think, as you take off your jeans. On the other side of the room there is a chest of pine drawers, on top of which are placed some white towels and various bottles of oils and lotions. It is while you are bending over with your back towards the door, taking off your shoes and socks that someone enters the room. You hurriedly fiddle with your laces as a light female voice purrs:

“Well hello there honey, I’m Andrea. What are you in the mood for?”

You turn round, your reply ready to spring from your lips; when you see that the woman standing in front of you in fishnet stockings, suspenders and a lacy white bra that leaves nothing to the imagination is not a woman at all. She a young girl who can’t be much older than your own daughter; her breasts not yet fully developed, her eyes hardened, without the sparkle of youth. You feel the acidy sensation of the contents of your stomach rising to the back of your throat and swallow hard in a desperate attempt to prevent yourself from being sick.

Imagine you are John.

John is forty-three and has been married to Rosie for eighteen years. They have three children, three pets, a three bedroom semi-detached house and a rusty blue Ford Escort. John works at the local timber factory; the same place he has worked for the past nine years. He works rotational shifts, one week on earlies, the next afternoons, the following on nights and then back to earlies again. His body is used to this timetable but his heart is not; he lacks contact with his family and his only friends are the people he works with. He has no ambition, is distant and deathly apathetic. And what’s more, John is bored.

What would you do?

Aimee Wilkinson