Sunday, 4/27/14 at 22:06.
Anissa was absent from my lecture last Thursday, and I seriously doubt that she was out sick. I’m surprised at how much I miss her and regret the way things unfolded between us. I obviously didn’t handle it well. The minute I sensed that she was a different kind of woman, I should have gone to greater lengths to treat her accordingly. But old habits die hard and I wanted to avoid seeming overly interested in her, which meant getting my usual releases along the way. I think a part of me was also scared that I might actually fall for her, which would have meant losing what I’ve grown so used to having: complete control.
Even though she was absent on Thursday, I assume that she’ll attend class this Tuesday and I’ve been feeling a bit anxious about the whole thing. It’s obviously not the venue for me to make any sort of conciliatory overture to her, and in some sense it feels as if I should have already made one, if I was going to make one at all. But it will also feel strange for us to play it cool, as we did when we were dating, because this time there will be no stolen glances or smiles – just a cold indifference to each other. Yet, trying to create a better energy could itself produce some kind of awkwardness in front of the other students.
I’m going to go see my therapist now, and I’ll probably end up discussing this issue for most of the time with her, but I’ll write more when I come back.
* * *
Back from my psychological sparring session with Lily. In the hope of getting over Anissa by now focusing on my therapist, I toyed with the leggy redhead a little along the way.
“Dating Anissa certainly falls into that reckless pattern we’ve discussed,” I conceded. “But I haven’t felt as close to a woman in a very long time. You gave me that feeling almost as much, even if I always dismissed it.”
Lily gently rubbed her pen between her open palms, and I imagined that she was doing that to my cock instead. “What do you mean, you dismissed that feeling?” she asked.
“Well, I knew that it was the ultimate illusion. You obviously don’t actually care for me the way Anissa did, so it made no sense for me to feel like I was getting closer to you.”
Lily took a hard swallow. She clearly wanted to object to this claim more vociferously, but managed to subdue the impulse. “Julien, that’s an apples-to-oranges comparison. She was your girlfriend. I am your therapist.”
“Exactly. She genuinely cared about me. You’re just paid to care about me. If I stop paying, you stop caring.”
“You don’t know that,” she replied. “And you’re not paying me to care for you. You’re paying me to treat you as best I can, using my professional skills and background.”
“So if I told you that I now want to start seeing you in a non-professional way or not at all, what would you choose?”
Lily adjusted her posture for a moment before uncrossing her legs and switching the thigh on top. “You mean if you asked me to date you while you’re still my client?”
“Yes.”
There was an awkward silence, as she struggled with the question for a moment. “Well, I... ” Then she abruptly regained her control. “Julien, how did this become about me again? I’ve never dated an existing client and I’m not planning on starting now. That’s a breach of my professional ethics.”
“And if we terminated therapy?”
“Well, the APA’s code of ethics requires that at least two years pass before a therapist can enter into a sexual relationship with a former client.”
“And you’re worried that I’d report you? You don’t trust me?”
Lily exhaled and rolled her eyes. “I’m not your rebound obsession, Julien. But I can help you to manage what you’re going through.”
“I’m not so sure – especially if you can’t answer my question.”
“It’s not relevant to your treatment.”
“Maybe it is. Maybe if I knew that you actually cared about me and were drawn to me enough that you’d want to date me, I’d feel more comfortable opening up to you in therapy. Because then maybe the whole thing would seem more authentic to me.”
I felt some intellectually sadistic satisfaction in seeing her struggle with the dilemma I had foisted on her, like a chess player who has just cornered his opponent’s queen. If she admitted that she had any feelings for me, she might already be getting dangerously close to transgressing her professional duties. If she refused, she might lose me as a client and possibly feel like a failure on some level.
She finally caved, and let me peel away a small layer of the cold and distant façade that she had been maintaining. “I think I would trust you not to report me,” she began, fixing her eyes on mine and then looking away. “But I’m not sure I could handle the conflict internally.”