“The two groups reflect your own internal conflict. The split’s in you—you don’t know if Jeremy’s pacing is a gift or if you are going to starve in this relationship. If he’s a videogame addict or an introvert who likes computers.”
“How do I find out which is true?”
“Keep showing up.”
“Where?”
“Everywhere.”
Dutifully, I reported to both groups with updates every session. All ten of my group members knew I paid for most of our meals with money I saved over the summer. That I drove us everywhere because his truck was still out of commission. That we mostly hung out at his place. They learned that the first time he touched my breasts, I shuddered with a pleasure that bordered on nausea—a cake too rich, a sunset too vibrant. “Is this okay?” Jeremy asked whenever he touched my body in a new way—a kiss on my belly, a hand on my upper thigh. My morning group loved his commitment to consent, but my afternoon group pronounced it “kinda lame.”
As it happened, our slow sexual progress was indeed Dr. Rosen’s doing. One night, while we were making out on his bed, Jeremy admitted that Dr. Rosen warned him not to rush. “He said I should take it slow or I would end up hating you like I hated my ex.” Apparently, their relationship combusted not only because of unresolved financial conflicts, but also because the sexual progress of the relationship outpaced his emotional readiness.
I wrapped a blanket around my body. I felt exposed—I was the one who wanted more physically. It felt like rejection and made me want to hide my face from him, from Dr. Rosen, and from the twenty-odd people who knew I wanted to have sex with him.
A poll on the radio revealed that most couples go “all the way” by the third date. When I complained in my morning group about falling way behind the national norm, Dr. Rosen insisted that we weren’t ready. I sensed a conflict of interest—because, really, it was Jeremy who wasn’t ready. Dr. Rosen held his ground.
“What’s your rush?” he asked.
“I’ve endured a lifetime of failed relationships and sexual repression.”
“Then what’s a little more time?”
Arguing with Dr. Rosen wouldn’t work. I had to adjust my strategy if I wanted him to cosign intercourse. A few minutes later, I leaned toward Dr. Rosen and said in my most rational voice, “Can we talk about Jeremy? He’s hiding out in video games. You should consider giving him a prescription to spend some time with his emotionally and sexually available girlfriend.”
Cough Cough. Cough. Dr. Rosen’s theatrical throat-clear. Translation: You’re full of shit. I ignored it.
“He exhibits classic signs of avoidance. He’s afraid of intimacy—”
More coughing. Then a question: “And what about you, Mamaleh?”
“Me? I’m totally available.” I stretched my arms out wide. Nothing to hide here. The whole room laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“Serious question?” Dr. Rosen said. I nodded. “How many bras are you wearing?”
“Busted,” Carlos said under his breath.
Confused, I looked at my shoulder, where three bra straps crisscrossed under my tank top. I’d run before group, and my chest was a double D. A single sports bra didn’t keep my girls in place, so I wore two, sometimes three.
“Do you hate your breasts?” Dr. Rosen asked.
Of course I hated my breasts—they were bags of fat hanging on my clavicle. I associated them with being ungainly, not being sexual. And there was something scary about them—how important they were to other people (men) and how unwieldy they were. All my life I’d coveted a flat chest. Flat like the earth after a glacier scrapes by. Flat like a ballerina’s, a model’s, a little girl’s.
“I don’t love them.”
“You’re trying to make them small—”
“I was exercising, not trying to win a Playboy bunny contest.”
“Do you think that hating your breasts might interfere with your sexual relationship?”
The correct answer was yes, but I couldn’t bring myself to say it. I’d never discussed how I felt about my breasts with anyone before. I sat there shaking my head, trying not to cry. It had never struck me as sad that I hated my breasts.
“How does Jeremy feel about them?”
“I’m sure he thinks it’s weird that I sleep in a bra.”
Dr. Rosen’s eyebrows disappeared into his scalp. Everyone else gasped as if I’d just confessed to murdering baby gorillas. The Colonel looked more animated than he’d been since the time Carlos mentioned lesbian porn.
“Are you curious about why you sleep in a bra?” Dr. Rosen asked.
A fist of anger filled my mouth. “I know what you’re doing! This is where I’m supposed to remember something my dad or uncle or the skeevy gym teacher did or said. I don’t have one of those things. Everything that’s happened to me has been run-of-the-mill—”
“Nothing about Hawaii sounded run-of-the-mill,” Rory said.
“That’s insane! David’s drowning isn’t the reason that I’m wearing all these bras.”
“Are you curious why you are?” Dr. Rosen repeated the question, steady and calm.
“There’s no story. I was a young girl who wanted to be thin because everybody loves thin girl bodies. Because I was into ballet, an art form built on anorexia, and breasts are not thin. They are filled with fat. They make it hard to shop for tops at J.Crew and Anthropologie. They make me feel fat.” I adjusted my tank top so all the bra straps were hidden. “Welcome to the female body in America, buddy.”
“Do you want some help?” Dr. Rosen sat still as a bird of prey.
Why hadn’t I picked a female therapist? I didn’t believe that my male therapist could fathom my relationship to my breasts. Sure he was in recovery for an eating disorder, but he’d never been shopping with his grandmother in Waxahachie, Texas, and overheard the saleslady say that his breasts made him look much “fuller” than he was. He’d never had a ballet teacher advise him to go on
