T^{ouch Me
by Cindy Rosmus}

"O-kay!" Debbie said, with that know-it-all smirk. "Your son…" She had to look away. "Thinks he’s Jim Morrison?"

Volpe didn’t answer right away.

Mayor Salvatore Volpe, her "first crush" from sixth grade at St. Pat’s, hated to fess up. At least to her. And she knew it. Now, more than thirty years later, she was a shrink. Of all people, he’d come to her for help. And she loved it.

"No," he said, carefully, like this was a political debate. "Paul’s not crazy. Not ‘delusional,’ as you’d put it."

Same purry voice, she thought. After all these years, he was still the hottest thing going. Same thick dark hair (all his), and piercing brown eyes. New glasses: ultra-chic and trendy, like the kids wore. Same lean, catlike body, and that attitude: the whole world—especially you—can kiss his ass.

She smiled widely. "Like what?"

He bristled. "You know," he said, through clenched teeth.

"Morrison died in ‘71. We were in sixth grade. Remember?" When he didn’t answer, she went on. "We were too young to be into the Doors. Still into kid stuff, you know?"

He shrugged.

"You were the one who tripped Sister Margaret," she said. "She went flying down the stairs, books and all."

He shifted uncomfortably, in his seat.

"Me, I won the spelling bee! I did okay, when I wasn’t picking tacks out of my ass. Wasn’t it you who stuck them on my seat?"

His eyes narrowed.

"And wasn’t it you," she said, gleefully, like she’d been planning this for years, "Who spat out the Host?"

He jumped up. "I’m not the patient, Doctor!"

She backed off, finally. Her voice softened. "I’m just kidding, Sal. Honest." He nodded. "Since my specialty is ‘deviance,’ I say Paul’s been exposing himself."

He sat back down, actually looked pathetic. Just like years ago, her heart swelled for this guy. "Yeah," he said. "Deb, it was horrible. This…teacher… He’s in summer school, okay? Well, she was alone in her classroom. Old lady. Picture Sister Marge, but fifty years younger…" Debbie resisted a smile. " She was marking tests, when he came in. Thought it was weird enough he had on long pants, in July." He took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes. "You know, those type pants Morrison wore back then, with those big, clunky belts. . ."

"And when he got closer. . ."

He nodded. "Down, they went. Like an old pro."

And there it was, she thought, anxiously. "How old is Paul?"

"Seventeen. He’ll be eighteen next month." Volpe’s eyes were sad. "At least now, he’s still a juvenile."

Oh, yeah! In her throat was a huge lump. In spite of the powerful a/c, she was sweating.

"If it was up to me, I wouldn’t be here, begging you for help!" His eyes blazed. "But the school ordered it."

"Yeah," she said. "If he’d waited till August. . ."

"We’d be talking…jail. My son in Avenel, with big-time sex offenders. Weirdos." He shuddered. Then he got hold of himself. "Think of the publicity! My career. . ."

Careers. Yours and mine . . . Debbie stopped listening. Without seeing, she stared at the glasses he’d tossed carelessly on her desk. If you only knew. . .

* * *

The boy—what was his name?—was trembling. So frightened, this hot piece of ass! This curly-haired, blond junior with bone-crushing arms. So scared of his folks, he always kept it covered…that chick’s name tattooed on his shoulder. "You will?" he’d said, hopefully, as she fumbled with his zipper. "Keep my secret?" No answer. She was on her knees, on that plush office carpet. "Please?" He gasped, as her lips encircled him. She ran her tongue up and down, all over him, real hot, and dirty, all over, till his legs turned to jello. She managed to smile. Long as you keep mine.

* * *

"I know we had,Deb." Somewhere, in back of her mind, was a voice. "Hey, Debbie!"

Her heart jumped. Volpe’s face was inches from hers. "You all right?"

"Yeah. Just cold." She tightened her suit jacket around her, got up. Her hand, which switched off the a/c, was shaking. "Sorry, Sal. I was thinking. Real hard, just now, about what you were saying." Liar, she thought. All the things she was guilty of, she had balls to feel bad about that.

"I was just saying we had something special, way back. I’ve always respected you." His smile was patronizing, but she let it pass. "Okay, okay!" he said, finally. "I really dug you. Just had a lousy way of showing it."

Ouch! she thought, recalling the tacks. But the past was dead, wasn’t it? Some things were better off in the ground, with fresh earth and daisies strewn over them.

Some things.

"It’s rough, Deb. Kids these days. They hate your guts. All you did was give them life." He was a nervous wreck. Without looking at her, he began running his hands up and down his thighs. Like a patient would. Again, Debbie’s heart swelled.

"Okay, maybe I spoiled him. Smothered him. But he’s all I’ve got. And his mother’s a cold fucking bitch!" Now his eyes stabbed her. "I’ve got to know I can trust you."

"Paul’s in good hands." Her voice sounded choked.

Just keep them to yourself.

" ‘Wishful, sinful, wicked you. . .’ " went the Doors song. She’d picked up the CD that morning, on her way in to the office. It was Saturday, and the building was deserted. Good thing, she thought. Normal shrinks would play relaxation tapes for clients. In her chic, panelled office, she’d played, no, blasted the CD how many times, just like she had, when she was a kid. Well, a kid past sixth grade.

This would be a tough one. "Exposure" was usually the result of abuse. Sexual molestation. She’d have to dig deep, in this one.

Again she saw Volpe’s pleading eyes. After all these years, he still had a hold on her. She’d enjoyed busting his chops. But they were all grown up, now. Pompous as he was, he was a damn good mayor. And he does need help, she thought.

Don’t we all?

Just like yesterday, she pulled her jacket tightly around her. As she shut off the air, she remembered her senior prom night, like it was last week: how she’d spent it home. Alone, dateless. Loveless. In almost twenty-five years, life hadn’t changed much.

When she couldn’t stand the loneliness, she went to bars. Showing off made her feel smug. "You are a sex doctor? Like Dr. Ruth?" Guys said, leering. Wanting her. "Well, not really," she said, primly, sipping her wine. Hairy hands squeezed her thigh. "Man, have I gotta story for you!" They all did, it seemed.

She crossed her leg, bumped her knee on the desk. Cursing, she rubbed it.

Some life. Sure, she helped people. Lots of them. Put sickos away, so your kids were safe.

Oh, yeah?

She was hot stuff, tits and ass like you wouldn’t believe. A dead ringer for that Erica bitch on All My Children . Scared shitless, shrink or not. A miserable, rich bitch, who felt as hollow inside, as if she literally had no guts. She was scared of real love. And, even more, of what she really was.

"Deviants? What kind of deviants?" Guys in bars just couldn’t get enough! "You like perverts?" One almost came in his pants.

I am a pervert! she was scared she’d scream. Boys, she wanted. Succulent teen flesh. Rosebud penises she enjoyed licking till they grew and grew.

And hated herself for it.

No more! she’d sworn, after each one.

Not this one, she vowed today.

"DR. DEBRA CONDORA," the brass plaque read. Without realizing it, she was turning it over and over, on her desk. Eyes shut tight, she faced the door. "Soft Parade" was playing loudly, as it opened.

She didn’t see him come in. Knocking wasn’t his style, even if she could have heard it. He seemed to almost smell the music, as he drifted to the CD player. Without smiling, he turned to face her.

"I’m alive!" he said, and she jumped.

She blinked, wildly, like this was a dream. Or some "Virtual 60’s" flick. Here was Morrison, in the flesh. All those books were bullshit. He was not dead.

She caught her breath, tried to calm down. Paul, she told herself. It’s only Paul Volpe, Sal’s son.

Big deal, so he looked like Morrison. That sandy, curly hair was obviously the real thing. No peroxide, no perm. But those eyes--ice-blue and piercing—just had to be contacts. Only Siberian huskies had eyes like that.

And the way he was dressed! Where had he gotten those pants? Tight purple corduroys, with gray pockets, and that crazy belt, with a lion’s head buckle. That shirt…Debbie swallowed, hard. An insanely tight, white tee that revealed every muscle, and nipples as sharp as tacks. Like he was carved out of white marble.

"Paul?" she said, nervously.

Still no smile. "That’s what he named me." His tone was loud, to compete with the music. "But that’s not who I am."

She felt sweaty, wished she’d kept the a/c on. She slipped off her jacket. "I’ll shut that off, so we can talk."

As she crossed the room, she felt those icy eyes on her. She shut off the music, brushing his thigh. Her face was right by his crotch, which bulged in those tight pants. "Wanna see it?" he said.

Sweat crept down her collar. You could smell sex emanating from him, though no doubt he’d showered, fluffed that pretty hair. His face was stony, a Morrison mask. But something lurked behind those eyes. A "loose cannon," she thought of, suddenly. A time bomb dying to go off.

"Have a seat," she said, in her most professional manner. "And tell me what’s up with you."

He followed her back to her desk. "I can show you what’s up with me."

Furious, she swung around. "Knock it off, right now!" He cringed. "And sit down!"

He took his sweet time about it.

"So," she said, "How’re things going at home?"

"Fine," he said, too quickly. "Everything’s great." He looked over at the CD player. "Why’d you shut off that great song?"

"Be specific."

"Just, like, everything’s great," he said, jiggling his leg. "I don’t even know why I’m here."

She smiled. "Your dad made you come. How do you guys get along?"

His leg froze. "Fine!" Then, "Great!" He got up, shot over to the CD player.

"Paul, sit down."

He didn’t. "I don’t need a shrink! Just ‘cos I dig the Doors. Big deal! He digs the Stones."

But doesn’t think he’s Jagger. "Tell me about this week," she said. Perfect lead-in to what happened at school. "At home," she said, "What happened at home this week?"

"Nothing!" he yelled, making her jump. " Never! Nothing happens there, ever, man." He began pacing. "It’s like boring, and I want out!"

"Good," she said. She was starting to feel really hot. She held her hair back from her face. "Tell me more, Paul. I want to know your feelings."

"My feelings?" He smiled. It seemed out of place, never reached his eyes. He began to sway, as if to music. "Okay, lady. I feel like I wanna be loved."

Even without the jacket, she was sweating. Bad. "Go on."

"Like I wanna be --" Smirking, he kept on swaying to imaginary music. Her eyes were glued to him, as he bent and switched the Doors back on.

"Shut that off!" she snapped, as "Touch Me" began to play.

He began fumbling with his zipper. "-- Touched."

"No!"

s

Slowly, the zipper came down.

She gripped her desk, forced herself to look away.

"‘Come on, come on . . .’ " He was singing along, desperately.

She sneaked a peek. Peeking back at her was the pink tip of his cock. If he’d just stop there, she thought, wildly.

" ‘Touch me, babe!’ " was a smug command. Now he was shaking it, hotly, suggestively. Pulling those pants down, lower. His whole cock--this thick, veiny organ, like a human heart--jumped out at her. Balls, too. He got closer.

Her heart raced. She was backed against the wall. Against her will, she was loving this! Wished it could go on forever. No, actually,what she really wanted -- "Paul!" she yelled. "Put it back! And sit down!"

He didn’t. And she just couldn’t look away.

As he peeled off the tee shirt, she groaned. Ached for him. She wanted to scream, grab for him! In her mind, she crawled across her desk, and lunged.

She got up, slowly. It took all she had—will power, the little decency that was left—to pass this boy without touching. Sal Volpe’s eyes begged her on. But. . .

She felt his sweat, his need. Hers was greater. And how would Sal find out? "Jim Morrison" wouldn’t tell. He would love it!

No! she told herself. Nearly screamed it. You’ll be ruined. And ruin this kid, even more.

It felt like hours before she reached the CD player. She was panting, she realized, like some bitch in heat.

She shut off the music.

Behind her, she just knew he was still dancing. But she couldn’t turn around. In her mind, she saw him: almost nude, that beautiful, sculpted ass shaking slowly, seductively. Still breathing hard, she forced herself to think clearly.

This poor kid was really sick. Exposure, she reminded herself, resulted from sexual abuse! But…who? Sal was just too over-protective. "Smothered him," he’d admitted. Nobody could worm his way into his son’s pants.

Except. . .

The chill shook her. Like the a/c had switched back on, all by itself. No! she told herself. Not him.

But why not?

Wife’s a cold fucking bitch!

"Not afraid!" Even without music, Paul was singing. His voice sounded tortured.

"Paul," she said, "Stop it, now! Get dressed, and sit down!"

He stopped singing. Finally, she heard the rustle of clothes, then the snap of the lion’s head buckle.

"Paul," she said quietly, "Why’d it freak you out, when I brought up your dad?"

He didn’t answer for so long, she had to turn around. Still shirtless, his head was bent, curls shaking. At first, she thought he was laughing. But what sounded like snickers rose into loud, animal howls. He collapsed into the chair, wailing uncontrollably, punching and kicking, like he was tearing something invisible to pieces.

Sal, she thought, you fuck!

Brainy as she was, she’d been "square" back then. About sex. At least gay stuff. "‘Guy stuff,’ " Sal had called, what somebody saw, in sixth grade. At least Sal was in sixth. The other boy, that puny one, with the bare, shivering back, was a real kid, she heard. A real crybaby. For years Sal had a hold over him, too. But she never knew why. And she never told anybody. Ever.

Even he didn’t know she knew. Or his son wouldn’t be here, today. In such "good hands."

The panelled walls were beginning to sway. She felt nauseous, like she was inside the bowels of her own soul. Or his.

Paul was quiet now, but still sobbing. She sat down, on the arm of his chair. His hair, as she stroked it, was drenched with sweat. His back would be, too. And the sweet, vulnerable jewels he’d safely tucked away.

She got up, stiffly, and went to the phone.

For both their sakes, he had better answer.