Page 173 of Let the Game Begin
“So what do you think? What does it mean?”
Did he think that I was stupid? Uncultured or ignorant?
“You’re asking me?” I sneered, stepping back to put some distance between us again. I hated it when people tried to invade my space.
He made a skeptical face and then just looked at me in amusement. “I would like to hear your opinion about this reproduction of a painting we have on display here in the clinic,” he answered, shrugging one shoulder.
I glanced from the man to the painting and sighed. This shrink was even stranger than I’d thought.
“Considering that the woman on the left is wearing clothes and the other one isn’t, I’m guessing she’s the chaste lady and the other one’s the whore,” I answered nonchalantly. Dr. Keller scratched his chin with one hand, his forehead creasing thoughtfully.
Why was he looking at me like that? Weirdo.
“You were close. The clothed woman does represent a sacred, pure sort of godly love and the semi-nude woman represents profane, carnal, passionate love,” he added, looking me in the eye. “But Titian suggests that we all contain both types of love within ourselves.” Then he pointed out the infant Eros situated between the two women and splashing intently in the water that filled the stone sarcophagus upon which the women sat.
What was he trying to tell me with this?
“You know, Neil, we can look beyond appearances with just about anything. Last time, I offered you the example of my desk, remember?” he asked, still examining the painting. “This painting, for example, might be interpreted in such a way that it could become relevant to your life.” He gave me a small smile, and I looked at him in bemusement. Understanding the man was genuinely difficult for me.
“Think about it…”
I turned to stare at the naked woman in the painting, and my mind immediately leaped to Kimberly.
There were also two types of women in my world: ones like Kimberly, who represented profane love, and then there were the others, those peerless women who represented universal strengths. They were intelligent, capable of both giving and receiving love. They were passionate, but they also had pure and precious hearts. They were sacred love.
I had learned about profane love too early in my life and thus had grown up with the belief that it was the only kind that could exist. But in reality, pure love was also out there somewhere, offered by those people who were capable of giving not only their body but also their soul. Perhaps I was the one who had been depriving myself of that kind of pure love—of pure women—because I was a man without limits. Emotionally unavailable, incapable of feeling things, and only willing to give anything of myself in bed.
“I don’t believe in love,” I pronounced after a long, meditative silence. I looked up and finally met Keller’s eyes.
“What about sex? What do you think of that?” he asked, scrutinizing me. That was an even more complicated question, and I wasn’t about to explain to him the psychological mechanics that required me to perpetuate my abuse over and over again. I took a step back and put my hand to my throat where it felt like my sweater was getting tighter. Maybe it was some kind of conditioned response in my head. I always felt like I was suffocating when I thought back on my history.
“Sex is a form of pleasure that one human shares with another for various reasons. I do it to survive,” I whispered, feeling my voice break the way it always did when I talked about personal things.
“Is there a difference for you between sex and love?” he asked again, clearly intending to get at the heart of the matter.
“No. ‘Making love’ isn’t something that exists as far as I’m concerned. It’s just a more romantic way to say what people really mean which is: ‘I want to fuck you.’ Women in particular want men to be romantic and not treat them like sex objects, so they need to hear all the typical clichés about love.” I shrugged, giving voice to more of my thoughts than I’d planned.
“I see. So, you argue that two souls can never connect via their bodies? In your opinion, intercourse is solely physical. Is that right?” He lifted an eyebrow and waited.
I couldn’t figure out whether he was intrigued by the way my mind worked or if he was trying to pry into my personal life.
“Well, if souls really could connect through their bodies, a couple would never get bored in the bedroom, would they? But that happens even to people who stood up before God and promised to love each other forever. Why do you think that is? If there’s a genuine bond between two souls, why does that happen?” I asked bitterly. “Why do women who have been married for years fantasize about a man giving them a good hard fuck rather than about making love with their husbands?” I quirked a corner of my mouth with arrogant disregard. “Why do men fantasize about nailing random sluts instead of desiring the women they claim to have such feelings for?” I continued. “Why do people cheat? Rape? Divorce? Abandon their children? Why are there people who, despite having been married or partnered for years, still keep looking for some illusory, imaginary love? Perhaps because they are dissatisfied? Perhaps because the high expectations they’d placed on their much-vaunted ‘love’ left them disappointed?” I gave him a bitter smile, and his gaze turned reflective.
“You don’t have an answer for me, do you, Dr. Keller?” I asked him, victorious. “So don’t try to tell me that love really exists, because I don’t have illusions about anything. I’m just a realist,” I finished bluntly, holding his bright hazel stare, which never stopped assessing me.
“There’s some truth in what you say. Love is rare and difficult to find but not impossible. It doesn’t really have a fixed definition; it’s an abstract force. Invisible but powerful and none of us can escape it. But love isn’t just a feeling—it takes many forms. You know, Neil, you might be surrounded by it already. For someone like you, love often comes wearing sexy clothes, maybe with a pair of eyes or lips that draw you like a magnet. Sometimes it hides in the movements of a body, in the tone of a voice, in one particular smell that you can’t seem to get away from. It’s in a smile, a look, strengths and weaknesses, or even in a body to which you are powerfully attracted. And then, one day, you’ll realize that all of it put together means more thanjust sex. It means love,” he explained, his tone calm and his expression thoughtful.
So, in addition to being a weirdo, this guy was also a fucking romantic who believed in fairy tales like my little Tinkerbell.
“And have you experienced it?” I asked.
“Of course I did. A long time ago, with my pearl,” he answered immediately. A melancholy expression moved across his face, shadowing his otherwise indulgent look.
“You seem quite leery of me,” he muttered, nevertheless sounding like he was enjoying himself. “You need to get out of this glass prison you’ve trapped yourself in. I know your heart feels like it’s been anesthetized, but you can fight and bring it back to life, you know?” He glanced down at his watch and took a few steps away. “Don’t let fear eat away your soul, kid.” He smiled and headed down the hallway opposite us. “It’s time for my tea break. It was a pleasure talking with you.” He immediately raised his stiffened right hand to his forehead in a military-style salute, which he paired with a friendly wink.
I furrowed my brow as I watched his figure walking purposefully away. I wasn’t someone who talked easily, especially not to complete strangers. Yet, that doctor seemed to coax thoughts and words from me that I’d expressed to others only rarely and with difficulty. Still, I hadn’t gone so far as to confess everything to him. That, if love was pain, then sex just made more of it.
How was a person supposed to experience love after one’s tormentor had hidden a threat in every “I love you”?
