The Illustrated Teacher
Part 1

The fist in the face was the last straw. What had started out as a natural tendency for Sophia to be passive and for Geoff to be aggressive had drifted into games of bondage and discipline. But increasingly, it was his temper that dictated the terms of their encounters, not just in bed but everywhere. The control he had once exhibited and that she had found so deeply satisfying began to escape him, not in his control of her, but rather in how he could not control himself. In the end, his treatment of her became whim-driven, unpredictable and dangerous, She packed her bags while he slept and, very quietly, disappeared.

* * *

In the years that followed, Sophia examined her part in what had happened. No matter how many well-meaning counsellors or women's group meetings stressed the point that she was not the author of her own victimisation, she wondered.

One evening, at a round table discussion with her women's self-help group, the subject came up and, this time, Sophia said something.

"Gina, no. There's no use telling me that what happened was no fault of my own. I know you mean well, and want to empower me, but it's not working. I did have something to do with this."

"What do you mean," asked Gina. But her tone was dismissive.

"There was something about him that I sought out. There was something about his aggression, his dominance, his controlling behaviour, that I found...attractive."

"Of course," Gina brushed her point aside. "In all likelihood, you were seeking out the same abusive relationship you had had with your father. Women get acclimatized to it, you know. They begin to feel that abuse is normal."

Suddenly, Sophia was angry. "My father never abused me. Never."

"Well, maybe not physically, perhaps. But menta..,"

"No! It convenient, Gina, but it just isn't true!" Sophia blurted out. "And you know, you talk about how men stereotype women? But you're doing exactly the same thing! You're painting me as the portrait of an abuse survivor.That might be a lot of women, Gina. But it isn't me!"

The last words were delivered with such force that all the women around the room looked up and stared.

"You go, girl!" someone shouted.

Sophia lowered her head and gathered her purse off the floor. "I'm sorry. Really... this just isn't working for me."

Gina looked at her, still shocked. "Soph, don't go. I...I just don't know what to say. I don't understand what you're getting at."

Standing, Sophia nodded and gave them a sad smile. "I know you don't. The pieces just don't fit that nicely. I wish they did."

* * *

It wasn't fear of men that made Sophia decide to stay away from them. It was, she admitted to her therapist, fear of herself: fear of who she was and the qualities that she found attractive.

"You know," said Dr. Matthews, steepling his fingers, "it's worth remembering that Geoff was the only abusive partner you have ever had. And you did get out on your own. No broken bones, no calls to the police. It's not like you've had a string of these experiences, is it?"

Sophia thought for a moment. "No.You're right."

"So, why the hesitation?"

"Because with Geoff..." Sophia paused for a moment. "It was the only time it felt real."

"Well, getting punched in the face certainly does feel real but..."

"No. I don't mean that. I mean before it. When he was in control." Sophie shifted uncomfortably in the armchair, her nail worrying a small tear in the padding on the armrest.

Dr. Matthews nodded. "I see."

She looked up. "What do you see?"

"You want to find someone you can trust with that control. Someone you can relinquish it to."

"In a nutshell, yes." The small tear in the armrest was lengthening under Sophia's concentrated onslaught.

"I see."

"You said that before. This is obviously something I'm going to have to get over," she said, brushing the wound on the chair and sitting up. "I've just got to get past it."

"If you can," said the therapist.

Sophia stared at him, a small worm of panic crept down her spine. "What do you mean, 'if I can'?" She shook her head and inhaled. "Just do whatever voodoo it is you do. Can't you do that?"

Dr. Matthews smiled warmly and chuckled. "I wish I could. But I don't think I can help you with this."

"Why?"

"Because you don't need any help. You're one of the healthiest patients I have. There's nothing actually wrong with you. Nothing to cure."

"So...if I spend another five years sitting in this office, you're telling me it won't make a bit of difference."

"Well, sooner or later, I'm going to have to reupholster that chair. But otherwise, no."

'Why?" Sophia could hear the sound barely suppressed desperation in her own voice.

"'Because we're all wired differently, Sophia. But that doesn't make us sick."

"There's nothing? Nothing you can do to help me?"

Dr. Matthews looked uncomfortable and stood up. "Our hour's up," he said softly.

"You didn't answer my question."

He shook his head. "Nothing within the boundaries of the ethics code of my profession." He gave her a tight smile and held out his hand, and she took it reluctantly, still angry at this lack of resolution.

"Don't you have any advice? None?"

"You're a beautiful and very intelligent woman, Sophia. You made one bad choice. Only one. Don't let it ruin your life."

Sophia left his office; proud of herself for not slamming the door after the glib answer he'd given her. She walked down the long, quiet hallway to the reception area and waved goodbye to Jean, the receptionist, who was busy on the phone.

"Just a sec!" Jean called out to her, hand over the receiver. She beckoned her over to the desk with the other.

Sophia waited while Jean finished the call and jotted something down.

"I guess this is goodbye," said Sophia. She'd spend a considerable amount of hard time in that reception area, waiting for appointments. Jean had always been kind and friendly.

"Isn't that a good thing?" asked Jean, handing over the folded note. "The doctor wanted me to give you this."

"A prescription?"

"No. A referral. He said you might think about calling the number."

* * *

Sophia walked away from the clinic fuming. The least the bastard could have done was to tell her he was going to fob her off onto some other therapist. She'd always assumed they had gotten along quite well, but apparently not. She was obviously one whiny neurotic female patient too many.

Entering the small coffee shop where she often went after her sessions, Sophia sat down at took a deep breath. Fine... fine, she thought. Maybe this one could help her and, after all, that was what mattered. She ordered a cappuccino and uncrumpled the note she'd crushed in her hand. Okay...fine, she repeated to herself, fishing her mobile phone out of her purse.

The number was legible but the name was hard to make out. Sophia dialled the number. It rang twice before it connected.

"Hello?"

"Ah...Hell. Is this Dr. Sin.. Sinclair's office?"

The voice on the phone gave a deep chuckle. "No. My name is Scanlon, Andrew Scanlon, and I'm not a doctor."

"Oh." Sophia paused, unsure of how to proceed. "Um. Dr. Matthew's suggested I call you."

"Sophia?"

"Yes." A minor wave of relief washed over her. "Is this..."

There was silence on the other end of the line.

Sophia sighed. "Do you have any idea why I'm calling you? Because I'm afraid I don't."

There was that laugh again. Deep and soft. "Yes. Dr. Matthews spoke to me about you, in a very general way."

"Oh. Well. Good, I guess," she said wearily.

"Do you have some free time tomorrow?"

"Not really. I work tomorrow. What are your business hours?"

Again he laughed, softer than before. Sophia felt it slip down the line like a cat, and curl itself up in her lap. "I don't run a business, Sophia. Would you like to meet for breakfast?"

"Breakfast? Sure."

"There's a very nice place on where Frith Street meets Soho Square. Frazier's. Do you know it?"

"No, but I can find it."

"Excellent. Eight o'clock?"

"That's fine."

"Excellent. Until then, Sophia."

"Wait!" Sophie begged. "Can I ask... why Dr. Matthews gave me your number?"

"That is probably something better discussed in person. Let's just say that you and I might have certain interests in common. See you tomorrow."

The rhythm and tone of his voice were so captivating, it took Sophia a moment to realize that he'd rung off, and she was listening to a dial tone.

* * *

She arrived for the appointment early. On the way to it, she'd wracked her brain to understand what he'd meant on the phone. As her taxi pulled up to the curb, it occurred to her that Dr. Matthews had basically set her up on a date. The thought made her cringe. How could he do this to her without even asking? How horribly embarrassing. Sophia decided she'd keep the meeting and politely explain that it had all been something of a mistake.

The restaurant was empty as she walked in. The staff behind the expresso bar were busy setting up for the day. "Take a seat, Luv," called an older gentleman from behind the counter. "Someone will be right with you."

Sophia picked a seat at a table by the window, pulled out her newspaper and began to do the crossword puzzle. But she was nervous and the letters danced in front of her eyes.

"Sophia?"

She looked up. The man standing beside her table was pleasant and ordinary looking. He appeared to be in his mid-forties and wore a pair of grey corduroy trousers, an open necked grey shirt and a black pullover. Had he been wearing a collar, he would have made a perfect priest.

"Yes," she stood up and shook his hand. "Dr. Scan..."

"Andrew, please. May I?" He indicated the seat opposite hers.

"Certainly."

They settled opposite each other and suddenly, Sophia felt very foolish indeed. "Andrew... it occurred to me that perhaps Dr. Matthews made a bit of a mistake."

"Why do you think that?" he asked, scanning the menu.

"Is this a blind date, or something? Because I really don't..."

"Why don't you order something to eat, or I can do it for you, if you'd like. Then we can have a nice, friendly talk."

The waitress had arrived and stood impatiently with her order pad in her hand.

"I'll have a plain omelette and brown toast. And tea. White please," Andrew looked over at Sophia who shrugged. "And this lady will have the same."

When the waitress left, he looked at Sophie and smiled. "Now. Down to business, I gather. This isn't a blind date."

"That's good to know. So, what is it? And why am I bothering you."

The laugh she remembered so well from the phone, bubbled up out of his body. "You're not bothering me in the least. It's always pleasant to have breakfast with someone interesting."

Sophia cocked her head. "How do you know I'm interesting?" She couldn't help breaking into a smile.

"Oh, I'm a very good judge of people. You are very interesting, Sophia. Very interesting to me."

"And why is that?"

"Because you are a submissive."

"Did Dr. Matthews tell you that?" she blurted out, louder than she intended. "That's...that's not very..."

"No. He didn't have to," Andrew replied quietly. "But I rarely read people wrong. I'm not always right, but generally, I'm pretty good at it."

Suddenly, inexplicably, Sophia felt a hot wave of flush rush up her neck and onto her cheeks. "I've...I've got to leave. I'm late," she said, fumbling for her purse and her coat.

"Breathe, Sophia." The voice was low and very serious.

She stopped. She could hear her heart pounding in her ears, as if at any moment, it would burst her eardrums. And there was no air. No air at all. She felt her legs going numb, tiny needles piercing her...If she couldn't breathe she'd die. Right here, right now...

"Sophia! A deep breath, please!"

His voice made her jump in her seat. She gulped a lungful of air and heard it rasp all the way down into her chest.

Her hands were on the table's surface, clenched into white-balled fists. He covered one and then the other with big warm hands. "Let it out and take another nice big breath. Come on, now."

The waitress came over with their teas. "Is she alright?"

Andrew smiled. "Panic attack. She'll be fine. Won't you, Sophia?" The hands on hers pressed her fists so hard that she had to open them and flatten them on the table. As she did, he let them go.

He spooned what seemed like an enormous amount of sugar into one of the cups and stirred it gently. Then he pushed it over the table, towards her. "Have a sip. You'll feel much better."

Without really knowing what she was doing, Sophia uncramped a hand and picked up the cup, fighting not to spill it all over the table. She took a sip, then another. It was warm and very, very sweet.

"Much better. Yes?"

She nodded autonomically. At least she didn't think she was suffocating. Raising the cup again, she took another sip. "What did he tell you, about me. What did he say?" Even as she asked the question the shame of the fact that she was asking it brought tears to her eyes.

"Why do you care what he said, Sophia? You know who you are. No one else can define you."

"I'm not that," Sophia whispered. "I'm not what you said. I'm not a doormat, or a victim, or some stupid woman who can't take care of herself. I'm not..."

"I didn't say you were any of those things, Sophia. I simply said you were a submissive."

"It's the same thing," she hissed.

"No it isn't. Not at all. I have no interest at all in doormats or victims."

"How?" Sophia spat out. "How is it different?"

"Victims are people who don't chose what they are or how they live. They are forced into the life they find themselves in. People feel sorry for them, but they don't respect them. People patronize them, and look down on them, and help them because they're weak."

"Perhaps that's what I am."

"Perhaps. But I don't think so."

"How do you know?"

Andrew sat back in his chair as the food arrived, thanked the waitress, and smiled at Sophia. "Because...I was born to know." He unrolled the napkin that held the knife and fork together and put it neatly in his lap. "Eat your breakfast. Panic attacks burn an incredible amount of adrenalin and you need to replace that energy before you go to work."

They ate mostly in silence, but it wasn't the empty sort. It was a companionable sort of quiet. As if he didn't need to speak to let her know he was there. At the end of her meal, Sophie looked at her watch. It was almost time to go.

"I'm still not really sure why Dr. Matthews suggested I phone you. It's not that I don't appreciate your meeting with me, but it bothers me that you won't tell me what he said about me."

He nodded. "I can see that it does. He phoned me and told me that he had given you my number and that you might call me."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

"Do you know why I was seeing him?"

"No. You'll tell me when you're ready. But some of it, I can probably guess."

Sophia nodded, she believed he could. "You seem like a very nice man. I don't want to unload my baggage onto you. I don't think I'm fit company for anyone right now, and I'm not sure what, if anything, you can do for me."

Andrew shrugged. "I think I might be able to help you discover who you are."

She looked into his face. It was an open face, and honest face. She wanted to believe he could. But Geoff had seemed like that to her, once. "But what do you get out of it?"

"I'm a teacher. And I enjoy my work. It's what makes life worthwhile."

"Can I think about it?"

"Take as long as you need."

* * *

No matter how hard she tried, Sophia found it hard to concentrate at work. She sat through meeting after meeting, watching people's mouths move but not really comprehending anything. She smiled and nodded and looked attentive and prayed to god that her colleagues hadn't noticed that she'd left her brain somewhere else today.

When she got home, she felt equally displaced. Having no appetite, she poured herself a glass of wine, sat down at her desk, and turned on her computer.

For a while she just sat there, thinking and drinking. Sophia had never considered herself a person who deliberately avoided the truth, but she realized, in fact, that was exactly what she had been doing. Even when she had been with Geoff, when things had been better, she had avoided any analysis of her or Geoff's behaviour. She had only a vague understanding of what they did sexually, and she had purposely avoided talking about it, with him, or even later, with her therapist.

That morning's meeting with Andrew, and her reaction to his suggestion that she was "a submissive" frightened her. But now she understood that things are frightening when you don't have enough information about them.

Surfing the net, trying to make some sense of the plethora of information about "submissives" only left Sophia more confused. Some of what she read disgusted and repelled her, and yet, from time to time, something on a site that rang a deep chord inside her. It seemed that definitions were fluid, and some of what she read written by men claiming to be "Masters" scared her. Some of them sounded exactly like Geoff. But not all. Some sounded responsible and genuine and very honest about their own exploration.

What became clear to Sophia was that, this world was primarily concerned with sex. And although she certainly felt that sex played a part in what she was, it was by no means all of it. It would have been no problem for her to admit that she just liked kinky sex. The barrier for her was the fact that it was much more than that.

Sophia dug around in her purse and found the little note with Andrew's number on it. She dialled it and waited.

The voice that answered the phone sounded distant and groggy. "Hello?"

"Andrew, it's Sophia. I need to ask a question and I don't know who else to ask."

"Sophia...Are you aware of what time it is?"

She looked at the time on her computer and couldn't believe it. It was two-thirty in the morning. "Oh, my god. I apologize, Andrew. I...I'll let you go."

"No. No. I'm awake now. What do you want to know?"

"Well...oh, damn. This can wait until another time. I really do apologize."

"Sophia!" His voice was firm and loud.

It made her stop jabbering and apologizing, like painless slap. "Yes?"

"What is it you wanted to know?"

"Is this just about sex?"

She heard him move, fabric rustled and she could tell he was turning over in bed. She imagined it very comfortable, and very warm. "No."

"I've been reading about things on the net and it seems like it's really all about..."

"Sex is just a tool. It can be a very effective one, but it's only a tool, Sophia."

"Are there others, Andrew?"

"Pain. Confinement. Isolation. Humiliation. It depends on the submissive and the dominant."

"Thank you, Andrew."

"Goodnight, Sophia. You're welcome to phone me in the morning."

That night, Sophia couldn't sleep. Strange, short, segmented dreams woke her over and over: drenched in sweat, shaking, aroused, frightened. By dawn, she could only remember the way they felt, but not the dreams themselves.

* * *

Exhausted, feeling like she'd been pulled over sharp rocks, Sophia rang her office and told them she was taking a sick day.

Then, at ten o'clock, after two coffees and a yoghurt, she dialled Andrew's number again.

"Andrew? It's Sophia."

"I know. How are you?"

"I'm fine. I'm ringing to apologize about last night. I didn't realize what time it was. I'm very sorry."

"Than you. Is that the only reason for the call?"

A spike of fear rocketed up her spine. "Yes."

"Are you certain?"

"Yes," she repeated breathlessly.

"Your apology is accepted, Sophia, and appreciated."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. Goodbye Sophia."

The line went dead.

It had been an odd, stilted exchange, and she sat for a moment feeling the fear retreat. She stood, paced, looked out the window; it was grey and drizzling, more like twilight than morning.

She picked up her mobile and stared at it. Put it back down. Pulled a couple of dead leaves off the orchid on her desk. Picked up the phone again. God, what was wrong with her? She pressed the redial button.

"Sohpia?"

"Yes."

"Would you like to talk about it?"

Even as the spike of fear returned, there was a simultaneous flood of relief. "Yes, I would. I really would."

"Fine. Why don't you come over, then?" He gave her an address in Soho, just around the corner from where they'd first met.

 

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