Proverbial Woman, Chapter 3, Part 1

Slowly, in a circular motion he proceeded to apply pressure with the base of his hands. Soothing every inch of my yielding posture as he made his way up one side and down the other, without question I believe this man has the hands of an angel. Trying very hard not to lose myself. In a near fainting moment of coming undone, I abruptly felt a striking chill move through my body, as I uncontrollably shifted in place.

Suddenly drawn into a quandary that left me empathizing with his pain, and confronting desires of my own. For a fleeting second I pondered how could I have gone as far without first considering the cause of tenderness behind his touch. With gentle affection his hands glides across my skin with the subtlety of a windswept breeze on a quiet, summer night.

As if to be kinetically manipulating my pulse at whim, on a few occasions I could have sworn I felt the beat of his heart reverberating through his fingers. Or perhaps, it could have been that of my own. Though at any rate, I could tell he now know how to truly love a woman. A man just doesn’t touch like this without feeling some kind of reverence.
Igniting a rush of passion with every tingling sensation dispersing under the mercy of his hands, with every gesture of movement my body yield further as he proceeded in unlocking the essence of my being. In attempt of warding off any further embarrassing sounds, in a quieting gesture of submission I fell into a stupor of haze, as all my displaced anxiety drifted off into the shadows of my thoughts and dissipated into the emptiness of nothing.

At this moment I’m not quite sure of myself. And somehow, by just knowing that, it has become part of the reason I’m feeling the way I do. And to think, when he walked through the door I already knew it was going to be difficult getting this session out of my mind. I’ve got to remember to thank him twice…perhaps even, three times.

“Have you read any of Saint Augustine's work?” he asked, interrupting my mental flow.

“Yes…I’ve heard of him. Wasn’t one of his more recognizable essays called ‘The Confessions?’”

“Yes. ‘The Confessions of Saint Augustine’…” he excitedly replied.

“Right. I find the tenth book to be most interesting. His approachable dialogue concerning our senses and memory is amazing. I’ve heard many different variations regarding man’s passions in relation to the mind. Yet I myself have always been fascinated with the role our memory plays when we’re subjected to certain situations similar to occurrences of our past.” I added.

“Of course you would be. You studied Psychology, right. A student of Freud…” he remarked, sarcastically.

“Yeah. And Saint Augustine as well…”

“I'm sure. Then you must be referring to his work on- joy, desire, sorrow, and fear,” he added with a look of intrigue in his eyes. “Now that I know you are familiar with him, I can say my choice with the rose turned out to be a good call.”

“Yes. And I would like to thank you for that at this time. I’m sure its something your female clients appreciate.”

“Not so much appreciate. More like, walking away fulfilled with a sense of knowing their choice was not in vain. Besides, they have faith in me to do what is expected.” he added.

“Faith?”

“Yes…Faith! The same kind that get most of us through life.” he replied.

“Oh yeah…that kind. I guess until the next miracle I’ll just have to suffer…right?”

“No…not necessarily. In the mean time you could focus on making Angelina a stronger woman....mentally, and spiritually. It will you help balance the extremes in your life.”

“Extremes?” I repeated, in an invasive tone.