Natalie called me in tears. She was frustrated, drained and demoralized. Try as she might, whether she masturbated or made love, she couldn’t have an orgasm. She’d get close, but whenever she felt her erotic tension edging toward blissful release, an awful face appeared like a demonic planet rising over the horizon of her soul, paralyzing her body and brain. It was a face she knew well—the smiling, sinister face of her molester.
This wasn’t my first session with Natalie. A year had passed since we’d last talked. The first time she called me, she was a 34-year-old school psychologist who loved her work, family and friends. But Natalie kept her sex life tucked away in a drawer never to be opened. The problem, as I saw it, was that the drawer was now caving in from the strain of what it held inside, causing the whole credenza of her life to collapse.
Not only had Natalie never had an orgasm, but she hadn’t touched herself or anyone else in 14 years. What she lacked in sexual fulfillment, she filled in—literally—with comfort food. At 5’7”, she tipped the scale at 250 pounds. When I asked her what was holding her back in bed and pushing her into the refrigerator, she assured me that she hadn’t always been obese, quite the contrary. When she was a young girl, between 8-12 years old, she was stringbean-skinny, a promising gymnast. Then her body changed, and so did her life.
“Gymnastics can be very intense,” I reaffirmed. Then the story of Natalie’s coach tumbled out of her drawer. He was her guru, a close friend of the family, a member of her church, her trusted mentor—and her molester. He betrayed her trust by seducing her with promises of Olympic glory, molding her young body both for the balance beam and his own selfish erotic desires. At first, she loved him, and then she hated him. Now all these years later, she couldn’t get him out of her mind.
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