Dec 05, 2014, 08:47AM

The Time My Acupuncturist Molested Me

It didn’t really amount to much.

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This account is all true, and it leads up to no big conclusions of any kind. It's not a “Yeah, but it happens to men” piece, or a “I have shared your pain, my sisters” piece, or a “Lighten up already” piece. As much as anything, it may be a backdoor brag, plus a very small look at psychology. It turns out the mind does a funny thing when you're helpless and somebody gets happy with your genitals.

It's not a plausible story at all, as you will see. My acupuncturist is a lovely young woman in her mid-20s, meaning she's about half my age. Young females' desire for geezer flesh is rarely strong; most often it needs help from large amounts of cash. My acupuncturist charges nowhere near that much, and her fee is more than covered by the work she does with her needles. Nor is she into power trips, not that I've noticed during 16 months as an off-and-on client. She is a polite, sweet-natured, gentle woman whom I look forward to seeing—and not because she's going to get handsy, since she doesn't. This one time desire overpowered her, I guess. She just couldn't help herself. You see what I mean about being implausible.

The molesting itself didn't come to much, at least not in my opinion. I was stretched out on the table, largely naked and with needles up and down my body, and Marie-Catherine (as I'll call her) was headed for the door and another patient. As she passed, she reached out one hand and laid her palm flat on my package—on my penis and balls underneath my Hanes and the blanket she had laid across my midriff. The touch was not an accident. She had to reach to commit the act, and to slow down a little. The contact lasted a second or two. Then she lifted her hand and she was out the door.

We have never talked about what she did. I don't think I could. It's not that my hurt is too deep, since my hurt is minimal. I liked her before, and I like her now. Maybe I can't think of anything to say after getting on record that we both know what happened. I can't tell her that I'm angry, because I'm not. I can't ask her to change procedures to protect my modesty, because she's careful about providing me with blankets and having me remove only the clothes necessary for the work. (That particular day a lot of work was necessary.) I can't ask her for more handling, because I don't want more and because asking her would be an insult. I guess I could ask if my genitals are pretty great, but I already think they are. Anyway, that would be insulting too.

These reasons are all true and they're good enough. But something else lies deeper. A reflex. I just can't imagine talking with her about the incident. When I try to think about doing so, my mind closes up. That's the case even though I face almost no risk at all from saying something: no harm to my reputation, no loss of a job, no physical threat from my little sylph. All right, I might have to find another skilled and pleasant acupuncturist, and I might lose contact with somebody whom I like. But risks like that don't make the mind shut down.

I think the situation does. There you are and something that is yours, something so much yours that it's you, turns out to be on loan from the outside world; after all, somebody passing by can help themselves. Your mind can't un-sort that psychic tangle, so the whole business is packed up and tucked away. That's what my mind did until I sat down to write this piece, and now the tangle is going right back where I kept it. Not because I suffered horribly, since I didn't, but because I want existence to make sense. So, my sisters, I can't say I share your pain. But maybe we share this reflex.


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