Page 2 of Bedroom Therapy

“Dear Lonely and Hot, stop feeling guilty. Masturbation is a perfectly normal sexual outlet. You love your husband; but he’s away, and there’s nothing wrong with taking care of your own sexual needs. You live in a world full of sexual stimuli, and denying your response is suppressing part of your personality. Whenever a woman is without a partner, self-pleasuring is an excellent alternative to making love with a man. And, incidentally, it’s a good way for a woman to learn about her own sexual responses. If she finds out what she likes when she’s alone, she can better convey her likes and dislikes to her sexual partner.”

She leaned back, reading over what she’d written, moving restlessly in the chair as she considered her advice.

Was it a little warmer in the room?

She pulled at the neck of her tee shirt as she considered the letter and her answer. The woman in Norfolk was married. Should she go on to talk to single women—who might feel guilty about taking care of their own needs? Should she point out that masturbation was really the only kind of safe sex?

Probably that was going too far in this context. But maybe she could find a letter from a single woman who had asked a question about pleasuring herself. Maybe she could make masturbation the whole theme of the column.

She had already opened a bunch of envelopes. They’d been sent to her in U.S. Postal Service bag, directly from the Vanessa mail room. Had there been another one on the subject? She couldn’t remember.

Ignoring the annoyingly full feeling in her breasts, she began to shuffle through the letters, looking for another one she could use. Or maybe she should scan through the e-mail queries. No, the e-mail format seemed less personal. She liked seeing the readers’ different handwriting and notepapers.

After going through twenty-five letters, Amanda hadn’t found what she wanted. There were over two hundred more, some unopened and left over from Esther’s tenure. And there was another batch in her e-mail from the magazine. But reading them all was going to take a lot of time.

Could she just write another masturbation question herself? She was a single woman. It had been a long time since she’d been with a man. Not since Bob Burns, who had joined the faculty at Harmons last year.

She repressed a small shudder. Bob was the chief reason why she was taking a leave of absence.

Getting mixed up with him had been a mistake. The trouble was, she’d thought he was a nice guy, and it had turned out that he was jealous of her position in the department and willing to go to the chairman with tales about her that weren’t true.

But lord, at the beginning, he’d been a good lover. She closed her eyes for a moment, digging her bare toes into the medium-long fibers of the rug as she remembered the man’s practiced sensual touch. He knew the secrets of a woman’s body. Knew how to tease and tantalize and build anticipation—and then deliver what he’d promised—a mind-blowing orgasm.

She hadn’t made love with him in nine months. She hadn’t been with any man, actually. She’d had the opportunity, of course. But she was being more cautious about relationships.

Still, that didn’t mean she had to forgo sexual pleasure. Eyes closed, she reached up with one hand and stroked the side of her breast. When she felt her nipple bead, she used her thumb to find the edge and stroke it lightly through her tee shirt. She wasn’t wearing a bra. She never did around the house. There was only one layer of soft fabric between her finger and her aroused flesh.

When she realized what she was doing, she lowered her hand and squeezed it into a fist. Bob Burns was the last man on earth she wanted to think about when she was turned on. And besides, she was supposed to be working. She had a deadline, she thought as she rocked back in her seat. The movement sent a little jolt of heat to the lower part of her body.

Damn, this was a heck of a job. And at the moment she was having trouble focusing on what she was supposed to be doing. At least she wasn’t sitting in one of the cubicles in Vanessa’s plush New York offices pretending to be working. When she’d visited, Beth and her fifty staffers—mostly women but a few men—had been in an uproar getting ready for the next issue of the magazine. And she’d watched writers and copy editors and art department personnel scurrying around—conferring with each other and getting Beth’s final approval on various articles and fashion layouts.

Better that she was down here. Where nobody could see her slogging through the humiliation of not being able to put two coherent sentences together.

With her teeth gritted, she reached toward the pile of correspondence again just as the landline rang. The caller ID told her it was Beth, of all people, but she didn’t pick up right away.

Since her problems at Harmons College, she’d started using the answering feature as a way to screen calls.

She waited through several rings, until the machine picked up.

“This is Amanda O’Neal. I’m not here to take your call right now. Please leave a message.”

“Amanda. Amanda.” Beth’s voice came at her several levels too high. “What’s wrong with your cell phone? Did you forget to charge the battery again? If you’re there, Amanda, pick up.”

She flexed her fingers, but kept them away from the phone. She’d been thinking about Beth, and here she was on the phone! And yeah, not charging her cell phone was another habit she’d gotten into.

“I’d like to see what you’ve written on your first column, to make sure you’re on the right track.”

Amanda groaned. Sometimes she’d thought that Esther’s answers weren’t . . . She searched for the right word and settled on professional enough. Now that she was sitting in the dead woman’s seat, she was finding it wasn’t all that easy. She had one letter and one answer, but she hated telling her friend that was all she’d accomplished.

“And I’d better warn you about Zachary Grant. Well, not a warning, actually. He’s coming to interview you. He’s a real dish. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Tanned skin. Sensual lips. A blade of a nose. Thick, sooty lashes. Think black Irish. He looks like a mountain climber or something. He’s perfect for you. Or I wouldn’t have given him your address.”

Amanda swore under her breath. A stud muffin mountain climber. Just what she needed. Beth wasn’t supposed to give her address or phone number to anyone. And now she was sending a reporter? She reached for the phone to ask what was going on, just as Beth’s tone changed.

“Oops—got to go. Editorial crisis. I’ll get back to you later.”

By the time Amanda got the receiver to her ear, she was listening to dead air.

Great! Beth was sending her some guy who was perfect for her. Like she’d know, when Amanda didn’t even know herself.

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