Page 1 of Bedroom Therapy

Chapter One

Dear Esther,

I have a problem, and there’s no one I can talk to about it. My husband is in the Navy, and he’s on a three-month cruise. Sometimes I get so lonely that I don’t know what to do. And sometimes I get so hot for him that it pushes me over the edge. I mean, I have to make myself come. It feels good when I do it, and I always pretend he’s making love to me. But afterwards I feel guilty. What should I do?

Sincerely,

Lonely and Hot in Norfolk

Amanda O’Neal put down the letter she’d been reading and ran a hand through her shoulder-length blond hair. Standing up, she paced to the window of her office and looked out at a motorboat speeding up the Choptank River. Through the clear glass, she could see a man and a woman, laughing and enjoying the bright summer afternoon.

A pang of envy shot through her. They were outside on a beautiful Saturday afternoon in early summer, having a good time, and she was cooped up in her little rented house, reading sexually explicit letters.

She glanced back at the laptop computer on her desk, then down at her pale skin. She could take the little machine out on the patio and get some tan on her legs while she worked.

The prospect was tempting, but she knew in her heart that she wasn’t going to get much done out there. She’d just be adding one more distraction.

Her gaze flicked to the letter she’d put down. It was one of a stack that the postman had delivered this week—all in plain gray canvas sacks. Should she answer Worried in Norfolk or tackle a different question?

Experimentally, she tried a few phrases aloud, thinking about her own father and mother. “Probably your parents drummed it into you that masturbation was evil. Or was it society that taught you it was unhealthy? Not very long ago, they used to tell kids that touching yourself ‘down there’ would make hair grow on your palms,” she said, then grimaced, wondering if talking to herself was a sign of softening of the brain.

But it was a habit she’d gotten into while writing her scholarly papers—reciting key phrases to make sure they didn’t sound too stiff.

She glanced back toward the letter lying on her desk. Should she talk about masturbation in the animal kingdom? No, that was going a little too far, she decided. It wasn’t relevant. And maybe the sentence about hairy hands was just a sidelight.

But she was going to be honest and to the point in her answer. She wanted to help that young woman who had poured out her heart to Esther Scott.

Of course, there really was nobody named Esther Scott, the woman whose pseudonym appeared at the top of the widely read sexual advice column in Vanessa, one of the country’s leading women’s magazines. There never had been a real Esther Scott.

Until last month, the much-talked-about column had been written by a distinguished sexual therapist named Esther Knight. Because she had wanted to keep the identity of her patients confidential, she had picked a pen name when she’d started writing articles and then the column.

Unfortunately, Esther was dead, the victim of a hit and run accident. The editor of Vanessa, Beth Cantro, was an old college friend of Amanda’s. And when she’d needed an emergency replacement for the author of the column that got more than a hundred letters every week, she’d turned to Amanda.

“But writing the column is a big responsibility. How can you use somebody who’s never done this before? I see Vanessa on every newsstand.” Amanda had protested. “Women from their early twenties to their fifties read your magazine. You’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

“Well, we do have that reputation—now. When Vanessa Summers put two million of her personal fortune into the first issue, she didn’t know it was going to be such a hit. But we’ve got the right mix of sex, fashion, food, entertainment, sex, decorating, hair and makeup advice, the diet of the month, sex, and meaty articles on women’s issues, sex, and relationships.”

Amanda had laughed. ”Okay, I get the picture.”

“I know how you feel, actually,” Beth admitted. “When Vanessa retired to her Montana ranch with her new husband and picked me to replace her, I felt like I couldn’t fill her shoes. But I found out I have excellent editorial judgment. I’ve followed your career since college. Really, this job requires the same skills you’ve learned teaching your graduate seminars in human sexuality,” Beth had argued.

“It’s a lot more public forum than a graduate seminar. What’s the circulation of your magazine?”

“A couple million on paper. Plus our Web edition.”

Amanda groaned.

“I’m not trying to scare you off. I’m trying to convince you that taking the job makes sense. It will be good practice for that book you keep telling me you want to write. You worked for Esther when you were a graduate student. That gives you a leg up. And I want a PhD for this job—to give the answers authority.”

“Yeah. Right,” Amanda muttered aloud as she paced back across the office and sat down in the desk chair again.

During an afternoon of arm twisting and wine coolers on the patio, she’d found it hard to decline Beth’s offer—partly because she was on a leave of absence from the psychology department of Harmons College, and she couldn’t use the excuse of a full teaching schedule. Plus, the money was excellent.

Now the deadline for her first column was looming, and she wondered why she’d been crazy enough to take the job.

“You’re not alone in your distress,” she murmured, speaking to herself as much as to the woman in Norfolk.

Flexing her fingers, she poised them over the computer keyboard. The trouble was, giving sexual advice was such a big responsibility. But she had the courage of her convictions, she thought as she opened a file and started typing. She knew her subject. And she knew how to make women feel good about themselves and their sexuality. At least, that had been true of her students.

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