Dear Michelle VII: The Good Doctor

1 April 2009


Dear Michelle

I never thought I would find myself attracted to a man
I know you know this. We have discussed it. You and I are of like mind on this. It is a fundamental of the synergy and homogeny (interesting word) of our relationship. Peter knows it. Dear, sweet, practical Peter. As he said to me, as I remember, when we discussed my needs, “It doesn’t really apply to me, does it?”
But I find myself attracted to this man. I find it a strange sensation, as if I am embarking on a new life-stage. I am, of course, with my new posting and heading to New York. Some things remain the same: I still stride the world stage; I still tell people what to do and what is best for them, without actually achieving anything (there is not much difference there between the NZ Government and the United Nations Ha! Ha!) and I am comfortable in my cervix, as you put it.
But what of him? Why is he going? Yes, it has a certain inevitability—the job is tailor-made for him and he has long harboured a desire for it. But that is the point—I thought it was his ONLY desire. I didn’t think he had any other. But now…
Is it me?
Does he desire me or the World Bank? Is it me or the bank that takes him to New York? And close to me? Nobody yet knows he is going of course. That’s our secret. And, even there, there is the certain sensuality in shared intimacies. At the moment it is between me and my doctor. Ha! Ha! But people will know soon, when his posting is announced. Will they talk? Will they speculate? Will they know?
Do I?
These things will no doubt tax me in the future—as he taxed me in the past (Ha! Ha!). But, for the moment, please be assured that there will always be more Michelles in my life than…Michaels.
Find room for me on your couch next week.

Yours forever,
H.


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Dear Michelle VII

Dear Michelle,

Well I have done it! I have called the election (or as Trevor calls it the erection) date for November 8. That’s typical of Trevor of course. He’s symptomatic of my one regret from my time in office, macho males. How much better and more effective I could have been if I had only women in my cabinet. Or better still, no cabinet at all. Heather and I have often discussed how easy it would be for her and me to run this country just on our own.

But that’s the democratic system for you: never the best.

Of course even in an idyllic situation of an all woman cabinet I would retain Michael. The good doctor comes as close as you can get vicarious masturbation: he massages the ego while deflecting the slings and arrows. In the early days Jim used to do that but of late he has got so boring and intense. I hope I lose him in the election.

Just so with Winston. What a liability he has proven to be as predicted by Heather. She never liked him of course, but who does? However, that is not my issue with him, if I couldn’t cope with not being liked I wouldn’t have a cabinet and in fact I wouldn’t have a job! No, my issue with Winston is his hair. It is always so neat and tidy and always looks so good on television whereas I, as you know, have no end of difficulty with mine. Of course that doesn’t matter. And I don’t give a shit how I look (nor does Heather), but, you know, in the lead up to the erection (Ha Ha) and all that… Thank God for Photoshop!

Anyway, I have to get into trim for the election. JK is not going to be an issue, but all this smiling and being nice (talk about sustainable) will be. Build me up Michelle. Give me the spunk to get through it all. You do do spunk, don’t you? Silly question.

Put me on the couch and have your way with me.

H.

Dear MichelleV

Dear Michelle,

Had to jot off to one of those ghastly boring dinners at Prem House last night. You know the type (or perhaps you don’t) the type where a lot of men with inflated egos and women with deflated esteem sit around making talk of such insignificant consequences one is taken back to one’s worst Hamilton nightmare.

How this isle of mediocrity can exist within the vibrancy, vivaciousness and—yes—sexual diversity of Wellington is beyond me. But it does and I am ashamed to call myself its host.

This one was for Little John. As men go he is just as patronising as the rest. But, surprisingly for an Australian, he carries off that and his general demeanour with tact and consideration. Of course that may be entirely due to his diminutive stature. I have heard from members of my security detail who heard from members of his that the appellation “Little John” has little to do with his lack of height. Oh well, I doubt I shall ever be in a position to confirm that J.

And you do make me smile. Our sessions, though infrequent, ground me. They provide me with an oasis of calm in a turbulent maelstrom of male chauvinism. When I lie on your couch with you beside me my mind wanders freely without sexual shackle, reaching deep down with me and gently coaxing my body to come along for the journey.

I know that Heather gets jealous, but she was also, at one point, jealous of Peter, so that is of no consequence. The point here, I think, is that nobody but you fully understands my needs. They think they do. But I allow nobody, even Heather, to see all of me. You have found my hidden places, and have opened them up.

Yes, I know: I came to you as a client and you a therapist. I was reticent in that I repudiated the effectiveness and even the need for your programme. But you won me over, you little vixen you. Was it that you treated me as a woman? Did that give you that rare quality? Perhaps. And what are you now? My therapist still, yes. My friend, certainly. A gentle but timely admonishment here, to me as well as to you: ambition is best left to politics.

And in politics, and in the darkest parts of it such as last night’s dinner, I console myself with the thought that had it not been for politics and for who I am I would have missed out on much that stimulates me, tantalises me, enlivens me. And I am not talking here of “Little John”. J There you go again, making me smile.

See you at the next session.

H.

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