Free Licensed For Love (Short Story) by D. D. Scott

 
     
     
     
Licensed for Love
     
    I pulled the bundle
of mail from the mailbox and flipped through the stack.
    Nothing out of the ordinary — bill, junk,
bill, Psychology Today magazine, and a renewal notice for my
membership in AASECT, the American Association of Sexuality
Educators, Counselors and Therapists.
    To me, AASECT has always sounded like some
insect name, not a pleasant acronym of a professional organization
for sex therapists.
    But “out of the ordinary” and insects
describes more than my mail, it describes my current life, where
everything is far away from my norm and quite frankly, bugging
me.
    I’m Dr. Telaine Patricia Cohen, your basic
Rosalind “Roz” Focker, Barbara Streisand-portrayed Sex Therapist. I
moved to Nashville, Tennessee — AKA Music City — after falling in
love with it while visiting my niece, Jules Lichtenstien, who you
probably already know, is Music City’s new cupcake boutique queen
and also a caterer to the stars.
    But I didn’t just fall in love with the city.
I also fell hard for one of its letter carriers.
    For the past four months, I’ve been living
with Jules’ prosthetic-eared mailman, Ben. And although I adore the
guy, I’m still trying to remember why I agreed to move in with
him.
    Our relationship could definitely use a match
to re-ignite the spark that originally attracted us.
    Ben’s spark had been his penchant for fun. He
may not be able to hear very well, but the guy’s got the Midas
Touch when it comes to over-the-top spectacular, seeing stars in
the bedroom moves.
    But after glancing at the deer on the cover
of his latest sportsman’s catalog, I had a revelation. Fun with
your live-in was evidently out of season. Hunting, however, was
in-season, meaning girlfriends and/or wives were out.
    I know what you all are thinking. And yes,
I’m a “therapist”. A therapist who now needs a therapist. Why?
Because, let me tell you something. At Yale, they don’t teach you
how to deal with becoming a hunting widow.
    My cell phone rang and temporarily shook me
out of my life funk.
    I glanced at the display. No surprise.
    I’d actually taken the phone with me to the
mailbox because it was time for Ben to be fighting interstate
traffic on his way home from the post office. He always called me
to estimate his arrival for dinner.
    Evidently, hunting season didn’t rob a man of
his appetite for food…just his appetite for love.
    “Hey, baby.” Ben’s voice sounded muffled from
the hands-free system in his SUV. “I should be home in about half
an hour.”
    “Sounds good.”
    “Do we have any plans for tomorrow?”
    In Ben-speak that meant he did.
    I took a deep breath and forced a pleasant
response. “Why do you ask?”
    “Well, a couple of the guys want to head to
the woods because deer season starts tomorrow. Is it okay if I
go?”
    “Fine with me,” I said, with a bit more zip
to my voice than I’d originally intended.
    I normally deplored Ben’s little-boy way of
asking for a kitchen pass. But his request to hunt, coupled with
the catalog cover had given me an idea.
    Maybe I hadn’t lost my multiple-award-winning
therapist’s touch. Suddenly, I had an epiphany and knew just what
to do to shake up our waaay too cozy — and boring — love nest.
    So it was big-game season, huh?
    Well, too bad.
    I wasn’t about to spend our four-month
anniversary — the fruit and flowers one — alone. Ben would be
hunting, all right, but not the prey he planned on. The only permit
he was about to be issued was his live-in’s license for love.
    I’d teach him that the fifth anniversary we’d
be celebrating next month, one I’m sure he planned to live to talk
about, wasn’t the only one with “wood” involved.
    And yes, I know that technically, you count
anniversaries in years, not months. But I’ve always coached my
patients to celebrate every day, every week, and every month of
their relationships. I’d simply forgotten to make good on my own
therapeutic