My wife Susan, diligent in her pursuit of helping people, knows nothing about my fear. She works hard as a therapist and genuinely cares about her patients. But she doesn't know I suffer. She doesn't know the extremity I go in avoiding children. I hide it well, I guess. She certainly doesn't know about my thoughts. Sometimes, I feel If I disclosed my thoughts to Susan, I'd be dumping a burden on her she doesn't deserve. I don't want her to feel this way, not after all she accomplished in our marriage. I don't want her to feel that she's married a pedophile. "I need you to pick up Sally," she tells me over the phone. Providing pro-bono work for abused children, my wife offers these children transportation to and from her clinic. Today, however, she needs me to do to it because I am off from work and because I am a normal husband expected to do such easy tasks.

I really wish she knew about my fear, at least of its existence. Susan has a PhD in psychology and has done plenty of post-doc work. Of course, if anyone could understand it would be Susan.

But I cannot break such news. In fact, now that I consider it, telling Susan is almost as terrifying as the fear of defiling children itself.

"Thanks so much for that," she says. "I'll pick up some dinner on the way home." She then gives me quick directions to the girl's apartment, prefaced with saying how easy it is to find.

Unfortunately Susan is right; it is easy to find. Of course, I had wished it would be too hard to find, allowing me to give up, but such luck evades me. When I get to Sally's apartment, I remind myself of how for any normal person, this task would be easy. But as always, such contrived thoughts don't comfort me because I am not normal. How a normal person would feel is not relevant.

Her mom comes to the door appearing somewhat uneasy.

"I'm Thereon, Dr. Livingston's husband," I say. "She needed me to pick up Sally today. She's very busy at the office." I smile

"Oh, okay," the lady conceded, my identification enough to gain her trust. I know that a person like Mrs. Baxter finds it hard to trust people. I remember Susan once telling me that Mrs. Baxter's husband, now in jail, molested Sally as an infant. Such tragedy renders you nearly helpless in trusting anyone, Susan said.

Sally, who I am guessing is about 7, appears from behind her mom, shifting around her skirt, appearing and disappearing like a magic trick. Her mom moves her in front like a fixture. Dressed in a frilly skirt, Sally's innocent hands grip matching Barbie dolls around their waists. I hope she will play with these in the car and pay no attention to me.

Getting her in the car and buckling Sally is really no problem. In fact, it's easier than I imagined. It's when we start driving, however, that I get worried. I hadn't realized that when I had slid Sally back on the seat, this caused her skirt to fold underneath her legs. It's bunched up to her private areas. The white nylon stockings she's wearing have caught a snag on the seat. I don't want to look at her legs, but find myself catching looks like a peeping tom.

Of course, the thoughts return, stronger than ever, like a relapse of pneumonia I had as a kid. I have to re-grip the steering wheel because my hands are sweating.

The thoughts are this: I want to touch Sally. I want to take her to a deserted parking lot and fondle her. I want to slid my hands underneath her frilly skirt, softy rubbing on her legs and then around her genitals. Maybe I could I pretend to be fixing the snag in her stockings in order to touch her. Then maybe I could remove her lacy shoes so she would be more comfortable. Then I could slide my hands around her thighs, feeling every part of her body like an undiscovered country, just as fresh and exciting as it is forbidden and exotic. Then I could remove her stockings, in the pretense of making her more comfortable, and touch her young virginity with precision. And I could finish up with caressing her chest around the indentations of what would become her breasts. Yes, this is what I have waited my life for . . .
But I wish the these thoughts would leave. Leave me the fuck alone. I would never harm an innocent girl. These thoughts, vile and repugnant, shouldn't belong to some one like me.

During all of this, I am trying to act normal, stopping at stop lights in front of the white stripe, putting on my signal, looking in the rearview at appropriate times.

But all I can think about is Sally.

"I've got to go to the bathroom. I don't feel good."

"We're not far from the office. You can go there." I don't mean to be rude, but I don't know what else to do.

"I can't make it," she says and plays with her Barbie doll. She doesn't look at me, but quietly plays with her head down.

I see a McDonald's and pull into the parking lot. Sally, whose head can't see over the dash, has no idea where I have stopped. I consider leaving the lot and going to the office. But if she needs to go, I should let her go. It's the right thing to do. After all, if she has an accident that would be worse.

I walk her inside and take her to the back where the bathrooms are located. I slump into a plastic seat that has a couple stale fries clinging to the side. I take a moment to consider everything that's happened and realize I haven't been doing too bad; I was able to get this far without completely losing my minds. Why should I be afraid of children because of thoughts? Thoughts aren't real; only actions are.

In fact, I'm just about thinking that I can live with my thoughts, when I realize it's been ten minutes before I last saw Sally. The sweat grows from my pours like sticky plants. My feet squirming in my shoes, I twist them to reduce stress. An older lady is walking to the bathroom.

"Excuse me," I say. "My 7 yr old niece is in there. I am afraid she may be sick because she's been in there for a while. Can you check on her. Her name is Sally."
The woman smiles and reassures me that she will check on Sally
"Sir, she is not well," the lady says, emerging from the bathroom a few minutes later. She keeps the door open. I realize I have no choice but to get up and see what's wrong with Sally. I have to go into a bathroom with a little girl inside. I worry about having an erection.

Once inside, I see Sally's little feet in a stall, her clothes bunched beside her legs.

"What's wrong," I say, standing next to the stall. The women leaves the bathroom.

"I hate these clothes. I hate them, I hate them. I don't have to go."

"Don't worry, you can talk to Susan." I know I sound Like a robot and I hate it.

"No, I can't leave. Not these clothes."

My guess is that she had an accident.

"I tell you what, " I say surprised at my caringness. "I'll buy you some new clothes as soon as we leave."

"No, no, I can't put them on. He took me to the basement when it got cold. They're his clothes. I hate them."

Hearing these tragic words, I feel as if I can help this child overcome her fear. I forget about mine not because I fought them away but because my feelings of helping Sally are greater.

"Clothes can't hurt you and neither can he."

I knew it was hard for the child. I helped her dress, again promising to get her some new clothes. By the time we got into the car, she was fine. I dropped her off at the clinic and let Susan know what happened.

"You're so awesome," Susan said, wearing a pants suit I bought her last year.
"Anybody could have done what I did." I knew this was untrue, but nevertheless, I said it because it made me feel good.