I take a deep breath and process his words. On a shaky exhale, I meet his blue eyes and confirm, “But you’re not going to let me do that, are you?”
His eyes soften to match his tone. “No, baby, I’m not.”
I nod to myself before slipping off the bed and moving jerkily, limping toward the bathroom, doing my best to ignore the stiffness in my muscles and the ache in my heel. I turn on the light, and in the corner of my eye, as I move to shut the door behind me, I see Julius straighten and move to speak. But I already know what he will say. Before he has a chance to warn me, I leave the bathroom door open an inch.
From the moment our conversation ended, something shifted, changed between Julius and me. An informal understanding was met. I know where I stand.
Comply or die.
My gut coils in restlessness as I hook my thumbs into the waistband of my pants, push them down to my knees and sit on the toilet. As I relieve myself, I whisper to myself, “It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.”
And my mind tips its head back and laughs.
No, you’re not.
Not even close.
Therapy.
Ugh. Gross.
Julius makes me go. Over the past four years, I’ve gone through about a hundred shrinks.
As per the conditions of our working together, Julius makes the appointments, and I go. No one said I had to submit completely, but Julius is convinced I need help with my quote daddy issues and sex addiction unquote.
Pfft.
Please.
It’s pretty great to be me. I fucking love my life. I mean, it could be worse. I could be back on drugs. I could be a prostitute again. I could still be shopping at Target.
Why doesn’t anyone consider how I feel about myself? He calls them issues. I call them a shitload of fun. But Julius is no nonsense, just as Twitch was, and I don’t have much of a choice if I want to remain in this job. So here I am, in the waiting room of Dr. Maura Sternson.
I’ve seen her only twice before. It normally takes a few sessions of playing for me to break them.
A sly smile spreads at my lips.
I’m feeling exceptionally lucky today.
But as I wait, I watch the fifty-something-year-old man flicking through his magazine. I mean, yeah, he’s kind of round in the middle and thinning on top, but he’s tall, and his sensible plaid shirt and khaki slacks have me wondering how bad I could turn him. The unattractive ones more than make up for it with enthusiasm, as though they’re thanking you for spreading your legs for them. They totally worship me.
I think he’d like if I’d call him daddy.
Just then, he frowns down at his magazine before lifting his gaze to me, as if he felt my eyes wandering over him.
My smile widens and, keeping eye contact, I wink at him.
The man’s brows rise ever so slightly, but still, he looks around. Finding that he is the only other person in the room, he turns back to me, and I chuckle softly, watching the pink flush start from the bottom of his neck, rising up all the way to his scalp.
Oh damn, I like him. He’s simply adorable. I must have him.
I fight a god-awful pout and stifle the scowl that threatens.
Fuck. I hate this place. I don’t want to go to therapy. I want to play. I want Mr. John Doe over there to come while I ride his motherfucking face. I—
“Ling?” Her soft, musical voice sounds and I’m torn away from my fantasy.
I shake my head lightly to clear it and give her the once-over. It’s much harder to smother my scowl this time.
This woman has got to be no older than forty, and there she stands in her brown orthopedic shoes to match her ugly taupe cord pants and a white plaid shirt. Plaid was cute on Mr. John Doe, who now escorts his frumpy wife out the door, his sweet flush still visible.
Plaid on her however…
God, she repulses me.
My void expression changes completely when I smile and stand. “Dr. Sternson. So nice to see you again.”
Her smile is polite. “Come on in. I’m sorry my last session went over. I hope you weren’t inconvenienced.”
Oh, Maura. So goddamn polite. “Not at all. It’s no problem, really.”
See? I can be normal too when I put my mind to it.
She waves her arm out, and I step inside her office, taking a seat on the soft caramel-colored sofa, crossing my legs at the ankles, the picture of perfection. For two weeks, she’s been trying to break me. Little does she know I am a diamond and cannot be broken.
Taking a seat on the identical sofa opposite me, she smiles and reaches back to place her long, mousy brown hair into a clip at her nape. “Can I get you anything before we start? Coffee? Tea?”
Dr. Maura Sternson takes a different approach to other psychiatrists, no doubt why Julius booked me with her. She likes to keep things casual, tries to get close to a person, breaking them down bit by bit until they’re a blubbering mess. Oh, never fear. Dr. Maura will be there, tissue in hand with a shoulder to cry on. She cures people, she told me on my first visit. Boasted her recovery stats and all.
What the hell am I doing here?
Good news, brain. Dr. Maura Sternson is going to cure you.
Dr. Maura Sternson is a cunt.
I tame a grin at my inner dialogue and wave her off with a small smile. “No, thank you. I’d rather we begin.”
“Of course,” she starts, but loses her smile. Leaning forward, closer to me, her look of concern is award-worthy. “Ling, you’ve been to see me twice now and we haven’t even scratched the surface of your issues.” She smiles once more, softly this time. “I think we should start by talking about why you try to instigate a sexual relationship with so many men.”
I correct her, proudly at that, “There are no relationships. It’s just sex.”
“Exactly.” She nods. “Why do you suppose that is?” When I don’t rush to answer, she goes on a Dr. Maura spiel. “Intercourse sure can be fun, Ling, but without the emotional support of a relationship, where do you see yourself in five years?”
I smirk. “I don’t even know if I’ll make it five years from now.”
Her expression dims. “This is what I’m talking about. You joke about the most morbid things. It’s a worry.”
I shift in my seat as the beginnings of anger start to boil inside me. “Would you prefer I cry about the morbid things in life instead?”
“No,” Dr. Maura states. “But talking about them and how you feel would help a lot. And we could start by brainstorming if you like. Let’s pinpoint where sex turns violent for you.”
I deadpan, “Could be when my dad and brothers started beating and raping me when I was five.” She tries desperately to mask the shock on her face, but I see it. And I rage inside. “Or it could be when I was sold to a whorehouse at six.”
Don’t you fucking pity me, bitch. I’m more a woman than you’ll ever be.
This is over. I’m ending this now. Fuck this hoity-toity asshole and her civility.
I glance over at her desk and see the black and white photograph of Dr. Maura, her Hispanic-looking husband and a lean, pretty teenage girl, all midlaugh. How precious.
It makes me want to ralph.
I jerk my chin toward the photo. “Your husband… is he your daughter’s father?”
She looks over at the picture and smiles sweetly. “No. He’s her stepfather. Why do you ask?”