SPENCER

I love sex. I love the power, the intimacy, the euphoria it brings.

Don’t misunderstand, I’m not a slut. God, the mere thought of the word makes me cringe. I’m simply a woman unashamed of her desires. A woman who knows her own body and wants you to know yours just as well.

For instance, did you know that the clitoris has roughly twice the nerve endings as a penis? In fact, it is the only body part, male or female, that exists solely for pleasure. That’s right, ladies. Sex is supposed to feel good. If it doesn’t, call my office and make an appointment. I’ll see what I can do to help.

No, I’m not running some scandalous operation. I am a family psychologist specializing in sex therapy, or more commonly known simply as a sex therapist, and I love my job. There are few things I find more rewarding than knowing I’ve helped an individual or couple learn to find pleasure in what I consider to be one of the most vital of ways.

There are many reasons, beyond the usual emotional connection, that make a healthy sexual relationship important. Sex contributes to your overall well-being. It has magical powers. I’m serious. It’s scientifically proven that sex releases hormones that both calm and relieve stress. It is a natural antidepressant as well as pain killer. Therefore, next time you feel like pushing your man away because you have a headache, consider taking one for the team. By the time you reach orgasm, that headache will have been long forgotten. I swear by it.

So, if I’m such an expert, you may ask yourselves how I ended up here. A thirty-three-year-old woman with three children by two different men—not presently married to either. Stop judging me. Some problems can’t be solved in the bedroom, and apparently, I attract those kinds of problems.

You see, I’ve only had sex with three men, and consequently, two of those relationships resulted in tiny humans whose sperm donors wanted no part in raising.

When I was nineteen, and in my sophomore year of college, two years into a broken heart, I met Tate Tenning. He was a senior and the star of the football team. His blond curls, blue eyes, and perfect ass were just too much for my drunken mind to refuse. We hooked up in the backseat of his Explorer during a frat party, and a whirlwind romance ensued. We hit it off in a big way. That man could make my body scream, and he was a good boyfriend, too. Tate was kind, attentive, and he worshipped the ground I walked on. We traveled a lot and partied even more. About a month after he graduated, we took a trip to Vegas to celebrate, and when we returned, I had a ring on my finger. He was a good husband, for the most part, and we were happy, young, and in love. Fast forward a few months, a positive pregnancy test, sonogram, and two heartbeats later...Well, I’m sure you can piece together the rest of that story.

Lake and Landon were born six months after our divorce. Tate didn’t even bother coming to the hospital, but I’d wanted my children to have a father. I had hopes that he would eventually come around. So, I put his name on their birth certificates, and at my father’s insistence, filed for child support. For a few years, he was no more than a check in the mail. His measly seven hundred dollars a month barely put diapers on their asses and clothes on their backs. My parents paid for their daycare so that I could finish school and made sure we always had food on the table. They’d already been paying for my apartment since I’d started college, so they simply upgraded me from a one bedroom to a two, and we made it. It was hard as hell, but we did it.

The plan had always been to return to my hometown of Cedar Grove after school, but my best friend, Gina, who was sticking around to work for her cousin, Dillon, at his new practice begged me to join her. I’d already completed my masters in psychology, so Dillon paid for our additional training, and once we’d completed our obligatory hours of observation, Gina and I went to work at NOLA Sexual Health.

Around the time the boys turned five, Tate suddenly decided he wanted to be a part of their lives. You know, after the hard stuff: the crying, constant diaper changing, and up-all-night feedings. Legally, he had visitation rights, so I couldn’t stop him from taking them on his weekends. Sometimes, he did; other times, he didn’t. He gets them just often enough to ruin all of my hard work, returning two disrespectful little shits. And just when I’ve finally whipped their little asses back into shape, he miraculously shows up and the cycle starts all over. But the worst part of him blowing in and out of their lives by far is the way he hurts my boys. There is nothing worse than seeing the disappointment on my babies’ faces when that man promises them he’ll show and then doesn’t.

For a very long time, it was impossible for me to date. Between being a single mother to twin boys and living almost three hours away from any family, it was difficult to find time for myself. I barely had time to shower. Trust me, a man was the least of my worries. But, on the weekends the twins left to go to Tate’s house, I found myself with nothing but time. Gina grew tired of watching me mope and declared his weekends girls’ weekends. I had forgotten how fun it was to drink, dance, and to not have to be the responsible one all of the time. And, I may have allowed myself to get a little carried away.

While we were out one night almost three years ago, I met a Latin god by the name of Alex and apparently got drunk enough to forget that sperm makes babies. Alex and I had only been seeing each other for a few months. Wait, that sounds so formal. I’ll just call it like it was. We’d been fucking, but only while the boys were away. I was obsessed with Alex’s body and addicted to the things he did to mine. After having been responsible for my own orgasms for so long, it was nice to pass that task over to his more than capable hands and, um...appendage.

When I found myself unable to get out of bed and puking my guts up for a solid week, Gina showed up at my house with a drugstore bag, which she shoved into my chest before she ushered me into the bathroom. She wished me luck and shut the door. I don’t know why it hadn’t dawned on me before. Maybe I was in denial. But when I saw that little rectangular box, my reality hit me like a ton of bricks. Not again.

If you do the math, you already know that little booger came out with a big fat positive. I was thirty years old, unmarried, and pregnant with my third child.

When I told Alex, he offered to pay for an abortion. I may have been irresponsible in failing to use protection, but I was not going to end my pregnancy. I’d already come to terms with the fact there was going to be a baby. The only question in my mind at that point was whether or not he would be involved. I wasn’t fooling myself. We were not a couple, and I had no intention of trying to force a relationship between us just because I’d wound up pregnant. But, I wasn’t going to make the same mistake that I had with Lake and Landon. If he wasn’t going to be an active part of this baby’s life, then I wouldn’t force it. I left him with the knowledge that I was having this baby, with or without him, and that if he chose to be a real father to our child, I would not stand in his way. But if he wasn’t going to be there, and I mean really be there, then I didn’t want his money, and he could pretend the whole thing never happened. Alex didn’t even take a full day to think it over before texting me back. His message simply read, “I’m out.”

You would think that all of this would make me a cynic. Believe it or not, I’m not. I know there are good men out there, but I have neither the time nor the energy to search for my prince charming anymore. My three boys, my job, and my vibrator will just have to sustain me for the foreseeable future.

But, my clients give me hope. They prove to me every day that there are still princes living among the pigs. Men who are willing to humble themselves in order to do whatever it takes to save their marriages. I may not know how to pick ’em, but I’ve got a list of clients a mile long that will tell you I know how to fix ’em.

And that, dear friends, is how I became a walking contradiction—a thirty-three year-old sex therapist with absolutely no sex life.