Finn

“How was your weekend?” Mason asks, exactly the way he does every time we meet.

My counselor―the one that court appointed therapist thought would be a great fit for me―sits across from me in tweed (I shit you not) pants. He has his legs crossed as always, causing the tassels on his shiny leather shoes to dangle to the side. The last person besides Mason I saw wearing tassels was a stripper, and hers didn’t exactly dangle from her feet.

“All right,” I answer. It’s already ten minutes into our session and I haven’t said jack.

“Just all right?” he asks.

No. It sucked balls. Sol left and she won’t talk to me. She didn’t even text me to say she arrived home safely. Instead, I received a text from Sofia saying she’d driven my truck back to her and Kill’s place. No, that didn’t raise suspicion or anything. No, that didn’t cause Kill to rip into me. Oh, wait―it did.

“What happened?” Kill yelled. Wren gave me a lift to his house and while she guessed something was up, she didn’t expect Kill to be so pissed, just like she didn’t expect to be shoving her way between us.

Kill doesn’t lose his temper often, but when he does, he really loses it. “I asked you a God damn question,” he hollered when I didn’t respond. “What happened between you and Sol?”

“None of your fucking business,” I fired back.

My comment only pissed him off further. “She’s my wife’s cousin, Finnie. Not someone you can whore around with.”

“I said, it’s none of your fucking business,” I repeated, shoving my face an inch from his. Sofia’s cousin or not, what happened between me and Sol is private. No way am I disrespecting her.

Kill knows I’d never force a woman to do something she wasn’t ready for. But I’ll admit, it doesn’t look good on my end. Sol was upset when she left. Sofia probably saw as much. They don’t know what went on between us and I think it scares them, especially given how I’ve been lately. But no matter how tight me and Kill are, I couldn’t exactly tell him she left because I couldn’t have sex with her, even though that’s exactly what happened.

I couldn’t have sex with Sol, I repeat in my head, barely believing it myself. I couldn’t have sex with this hot woman, who I can’t stop thinking about and who gets me so worked up, I want to tear her clothes off with my teeth. Christ, what’s wrong with me?

“You seem troubled,” Mason says, tilting his head to the side as he scrutinizes me. “If there’s something you want to discuss, I’d like to help if I can.”

“Would you?” I ask in a way that would make most men back away from me.

Mason smiles softly, like I’m not capable of bashing his face in . . . probably because it’s true. Although I’m royally pissed, like I said, I don’t hurt those who are weaker than me.

“I would,” he answers.

“I got some head over the weekend,” I tell him. He wants to know something about me, there it is.

If I’m expecting a big reaction―slacking jaw, widening eyes, even a gasp―it doesn’t happen. Don’t get me wrong, my response gives him the barest pause, but not much more. If anything, he’s probably shocked I finally said something worth scribbling in his notes. “Did it feel good?” he asks.

“What?” I respond like a dumbass.

Okay, maybe I’m the one who ends up being shocked. It’s a simple question, one any guy should be able to answer without much thought and a cocky smile. But it’s the way that he asks that throws me off―not like how guys in a locker room would ask―but in the same manner I’d ask if it’s going to snow.

“I asked you if it felt good,” he repeats. “You’ve mentioned there are times you feel numb, as if you’re disconnected from the world.”

I didn’t use those exact words, but it’s more or less the one thing I’ve managed to tell him during this whole time we’ve been meeting. “That’s right,” I say.

“So did it feel good?” he asks. “Were you able to derive pleasure from it?”

“It felt . . . great,” I say, thinking back.

“So you successfully felt something during the act? That numbness you often experience failed to manifest, correct?”

I nod, but again, that cocky grin that should form based on the topic doesn’t appear. My expression and tone remain tight. With Sol, damn, I always feel. That disconnect he mentioned doesn’t happen when she’s around. I thought it was because she’s a woman I’m hot for, but based on what Doc Mason is saying, I can’t be positive that’s all it is.

“I felt everything,” I confess.

“What about the other piece?” At my frown, he explains. “You claim it’s something that gave you pleasure, but was it a pleasurable experience?”

It’s then I realize where he’s going and what he’s asking, and I swear it’s like a freight train hits me at the same time the light bulb goes off. “No. I wanted it to stop.”

He nods, as if he’d anticipated my response. “Why do you think that is, Finn?” When I don’t answer he asks. “Do you think it was your partner?”

“No, S―”

I cut myself off when I almost say her name, remembering she works here and could get in a shit storm of trouble for messing around with a client. “Sal’s awesome,” I say. “Among the best people I know.” 

“Sal?” he asks, like he doesn’t believe me.

“Yeah, Sal,” I say. “It’s short for Sal . . .veeno . . . ah.”

“Salveenoa?”

Shit. “It’s French,” I add, because I haven’t lied enough.

“Very well,” Mason says, clearly humoring me. “Is Salveenoa a man or a woman?”

“A woman. I’m not into men.” I shake out a hand. “No offense.”

The corners of his mouth lift. “No offense taken, Finn,” he assures me.

He considers me a moment. “So you like Sal, I take it.”

“I like her a lot,” I say.

“Do you trust her?”

“I guess,” I answer. “I mean, we haven’t been together long. I’m not exactly giving her my bank account information or anything, but yeah, I trust her.”

“Do you trust her not to hurt you physically?”

“Like punch me?” I ask. “She’s not the type to take a swing at me.” I huff. “Not like psycho Chelsea, my ex. Shit, she hurled a toaster at me once.”

Mason cuts me off by lifting his hand. “We’ll get back to Chelsea. When I ask if she’d harm you physically, I mean during the act.”

“When she was going down on me?” I ask. At his nod, I say, “No, she wouldn’t bite me or anything crazy―at least not on purpose. But I do have a big penis, so she did accidently scrape me with her teeth.”

“That’s not what I mean,” he clarifies. “Let’s talk about what was happening when she was giving you pleasure. Were you able to watch her?”

I freeze. Me and Mason are going someplace I hadn’t planned on. I can say yes and switch subjects. I can tell him I’m done talking and we would be. But this thing has been eating me alive. So I stop playing and give it to him straight, even though everything male about me calls me a pussy for doing it. “No.”

“Did you encourage her movements or motions?”

Again, I say, “No.”

He nods like we’re getting somewhere, even though I’m not exactly sure where the hell we are. “Has it always been this way for you when it comes to oral sex?” he questions.

Damn it, here we go. “In a way, but in another way it was a lot worse this time.”

For a few beats we just watch each other, both of us waiting for the other to say more. I’m expecting him to tell me I’m screwed in the head for feeling what I’m feeling. Instead he asks, “Tell me, what do you usually do during oral sex?”

“When I give it or receive it?” Again, it’s like we’re talking about the stupid weather.

Mason thinks about it. “How about when you give it?”

“It’s not something I usually do,” I admit.

“Why?” he asks.

I don’t know what’s up with me. I want to tell him, but it’s like I can’t answer.

“Is it an act you don’t enjoy performing?” he offers.

It’s probably TMI, but I tell him anyway. “It’s actually something I love doing, but I don’t do it often.”

“Why?” he questions again.

I give it some thought. Who am I kidding? I give it a lot of thought, recalling that fantasy I had about Sol―the one I rubbed off to after she left―the one where I’m spreading her legs wide and burying my face against her.

I drag my hand through my hair, pulling my head out from between her thighs and back into reality before I pop some serious wood. “The times I’ve done it, it’s always been with a woman I’ve been with for a while, someone who I know is clean and who isn’t going to give me an STI.”

“So when you choose to perform, it’s with someone you feel safe performing it on.”

I should just nod and move on. But if I do, it’s like I might miss something I’m failing to see. “It’s not only a safety thing. It’s more like if I go down on her, then she’ll feel like she has to go down on me to return the favor.”

“So this goes back to your aversion to receiving oral sex.”

“I’m not opposed to it,” I tell him, frowning. “Like I said, it feels good. It’s just . . . Hell, I don’t know what I’m trying to say here.”

He leans back, giving me time to gather my thoughts and to say more. But I can’t seem to and he picks up on it. “From what I’m hearing, Finn, you enjoy the sensation, but you’re incapable of enjoying the act.”

I nod, despite the tension straining the muscles along my neck and shoulders. “Have you ever achieved orgasm from oral sex?” he asks.

“Never,” I admit. It’s then I say a lot more than I’ve ever said to anyone. “I can’t come like that. It gets me hard and keeps me hard, but the tension it causes makes it uncomfortable.”

“Do you tell your partner as much or ask her to stop?”

I shake my head, staring at the gray carpet that makes up his large office. “No, I just let her do it.”

“Why?” he asks. “If it’s something you’d rather not do, why do it at all?”

I lift my head, despite how I want to turn away. “I’m supposed to. It’s part of foreplay, expected, you know? I’m supposed to want it and enjoy it.”

“But you can’t,” he reiterates.

“No,” I admit.

“How do you achieve release?”

I raise my brows. “Is this relevant?”

His expression is relaxed, yet somehow serious. “I believe it is.”

“By fucking a woman,” I tell him point blank.

“When you say ‘by fucking a woman,’ are you doing all the work?” He holds out a hand when I cock my head. “Are you the dominant party, the one who takes control?” he explains.

“It’s consensual,” I insist. “I’ve never forced anyone.”

He smiles in that metro-sexual way of his. “I’m not accusing you of overpowering someone through sex, Finn. You’ve never given me any reason to believe it’s in your nature. But when you do have sex with a woman, is it in positions where you’re on top?”

“No,” I say slowly. “I’ve fucked women standing up and against the wall, on top of furniture, in the shower―you know, the usual.”

I’m not making this up or trying to impress him. Being a top ranking MMA fighter, women are all over me. He stays calm, recognizing I’m not bragging, his demeanor split between unaffected and concern.

“Take a closer look at these positions,” he says. “You’re the one holding them. You’re the one imposing your muscle. It’s your strength and power you’re demonstrating.”

Again, there’s that freight train plowing into me. Holy shit. He’s right.

“Tell me, Finn,” he says. “Have you ever achieved orgasm when the woman has been the one in control, on top of you, masturbating you, anything?”

I don’t know how long it takes me to answer, my mind digging through my memories, trying to find one that will disprove his beliefs. But I can’t. “No,” I answer.

“Then I think we’re onto something here,” he says.

I think he’s right.

“Oral sex is more complex than people realize,” he begins. “It’s perceived that men who receive it are the ones in control, because it’s about them and how much they’re getting out of it. However, many fail to see that it’s the person giving it who’s actually in control. She’s the one capturing that man at his most vulnerable with his most masculine and susceptible organs within her grasp.”

“You’re saying I don’t like to be vulnerable,” I bite out.

He doesn’t say anything. But he doesn’t have to. I already know he’s right. “Is that why I don’t enjoy it like I should? I’m afraid to be vulnerable?”

“Exposing yourself in such a way―when you feel compelled to stay in control during sex― doesn’t permit the pleasure the act can bring or allow the release that can come. Why do you think that is? Where does this stem from?”

As much as he’s opened my eyes, this isn’t a question I’m prepared to answer. Not yet.

“So then why was it worse with Sal?”

He doesn’t miss how I skipped over his question, but answers me anyway. “I think you like her more than you were prepared to and more than you’re allowing yourself to believe.” He waits, then asks, “Have you ever been in a serious relationship?”

My mind wanders back to ‘bat-shit crazy Chelsea,’ ‘I’m a psycho and I own it Nancy,’ and ‘I’m sorry I cheated on you, but you were at the gym and I was horny Lucille.’ “No. Most of the women I’ve been with longer than a handful of times end up being crazy, skanks, or both.”

“But Salveenoa isn’t like that?”

“Who―oh, yeah. No, Sal’s not like them.”

He smiles. “Then, what is she like?”

Beautiful, funny, kind. Yeah, and didn’t I fuck that all up. “She’s a nice girl,” I answer. “Smart and  . . . I don’t know, she’s different, is all.”

“And you like her.” He’s not really asking, more like interpreting what I’m trying to play down.

I rub my hands together, thinking about how shitty I’ve felt since she left. “Yeah, I do.”

“Finn,” he says, drawing my attention back to his face and away from the floor. “From what you’ve said and based on how this experience with Sal has affected you, I think you want to be able to trust her in a way that’s different and more personal than the other women with whom you’ve been intimate. I think it means more to you, that you enjoy sex with her.”

“You’re saying I want her to make me come when she’s blowing me?” I ask.

“That’s one way to put it,” he agrees.

“But shouldn’t it be easier with her, instead of harder? If what you say is true?”

“I don’t think so. Correct me if I’m wrong, but those other women you’ve had somewhat loose relationships with, they weren’t women you completely trusted, correct?”

“Oh, hell, no,” I say, shuddering.

“So during times they performed oral sex, it was easier for you to detach yourself, to put up with what they were doing―likely by ignoring them. But with Sal, you’re already more attached, you already feel more toward her, thus you’re going feel more during the act―both the pleasure and the vulnerability you don’t enjoy nor want to feel.”

“So how do I fix that?” I ask.

“You tell her,” he says, like it’s that easy.

“If I tell her I don’t like head, she’s going to think there’s something wrong with me.”

Good ol’ Mason doesn’t even try to deny it. “Perhaps, since men are expected to enjoy it and long for it, as you pointed out. But Finn, relationships―those that are more serious—require risks. You need to ask yourself if this young woman is worth taking the risk . . .”