Session 7
“Were you bothered by that?” Not-Doctor Reid sat in a black office chair that looked more fashion-forward than comfortable.
I’d had it with the stiff upholstered chair and now made my home on the small sofa. I wondered if that was the plot. Adorn the room with lumbar-killing chairs and eventually the reluctant client would be forced to submit to the cliché of the couch. Fuck that. I’d stand for the hour-long sessions before lying down.
“Which part?” My eyes drifted from my notebook to my cast, perusing the details of Hadley’s painting.
“Kate’s suggestion that you couldn’t have a fulfilling sexual relationship with Hadley.”
“No.”
I pulled a plastic knife from my pocket and shoved it inside the cast, attacking the infernal itch on the underside of my wrist that wouldn’t go away. There was something comedic or ironic about that, considering my surroundings, but I decided not to speak it aloud.
Not-Doctor Reid was silent too long. I glanced up, reading her patient expression, which called bullshit.
“Fine. Sure. Yes. It’s a crock of shit, so it doesn’t matter. We have great sex.”
“How would you describe your relationship with Kate to that point?”
“Nonexistent.”
“You carried on a sexual relationship,” she insisted.
“We fucked. That’s not a relationship. There was no relating. There was penetration and as few words as possible.”
“But she was the only one you had sex with multiple times, correct?”
“What’s your point?” I leaned back, rubbing my good hand through my hair. “Let’s clear something up: I hate these leading questions when it feels like you have a particular answer you’re trying to pull out of me. Just ask the question outright. We’ll get along a lot better that way and our time will be far more productive.”
“Okay, Josh. Why, if there was nothing special about Kate, was she the only one you fucked repeatedly?”
“Because she was zero maintenance. No hassles.”
“And not because she fulfilled some specific need?”
Sitting forward, I leveled my eyes with the short, curvy woman. Reid had explained during our getting-to-know-you period that her area of study was modern sexuality; curious, considering that it was my anger issues that had landed me here. Thus far, our sessions had concentrated more on my exploits between the sheets than the many misdeeds of my fists.
“What do I need? The vast majority of my orgasms have resulted from the stimulation of my own hand, the exceptions being Hadley. Even a warm body isn’t a need. So, to answer your question: No, Kate did not fulfill a particular need for me that could not have been satisfied by anyone else.”
“Then why do it at all?” Reid set her iPad aside, signaling we weren’t close to a conclusion on this topic. “Was it only to appease your partner?”
“You overestimate my desire to please them. For that matter, you overestimate to what extent I gave a fuck. They were a means to an end.”
“You cared enough to bring them to climax.”
There was no smart answer for that. “I wanted to be good at it. That’s entirely selfish and vain.”
“Was it enjoyable? Fun?”
“Sex isn’t fun.”
“Not even with Hadley?”
“No. Making love to her is a lot of things, but I wouldn’t call it fun. Foreplay is fun. Flirting is fun. Teasing and getting her worked up—those moments fall into the fun category.”
“Then I return to my previous question: Why do it at all?”
Enduring childhood in a series of overstuffed foster homes taught me something about the nature of want versus need. We fought for toys, we fought for beds, we fought for food, and we fought for enough personal space to breathe. At five years old, the requirement wasn’t much, and yet we still struggled to claim it.
After my first sexual experience with Hadley, I was terrified of sex. For a brief time, I thought maybe I would never have it again. In theory, I wanted to be balls deep in a girl. That fantasy centered around Hadley most often. The reality was far less appealing.
Imagine being a male in his late teens to early twenties. While the hormones went on about their business without any care for emotional sensitivity, I was this paralyzed person unable to act on the most natural instinct. My friends were getting laid. The girl I loved had scratched the itch. I shot loads of frustrated desire down the shower drain. All the while, I was a closeted freak walking among the normals and doing my best to hide the scar I carried.
Along the way, the want for theoretical sex turned into a need to break down the barrier of fear. I wanted to get past the psychological hurdle because I needed to feel whole again. I fucking required proof that I held absolute command over my body. I did it because I had to. I thought, maybe, I could fix myself.
“Kate is an emotional cripple. I had no responsibilities to her. She used me, and I used her because I couldn’t hurt her.”