the therapist, of course


It was only a matter of time before I found myself here, I suppose. Though even so, I honestly didn’t see it coming.

The therapist drives a very clean, white Porsche and lives in an upscale loft downtown and has three teenage kids that he tells me are in beta-testing.

And his money makes things cushy and his front door having a security code gives me a sense of profound protection and his being a father makes him seem human, but …


what is it, woman? 

It’s his fucking gorgeous strength that’s going to trump all of that.

A power so great it allows me to be completely unapologetic about mine.

 don’t cater to me, i tell him.

i am not catering to you i am catering to me you are the meal.

He has those intense soul-gazing eyes that are the hallmark of his profession. The look that somehow communicates, “Unlike anyone else before me, I’m actually listening to what you’re saying. But unfortunately, this also means that you’re completely naked and ridiculous here before me.”

I have a love/hate relationship with that look. But soon, I won’t even have to see it.

unless i make you.

hush. you’re not going to make me.

we’ll see.

“I will key in the security code on your door,” I tell him. “I will proceed halfway up the stairwell. And then I will sit down and wait.”

He nods. It means continue.

“I want you to come down the stairs from your loft, behind me. I won’t turn around. And I want you to blindfold me.”

The therapist puts his pencil’s eraser just inside his lip. Makes no discernible show of emotion. Nods again.


i am discovering that underneath i am not such a nice guy that there is a side of me that wants to express my dominance and power over a woman i understand this psychologically in terms of my dynamics and i have kept this in check but recently i met a woman who wants this and i am finding it exciting and unsettling 

recently you met a woman who wants this? i ask, teasing

I am so delighted that my hands want to take flight. Inside of my body is an entire orchestra.

“How are you doing with all of this?” I ask, tilting my head at him and smiling, odd girl flirty in the face of his sober expression.

I’m kind of being funny, in this brief role reversal.

He is not amused.

For the thinnest of seconds I’m almost self-conscious about how completely and utterly and happily narcissistic I am.

I look down at my lap and shield my eyes with my hand in an attempt to cover my glee.

He must lean forward in his chair. I can feel the distance between us lesson.

When he speaks, his voice is well-modulated, but even so, its got heat.

“Don’t you dare pretend to give a fuck about me and how I’m doing with all of this,” he whispers.

I can’t hold it in. The laughter escapes.

“Exactly,” he says.

I am beaming.

i want your help, he tells me, finally

well, if by my help you mean a willingness, yes. but process-y type things don’t interest me

not true. your own process interests you endlessly

okay, fine, but yours doesn’t

yes that’s better i will be interested and engaged in your process but your job is to receive and take it i can pay someone to process it for me later

He leans back in his chair. Again, I can feel the movement, without seeing it.

“Right now the only thing I care about,” he adds, calmly, quietly, “is your naked body and my exploration of it. You are not responsible for me, or my satisfaction. I will take my satisfaction.”

I splay my fingers across my face and peek at him from behind their screen.

 “And I am being too polite.”

i have never been with a woman like you worthy of worship your body is ridiculously amazing you are fresh you cut through me


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