The Sex Surrogate

by Gadziala, Jessica

  The

  Sex

  Surrogate

  –

  Jessica Gadziala

  © Jessica Gadziala 2015

  Dedication:

  To those who know all about the

  safest place in the world.

  And to those who so lovingly provide it.

  xx

  Before the Sessions

  “I am going to see a sex surrogate.” There. I said it. Out loud. Granted, only to myself and in the privacy of my car with the windows up. But, hey, it counts. It's not like it is something I could share with my family, or my coworkers, my roommate or... well, that's about all the people I have in my life. And they wouldn't get it. They hear “sex surrogate” and they think “prostitute”. Besides, admitting it would mean admitting to them that I am dealing with some form of sexual dysfunction. Which, I am. Totally. But they don't need to friggen know that. That would be so humiliating. It was bad enough that the guys I have (tried) to date are all too aware.

  This was for me. No one else needed to know.

  I pulled into the parking garage, three floors up, and parked my car. I was early. They said to come early because, apparently, there was a detailed questionnaire to fill out. But I'm pretty sure they didn't mean... an hour and a half early. Honestly, I had to leave my apartment or there was no way in hell I was going to go through with it. So, I just got to sit for forty-five minutes and freak the fuck out wedged between a van and a SUV, in perfect seclusion.

  Six months ago, I had no idea there was even such a thing as help for me. I thought I was doomed to uncomfortable discussions with men I was interested in for the rest of my life. Or, more likely, a lifetime of being a spinster. Because, let's face it, how many times can you be expected to sit down and tell someone that you don't like sex? To see that look cross their face: confusion, disappointment, arrogant male pride. Because every guy thinks they'll be different. They will change it. They can make you writhe and moan and get over the fears and insecurities that make you lie there like a dead freaking fish, internalizing a panic attack because you're terrified of what they would do if you pushed them off like you wanted to.

  No one changed it.

  Four men down. And I was so over it.

  I was supposed to be out enjoying sex. Hooking up. Dating. Having one night stands. All those things that normal twenty-seven year olds do before they finally get serious and give thought to settling down in their thirties. I had already lost so much time.

  And it's not like I don't want to want sex. I totally do. I can get as turned on as the next girl just thinking about it. But when it comes down to it and he's there and you're there... and clothes need to come off, and touching needs t happen... I just flip out inside. And then that makes me lose the drive and then... yeah, dead fish, someone plowing into me, pissed off because I was not enjoying it.

  Something needed to change.

  Especially because... I have no trauma. I have no legitimate reason to be afraid of sex. I was never abused as a child. I never witnessed anything twisted or gross. I had never been raped or coerced into doing things I was uncomfortable with.

  There was no good reason why I couldn't enjoy a healthy sex life.

  Except my own stupid head.

  And I had tried the traditional therapy route. Actually, I had been in and out of treatment for my anxiety issues since I was a teenager. The last therapist was a middle aged woman with startling green eyes and a soothing voice. To her, I spilled it all. All of the sordid, awful tales of my quest to have physical contact with men. She did her best, bless her, to help. Gave me workbooks meant to help me bolster my confidence, talked to me about sex in as frank a manner as possible to get me comfortable with the idea, hoping the action would be easier for me afterward. But nope.

  Finally, frustrated with her inability to help, and sorry for me in her detached, professional kind of way... she had produced a card. It was small and white with raised black writing.

  Dr. Chase Hudson

  Psychologist/ Sexologist/ Sexual Surrogate

  “Call his office,” she urged, nodding for emphasis. “I know it seems far fetched, Ava, but it's worth a shot. You've tried everything else.”

  Afterward commenced a long, drawn out internet search on the topic of sexual surrogacy. A profession, I found, dominated mostly by women. Which, I guess, made sense. Men were a lot more likely to suffer from sexual dysfunction. But there was a growing subset of male practitioners. It was a legitimate, legal business. They could talk with me, touch me, have sex with me. It was all perfectly safe and, from the law's standpoint, acceptable.

  I researched Dr. Chase Hudson, finding an amazing, upscale looking website with information on his degrees and certifications, a brief outline of all his services, and a place to set up an appointment online. Which sent a tiny surge of gratitude through my body, because, well... there was no way I could have set up that kind of appointment over the phone.

  I got a call from a secretary the next day, confirming my appointment and telling me to arrive at least a half an hour before my scheduled time on the first visit so I could fill out paperwork.

  My alarm went off at eight in the morning and I crawled out of bed, showered, and stood in front of my mirror for the better part of twenty minutes.

  There was nothing wrong with me physically. My face is soft, slight cheekbones, a straight and well proportioned nose, a slightly pointed chin, brown eyes with light brown lashes, a somewhat plump lower lip, and long blonde hair. If I catch myself on a good day, I'd say I am pretty. It was not a good day.

  My body is perfectly average. Not super thin, but not heavy either. A slight flare of hip. A decent rack. An ass that doesn't live up to current beauty standards (meaning big enough to be seen from the fucking front), but it isn't flat either. I like my legs most of all, I guess. Long, lean, slightly muscled from from all the squats I have done to try to get my butt to be seen from the front.

  I dried my hair, applied a little eye liner and lip balm, and made my way to my closet. I hemmed and hawed over an outfit for forever. What, exactly, does one wear to meet a man who you are going to be paying (three thousand dollars for ten sessions!) to, essentially, sleep with you? I was assured, however, that the introductory meeting (not included in the ten sessions, thankfully) was just about getting acquainted. No touching. No nothing but a little talk therapy. But still, I would be sleeping with him eventually.

  In the end, I decided on skinny leg blue jeans and a long sleeve v-neck white shirt. Tight. But chaste. And comfortable. Lord knew I was going to be uncomfortable enough, I didn't need to be worried about flashing my panties when I crossed my legs in a skirt or pulling up my bodice because it kept showing too much cleavage.

  I ate dry rye toast, had a cup of tea, and started losing my cool.

  Which put me in my car, frantically tapping my fingers on the steering wheel, trying to listen to the music on the radio instead of the voice inside my head.

  Because, seriously, what a strange freaking situation. I am paying a psychologist, not some two-bit hack calling themselves a therapist, but an actual psychologist, to touch me and... yeah, didn't need my mind to go there. He was going to do things to me. Because I gave him a huge chunk of my savings to do it. Who else could say that?

  I didn't even know what the hell he looked like for goodness sakes. He could be as old as my father with a belly spilling over his waistband and clammy meat hands. Literally. He could look like that. I had no clue. But I had spent the last few days trying to convince myself that that didn't matter. What mattered was learning how to feel comfortable in a man's presence, comfortable with them looking at me naked, touching me. That was what was important. Not whether or not
he had huge ears or man boobs.

  I wasn't expecting miracles. Maybe just some small breakthroughs. Maybe just not... cringing when someone reached out to touch me. Maybe not feeling completely horrified at being naked in front of someone else. I wasn't expecting to walk out of the office being some kind of sex goddess. Just... normal. I just wanted to be normal.

  So, if that meant I had to sleep with some sixty year old with fake teeth... so be it.

  I took a deep breath, checking the time, then grabbed my purse and got out of my car. I was still too early, but I could take my time with the paperwork. Check out the office.

  I shivered against the late Fall air, grabbing the office door and pulling it open. And I stepped into straight up elegance. There was no other way to describe the waiting area of this office. The wall straight ahead, behind the white reception desk, was painted black with the doctor's name emblazoned across it. The rest of the walls were covered in some sort of white, shiny, textured panels. The hard wood floors were pristine and dark stained. There were two captain's chairs upholstered in a aqua color in front of a low white coffee table with two books on top.

  Neat, clean, expensive.

  Those were the three words that came to mind immediately.

  The woman behind the desk was in her mid or late forties with a kind round face with large brown eyes and her brown hair pulled back at the nape of her neck. She looked up when I walked in, a kind, non-judgmental smile on her face.

  “Miss. Davis?” she asked, standing behind the massive desk that kept her body under her chest hidden from view.

  “Y... yes,” I said, shaking my head slightly.

  “Great timing,” she smiled, reaching around for, I assumed, my paperwork. “You'd be surprised how many people take 'come at least a half an hour early' to mean 'show up five minutes after your scheduled appointment time',” she laughed.

  I walked up to the desk, swallowing past the sudden fist in my throat.

  “Nervous?” she asked, leaning closer, like she wanted to keep it between the two of us, despite the office being empty except for her.

  I knew she was just being professionally kind, but I felt a bit of the flurries in my stomach subside. “Only in the way that I am ready to turn and bolt out the door at any moment,” I admitted.

  She smiled, producing a pile of papers on a white clipboard. “Then you picked the wrong shoes,” she said, her eyes bright. I felt a giggle rise up, shaking my head and looking at my feet, wrapped in beige boots with a three inch stiletto heel. “Don't worry,” she said, putting a hand on the paperwork, “everyone is always nervous. It's completely normal.”

  I nodded. “So, I just... fill all these out?”

  “Yep,” she said, pulling back, away from me. Back into professional mode. “Some are just basic medical questions. Mental health questions. And then the last few pages are an in-depth sexual questionnaire. You seal all of it into that manila folder in the back,” she said, flipping the pages. “No one but Dr. Hudson will be privy to that information.”

  Thank god.

  “Great,” I said, forcing a wobbly smile. “Thank you.”

  I walked over to a chair, sitting down and trying to power through the pages before I got myself too wrapped up in the awkwardness of the situation. It was good to have something to focus on.

  That was, until I got to the sex questionnaire.

  It started off tame enough, asking about my upbringing. What (if anything) I was taught about sex. If I had ever caught adults engaged in sexual activities. If so, what? Then how many sexual partners I have had. What acts I had engaged in. What my comfort level was with each act on a scale of one to ten.

  I figured I would put myself at a four for each, though I was pretty sure it was more like a one or two. A little fibbing never hurt anyone.

  I took a deep breath, signing the end of the last page, putting all the pages into the folder, sealing it, then handing it to the receptionist.

  I went back to my chair with my heart slamming in my chest, my hands getting clammy.

  I was saved from my misery a short five minutes later.

  “Miss. Davis,” the receptionist called, making me jump, then spring to my feet. She smiled sweetly, moving toward me with an extended arm, but kept her distance. “Dr. Hunter would like you to wait in his office, get comfortable for a moment, while he looks over your paperwork,” she explained, leading my toward a door down at the far end of the large waiting room, “then he will be in to see you.”

  She opened the door, standing outside of it, making it obvious she was not going to go in. “Thank you,” I said, stepping past the threshold a few steps.

  The door clicked quietly behind me, the sound slamming somewhere in my mind, screaming out:

  This is it. There's no going back now.

  Introductory Session

  His office was in complete contrast to the waiting room. Whereas the waiting room was crisp and clean, almost feminine, his office was all man. The wall straight across from the door had windows covered in heavy drapery, a brown leather couch situated in front of it. To the left was a floor to ceiling bookshelf with a dark wood executive desk in front of it. Books spilled from the shelves, heavy tombs of, I imagined, psychological origins. Or sexual origins, I thought with a strange hysterical little laugh. To the left was a small, intimate seating area. There was another brown couch, this time in a soft suede material, with two end tables with lamps, and an arm chair across from it, on an angle. Dr. Hudson's four degrees and certificates were displayed above the couch.

  The walls were a deep green color, the floors the same dark wood as the waiting room. There were a few framed pictures, one on either side of the door. One, a black and white of a man and woman, half in shadow, with the edges of their heads turning into birds. The other, another black and white, the same man and woman, still half in shadow, embracing.

  I turned away from them, walking into the room which was nothing what I had been expecting. I guess, maybe, a part of me had been expecting, well, a bed. I shook my head, making my way over to the suede couch, situated slightly into a small alcove. I sat, placing my hands out on the cushions beside me. To ground myself, to stop my hands from being clammy.

  There was a clock above the door and I sat there watching it, time tick tick ticking away. Still no sign of the good doctor. Music started to come through some hidden speakers, the song slow and bluesy. Calming. The heat clicked on, warm and comforting.

  I was almost, just barely at the point where I didn't think I was about to vomit all over his perfect office, when the door slowly opened.

  And in he came.

  And...

  Oh,

  my

  God.

  So, yeah, he wasn't middle aged. No hangover of a waistline. No moobs. No meat hands or elephant ears. No. This was, in a way, almost worse.

  He was a freaking monument to male perfection.

  His hair was black, longish but pushed back from his face. Strong dark brows over startling blue eyes. A sharp jaw with the slightest trace of a dark beard. His body was large. Tall, wide of shoulder, solid in the center. Looking impossibly fit underneath his open black suit jacket and white button up, the first two buttons undone, casual yet professional.

  He was gorgeous.

  And I was going to be having sex with him.

  Jesus Christ.

  “Miss. Davis,” he said, looking up from the paperwork in his hands, almost like an afterthought.

  His eyes on me felt like an invasion. Like he saw it all. Because, I reminded myself, he knew it all. Scribbled carefully on those pages in his hands.

  His brows were drawn together in confusion, like he was trying to figure something out.

  “Dr. Hudson,” I said, swallowing hard, moving to stand.

  “Chase,” he corrected, shaking his head once. “Don't get up,” he said, holding up a hand and moving toward me.

  His massiveness seemed to c
ompletely overtake the intimate little seating area, making me push into the back cushions to give myself the breathing space I felt like he was taking from me. His head quirked to the side slightly, watching me, as he put the paperwork down on the closest end table, and took the chair across from me. “Can I call you Ava?” he asked, sitting back in the chair, looking completely at ease. Like he had done it a thousand times before. Which, well, maybe he had. Oh, god. Had he slept with that many clients? Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all... maybe...

  “Ava,” he said, a little firmly, making my eyes snap up to his face.

  “Sorry,” I rushed, shaking my head. “I just...”

  “You're nervous,” he said, shrugging a shoulder.

  “Yeah.” You have no fucking idea.

  “We're just talking,” he said, his voice too deep to sound comforting, but it somehow did anyway. “Think of this as any normal therapy session, okay?”

  “Okay,” I said, taking a breath and letting it out slowly. I could do that. I had plenty of practice with that.

  “Your chart says you started therapy when you were fifteen for anxiety issues.”

  “Yes.”

  “And now you are...”

  “Twenty-seven,” I supplied automatically.

  “Any success with the treatment?”

  A small half laugh, half snort, escaped me, reaching up to run a hand through my hair. “Yes and no. Every time I get over one thing that makes me anxious...”

  “A new anxiety develops,” he answered.

  “Yup.”

  “That must be incredibly frustrating.”

  “You have no idea.”

  He hadn't stopped looking at me. Literally. His eyes were just... on me. Since the second he walked through the door. Why couldn't he just... look away?

  “What are your current anxieties?”

  I was going to sleep with this man, what did it matter if he knew all the weird little things that gave me massive panic attacks?