by J. D. Chase
So yeah, it’s sad but unavoidable. All I can do is get his journey started properly (I’ll book him two hour sessions and only invoice the trust for one) and hope that’s enough. I have to believe that it will be or I’m just wasting my time. And his. And, when I think of the consequences of wasting his time . . . well, I just can’t. I close my eyes and I can see the image of him grinning at me. He looks young, carefree—okay, it’s just for a second but it’s hard to believe that, just a few hours before, he’d tried to end his life. I mentally file away that image. That’s my end goal. To get him to look like that. Every. Day. Of. His. Life. So that he never reaches for paracetamol again.
Yeah, people think that being a sex therapist is all about teaching people how to fuck or how to keep their partner happy. But it’s so much more than that for me. My work, my actions, my time . . . yes, sometimes it can heal a failing relationship . . . sometimes it can give a person a new lease of life . . . sometimes it can keep someone from committing crimes . . . but sometimes, just sometimes, it can mean the difference between life and death.
It’s almost ten o’clock when I walk back inside my flat. I’m knackered. Emotionally drained. Physically shattered. But I’m feeling a sense of serene calmness. Dan, the troubled teen, completely opened up to me at a little after half five. He poured out his heart and bared his soul. Once he’d checked my credentials, of course. I don’t mean my academic achievements or memberships of professional bodies . . . I mean the cold, hard facts of my past and my survivor story. Then I told him tales of other kids and adults like him and me that I’ve helped.
Basically, I gave him the hope he needed. Just enough hope to take a gamble on me and take the first step to placing his trust in me. Hope that stems from the fact that I get him. I won’t judge him. That I don’t see him as a freak. Because if I did, I’d be admitting that I’m a freak too. And the last thing I’d want is for him to know that. Of course, he may work it out in his own time. But I’m happy to let my freak flag fly. Being ‘normal’ is something I’ve never known but, when I’ve looked around at the stuffed shirts and M&S twinsets who call themselves normal, it’s not something I’ve ever aspired to be. Whether you’re a freak or whether you’re not—do what makes you feel good, as long as it’s safe, sane and consensual. Everything that makes me feel good is my idea of normal.
Karma works fast! Well, it might. All I know is that by the time I’ve showered and dressed, there’s a bacon and egg sandwich with lashings of brown sauce waiting for me in the kitchen. I can smell it from my bedroom and it has me following the aroma like a Bisto kid before I scoff it down, making noises that quite frankly are similar to the ones most women make when they orgasm. The Kid grins at me. He always looks so deliriously happy when he does something right. And bacon? You can never go wrong with bacon!
I ruffle his hair as I walk past him to grab us both a glass of orange juice. He huffs and protests but at least it’s only out of annoyance these days. A few months ago and it would have been out of fear. I allow myself a secret smile of victory as I lean into the fridge. Yeah, it’s not much in the grand scheme of things but, in The Kid’s case, I’ll celebrate every little win. Each baby step, a marker of progress. If there is a scale of fucked-upness, The Kid would be way over to the right. Way past Dan and most other kids I’ve dealt with. Way past adults I’ve worked with. Not that I’m belittling anyone’s struggle. No, not at all. The Kid’s a fucking enigma. A walking paradox.
My mind turns back to when I first sneaked him into my home. My overwhelming thought at the time, well, apart from the fact that I was breaking fuck knows how many laws, was that I was going to be sharing my home with a modern day Stig of the Dump. You think I’m joking? I’m not. The fact that he’s just cooked my breakfast is nothing major, right? He’s a nineteen-year-old kid, after all. Factor in the knowledge that he’d never even seen a kitchen before, never seen bacon—nor tasted it, never used a grill or any other kitchen appliance before . . . yeah, you get the picture. And now look at him. Okay, so he’s no Gordon Ramsay—no, he’s much better looking! He could rival him in the bad language stakes though. Hmmm, yes, The Kid’s no stranger to verbal abuse. His own mastery of the skill has to be seen (heard) to be believed.
‘I think I’m going to crash out for a couple of hours,’ I say, handing him his juice.
‘You can’t,’ he replies, an expression on his face that only a teenager can accomplish. One that conveys just how incredibly stupid they think you are or, if you’re lucky, just how stupid they think your actions are.
I wrestle the top off a jar of multivitamins and shake one out for him. He curls his lip and doesn’t take it from my outstretched hand. ‘Come on,’ I urge.
‘They taste like shit,’ he grumbles, still making no move to take it.
‘But they stop you looking and feeling like shit so it’s a fair trade,’ I cajole before shaking another one out and popping it into my mouth like it’s nothing. I swallow it and almost immediately retch. Keeping it down isn’t going to be easy so I grab my glass and toss back the entire contents.
I keep up the charade that it’s nothing but The Kid stares at me pointedly. ‘Slick,’ he says. ‘Real slick.’
Isn’t it fun when you hear kids using some of your favourite expressions, right back at you? Not. The Kid’s vocabulary range wasn’t great when I met him and sadly for him, he’s picking up my sarcastic expressions just as quickly as anything useful.
Keeping my face straight becomes too much and I snort. ‘Just take the damn pill,’ I grunt through my laughter and make to clip him around the ear playfully, but regret it instantly when he flinches, ducking away from my hand.
It’s far from the first time it’s happened and I doubt it will be the last. And while I can’t help kicking myself for forgetting, I also know that if he’s to stand a chance of functioning at an adequate level to cope in society with any degree of independence, he has to overcome it. Desensitisation is an important part of his recovery. Most of it is carefully planned and orchestrated but, since these ‘accidental’ incidents occur in our daily life from time to time, it gives him a chance to fight his instinctive response and, even if he fails—every time he flinches needlessly, there’s no consequence. This time, I note that he recovers much faster than before. Any anxiety is fleeting. And there’s no embarrassment. Nor do we feel the need to mention it. To dissect it.
Progress.
He holds his hand out and I place the vitamin in it. He swallows it with a mouthful of juice before turning to me and smirking. ‘You’re such a girl.’
I stick my tongue out before reaching for the juice to top up my glass. I dread to think what’s in those multivitamins to make them taste quite so disgusting.
‘I thought you said that sticking out your tongue wasn’t a mature thing to do,’ he says, his tone serious.
I shrug, and then curse as the motion makes me spill the juice I’m pouring. ‘It isn’t. But you just called me a girl so I was acting childish on purpose.’
He considers this as I mop up the puddle of juice from the work surface. ‘So you were being funny. It was a joke?’
I nod, giving him a wink before I turn away to throw the wad of kitchen towel into the bin. His initial progress with social interaction had been slow, but I’m pleased that he seems to be getting the hang of it now. I’ve previously had experience of working with children and adults on the autistic spectrum. The Kid often reminds me of that. He’s not on the spectrum but he had considerable communication difficulties. His understanding was almost completely literal and he lacked experience of social conventions and graces. Understanding jokes has been a particular struggle but then I doubted he’d ever had reason to laugh and joke. I remind myself to think positive, to look to the future and not to dwell on his past life. Trust me, you’d not want to either. And he’s doing okay. Progress in some areas is good, others non-existent. But we have to take it one step at a time.
‘Oh, you said I couldn’t crash out.
Why’s that?’ I ask, suddenly remembering our earlier conversation.
He rolls his eyes and I can’t help but wonder whether he’s picked that up from me or whether it’s an innate gesture that all teens make. ‘Your new man? Freebie? Coming here? Soon? Remember?’
‘Oh fuck. I’d forgotten about him.’
‘You’ve hardly had any sleep.’ He looks at me with such compassion and it humbles me completely. This kid is so caring although I’ve only missed a few hours’ sleep. And yet he . . .
No, look to the future, remember?
I hold out my arms and he rises and steps up to me, looking a little uncomfortable. I hug him, gently at first, resisting the urge to squeeze him so hard I pop his ribs. He’s stiff and awkward, his hands hanging at his sides, so I wait until he relaxes a little before I give him a quick squeeze and release him.
‘Have you grown? I’d have thought that by nineteen you’d have stopped but I swear you’re beginning to really tower over me,’ I mutter accusingly.
He grins. ‘Maybe you’re shrinking in your old age. You do, you know. I watched a programme about it the other day.’
‘You cheeky little . . . ’ I pause and regard him shrewdly. ‘Is that your idea of a joke? Hmm?’
He looks bashful.
I pull a face. ‘That, my dear boy, is not funny. I’m in my thirties. In my prime. You don’t shrink with age until you’re ancient . . . really old.’
His lips twitch and before he can open his mouth, I see the trap I’ve set for myself.
I shake my head and point my finger at him accusingly. ‘Don’t say a word, Kid. Don’t say another fucking word.’
He chuckles as he saunters out of the kitchen. ‘By the way, old lady, your new bloke will be here any minute. Have fun. Shout if you need me.’
Shout if you need me. I shake my head. What is he now? My protector? Immediately I feel mean. It’s not fair on him really. He doesn’t like me having clients calling at the flat. Especially men. He worries about my safety. I don’t like having clients calling at the flat either. I do it out of necessity—I can’t afford a proper office. I worry about the impact on The Kid’s mental health. So I never arrange for clients who need physical intervention, if you know what I mean, to come to the flat. I’m sure The Kid has triggers. And I’d die before I knowingly hurt him.
I dash into the bathroom and apply my mask. I have several. Instinctively, I know which one to apply before seeing Dean, the guy I met last night who’d fucked his boss, badly. My makeup brushes fly over my face until I’m satisfied. I pull my hair into a severe chignon just as the intercom buzzes. The Kid knows to stay out of sight.
Leading Dean into my office, my sacrificed dining room, I indicate for him to take a seat in one of the armchairs. To say he looks nervous is an understatement. I turn towards the sideboard at the back of the room and my eyes see what my nostrils have already confirmed. The Kid has been in and made a fresh pot of coffee in preparation for Dean’s arrival. I can’t hide the smile as I turn to face my new client.
‘How do you take your coffee, Dean?’
‘Um . . . black,’ he mutters, looking for all the world as though he thinks he’s made a mistake.
You see, last night, when I’d met him at Vouloir—a club where anything goes—I’d been wearing a corset and thigh-high boots and not much else. Oh, and a thong. Yes, last night I’d worn a thong. A good job too—I hadn’t expected to be out front. I had personal business in a back room to attend to. But when I heard that trouble was about to kick off, I headed out to make sure that nothing got out of hand.
Once I’d called the bouncers off, who’d wanted to knock ten bells of crap out of him for being drunk and disorderly (not a good idea in a club like Vouloir), I’d taken him out back and had found out why he was seemingly determined to get pissed and stay pissed. That’s when he’d told me about fucking his boss when she’d been pissed, and that he’d been unable to make her come. Then she’d told him he was incapable of satisfying a woman. I’d rolled my eyes and brushed it off until he told me that his ex had also complained about his lack of sexual prowess when she dumped him.
So, here before me I have an example of a shit shag. A shit shag who did a double take when I opened the door and invited him in. I guess he didn’t expect me to be wearing a pencil skirt and a silk blouse. I’ll bet he appreciated my seamed stockings and shiny black heels as he followed me to my office though. Oh yeah, I may be dressed for business but since when did business-like have to mean unsexy?
I hand him his coffee and take a seat opposite him, crossing my legs demurely. ‘So, Dean. Have you thought about what it is you want from me?’
He looks like I’ve just asked him for his final request before he faces a firing squad. He swallows, his eyes looking all around the room. Anywhere, except for at me.
‘Oh come on, Dean. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that if you don’t ask, you don’t get?’
I hear him sigh as his eyes focus on a piece of erotic art that’s mounted on the wall opposite him. When he speaks, his voice is tiny. ‘I want to satisfy a woman. Sexually.’
I wait for his eyes to flick over to me. As soon as they do, I nod. ‘Go on,’ I encourage.
He shrugs. ‘That’s it.’
I take a sip from my coffee. Damn, it’s good. The Kid may be lacking in quite a few skills but it seems that coffee making isn’t one of them. I savour the taste, the psychological caffeine hit kicking in way before the real one. ‘Explain to me what you mean. What would satisfying a woman entail?’
He looks blank. The bitch in my brain exclaims that he wouldn’t know—he’d never done it. I shut her out. ‘Okay, Dean. How would you know a woman was satisfied?’
He frowns, as though it’s a trick question. ‘Well, she’d . . . you know . . . come.’
‘Just once?’
Now he looks completely blank.
‘Dean, how many sexual partners have you had?’ I ask with a disarming smile.
I hear a noise. It sounds like a squeak. I realise it came from Dean.
‘Hmm, what was that?’ I ask, bathing him in a sickly sweet smile.
‘Three,’ he squeaks.
‘Including your boss?’
He nods and I feel that his problems are going to be solved easily. He needs experience. A bit of teaching (like most men, if we’re honest about it) and he’ll be good to go. Of course, since I’ll be the one arranging his experiences and giving him instruction, he’ll be more than good to go. He’ll soon be a legendary fucker.
My first thought is that it’ll be a waste, since he obviously isn’t particularly sexually active. That not many women will get to benefit from his efforts (and mine). But then, maybe his lack of prowess has been holding him back. I could be creating a man-whore. Somehow I doubt it. Don’t ask me why but I feel he has monogamy stamped through him like a stick of Blackpool rock. I’ll bet he just wants to find a girl and settle down. After only fucking three women. Fool!
‘Do you watch porn?’ I ask suddenly.
Colour floods his cheeks and I find myself checking my memory of our conversation last night. He’s twenty seven years old and blushes when asked if he watches porn. My last remaining hope that I’m creating a man-whore bursts like a bubble of gum, splatting on my face.
‘Shall I take that as a yes?’
He shrugs. ‘I don’t really get chance. I live at home with my mum. I can’t watch porn there. I’ve watched some at my friends’ places here and there. But not much.’
‘Did you see anything that floats your boat?’
Oh God. Beetroot blush!
‘I don’t mean did you see anything that turned you on . . . made you feel horny . . . because, duh, it’s porn. I mean did you see anything that made your cock so hard it hurt? Something that you’d put on your fuck-it list if you were given six months to live?’
He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Her face,’ he whispers. ‘Her face when she came. And the look she gave the guy straight after.
Like she worshipped him. Like he was a god.’
I nod. ‘He’s a porn star. He probably is a sex god.’
Dean looks jealous. I stifle a chuckle. Let’s face it—he wouldn’t be the first man to be jealous of a porn star. And he won’t be the last.
‘What’s your favourite position?’ I ask.
His eyes narrow suspiciously. I wait patiently.
‘I like the woman on top,’ he mutters, as though he’d just admitted to something shameful.
‘Which way is she facing?’
He looks confused. Okay, so reverse cowgirl is something he’s not experienced.
‘Does a woman usually come when she’s riding your cock like that?’
Anger flits across his face. He shakes his head.
‘That clearly pisses you off. Why?’
He looks at me like I’m stupid. ‘I can’t make a woman come, no matter how I fuck her. That pisses me off. That’s why I’m here, embarrassing myself in front of you. I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t desperate. But if you keep making me feel like shit, I’ll be out of the door.’
Ooh feisty! Maybe I can tap into that. I make a mental note.
‘Fair enough, but like I told you last night, there’s no need to be embarrassed with me. You need to lose your inhibitions. I’m not here to judge you for accepting the help I offered you. I offered to help you for free since you can’t afford to pay a sexual therapist. You don’t have to accept it and I have better things to do than sit here pleading my cause. I don’t mean to make you feel like shit. I just need honesty. You’re the one making yourself feel bad. I’m on a fact-finding mission so I can work out a treatment plan. Believe me, if my objective was to make you feel bad, you’d be a jabbering wreck in the corner right now and I’d be calling my friend to section you.