Sex Therapy

Chapter One

Jackson

Trying not to roll my eyes, I keep my head tilted down at the pad in my lap, pretending to take notes. These sessions are fucking painful. Every second spent with the Petersons makes me want to gouge my eyes out with the goddamn pen in my hand. Instead of writing, I’m doodling—large, full breasts, to be exact. I’m a sex doctor, or more accurately, The Sex Doctor, a name I was given by my patients after fixing so many marriages.

Now, I see everyone from married couples hanging on by a thread to men with erectile dysfunction. But I treat anyone with sex related problems. Sex is my business, and business has been good over the past three years.

Doing my best to ignore my blabbering mess of a patient, I mutter, uh-huh, a few times, so it seems as though I care. I don’t. And why would I? I’m a single doctor with a big dick, money in the bank, and enough women lined up to keep me occupied for months. The issues my patients have with their spouses will never apply to me.

I prefer my freedom, thank you very much. I’m content with being thirty years old and unmarried. In fact, I love it. Single life suits me well. With no kids tying me down, or baby mamas in the way, my life is fucking sweet.

As I trace the outline of the nipple I drew on my paper, I nod my head and say, “And how does that make you feel?”

Helen Peterson has no idea I have tuned her out, same as her husband. He never listens to a word that comes out of her mouth. The Petersons are here because Tom is having an affair with the woman next door. His wife just doesn’t know it yet. The corners of his mouth turn up as he talks about his relationship with Cynthia, the next-door neighbor, which tells me I am spot on.

Every time Cynthia’s name is mentioned by his wife, Tom’s face perks up. Cynthia is married with no kids and is friends with Helen. All the obvious signs are there for his wife to see, yet she either subscribes to the ignorance is bliss ideology, or she lives in her own reality world.

How she doesn’t see what is right in front of her face is beyond me.

I encounter the same issue every day with my patients. Most of the time, there are deeper issues within the marriage that the couple must resolve before we can begin our treatment. But with people like the Petersons, no amount of therapy will keep Tom’s dick in his pants. Some men have that wandering eye—no matter how attractive their wife may be.

“He doesn’t look at me anymore,” Helen whines, causing me to glance up from the perky tits with dime-size nipples I am tracing.

Thirty more minutes before I can leave this damn office and meet my noon appointment for sex. I mean coffee. Maybe a little bit of both. I met this girl at Broad Street Beans this morning who flashed me a bend me over and fuck me smile. And I plan to do exactly that. If I wasn’t running late to see a patient, I would have fucked her in the bathroom while the barista made my latte and then went on my way.

But duty called, despite my sudden urges. The hot blonde insisted we have a lunch date as if I would ever consider what we’re about to do a date. She can call it what she wants. I plan to buy her coffee, and then, spank her firm ass as she takes my cock and moans my fucking name.

“Do you see what I have to put up with?” Tom yells, throwing his hands in the air, pulling me away from drawing.

I glance up at the middle age couple, my eyes focused on Tom. “Communication is your biggest problem. If you’re not willing to give therapy time to work, then I’m not so sure I can help you.”

I’ve been over the Petersons and their drama since their second session, with each visit growing worse as the weeks pass by. As their doctor, I have to remain impartial, present two sides to the story. No matter how many times I have tried to do this, they insist they will follow my suggestions, only to show up fighting over the same issues. Even with all the medical advice in the world, I cannot save this marriage.

“Are you quitting on us, Dr. King?” Helen’s eyes and mouth widen in shock.

I clear my throat before I speak, giving myself a second to come up with some bullshit to spin for them. “No, of course, not. I have my reservations about treatment working for either of you for as long as you come here as a couple. Maybe as individuals therapy could work. There are bigger issues you need to address before you can work on fixing your marriage.”

She folds her arms across her chest, pushing up her saggy tits. Disturbed by the visual, I go back to staring down at the pair of boobs I was working on before they interrupted me with their complaints. I wish they’d just do as my parents had when I was a kid, realize they are not compatible and move on with their lives. Instead, they would rather come here and annoy the shit out of me every Tuesday.

“We’re doing everything you tell us, and still, we have nothing to show for it.” Tom sounds as whiny as his wife does when he talks. “She nags me all day long. I can’t take it anymore. You said you could fix us.”

Just like Tom, my father was a dick. He cheated on my mother for years before she had finally figured out that he’d spent all those late nights with his female partner in the back of his cop car. I learned from an early age that relationships take time and effort. Marriage is not for everyone. The more I see how dysfunctional people are, the less desirable monogamy is to me.

What’s the point? If I can walk into Broad Street Beans and get a blow job as fast as a cup of coffee, then why would I want to put up with the shit the Petersons are dealing with? No, thanks.

“I can

help you find the source of the problem, Tom, but I can’t make everything better overnight. You have to work with me if you want results. What suggestions of mine have you attempted over the past week?”

His eyes fall to his lap as he bites the inside of his cheek, probably thinking over the fact he was banging his next door neighbor when he should have been home with his wife. While she may not be as youthful as the woman he’s having an affair with, Helen is not bad to look at. An over weight, middle-aged man like Tom could have done a lot worse.

But most of the time, people cheat because they are unhappy and not because they found someone more attractive. When my father would joke with my mother that he was trading her in for a younger model, he wasn’t joking. My mom’s replacement was ten years younger and close in age to me, so close that she had just graduated from the Philadelphia Police Academy not long after meeting my father.

I never said he wasn’t a creeper, but guys like my dad and Tom are all the same. At least I know the white picket fence and cookie cutter family does not suit my personality or lifestyle.