Sex Therapy

After waiting far too long for Tom to think of a response, he shrugs. That’s it.

Annoyed, I glance over at Helen and say, “What has Tom done this week to help rebuild your marriage? Did he assist you with the household chores or offer to take you out for dinner? Something as small as making time to watch TV together or sharing a meal could help.”

She turns to her husband, a look of disgust on her face, and shakes her head, the dark strands falling in her eyes. “No, he hasn’t done a damn thing. He’s always disappearing into the garage or the basement or even the backyard for hours on end, and then I find out he was next door helping out our neighbors with something.”

“Cynthia had trouble with her washer. The thing hasn’t worked right for weeks.” His tone is defensive. I see the guilt register on his face, and lucky for Tom, Helen does not notice.

“Cynthia has a husband who can help her fix the washer. Or she can call a repairman like a reasonable person. You don’t know a damn thing about fixing a washing machine. You never even replaced the broken knobs on the kitchen cabinets in our house, yet you always find time to run next door every day.”

Maybe she does know about his infidelity. If she has even the slightest hint of suspicion, then why doesn’t she confront him while we’re in this room, trying to work out their problems?

I go back to tracing the outline of the nipple on my paper, counting down the minutes until I can leave for lunch. This conversation with the Petersons only reaffirms my decision to remain single, an eternal bachelor with no commitments holding me back.

“Tom is good with his hands, but I think there comes the point when I have to put my foot down.” Helen finally has some fire behind her words, the rage bubbling up and scrolling across her face. She’s turning redder by the second.

Her cheeks and chest are so splotchy I hope she doesn’t pass out in my office. Because that would mean missing my noon BJ, and I can’t pass up on another chance to have those luscious lips from this morning wrapped around my cock. I was sorry I had to take a raincheck. Nothing will stop me this time.

“Helen, I think you should tell Tom what you want for him.” I stick the pen inside my book and close it over, peeking up at my patient. “Lay it all out on the table, so he knows what is expected of him when you go home.”

Knowing that Tom has been cheating on his wife for what appears to be at least a few months, I have no real hope for the success of this marriage. I try to stay optimistic when I first enter treatment with my patients. But Tom’s unwillingness to end his affair and work with Helen leaves me frustrated. We are wasting our time sitting in this office each week.

Helen rambles off a list of things Tom needs to work on while I do my best to pretend to listen. I record the sessions for a reason. A man can only take so much ranting and bashing before you have to retreat to a happy place, one where nagging wives and girlfriends are not allowed. For me, that place is a strip club, a complaint free zone where no one can bug me. All my happy places, both real and in my head, involve naked women and a glass of Scotch.

Saved by the bell, the timer goes off on my phone to signify the end of the session. What a relief. After what seemed like hours of my life wasted, sucked dry like a vampire draining a human, this nightmare is over. I’m imagining the unnamed girl I met this morning, which excites me.

If I were smart, I would have asked for her name and number. I chuckle to myself, wondering what I’d even do with her number. Not like I would call her. I shudder at the thought of sitting on the phone and having an actual conversation with a woman. Cell phones are for calling take out restaurants to deliver food and texting booty calls in the middle of the night, all of which are on speed dial. Other than that, the damn thing is useless, apart from announcing the end of painful therapy sessions.

“Take care,” I say, standing in an attempt to silence my patients and their brutal conversation. “Tom, make an effort to talk to Helen more and help her out with chores instead of running over to the neighbor’s house. Just give it a shot, and I’ll see you next week.”

Tom helps Helen up from the couch, a gesture that not only surprises her but me as well. I haven’t seen Tom touch his wife once since I started working with them.

Rushing them out the door, I grab my wallet from my desk along with my keys. I wait a minute for them to leave. After I lock my door, I fly past Alexa, my secretary, telling her I will be back in time for my next appointment, and step out into the hallway to hit the button on the elevator.

Time to get my dick sucked.

Chapter Two

Chloe

The law offices of Harper, Pierce, and Goldman are vacant at this hour. It’s hard to believe that in the five years since I skipped town with Mike that I have only been inside this building three times. His firm owns the entire top floor, which makes it challenging for me to figure out where I am going. With only a few secretaries and junior associates shuffling throughout the halls, all of them busy and with their minds elsewhere, I roam the halls unattended.

My soon-to-be husband just made partner, and with Mike working a lot of late nights, I thought I would surprise him with dinner. It’s what a good wifey would do. We haven’t spent as much time together over the last few months with Mike always working. He was assigned to a big case he refuses to discuss, leaving me home alone. Some nights, he slips into bed well after two in the morning.

Clutching the paper takeout bags in my hands, the scent of Italian herbs filling my nostrils, I peek at the names on the closed doors I walk past. From what I had gathered, a corner office came with Mike’s promotion. So, I follow the curved walls, around the bend, and to a dead-end with four more doors. The setup is interesting, unlike anything I have ever seen before.

Door number one belongs to the managing partner, Travis Harper. Pierce and Goldman occupy doors two and three. Mike is last. I smile at the placard that says Mike Hartwell, Senior Partner. This is everything he worked toward for the past five years. His new partners lured him away from Philadelphia with the promise of more, and they held up their end of the bargain. Mike is still waiting to have his name added to the wall in the entryway, but just seeing the sign for myself in person consumes me with so much pride over his accomplishment.

I turn the doorknob, nervous anticipation brewing inside me that quickly turns to excitement. The look on Mike’s face will be priceless. Or at least that’s what I think before I push open the door, taking in the mental picture laid before me. This is not real. Mike would not do this to me.

Blinking a few times, I watch as my fiancé grips the hair of a brunette who is sucking his tiny cock.

Motherfucker! How could he do this to me?

“I’m going to come,” he tells her with his eyes closed and head tilted up to the ceiling.

“No, you’re not!” I don’t even recognize my own voice I yell so loud. The bags in my hands fall to the floor, crashing against

the tile with a loud bang. “You lying, cheating piece of shit.”