Tell Me Everything

“My therapist says that I should explore my feelings a lot.”

“I’m not your therapist,” he reminded me.

“You’re a doctor,” I shrugged.

“I’m not a doctor. I have a doctorate-level education; that doesn’t make me an actual doctor.”

“Fuck you, Lance. You’re such a know-it-all fucking prick sometimes,” I argued, folding my arms over my chest as I continued lying on the leather couch and looking up at the ceiling.

“Now we’re getting somewhere.”

I was actually lying on my therapist’s leather couch in my therapist’s office, looking up at my therapist’s ceiling. We were roleplaying, and he was trying to get me to explore my feelings. It seemed like he was able to do that successfully whenever he spewed a bunch of bullshit and pretended that he wasn’t actually my therapist.

“We’re never getting anywhere, Lance. We’re always staying in the exact same spot,” I sighed, placing my arm over my forehead and shutting my eyes.

“Talk to me about that. Tell me why we’re always staying in the same spot,” he encouraged.

“Because you don’t fucking support me in anything that I do, and because you don’t understand the way my mind works, and because you don’t—”

I huffed a frustrated sigh, shaking my head.

“Come on. You’re doing great.”

“Now you sound like my therapist again, Lance,” I scoffed spitefully.

“You must really hate this guy.”

“Who, Lance?” I asked, a little confused.

“No, your therapist,” he chuckled.

“He’s okay, I guess,” I said, smirking and finally opening my eyes.

“You were saying?”

“Because you don’t fucking… fuck, this is embarrassing. I don’t want to talk about this in front of you,” I groaned.

“It’s me, Brett. It’s Lance.”

“He calls me Bee, and I fucking hate it,” I reminded him, swallowing the lump at the back of my throat and pushing myself to admit what I didn’t want to admit in front of my therapist. “I can’t do it.”

“You’ve talked to me about everything else,” he soothed. “Why is this so hard for you?”

“Because it’s private.”

“And what about all of those other things you’ve mentioned in the past? Are they not private, too?” he asked.

“They are, but they’re not as private.”

“So essentially, you’re struggling with the varying degrees of privacy,” he said contemplatively. I released a soft chuckle from the back of my throat, shaking my head once more and finally sitting up on the couch. Now that I was making direct eye contact with him, I knew I was looking at my therapist and not some alternate version of my long-term boyfriend, Lance Haney—not that I’d been fooled at any point during the roleplay. “What’s so amusing?”

“I love it when you talk like that,” I said with a shrug. “I find it… amusing,” I added, putting emphasis on the same word he had just used.

“Brett, I’m trying to get you to take this seriously.”

“I am taking it seriously. There are just certain things that I’m not comfortable telling you,” I said.

“But in order for me to help you, you need to tell me everything,” he reasoned thoughtfully.

“Everything?” I asked in a small voice.

“Everything,” he sighed. “You know this to be true.”

I sat in silence for a few moments, knowing that he’d let me come to him. He always did. I had only been visiting with him for a few weeks, and we both knew that I had so much left to unpack. My first few visits had been phone calls, and I found it to be much less difficult opening up to him over the phone. He was intelligent and insightful, bright and fascinating; fuck, if I was being honest with myself, he was quite intimidating. The phones and the distance that were usually between us had always created such a comforting barrier. Now, I was here in his office. I was sitting on his couch. I was watching him observe me. I was fucking observing him. And he was something else: perfectly tailored suit, dark hair, dark eyes that flashed at me with intrigue every time I shared some new piece of information with him.

“Okay,” I said plainly, sitting up as straight as possible and running my fingers through my hair nervously. His dark glance alone was enough to make me nervous.

“Because he doesn’t support you in anything that you do, because he doesn’t understand the way your mind works, and because—” he repeated, encouraging me to take the next step and make the next statement. I looked directly into his eyes, deciding to just do it.

“And because, Lance, you never lay a finger on me anymore.”

“He was hurting you?” he questioned in a concerned tone.

“Hurting? Sometimes,” I shrugged.

“Can you clarify?”

“Sure, Lance,” I said, emphasizing Lance’s name and hoping I would convince myself that I wasn’t talking to my therapist—my hot, handsome therapist. “You never lay a fucking finger on me anymore. You never touch me. You never taste me. You never leave me satisfied.”

“Brett, I’m having a hard time with the—”

“—I’d like to be having a hard time,” I said cleverly, a dark smirk falling upon my lips as my eyes fell to the floor. If he wanted me to be forthcoming, I decided I would be forthcoming—even if what I had to say was highly inappropriate.

“Stay with me,” he said. “Give me a little more detail.”

“He doesn’t fucking get me off. Lance doesn’t fucking make me come, Dr. Easton. Do you understand? If I say it in those terms, do you fucking get it?” I asked, sounding a little blunt and speaking in a rush.

“Brett,” he said cautiously.

“Stop fucking saying my name all the time. Why do you say it like that?”

“How am I saying it?” he asked.

“Like you want—” I stopped speaking, shaking my head and looking away from him. “He doesn’t make me come. He doesn’t fuck me.”

“So, this is what you were hesitant to speak of: your partner doesn’t acknowledge and appreciate you… in the bedroom,” he said professionally.

“Acknowledge or appreciate me in the bedroom?” I laughed dryly. “Dr. Easton, I don’t know if I want to be appreciated in the bedroom, respectfully.”

“But you just informed me that—”

“—Oh, I know what I said. I want to be fucked. I want to be fucked hard. I want to be pinned and tossed and squeezed and slapped. I want to be treated like I don’t fucking matter, like I’m disposable,” I explained. “But when that’s over and when everything is said and done, I want to be taken care of. I want to come.”

“You want him to make you,” he said, addressing my point without repeating my exact words.

“I don’t know how this relationship is going to work, Dr. Easton, if you can’t repeat the things that I’m saying to you.”

“I’m trying to maintain a degree of professionalism with you, Brett,” he stated firmly.

“Okay well, professionally speaking, can you say ‘come’? You say it all the time. You say things like, ‘Can you come into my office?’ or ‘When is my next appointment coming?’”

“Arriving,” he corrected me.

“Sure. Arriving: you could use that. I think only the British use that one in the bedroom,” I laughed.

“Brett,” he sighed, but it almost sounded like he was scolding me. I liked the sound of that.

“Dr. Easton,” I said daringly, looking over at him from my side of the room. “Say it. Come on. You said so yourself that this whole thing is confidential. No one knows what you say in here. I won’t judge you. Fuck. Me, of all people, judging you?”

He straightened his tie a little, leaning back in his seat and crossing one leg over the other. This particular action exposed his perfectly shined wingtip shoe. He cleared his throat, but it was subtle. Then, he parted his lips slowly, opening his mouth to speak.

“You want him to make you come,” he said.

In all of my conversations with this man, I had only ever thought about the things I wanted him to say. He was so professional, so polished, and there was a side of me that wanted to see him let loose, even if only verbally. At the same time, in all of my conversations with this man, I hadn’t actually considered that he’d do it, nor did I think about how I’d feel if he did. I liked it. I liked it a little too much.

“No, that’s not what I said,” I corrected him.

“You said that you want to come,” he clarified.

“Exactly. I want to come. Now, whether he’s the lucky fucking soul to do that for me or not, I couldn’t fucking care less.”

“Because you’re that upset with him,” he assumed.

“No, Dr. Easton. Because I’m that fucking horny,” I confessed plainly. I watched his nervous eyes as he took notes in his leather padfolio before turning his attention back to me. “Did you write that down? Did you write on your little pad over there that I’m that fucking horny?”

“Brett,” he said calmly. I let out a short, dry laugh, rolling my eyes at him defiantly. “Let’s discuss why you feel this way.”

“Why I feel what way?” I pressed, clearly trying to test him.

“The way you just mentioned.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t recall, doctor,” I stated matter-of-factly, trying to mock his overly professional tone.

“Brett, let’s discuss why you feel that sexually attracted—”

“—It’s not sexual attraction,” I interrupted. “It’s my libido. It’s my body’s natural state. If I set aside everything going on with Lance, and I’m having an ordinary day at home—no human interaction whatsoever—I still need it. I’m insatiable.”

“Can you clarify what you mean by that?”

“I need it at least twice a day. I don’t think that’s too excessive, do you?” I questioned.

“Got it,” he confirmed, jotting down more notes.

“Oh, no, Dr. Easton. I was actually looking for a response; that wasn’t rhetorical. Do you think twice a day is too excessive? For me to be—what did you call it—arriving?” I teased.

“I’d like to request that you keep our conversations a little more professional. I understand that the nature of what we’re discussing is sensitive and can be a little difficult to navigate, but I would encourage you to use more appropriate terms when referring to these subjects.”

“Am I making you uncomfortable? Are these things that you normally wouldn’t say outside of the realm of your profession?” I asked curiously, not anticipating that he’d respond.

“I can assure you that I say very normal things outside of the professional realm.”

“Like what?” I asked in a soft voice. He sighed, shaking his head at me, and I watched a small, subtle smirk creep across his lips. If my vision wasn’t so impeccable and my observations so astute, I might not have noticed that he even bit his lip just a little. “You can tell me, Dr. Easton.”

“Let’s just keep this conversation professional,” he said calmly.

“Do you say ‘come’?” He sat in silence, smirking and taking notes and refusing to feed me an answer. “Do you say ‘fuck’?” I continued. I watched as he kept writing. “Do you say ‘Fuck, baby, let me fuck you so hard. Oh, fuck, you’re gonna make me come’?”

I knew that I’d taken it entirely too far when I watched Dr. Joseph Easton straighten his tie once more, stand from his seat, and rip the page from his legal pad out of his padfolio. He walked over to me as he folded it up, handing it to me and leading me to the door.

“What is this, a fucking recommendation for me to see a different therapist?” I asked. He stood at the door, holding it open and motioning with his eyes for me to exit his office.

I took that walk of shame disappointedly, knowing it was possible that I’d never see him again. I passed his receptionist, waving her off when she asked if I needed to make my next appointment, and I headed straight for the elevator. When I got there, I unfolded the piece of paper. It contained his personal phone number and a message.

I do say, “Fuck, baby, let me fuck you so hard. Oh, fuck, you’re going to make me come.” I also say a lot more than that.