4. Derrick
4
DERRICK
S itting in a stiff office chair at one of the long worktables in Dreamary, I stifled a yawn. With the office empty this early in the morning, I preferred the open space of the common room to my secluded office.
My day had started way too early, yanked out of sleep by a strange dream I couldn’t shake. I’d been skating through Times Square, a faceless woman clinging to my back, her arms tight around my waist, her hands slipping inside my pants, stroking me as we skated together. I woke up painfully hard, desperate to relieve the tension.
It had been over a year since I’d been touched by a woman, and my body was making its displeasure known with increasing insistence. This was the longest dry spell I’d ever endured.
It wasn’t for lack of options or desire. But after my last sexual encounter, I had put myself on a sex diet. The last time I’d been with a woman, the worst thing that could happen to a man had happened to me…I couldn’t get it up.
Shame smoldered in my veins at the memory. It wasn’t even my damn fault. I had been on medication that tanked my testosterone. I had changed the meds right after that mortifying date, but I hadn’t gone near a woman since, terrified it would happen again.
I glared at my lap, at the traitor lurking in my trousers. I could take care of things solo, no problem, but a woman hadn’t stirred life into it since that day. Not until last week, when Rachel Arya decided to take her damn shirt off in the locker room—blood had rushed south like it was on a mission.
And I wasn’t even attracted to her!
I used to have a therapist to talk to about this shit, but he dumped me. Said I didn’t want to be fixed. No, asshole, I just didn’t want to tell some thirty-year-old guy that my dick didn’t work. He had known I was holding back and said if I couldn’t be honest with him, he couldn’t help me.
It wasn’t like I had a problem talking about my feelings—I had an entire podcast dedicated to stripping away toxic masculinity and showing men they didn’t have to be afraid to express their emotions. Hell, Isaac and I always signed off by saying “I love you, man.”
Growing up with six younger sisters meant emotions were constantly thrown at me from every direction. They had dressed me up, put makeup on me, and clipped bows in my hair. It made them happy, and their happiness made me laugh. So yeah, I’d never shied away from the softer side of my personality.
But years of working homicide cases, witnessing the horrors people inflicted on each other, had forced me to compartmentalize to keep my sanity.
Instead of therapy, I was pouring my frustrations onto my computer, my fingers flying as I typed stream-of-consciousness style. It was a trick my therapist taught me. Journaling released stress by engaging a different part of the brain, helping to stop the spiral of insanity.
“Does that say ‘I hate my dick’?” An amused female voice cut through my thoughts.
I slammed my laptop shut and spun around. One of the newer hosts, Alexis Fairchild, was standing over my shoulder.
Shit.
Her podcast, Sex with Lex , was the second most popular on our platform. She’d already had a large following, but since she’d signed with Dreamary, her audience had tripled, thanks in part to our recent partnership with NOW, one of the biggest media conglomerates in the country.
Despite the provocative subject of her podcast, Lexi was laid-back and unassuming. When she was in the office, she kept to herself—did her show, then left. We talked regularly, but it was always business-related.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” I grumbled, trying to hide my embarrassment.
“Yeah, I got that.” She plopped down in the chair beside me, crossing her legs as she set down a stack of files. “I have an early interview and needed to prep.”
I grunted, staring anywhere but at her, not sure how to address what she had just read.
“Wanna talk about it?” she asked, her tone surprisingly gentle—no smirk, no laughter. “No pressure, but I am a therapist. I’m used to talking about delicate matters.” Lexi leaned forward, her auburn hair spilling over her shoulder onto the table. “I help people like you all the time. Without shame or judgment.”
“I know. I listen to your show,” I said, still avoiding her gaze.
She leaned back, her expression calm. “So talk to me.”
Frustration built like a pressure cooker. What the hell. Maybe it was time to get this out.
“It’s broken,” I huffed, more to myself than to her.
“Tell me more,” she prompted, her voice steady.
“It stopped working when I was taking some medicine. I quit the meds, but I’m still having issues,” I said cryptically.
“What meds?” she asked, her voice professional.
“Finasteride.”
“Ah,” she said, nodding like she was familiar with it. “Yes, that lowers your testosterone. ED is a very common side effect.”
I glanced around the office. The space was still dim, the first rays of the sun beginning to filter in through the windows, casting long shadows across the floor.
“How long ago did it start?” she asked.
“Over a year ago. I was on a date and…” I trailed off, heat creeping up my neck.
“Were there other times?” Lexi asked, her tone neutral.
“Not with that woman,” I said rougher than I meant to. “Shortly after that date, she broke it off and started seeing someone else. They’re still together.”
I didn’t mention that it was Peyton Holland, a junior producer at Dreamary who helped with social media. We had gone out a couple of times, but it was clear I was the one chasing her, while she was chasing after another man—who she was still happily dating.
“And have you been with anyone after this woman?” Lexi continued, pressing gently.
I shook my head, bitterness coating my tongue.
“How come?” she asked, her voice softening.
Anger simmered beneath the surface. “Because I wasn’t about to have that happen again. It was humiliating enough the first time. I know it’s more common than society lets on, but when it happens to you?—”
“It doesn’t matter if you’re the only one or if there are thousands of others like you—it’s horrible. But there’s hope. I can work with you if you’d like. Or I can suggest a colleague. There’s also the little blue pill. It works wonders.”
I raked my hands through my hair, tugging at the roots in frustration. “Look, it’s obviously mental. It works fine solo. Although, a couple of days ago, I had a moment with someone and it sprang to life. I have no idea what that means.”
“It means you’re probably right. It’s in your mind. If it was because of that medicine, it’s the fear holding you back now,” Lexi said, her voice upbeat. “You may not have the issue at all anymore, and there’s only one way to find out. Why don’t you ask the woman who made it stir to life out?”
“I don’t even like her like that. So that was also weird,” I admitted, shaking my head.
Lexi chewed her lip, thinking. “You must have felt safe around her.”
“I was helping her through a scary situation,” I said, recalling the way Rachel’s eyes had widened in fear that night in the locker room.
“Do you want to pursue her? If so, be upfront with her about your fears. If you are dismantling toxic masculinity, then show that vulnerable side. It may be difficult, but she could be the key.”
I shook my head firmly. “I don’t see her that way, despite what my dick wanted in that moment. It’s been in hibernation too long. That’s all.”
Lexi bent forward. “I have another idea—and this is not me as a therapist talking right now. Go out and get some. Now. Prove to yourself that it works. Once you’re confident your body will respond, the problem should go away.”
“So your recommendation is to get laid?” I asked, my tone dripping with sarcasm.
“Yep.” She stood, stretching out the kinks in her back.
As she walked away, her footsteps fading down the hallway to the podcast studios, I was left sitting there, staring at the darkened windows.
Who the hell was I going to task for the job? A stranger in a bar? Someone on Tinder? It wasn’t my style.
I stole a glance at my crotch.
There had to be someone out there who I could have casual sex with, no strings attached. But who?