Stella
He wasn’t even looking at me. He had picked up a notepad and begun writing, his pen moving steadily across the page as though I weren’t sitting directly in front of him.
Dear God almighty.
What had my parents told him?
I leaned forward, trying to angle my body just enough to catch a glimpse of the paper. He responded without haste, crossing his legs smoothly so the pad lifted higher, shielding it from my sight. The movement was deliberate.
He pushed his glasses up with his middle finger.
And smiled.
Oh, this was bad.
Worse than the crush I’d had on my English teacher. Worse than the time I’d sent a Valentine’s Day card to my science teacher, convinced admiration was the same as affection.
I closed my eyes as shame struck hard.
The professor at university.
The fleeting moments in his classroom, my dorm room, or his car.
The rejection.
The whispering.
The stream of students who followed after, curious, hungry, watching—the ones who had heard about my reputation.
“What did my parents tell you?” I asked flatly, opening my eyes and forcing my voice to remain level.
“Not much. I only met them over the weekend,” he said smoothly. “I’m fully booked, which is why our sessions are out of office hours and held here.”
“How much experience do you have with sexual dysfunction?” I asked bluntly.
“We deal with such matters, but it’s usually within the context of couples.”
“What about women?” I pressed. “I couldn’t find much in books or scholarly publications. Everything seems geared towards men.” I paused, the bitterness slipping through despite myself. “Or abnormal women.”
He shifted the notepad onto his thigh. Not that it mattered—I still couldn’t see a thing he’d written.
“This is a safe space,” he said, and I almost scoffed. “You’re twenty-three years old. Unless you’re a danger to yourself or others, everything stays between us.”
“Well, I don’t feel comfortable with you taking notes,” I said, my tone sulky despite my effort to sound composed. “And you won’t ever tell my parents what I say?”
He lifted the pad, closed it decisively, and placed it on the armrest, setting the silver pen neatly on top.
“I would never discuss our sessions with your parents,” he said.
His eyes were fixed on me now, sharp and unwavering. A muscle twitched along his jaw. He was serious.
“They said you had some difficulty regulating yourself,” he added when I didn’t respond.
I crossed my arms and nodded.
“All I want from this is to be able to control my urges,” I said, resignation settling in. “I want my life back.”
The words came out quieter than I intended. I hugged myself tighter, my arms digging in as I tried to self-soothe.
He relaxed then and nodded once, as if we’d reached an understanding.
“Do you want to start from the beginning? Share only what you feel comfortable with,” he said, uncrossing his legs.
I tried to keep my eyes on his face.
I really tried.
I almost did it.
I failed.
The dark grey material of his trousers showed the outline of his—
“Stella?” he prompted.
It was no good.
I was wet.
“Is there maybe a female therapist who could help me?” I asked, unable to meet his eyes.
“There is no one who matches my level of experience in my practice,” he replied evenly.
“Oh.”
Silence settled between us, thick but not rushed. I focused on a fixed point near his shoulder, refusing to look lower.
The beginning.
“I think I was five or six,” I began, my voice quieter now. “I don’t know if I was changing my clothes or getting out of the bath, but my mum had left me alone. Something made me pause. I was suddenly aware of my body, and not in an existential way. I didn’t understand then.”
The admission lingered in the air.
It felt strange saying it aloud. Lighter, somehow.
Who would understand?
I’d get called a freak.
“I remember touching my arms and shoulders,” I continued. “Not in a bad way. I can’t explain it. I was just aware.”
“Can I ask how you can narrow the age?” he said calmly.
“Hm. It was before we moved into our new house and I started my new primary school,” I said, sneaking a glance at him. “I never thought of it again until maybe my early teens.”
He wasn’t frowning. There was no disapproval in his expression. He simply listened, steady and composed.
“I’ve never told anyone this,” I murmured.
“And that’s okay,” he said softly. “We’ll figure this out together.”
With just a few words, the pressure that had been sitting heavily on my chest seemed to ease. Not completely, but enough to let me breathe a little deeper.
A few moments of comfortable silence followed. He didn’t interrupt it. He didn’t rush me forward. He simply waited.
“Then I discovered the internet and books. Umm. Then I guess I progressed to touching myself in my early teens. I was curious. By fourteen it became habitual.”
The confession felt stark once it was out in the open.
I kept my eyes trained on anything but him—the shelves along the wall, the edge of the rug, the faint pattern in the leather beneath my fingers. Anywhere else.
“Okay, let’s pause. Do you want some water?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“Take a deep breath.”
I inhaled immediately through my nose, holding it there before releasing slowly through my mouth.
“And again.”
I followed his instruction, the second breath steadier than the first. The tightness in my chest eased just enough to think clearly.
“Everything you’ve told me is perfectly normal,” he said quietly.
“Really?” I gasped before I could stop myself.
Okay, I might not have looked at those studies.
He nodded, a small, reassuring smile settling on his face.
“Research shows that curiosity and self-exploration often begin around adolescence,” he said. “And in some cases even earlier, where it functions as comfort. It doesn’t automatically point to trauma or external influence.”
“Oh,” I breathed. “This is great news.”
The word normal echoed in my head.
Oh, shit.
I was normal.
“As an adult, I masturbated eighteen times in one day,” I blurted out. “I couldn’t stop. I just wanted more.”
I wasn’t sure if I had crazy eyes or not, but I stared at him anyway, waiting—bracing—for shock or revulsion.
It never came.
He only smiled.
“I loved it,” I whispered, the admission landing heavier than the number itself.
“Good for you,” he said calmly. “Did you feel better afterwards?”
I straightened a little in my seat, surprised by the simplicity of the question.
“I did.”
These sessions might be worthwhile after all.