Chapter 2 #3
“Demand it. People in life treat you how you believe you deserve to be treated. If you think you don’t deserve to be satisfied in bed, then you won’t be.
If you believe your husband can do better than you, then he will think he can too.
Beth, what you need to realize without me telling you is that you and you only can make changes in your life.
Forget about Anthony and his problems. Let’s work on you.
” She smiles a shy smile at me, which I return.
I sit on top of my desk with my legs crossed. “Now, I have some homework for you.”
“OK,” she smiles, as she sits up in her chair, feeling a little empowered.
“I want you to go to the adult warehouse and buy yourself a vibrator.”
Her mouth drops open. “What?” she whispers.
I nod and smile. “It’s time for you to take your sexuality back into your hands. Literally.”
She swallows a large lump in her throat. “I’ve never, I don’t think. Anthony will freak,” she adds.
“Anthony is not to know about this.” She looks at me wide eyed.
“What I want you to do is every day fire up the vibrator and give yourself foreplay without the expected orgasm at the end.” I wait for her to speak.
She doesn’t. I smile. God, I love their faces when I start talking sex toys.
I walk over to my desk, open my bottom drawer and pull out my large demo vibrator. I turn it on, and her eyes widen.
“Don’t worry, it’s not like that.” I smile.
“Oh god.” She laughs and puts her hand on her chest in relief.
“See how this feels?” I rub the side of the shaft over the palm of her hand. She smiles and nods. “If you rub the side of the shaft over your outer lips and clitoris, it feels like the best oral sex you’ve ever had.”
“Oh,” she whispers, eyes wide.
“Have you ever watched any porn, Beth?”
She shakes her head. “Only in high school,” she whispers. “And I didn’t really see the appeal.”
I smile and nod. “I want you to watch a few things for me.” She frowns, not understanding. “I want you to go onto a website called YouPorn. It’s the same as YouTube, but it’s people posting videos of sex.”
“Um, OK.” She looks worried.
“On the left-hand side of the page there is a category list.” She nods. “Click on love.”
She frowns. “Love?”
“Yes, there are some really tasteful lovely videos of couples in love having sex and trust me it’s nothing like the wham bam come in the woman’s face porn most woman are exposed to. Watch it with no sound, a lot of women are very audile, and the sound of porn is what turns them off.”
“Oh.” She nods.
“And also click on the massage tab.”
“Massage tab?” she repeats.
“Yes, a lot of my patients find it really erotic watching someone get a slow massage finished by an orgasm.” I smile. “It’s very tasteful and kind of hot.” We both laugh. “And I want you to try something else.”
“Um, OK.” She nods.
“I want you to go and buy yourself some lube and begin to explore your body with your fingers again.”
“Oh, god.” She looks down and twirls her hair between her fingers.
I smile. “Beth, don’t be embarrassed, I talk sex all day. It’s my job.”
“OK,” she mutters and smiles.
“Most woman have not brought themselves to orgasm with their fingers since they became sexually active and it really is a good way to reconnect with what you like and what you don’t like.
Women’s bodies change when we have children and what used to arouse us doesn’t necessarily do it for us anymore.
Remember, Beth, you need to take responsibility for your own sexual health.
Trust me, your husband will thank you later. ”
She smiles as she stands up to leave my office and shakes my hand. “Those two boyfriends were idiots.” She winks.
“I know.” I smile, and I wink back. “Their loss.” I laugh and scrunch up my nose. “Remember I want thirty minutes a day private time.”
She smiles. “OK, OK, I will. I’ll tell you how it goes next week.”
“Good, I look forward to it.” As she exits my office, I smile to myself. I should open a sex shop—I would be a fucking millionaire.
Monday mornings is definitely my hump day.
Hard to get out of bed, harder to go to the gym before work, a healthy breakfast tastes more like cat food than All-Bran and it’s damn near impossible to get motivated for the week at work.
It’s freezing cold, too, to add salt to my wounds.
It’s windy as hell. God, I’m whining today.
Normally I have the excuse of too big a weekend, still silently suffering a hangover, carb overload, no exercise.
Not today. I know the reason. It’s like the frigging day before Armageddon, like I’m walking to my execution; I’m so nervous I feel sick to my stomach. I thought I would be excited.
Though I’m looking forward to seeing him this weekend, I know that after Saturday night, the beautiful man in my memories will be dead to me.
He has long been dead. It’s just that damn movie screen inside my head keeping him alive, hero-worshipping him.
I know this is probably going to be the last week I can dream about him from afar, but reality is a bitch.
A bitch that’s going to bite me hard in the ass on Sunday morning.
I’m dreading it. It’s like I’ve already started to mourn the loss of him, even though he’s not even mine to lose.
I am on the train, it’s a one-hour trip to work as I purposely looked for a job well out of my zip code.
Don’t want to bump into any of my patients at the coffee shop or grocery store.
It’s a hassle getting to and from work, but I feel safer having that bit of anonymity away from my patients.
In the line of work I do, my patients don’t want to bump into me either so it’s a win-win both ways.
I shuffle up the aisle and take a window seat.
I lean my head on the window, close my eyes and start to doze.
I just need to get through the week. My mind wanders back to the man who haunts me, even in my sleep.
Finally, this week is over; it’s been a marathon just getting through it. I am sitting on the plane waiting to exit at Melbourne airport.
“Why do they take so long to open the doors?” Bridget yawns as she stretches in her seat.
“Hmm, I know,” I answer as I stretch my legs.
Brock, our brother, is sitting across the aisle with our parents and gives me a wink.
I love Brock, he is in the navy, a SEAL.
He is home in Sydney for three months, which is unusual for him.
He’s hardly ever home. You know, off saving the world and all that.
He is six two and pure hard-ass, he dotes on Bridge and me.
Way over-the-top protective but I kind of like it.
Bridge hates it. Brock punched her last boyfriend in the nose at Christmas lunch a couple of years ago.
It was hilarious, although Bridge didn’t see the humor.
What I didn’t tell her was that if Brock hadn’t done it, I might have.
Mark was his name, of course a total wanker.
Boy, she sure does attract losers. I smile at the memory.
“What’s so funny?” Bridge asks me. I shake my head. If she only knew what I was thinking about. I finally enter the aisle and Brock grabs me from behind in a headlock and gives me a rough hug.
“Your snoring kept me awake,” he whispers.
I nudge him with my elbow. “Shut up, I don’t snore.”
“Yeah, you do,” he laughs, and he pushes me forward, so I bump into the guy in front of me who turns around and glares at me.
“Sorry, I tripped,” I whisper. He glares at me and continues up the aisle.
I turn around and punch Brock. “Cut it out, how old are you?”
“Let’s go out for dinner on the way to the hotel.” He gestures to Dad to go into the aisle.
“Good idea,” Mum answers. I roll my eyes at Bridge.
I want to go straight to bed. I’m exhausted.
I’ve had a shit of a day. My most hated patient, Roger, the sex addict, had a two-hour block appointment.
Why does the receptionist make those appointments anyway?
I will have to put a stop to it. I had to listen to every last detail of his latest orgy.
Seriously gross. Why he feels I have to know everything is beyond me.
Imagine a 1980s bad porn movie and that is the exact vision of Roger: bad moustache, comb-over, dyed hair, rates himself big-time, overdose on the aftershave that smells more like fly repellent.
Seriously, he is beyond help. Gives me a cold shiver just thinking of him.
God, I feel sorry for his wife. Imagine having him for a husband and he’s a sex addict who wants it all the time.
Shit, it doesn’t get much worse, poor bitch. I wince.
“What’s wrong? Why are you pulling that face?”
I smile and shake my head. “Nothing, I’m tired. Can’t we just get room service?”
“Tash, just lighten the fuck up,” Brock chimes in. “We are on vacation. Chillax will you.”
Five hours later, I lie in bed in my hotel room.
It’s the night before the wedding, and my mind wanders.
Tomorrow is the day. I’m going to see him.
Thank god Bridget and I have a room each or else she would be on to me.
I have been tossing and turning for two hours now.
I am punching the pillow and changing positions, trying to get comfortable.
Trying to calm myself into a slumber. How am I supposed to look tempting with no sleep?
The movie screen plays a particularly painful memory, one that I hate and desperately wish to remove from the memory bank.
It has the same effect every time, bringing me to my knees.
Reactivating my guilt that usually ends up with me on my knees in the bottom of the shower, throwing up and in tears.