27. Miguel
MIGUEL
NOW
Frustrated is the word of the day. The stitching in my bow tie with hearts is the wrong shade of red, and I’m spending my second Valentine’s Day in a row alone.
Graham works in Texas, and his name lives in the headlines again.
Yet the irrational part of me had hoped he would show up at my office with a truck load of chocolates. He didn’t.
With a growl, I fling the fabric aside and get ready for bed.
My Tuesday beauty routine consists of deep conditioning my hair and exfoliating my skin, so I’m more relaxed once I slide between my crisp, tidy sheets…
until the bulb in the lamp flickers. The antique lamp is a fire hazard, and I’ve been meaning to replace the electrical components for years.
Luckily, after an intense fight for victory, the bulb remains lit.
I ram an elbow into the pillow behind my back and smooth the wrinkles from the white bedding draped across my lap.
While sharing a bed with Graham, I’d wake to find the aftermath of a vicious battle between his naked body and the sheets.
When I sleep alone, my covers are hardly rumpled in the morning, as though no one slept in them.
I’m scrolling through emails, mentally preparing my to-do list for tomorrow, when a text pops up from Graham. No message, only a photo. Another comes through, and another. Faster than I can process what’s happening, he floods me with images.
I enlarge the first one and turn my phone every which way, looking at it from different angles. It shows a human thumb nail, an abused one with torn, reddened skin at the edges. The second image is an earlobe. The third, a pinky toe I’d recognize anywhere. Graham’s pinky toes curve inward slightly.
As I click through the close-up photos—kneecaps, collarbones, and butt cheeks included—my face blazes, heart racing with equal amounts of anticipation and scandal.
Would he go so far as to send a dick pic?
Surely not. Though I’m disappointed when I reach the end without a reward for indulging him this late at night.
Me
This is cyber harassment.
Graham
It’s a selfie bouquet.
Me
You missed a tiny piece.
Graham
So you looked at them all. And need I remind you how NOT tiny it is?
GRAHAM SENT A PHOTO
My horny thumb opens the attachment. I gasp, clutching the top buttons of my satin shirt as my dick twitches.
Me
You have no morals!
Graham
Not with you.
Be daring with me, darling.
Tell me what you’re wearing right now.
Me
What do you think I’m wearing?
Graham
The red satin pajamas with the white piping.
I straighten my shoulders, refusing to glance at my chest and confirm his accurate guess.
Graham
You’re lying in bed, checking emails. Your hair has dried since the shower. It’s soft. Even without gel, it shines in the lamplight.
My gaze darts to each corner of the room, searching for hidden cameras. I wouldn’t put anything past him at this point.
Me
Congratulations. You can recite a years-long routine from memory.
Graham
I slide between the sheets and lie next to you, naked. But you ignore me and keep scrolling.
My finger circles your belly button, tickling you and turning you on at the same time.
Me
Are you doing voice to text???
This conversation could be monitored!
Graham
I tease your waistband. You push my hand away, but you don’t mean it.
You want me to keep going.
You like being my sweet prince.
Me
I’m hanging up now.
Graham
You sink lower against the pillow and spread your legs. I kiss your stomach and wrap my hand around the hard, hot surprise waiting for me.
So needy.
So perfect.
So delicious on my tongue.
Jesus, I’m panting. I squeeze my dick, commanding it to ignore the vivid memories.
When he’d spend weeks away on set, we had phone sex almost every night, always on video call because he likes to watch.
I never thought sexting could turn me on or that my imagination could fill in the blanks.
But I can see him, smell him, feel him as though he’s lying next to me, touching me like he used to.
Graham
Are you hard for me, Miguel?
Me
No. I’m half asleep.
Graham
Such a shame. Guess I’ll have to finish alone.
My phone slips from my hand, landing in the gap between my parted thighs.
I scrub my face, then glare at the erection tenting my pants like it committed the ultimate act of betrayal.
Clenching my fists, I summon every ounce of strength I can muster.
My dick and I will not succumb to his seduction.
I’m stronger than this, regardless of how many times I’ve jacked off while picturing his face over the past year.
The phone buzzes again. I snatch it up.
Graham
Happy Valentine’s Day, darling. Sweet dreams.
GRAHAM SENT A VIDEO
I’m high on hormones, at risk of vibrating off the bed. When I click on the video, a helpless noise sticks in my throat—a yelp of surprise mixed with a whimper of longing.
His hand glides up and down his gorgeous cock, covering the head on every pass. My empty fist tightens, nails digging into my palm. I can enjoy the show, but I’m not giving in.
“I dream of your lips.”
“Shit!” The phone fumbles my hand, but I keep hold of it.
“I dream of sleeping next to you. I dream of your sweet sounds when we make love.” He moans. “And your demands when we fuck.”
Graham’s honeyed baritone slithers through my bedsheets, leaving a wet spot on my expensive satin pants. Our breaths fall in sync, ragged and quickening.
“I dream of your smile.”
I can’t smile at the moment. I’m throbbing from taint to tip.
“And the way your voice…mmm…gets soft when you”—his breath catches—“when you say you love me.”
His hand speeds up, shuttling along his glistening shaft as my mouth hangs open for the big finale. I hear a quiet groan. The groan. And god help us both, he’s about to come on recorded video.
I shove my pajama bottoms down, spit in my palm, and grip my cock. Stroking, twisting, tugging in a frenzied game of catch-up. When he erupts, my name lives in the pleasured sigh rolling off his tongue. I follow with a shout, spurting like a geyser all over my pristine bedsheets.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
My head thumps against the wood headboard. There’s a mess to clean, and it’s all his fault. The phone screen goes black—dead battery—and my charger is in the kitchen. When I toss my useless phone on the nightstand, the lamp jostles. The bulb blinks out.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
Cursing up a storm, I roll out of bed in total darkness and feel for the light switch in the attached bathroom. It’s my luck to have a terrible and wonderful Valentine’s Day at the same time.
Why would the universe be inclined to offer me the best things in life without an equal helping of the worst? Orgasms but no chocolate. Sewing skills but no admirers. A famous boyfriend but a fear of the spotlight. I can’t catch a fucking break.
Once I’ve changed my pajamas and sheets, and plugged in a nightlight, I snuggle into my comfortable bed again. My eyes close, but sleep eludes me. The video plays on a Technicolor loop in my head. Every frame, every movement, every shuddering breath he takes. I’ll be reliving it all night.
Sweet dreams, indeed.
Wednesday, February 15th
I tap my pen on the notepad in my lap. “How many people can I to bring to these sessions?”
Victor, my prospective therapist, lets out a subtle sigh through his nose. I get it. This consultation has been exhausting for me as well. Preston wasn’t lying about the amount of talking involved in therapy.
“We’ll go over the benefits of couples or group counseling after we dive deeper into your relationships,” Victor says.
Holding his level stare, I click the pen before jotting the vague answer on my notepad, beneath the other thirty-eight vague answers. Most of them are some variation of the phrase “deeper discussion.”
I look at what I’ve written down and nod, satisfied. “I’ve reached the end of my list, and we have ten minutes left. Do you have any questions for me?”
“Two.” He sets his blank notepad aside and leans forward, elbows on his knees and hands hanging loose. A silver watch gleams against his umber wrist, and he glances at it before pinning me with an unnerving gaze. “How do you feel when you’re not in control?”
“Out of control.”
His fingers twitch. “Do you always use sarcasm to avoid talking about your feelings?”
“Is that your second question?” I ask, quirking an eyebrow.
He leans back in the brown leather chair that matches mine. A round coffee table and my avoidance tactics stand between us in his small, bland office. I had expected a sofa to lie on, but a full-size one would take up half the space.
“You contacted me, Miguel, and I imagine you conducted thorough research in advance. So you know about my direct approach. You set a goal; I help you identify and overcome the obstacles between you and achieving it. Honesty is a key part of this process. Otherwise, we both fail.”
He’s right. I volunteered for this and went through the trouble of filling out all his online forms. Real therapy may not work for someone as far gone as me, but it’s still worth a shot.
I stuff my notepad and pen beside my hip, then tuck my hands between my thighs. “Sometimes, I feel physically sick. Nauseated. Like my stomach will eat itself if I don’t know what to expect and can’t prepare for the worst.”
“Define ‘prepare for the worst,’” he says.
“You know, by avoiding things that give me anxiety altogether.”
Victor steeples his fingers beneath his salt-and-pepper goatee. “When did you first start experiencing the symptoms you listed?”
“In college.”
He nods, like it’s an answer he hears often. Based on the dates next to his credentials on the website, he’s in his fifties and has been a therapist for over twenty years. A lot of people have sat in this chair. I tuck in tighter to avoid touching the armrests.
“Remind me of your goal.”
“I have two now. To stop caring what other people think and to be more daring. The second one is new.”
“More daring?” he asks, fingers grazing the tip of his goatee.
“Exactly. I want to try new things, but my friends usually have to drag me along, kicking and screaming. If I don’t have all the details or know the outcome in advance, I find an excuse to back out.”
Victor’s shiny right shoe slides on the woven rug before he crosses his legs. “Anxiety may affect your choices, but it doesn’t have to stop you from trying new things. If you know your limits, stay within them until you’re ready for more. But keep trying for more.”
“Baby steps,” I mutter under my breath. “Story of my life.”
All along, I’ve taken the position that I shouldn’t have to leave my comfort zone until I’m ready. To have a licensed professional agree with me feels validating. However, the baby steps are where I falter. I’ve tried, with some success, but my efforts haven’t gotten me far.
Since I shouldn’t outright ask a therapist for date ideas, I ask, “So what do you suggest I try?”
“I can’t make specific suggestions, but we can narrow down some options. What’s your biggest concern when trying a new activity outside the home?”
“People.” My clipped tone earns no reaction from him.
His voice remains frustratingly neutral when he waves both hands in a problem solved gesture and says, “Eliminate the crowd. There are plenty of safe, beginner-level activities you can try that don’t involve a lot of people. Pick one and give it shot.”
Years ago, I thought a morning bike ride at the beach instead of the lake in my neighborhood would be a safe adventure. Hardly anyone was around, and still, a guy on an electric scooter almost killed me. I stopped riding my bicycle soon after because a more exciting adventure had come along.
Since Sunday, I’ve been mulling over ideas for taking my leap with Graham.
Restaurants and shopping are out of the question now that he’s back in the headlines.
And he’s not a fan of either of those things, only tagging along to make others happy.
Our next date should involve something he enjoys, even if that means digging out my one pair of sneakers and breaking a sweat.