Chapter Two
I want to know what I’m missing. I want to understand my own body.
I want to stop feeling broken—stop feeling different.
I want to experience pleasure the way other women do.
I want to stop being afraid that I’ll never be able to have a fulfilling sexual relationship because of this. I want to feel whole.
Over and over again, I read my paragraph, trying to make sure I wasn’t saying too much or not saying enough.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I hit submit and released a sharp exhale.
Staring blankly again once more, this time at the confirmation email, I bit down on my nails, a disgusting habit I accumulated when I was in college, and I did it anytime I was nervous.
Snapping out of a trance was the smell of my grilled chicken burning on the stove.
“Shit,” I hissed as I stood up in a hurry and fast paced my steps inside the kitchen.
I grabbed the tongs and flipped them over, thankfully they weren’t burnt.
Once the other side was cooked to my liking, I sliced them to my liking and placed them on top of my delicious salad.
Taking a small bite, I did a mini dance, releasing a low moan because it was delicious, but also, I hadn’t put anything on my stomach since this morning when I ate a blue berry muffin, yogurt parfait, orange juice and a boiled egg.
That salad didn’t last long at all, and I wasn’t trying to savor a piece.
I tore that salad up and caught up on my favorite show with my feet propped up.
Long after I hadn’t realized I dozed off on the couch until something from the television startled me out of my sleep.
Frowning, I grabbed the remote off the arm of the couch and turned it down.
I grabbed my phone from beside me and glanced at the time.
3:23 a.m.
There were also mass notifications from my student portal, but there was only one that stood out like a sore thumb.
Dear Nyne,
Thank you for your application. I’ve reviewed your questionnaire carefully, and I believe I can help you.
Your situation is not uncommon—many women struggle with anorgasmia for phycological rather than physical reasons.
The good news is that with patience, the right techniques, and a safe environment, most women can learn to orgasm.
I have an opening in six weeks. If you’re interested, please review the attached contract and let me know. Once you’ve signed, I’ll send you detailed instructions for travel arrangements and what to bring.
I look forward to working with you.
Syx.
My thumb hovered over the contract attached to the email and it was thorough, professional and surprisingly reassuring.
It outlined exactly what would happen: two weeks on his private island, daily sessions focused on sexual education and exploration, complete confidentiality, clear boundaries around consent.
For at any reason I can stop and if I’m not satisfied, I can request a full refund.
There was also a clause stating that while the experience would involve sexual contact, it was educational in nature and not on prostitution. Syx was licensed as a sex therapist and somatic practitioner.
Boldy, I signed it.
Everything was clear and set in stone, so there was no need to pivot. Maybe the push from Emma last night was all I needed. Much to my dismay, she’d keep her foot on my neck if I chickened out, but as nervous as I was, I needed this.
Logging into my job portal, I put in time for a sabbatical leave.
I don’t take time off often, minus family vacations or anything focal but never impromptu—never felt the need too because I love teaching students.
Of course aside from major holidays, which doesn’t count.
I needed this shit and time off is well deserved, given how hard I work my ass off.
When the divorce became final and most of my business went public most of my colleagues felt like I’d quit as if that amount money was enough to make me quit, or that it was optional and that was never the case.
Staying ahead of schedule, I reserved a fully body wax appointment, including a Brazilian and butt strip.
My nail tech had an opening then I scheduled an appointment to get my hair braided in some bohemian knotless braids.
For some reason, blue water and palm trees meant boho braids or Jah locs.
I never wore my real hair when vacationing anyway.
Randomly, I scrolled to Instagram and put his name in the search bar.
S-y-x.
My eyes squinted at the bright screen and there were a few guys with the profile name, but they weren’t him—at least they didn’t fit the profile.
These guys appeared to be family men, and their profiles didn’t look like they’d be sex therapist. Exiting Instagram I lingered over to Facebook to lurk, but I came up short too.
Probing further, I researched the name of the resort and came up with nothing, which made me wonder if the name even existed or what type of place it was.
If I don’t know nothing else, I know that women brag.
We brag about good dick, sex and men—anything and as hyped Emma was, I’m sure there were other women who became involved in the same thing and nothing was ever mentioned…
EVER! That sounds impossible, unless he makes them sign NDA’s, then it all makes sense if that’s the case.
Nothing bothering to probe further, I stood from the couch and sauntered inside my bedroom so I could continue to get some rest.
7:30 a.m.
Beep! Beep! Beep!
The sound of my alarm startled me out of a deep sleep. With my eyes halfway open, the sun peeked through my curtains as I struggled to find my phone between the sheets. The second I located it, I turned my blaring alarm off and sat it on my nightstand.
Though it was Saturday, I never slept in. I got up, routinely and carried on about my day after making my bed. I’m not the type to lay in bed all day anymore. I did enough of that shit during my divorce. For some reason, getting my day started, getting active and running errands makes me feel good.
I’d already brushed my teeth and washed my face. By this point, I looked like a damn grease ball from using all the serums and creams, but it paid off very well. You wouldn’t be able to tell that I was a day over thirty by my glass skin and invisible pores.
As I was getting dressed, I heard my phone ring. I noticed it was an unknown number, so I let it go to voicemail until it rang again, piquing my interest. Instead of letting it go to voicemail again this time, I answered in a skeptical tone, somewhat annoyed at this point.
“Hello,” I answered with annoyance in my tone, not bothering to hide it.
“Nyne,” a deep baritone rang in my ear, damn near swooning me off my feet.
I took my phone away from my ear to squint at the unknown number as if I screened calls. Part of me was interested in the unfamiliar voice in my ear now.
“Yes,” I responded questionably. “Who is this?”
“This is Syx.”
There was a low chuckle on the other end, seeming unfazed by my aggravation.
Then the name rung a bell… Syx The Sex Therapist, I stated to myself, wondering if he was as sexy as he sounded.
My heart began to thump loudly through my chest because I was starting to wonder if I’d done something wrong or if he was calling to rattle me with more questions.
Emma had broken down everything to me, including what to expect, but she didn’t bring up a fucking phone call that would have me feeling weak in the knees.
“Oh hi,” I chuckled nervously as I swindled on my heels, forgetting my task at hand.
“Hey,” he greeted me and I swear, in the moment I wanted to melt through the damn carpet, into the sewer through the Mississippi River.
Syx had one of those suave, deep voices that could talk you out of your panties. I’m sure when he spoke his voice vibrated the walls, it was just that damn deep. It was sexy and would have me making bad decisions.
“I called you to play with your brain a little bit,” he spoke as if it was a demand and not a subtle request. So, even if I didn’t want to participate, I didn’t have a choice. “Did I catch you at bad time?”
Yes! Yes you caught me at a very bad time, actually. I was about to go do yoga, maybe visit my parents, get my oil changed and my tires rotated—nothing major.
“N-no,” I stammered. “I’m free right now.”
“Are you sure? We can reschedule at a later time—”
The more he talked the more my heart thumped out of my fucking chest. I was practically enamored by his impromptu calling me as if this was routine.
“Actually, it is,” I sighed, finally being able to catch my breath. Releasing an exhale saved my life.
“Let me ask you this, would you rather do everything in person, Nyne? Does speaking to me over the phone make you nervous? I don’t want to make you nervous,” he projected, reading me like an open book.
“Who said anything about me being nervous?” I muttered out loud, letting my thoughts escape from me. I wanted to slap myself.
“I can hear it in the tone of your voice. I can read you through the phone very well. This is something I’ve been doing for years, so I’m not going to hold it over your head.”
“Is there a reason you called?”
“I wanted to get to know you. I want you to get to know me. I want us to get to know one another so meeting in person for the first time won’t feel awkward. Unless that’s what you’re in to,” he chuckled, making me release a low giggle of my own.
I plopped down on the bed, abandoning tasks.
“I told you everything there is to know about me in the email, Syx,” I blushed. “What else is there to know? I didn’t leave anything out.” I stated honestly. “I’m pretty boring.” I giggled again once more. My nerves probably seethed through the other line like a foul odor.
“Are you married?” He asked.
“No.” I responded quickly.
Then he asked, “Are you divorced?”
“I am,” I answered proudly.
“Any flings, sneaky links, jealous exes?”
“Not at all Syx.” His name rolled off my tongue like it was natural.
“How did you hear about us?”
“My friend. Her name is Emma,” I clarified.
“Are you open to try anything? Do you have any kinks?”
The prior questions I answered without bothering to hesitate, but somehow, this question caught me sort of off guard because it was pertaining to my sexual urges, I’m assuming and I don’t know much—so I’m afraid to admit how far I’ll go because that was never the case.
Men never took it far with me and there was only one guy after Malcolm and one guy before him, in college, who I lost my virginity to.
Crazily there were men who enjoyed eating pussy and the idea of fucking me was slim.
“Um,” I giggled nervously again, followed by a deep sigh of exasperation. “I don’t know how to answer that.”
Instead of responding to my question he moved on to the next one. “Do you watch porn?”
“Sometimes.”
“How often?”
“Not often.” I answered matter fact.
“How many times in a week… a month… a day.”
“At least twice a month. As I stated previously, Syx, I don’t watch porn often.”
“What type of porn do you watch?”
“I don’t know,” I laughed. “I mean I’m very well aware that porn has categories but it’s nothing weird, just regular basic porn.”
“Nyne, I want you to understand something.” He mentioned.
“I’ll be the one exploring your body so when we talk in any instance, I want you to be yourself.
I don’t want you to stutter. I want you to breathe when you talk so when the time comes and I’m the one talking you through it, everything flows out, like it should. That includes your words and your cum.”
My mouth gaped open in shock. I was motherfucking floored.
Yeah, at this grown ass age, I’m used to men saying this and that like a prelude to sex as if that would make it more intense, then when the time came, they fell flat or didn’t do all the shit they said they would.
Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if I actually had slaw pussy.
Other than it getting wet, her ass didn’t do shit else.
But this time was different, the way Syx talked to me, it was an affirmation, like he knew for sure he was going to be the first guy to ever make me cum and that sent a shiver of emotions down my spine.
Six Weeks Later
I found myself on a small private plane heading to an undisclosed island in the Caribbean.
The Board of Education approved my sabbatical leave—not that they had much of a choice.
My boss pulled me to the side on my last day and moseyed around in my business about my whereabouts.
Simply, I told her I was going to a wellness retreat.
Awkwardly, I told my sister about what I was really going for, and she didn’t bat an eye.
Her only concern was my safety because she’s heavily indulged in the crime overseas.
Before boarding, my phone was riddled with text messages from family and close friends telling me they loved me and check in not a second after I landed.
Emma and Mina sent me long ass text messages with their own individual shit talk.
Even Syx texted me—well it was a cute love note that went to my email.
“Have a safe flight beautiful. I can’t wait to see you, taste you and fuck you.”
It made me blush, sort of, but I knew everything leading up to our moment and maybe after was work related, so I kept telling myself not to get attached. Though my interest in his showmanship was full because I had so many questions about everything else that didn’t have anything to do with me.
The entire time, my nerves were wrecked because I didn’t know what to personally expect from all of this. I couldn’t get any rest on the plane because I kept overthinking.
What if he can’t fix me?
What if I have internal issues that are beyond his scope of support?
I had to eat a few melatonin gummies just so I could get some rest.
Just as I woke up the plane was descending toward a small island surrounded by turquoise water.
I felt my stomach flutter with nerves. Surprisingly the thought hadn’t settled in that I was flying to a private island to have sex with a stranger—not even the -$50,000 in my banking history.
It sounded like the setup for a horror movie.
But it also sounded like my last hope.