Chapter 4
I’m not a big porn guy. Never have been. I’ve seen it, sure. At parties, with the guys, all of us huddled around someone’s phone laughing at some ridiculous scene. But it never really did much for me. Too fake. Too performative.
Dr. Maren props the laptop on a little rolling table and pushes it in front of me. I can see my own flustered face reflected in the dark screen.
My dick has softened a little. Not all the way, but enough that the gown isn’t a circus tent anymore. Thank God for small mercies.
He types in a password, pulls up a folder of files. Scrolls through them, but I can’t make out the thumbnails. Why the hell does he have this much porn on a work laptop? This clearly isn’t standard medical practice.
He settles on a video and hits play. It starts with a blonde.
Skinny girl with big boobs, faking her way through a scene with a guy who looks like he’s made of plastic.
She’s making these high-pitched breathy moans that sound like a dying cat.
The guy is grunting like a caveman. The camera work is terrible, all shaky close-ups and weird angles.
I watch her body bounce, watch him move in and out of her. I try to focus. I really do. I picture her as one of the cheerleaders. If I squint, she looks a little like Hailey. I try to imagine her bouncing in my lap instead of this guy’s.
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. If anything, I’m getting softer.
“Well,” Dr. Maren says after a minute. “That’s a clear negative.”
He tries a few more. Different scenarios.
Two girls, which every guy is supposed to be into.
Three girls. A girl with an incredible ass that I should, by all rights, find unbelievably hot.
Nothing. I might as well be watching the weather report.
When a fourth joins, I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes.
Why do my teammates think this is the peak of entertainment? It’s boring as fuck.
My dick is completely limp now. Retracted like a frightened turtle.
Dr. Maren clicks through a few more files. Then stops. I can tell by the way his hand hovers over the trackpad that whatever’s next is different.
“This might be a bit of a jump,” he says. “But I need you to watch with the same openness. Don’t try to force a reaction. Don’t fight it either. Just… observe.”
He hits play.
Two guys. College-aged. One built like a linebacker, the other leaner, wiry.
They’re in a locker room and within seconds they’re all over each other.
Kissing. Grabbing. Hands everywhere. Hard cocks and heavy balls.
It’s aggressive. The big one shoves the other guy against the lockers hard enough to rattle the metal.
It feels wrong watching this. But I force myself not to be a pussy about it. Just a stimulus. That’s what the doc said.
They’ve moved to a bench now. The lean one is on all fours and the big guy is... Jesus. He’s eating him out. Really going to town. And the smaller guy is pushing back against his face, groaning, begging for it.
My dick stays soft. Not a twitch.
“See?” I point at my lap. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. You happy now? I’m not gay. I told you.” I’m so relieved I could laugh. I was actually starting to believe him for a second. What a joke.
He plays other scenes. Two guys kissing in a shower. A blowjob in a sauna. A rough fuck on a bearskin rug. A threesome with two dudes and a girl where the girl might as well be a potted plant for all the attention she gets.
Nothing. Nada. Zip.
My body is a statue. The only evidence of the entire afternoon is a phantom tingle where the doctor’s hands were. That was it. Just some weird one-off reflex. End of story.
“Alright,” Dr. Maren says, closing the laptop. The screen goes black, and I can see my face again. Smug. Vindicated. “No response to visual stimuli. Male or female. That’s notable.”
“Notable? It means I’m not into porn. Big deal. Most of it’s garbage anyway.”
“Your arousal isn’t triggered by watching others perform. You need to be directly involved.”
“Duh.” I’m feeling cocky now. “I’m an athlete, doc. A doer, not a watcher.”
He puts the laptop away, and I catch him adjusting himself in his scrubs—a quick, subtle movement. But I saw it. He got a little worked up from all that. I wonder which one did it for him. And fuck, why is that thought so sticky in my brain?
My dick throbs. Just a little. A ghost of a pulse.
What?
The smug look on my face drops. I stare down at my lap. My dick is paying attention again. But there’s no porn playing. The laptop is gone. The only thing in front of me is Dr. Maren, standing by the exam table, having just touched himself through his scrubs.
Why is that image stuck in my head? His hand, pressing against himself through the thin fabric. The outline of him. The way he tried to be subtle about it, like I wouldn’t notice. But I noticed. And now I’m wondering what it looks like under there. How big he is.
“Doc,” I say. My voice comes out hoarse. “This is gonna sound weird, but can you... can I see your…”
He turns around, eyebrow raised. “My…?”
“Just to know. To be sure.”
“Sure about what?”
This is my last chance to shut this down. Why am I even entertaining this? I should grab my sweats and get the hell out of this house. But I have to know. If my body is going to keep betraying me, I need to understand why. I’m so fucking sick of not knowing.
“Can you show me your dick, doc?”