Chapter 2 #3
“That depends on what it is. It could be a theatre planning committee or a freshman tour guide position. Someplace where everyone is doing the same thing and you’re a small part of it.”
That sounds… boring.
Am I so pathetic that this is her go-to? Freshman tour guide? Forget the fact that it took me seventeen minutes to find my way to the food hall yesterday.
“I think I can do better than that,” I say. And already, it feels like an overpromise.
There’s got to be something better. Something more… enticing. Igniting. Something that makes me feel…alive.
It would still have to be limited visibility. Like I’m not auditioning for the school play or anything—I have boundaries. “Maybe I can start a blog?” My voice heightens like this is the best idea I’ve had all day.
Bree deadpans me. “A faceless blog?”
“Obviously.”
“No.”
I deflate. “Well, I’ve got nothing.”
“Look, I’m not asking you to try out for head cheerleader here. Just find someplace you can express yourself around others with the same interests.”
My interests.
Do I have interests?
All I’ve done for the last six years is play it safe. Blend into the background. My interests involve avoiding eye contact and keeping my heart rate under control.
“Ok,” I sigh. “I’ll see what I can find around campus.”
“Great. And keep an open mind. Everything’s fair game, even a Halloween masquerade or sporting event. So long as it involves more than your usual crowd.”
I chuckle. “You mean myself?”
She smiles sweetly. “Yes.”
I suck in a breath, then exhale with determination. Because Bree’s right.
I need an outlet. A way to be around people without feeling swallowed whole by them.
“Okay,” I assure her.
She gives me a single nod and an approving grin. “Well, we still have twenty minutes. Maybe now you can tell me why you’re camped out in a closet?”
Hours later, I’m still wide awake. But it has nothing to do with my surroundings. My thoughts are all tangled up in my discussion with Bree.
What I will do—join a social circle of some kind. What I won’t do—complain about my roommates to Student Housing.
And…the thing I barely allowed us to spend two minutes on in today’s session. Sex.
You don’t have to become some wildly confident different person first. The right guy will make you feel safe enough to figure it out as you go.
The right guy.
What does that even mean? The right guy now? Or the right guy forever?
And how am I supposed to look at someone long enough to just know?
I groan, sinking into my mattress, then jump at the sound of my phone buzzing next to me.
It’s a link from Bree. Followed by a text.
Bree: In the meantime...
I press the link and gasp when I realize what she’s sent me. Squinting at a variety of thumbnail-sized pink images, I click on one.
What the hell?
No…that’s not pornography.
Oh dear Lord, my therapist sent me a link to an online store for…yep…adult toys.
But do I shut it down and immediately terminate all future sessions with Bree? Nope. I click on each one. Oh and look, there are illustrated how-to videos.
What the hell does that one do?
Oh. Oh my.
Ooh this one comes in teal.
Only one size? Well, that can’t be right.
I hover over the button. “Fuck it.” Add to cart.
Immediately, like my fingers have a mind of their own, I hit continue shopping.
What the heck does this one do? I swipe through the photos and description.
“Christ,” I whisper, squirming in place, dropping the phone to my side in frustration. That aching pulse of need flares. The kind that leaves my skin warm, my heart racing, and my hand sliding between my legs.
Should I be concerned with how often I do this?
Or is the bigger concern that I’m never fully satisfied by the end of it?
I buck my hips against my palm, my fingers as deep as they can go, rubbing and chasing a release I know won’t be nearly enough.
I let myself imagine what it would be like to let myself go. To stop overthinking and just feel. To let someone else take the reins in making me come undone. Stronger. Harder. Longer. Rougher hands.
My fingers don’t leave me entirely disappointed, but they do leave me writhing and hungry for more.
But more means…surrendering control. And I’m not even sure I know how to do that, much less want to.
Doing so would mean being seen, understood… unraveled in ways I’ve been craving.
But at what price? Where will it leave me after all the pleasure? What if I want more and the guy doesn’t? What if it turns out to be terrible and my expectations are crushed? What if I turn out to be terrible and become the joke between him and his friends?
My breath hitches and I apply pressure, rubbing against the friction, arching at the brink of bliss.
Yes. I exhale.
There.
I gasp at the onslaught of an orgasm, my heart racing wildly, nearly overpowering my climax. Sometimes I wonder if it’s part of the experience. Or just my fear of getting caught with my hand between my legs. The closet doesn’t exactly come with a lock.
I detonate all too quickly after it hits. My mouth dry, my thighs tense, my satisfaction mediocre.
The light above me finally flickers out and I reach for my phone.
Number seven in teal…continue to check-out.