Chapter 8 #2
“So my dick’s basically staging a protest,” I say.
She grins. “If you want to put it that way, yes.”
That gets a proper laugh out of me. Short, surprised, a bit rusty.
“What I’m hearing,” she continues, “is a man who’s used to being ahead suddenly finding himself in unfamiliar territory. Responsibility without a script. Intimacy without distance. A future that isn’t neatly mapped out.”
I swallow. “I don’t like improvising.”
“Most people don’t,” she says. “Especially high-functioning ones.”
I rub my thumb along my finger again, slower this time. “What do I do,” I ask, “if I can’t fix it?”
She leans forward slightly. Not crowding.
Just present. “You stop asking your body to perform while your life is recalibrating,” she says.
“You take pressure off intimacy. You allow closeness without expectation. And you get curious about what you’re really feeling, rather than what you think you should be feeling. ”
I grimace. “That sounds like work.”
She nods. “It is. But it’s different work. Less about control. More about honesty.”
I sit with that. The room feels quieter now. Not tense. Just… attentive.
“And the brother thing?” I ask. “The being-the-oldest-and-still-single thing?”
She tilts her head. “That sounds like grief.”
I blink. “For what?”
“For the version of yourself who thought he’d be first,” she says gently. “First to settle. First to arrive. Instead of first to change direction.”
That lands harder than anything else she’s said.
I exhale slowly.
“So I’m not broken,” I say.
“No,” she replies. “You’re adjusting to a life that asks something different of you.”
I lean back again, slower this time.
Which feels like progress. Or exhaustion. Hard to tell.
Pee-Pee watches me for a moment, then speaks carefully, like she’s lining something up rather than dropping it on my head.
“What I’m hearing,” she says, “is that when you talk about relationships, you don’t actually talk about sex very much.”
I blink. “That’s because we’ve spent the last hour talking about my spectacular lack of it.”
She smiles. “And yet.”
I frown, considering that. I don’t like it when she’s right without effort.
“You light up when you talk about your brothers,” she continues. “Not their milestones. Their relationships. The way they exist alongside someone.”
I open my mouth to disagree. Close it again.
“Do you want what they have?” she asks.
The question is simple. That’s what makes it dangerous.
“I think so,” I say. “Yes.”
“And do you know how to build that?” she asks.
I wait for an answer to arrive.
Nothing does.
My mouth opens. Closes. I huff out a breath. I’m starting to resemble a goldfish.
“No,” I admit. “I’m very good at the beginning. The easy bit. The chemistry. The attraction. I’m less good once it gets… real.”
She nods, looking not the least bit surprised by my revelation.
“For a long time,” she says, “your life rewarded movement and novelty. Short connections made sense. They were enjoyable. Low risk.”
“And now they’re not,” I say.
“And now they’re not,” she agrees. “Because what you’re craving isn’t novelty. It’s familiarity. Safety. Being known.”
That word makes something twist in my chest.
“Being known is… uncomfortable,” I say.
“Intimacy often is if you are not used to it. She leans forward slightly. “So let me ask you something,” she says. “When you date, how quickly does it become sexual?”
I hesitate. “First date… maybe the second if I’m extra patient.”
“Because that’s what you want,” she says, not unkindly.
“Because that’s what I know how to do,” I correct.
She nods. “Exactly.”
She sits back, giving the idea space.
“What would happen,” she says, “if you took sex off the table for a while?”
I stare at her.
“I’m sorry, what?”
She raises an eyebrow. “Temporarily.”
I laugh. It bursts out of me, sharp and disbelieving. “You’re aware of why I’m here, yes?”
“Very much so,” she says calmly. “This is precisely why I’m suggesting it.”
I shake my head. “That feels counterintuitive at best.”
“Right now,” she says, “sex is loaded. It’s carrying performance, expectation, identity, and fear of failure. That’s a lot to ask of anyone’s nervous system.”
I rub a hand over my face. “And your solution is… no sex.”
“My suggestion,” she says, “is that you learn how to connect without using sex as the shortcut.”
Shortcut. That stings.
“You don’t really know yet,” she continues, “how to build the closeness you admire in your brothers’ relationships. You’ve skipped straight to the part that used to work and hoped the rest would follow.”
I think of dinners that didn’t matter. Beds I left quietly. The way intimacy has always been something I did, not something I stayed for.
“That’s uncomfortably accurate,” I say.
She smiles. “I’m good at my job.”
“So what?” I say, “I go on dates and… what? Hold hands?”
“Talk,” she says. “Listen. Be curious. Let someone see you without the distraction of sex.”
“And how long am I meant to do this?”
She considers. “Long enough that it stops feeling like deprivation and starts feeling like choice.”
I sit with that. My brain is already trying to turn it into something manageable. Something with edges.
“A ban,” I say.
She blinks. “I wouldn’t use that word.”
“I would,” I say, because suddenly it makes sense. “Temporary. Clear. No ambiguity.”
She studies me. “You like rules.”
“I like knowing where the lines are,” I say.
“And what would you call this rule?” she asks, curious now.
I huff a laugh. “The Bedroom Ban.”
She smiles slowly. “Catchy.”
“And the point,” I confirm, “is to actually get to know someone. Without pressure. Without… expectations.”
“Yes,” she says. “And to see what happens to your body when intimacy isn’t being graded.”
That lands.
“And if it doesn’t work?” I ask.
“Then we learn something,” she says. “Which is still progress.”
I stare at the ceiling.
No sex. Just connection.
It sounds simple.
Which probably means it isn’t.
“And you think this might help?” I ask.
“I think,” she says, “it will tell us a great deal.”
I nod slowly.
I came here hoping for a fix.
Instead, I’ve been given an experiment.
And, somehow, that feels exactly right.