15. Wet Dreams
FIFTEEN
wet dreams
Dahlia
Suck my cock, Dahlia. Take my fat load down your throat like the dirty slut you are.
Maybe if you’re lucky I’ll let you come.
Fingers thread through my hair, tightening, as I hollow my cheeks, doubling my efforts to make the strong man above me come.
You like that, don’t you? My pretty bitch likes to be degraded, how cute.
Mmmmf, just like that. You’re gonna make me come, Princess. ”
The obnoxious shrill of my alarm pierces the air at the ungodly hour of 7 AM and I’m jolted awake from an extremely vivid dream. My fingers drift to my lips, raw from biting them in my sleep.
When I think back to the erotic movie playing through my sleepy brain, I realize the hands gripping my hair were tattooed in a familiar way, the gruff voice so similar to the one I talk to on the phone before bed.
My face flames with the realization my slutty wet dream was of Wesley. As embarrassed as I am, I’m also devastated there’s no time to really indulge the fantasy with my hands between my legs before class.
Shrugging on a pair of black leggings and a well-worn band T-shirt, I’m readying myself for school when the star of my naughty dreams texts me.
Wesley
Have a good day at school, princess. Hope it doesn’t suck dick, get a sweet treat before class, on me.
A notification comes through that he sent me ten dollars. As if I needed any more reasons to be obsessed with this man.
Dahlia
Thank you, my liege.
God, we are dorks.
Wesley
Wouldn’t have it any other way.
Iced strawberry matcha in hand, my beat up, checkered Vans carry my happy ass all the way to my seminar class. I send Wes a selfie, tongue out, enjoying his gift.
Class isn’t too bad today. Thankfully, the instructor took mercy on us and allowed us to discuss some broader mental health themes. My next two classes are community mental health and the thesis course. I’m not thrilled about my professor for the thesis, since he’s a hardass, but I’ll survive.
My community mental health professor is a lovely middle-aged woman, who I’ve had for two other classes. Professor Rosa Walton is smart as hell and always willing to help, which isn’t always the case in academia, as I’ve learned.
Following the dry droning of Dr. Kane, as well as thinly veiled threats disguised as expectations, I’m more anxious about my thesis than ever.
He made it seem like very few people do well without a heavy hand of guidance from him.
As if he’s some social work deity and not just another sweaty man with a god complex.
Professor Rosa’s energy is certainly kinder and more patient, exactly the kind of social worker I want to be one day.
Today’s class focuses on programs for the elderly, before she previews the plan for the remainder of the semester.
I take note of the weeks we’ll focus on grant writing.
They’re further away than I’d like, so I consider talking to her sooner about my ideas.
With a renewed zest for existing, I pack up to leave, stopping at the professor’s desk on the way out.
“Hi! I’m happy to be in your course again.
Community mental health is my area of interest so I’m really looking forward to the semester.
” My stomach knots as I wonder if I’m being awkward, but as I typically force myself to do, I continue.
“I was wondering if you’d be open to meeting with me to talk more about grant writing?
I’m kicking around some ideas for my thesis involving a grant.
It’s kind of a lofty goal, but I’m motivated.
Your feedback would mean so much to me.”
Asskisser alert, get a grip Dahlia!
“Dahlia, I was happy to see you signed up for this course. Your hard work hasn’t gone unnoticed in my prior classes, and this semester will be no different.
I’d love to chat with you more about your ideas.
It’s last minute, but I don’t have another meeting until this afternoon, if you’d like to talk now?
Otherwise, we can coordinate when it works best for you. ”
I’m beaming at her words, the praise washing over me like a balm and her willingness to help means so much to me. “Now would be great. This was my last class and all these ideas are bouncing around in my head lately. It would help to get them out and in the right direction.”
My brain is exhausted, but I’m so excited at the progress Professor Rosa and I made today.
She was able to point me in the direction of an organization who handles grants for up and coming programs, Mental Health Marvels.
I don’t know the first thing about grant writing and I’m still trying to sort through the impending doom of my thesis, but she felt confident I could find a way to tie the two together in one big project.
It kind of feels like I’m putting all my eggs in one basket, but I’ve thought this through enough to hyper fixate on getting it done.
When I reach the apartment, I blast some music and boil water for butter noodles. I’m not a chef and a busy ass day calls for my favorite gourmet comfort meal. Daphne’s working at Purple Rage tonight, so Fernando and I have the place to ourselves.
Today went better than I thought it would, much like my life most of the time. I spend so much time planning for the worst case scenario—someone will yell at me, I’ll get kicked out of school, I’ll make a fool of myself—the reality of my life is actually quite boring.
The way my brain functions is annoying as all hell, but on days like today, I ride the high of my perceived success. The alternative being anxiety suffocating me until I question why anything I do even matters.
With my noodles buttered, music off and the TV queued up to play an old rom-com, I eat and think about where I’m headed.
Logically, I know I should try therapy again after the disaster of going as a kid. There’s probably an unbelievable amount of traumatized children who grow up to work in the mental health field, and I’m certainly padding that statistic.
Grandma did her best to get me to open up and find someone to trust, but it felt like no one got me. Maybe that sounds like a typical emo teenager—it’s not a phase, Mom—but it was my reality.
There was no way to explain the intense fear I felt over nothing, the paralyzing ice flooding my veins when I felt like I had no control.
I couldn’t put words to it and it was torture.
Anytime I wanted to open up to someone, their patronizing comments made sure I locked my words up, again and again.
In high school, I took a basic intro to psych class and from there, I didn’t look back. I wanted to become the person I needed when I was younger, and that’s the goal playing in my head on repeat when I’m ready to give up.
I’m sure there are plenty of wonderful therapists out there who wouldn’t judge me for needing support. Right? If there’s a way to get out of my own way, I should take it.
I balance the bowl of noodles on the couch and scroll my phone, looking through the therapist directory.
The first three results? Professors at my school and the supervisor of my first year internship.
No, thank you. The social work grad program really emphasizes self-care and reflection to make sure we’re taking care of ourselves as the next wave of helpers.
That doesn’t mean it’s any easier for me to accept that I’m the one who needs help.
The disappointment sits on my chest like a lead vest, but it’s probably for the best if I manage this on my own. I have to. Or at least that’s the lie I tell myself to make neglecting my mental health okay.