Chapter 2 Sex Brain
SEX brAIN
Michelle
No denying it—sex was on my mind.
Dirty, sweaty, slick sex. Limo sex. Office sex. Swanky-nightclub-bathroom sex.
Unfortunately, none of these were tied to my own sex life. No, these images were all about my client’s philandering husband.
And I was dying to shout, “Leave him!”
But Shayla had to come to that realization on her own. I knew that. Still, it was patently obvious to me: she should leave that cad of a husband and kick him in the balls while she was at it.
“I just keep thinking about The Owl, Miss Milo—sorry, Michelle,” she said, her voice wobbling as she wiped a tear streaking her mascara down one porcelain cheek.
I nodded encouragingly. Using my first name meant Shayla was finally starting to open up, after a month of twice-weekly sessions.
“It has these low lights, almost like a blue glow, and the bathroom is all tiled in black. I had such great memories of our time there.” She paused, sniffing. “It was our place, back when I used to want to have sex with him.”
I pulled a tissue from the box beside me and handed it to her. Shayla dabbed her face, sinking lower into the couch across from me. The abstract prints on the wall framed her slumped shoulders, as if the art mirrored her turmoil.
“What bothers you most?” I asked gently. “Is it that he slept with another woman? Or that he slept with her someplace that was special to you? Or is it something else?”
She bit her lip and looked away, her jaw set like she was holding all her fears inside.
I leaned forward slightly, careful not to push too hard. “At our last session you were mentioning feeling like you were somehow at fault for his infidelity. What did you mean by that?”
Shayla’s voice was a squeak. “It is my fault. I haven’t wanted to have sex ever since we had kids.”
“And you think that makes it your fault that he’s cheating on you?”
“Isn’t it?”
I shook my head, keeping my voice steady.
“Of course not. He’s responsible for his actions, Shayla.
Only you can decide whether you want to hold him accountable for them.
But let’s also get at the root of why you feel this way.
We spend a lot of time focusing on him and his choices.
Let’s focus on you—why you don’t want to have sex with him anymore.
Because that started before he began cheating. ”
This was why she was here—to work through her intimacy struggles. I saw those fears sitting heavy in her stiff posture, in her darting eyes. I had to help her untangle them. The issue was compounded by her husband being a complete ass, but there was time to address him later.
“Let’s talk about why…”
Forty-five minutes later, I smiled at Shayla as she gathered her things. She’d made progress today—not huge leaps, but enough to feel like we were moving forward. Some days, therapy was a glacier, and some days, it was a cheetah. Either way, movement was what mattered.
After Shayla left, I turned back to my laptop to review tomorrow’s schedule.
Another full day, including a new client consultation.
But first, I had a presentation tonight—a sexuality conference, where I’d be sharing some of my research on sex and love addiction.
It was an honor to speak, especially since Carla Kimberly, a mentor and longtime supporter of mine, had invited me.
I smoothed my pencil skirt, adjusted the collar of my white blouse, and swapped my flats for black pumps. As I grabbed my work phone, I saw the battery was nearly dead. Crap.
With a sigh, I forwarded calls to my personal phone and stopped in the office bathroom to brush my teeth and touch up my lipstick.
There. Ready for my quick meeting at The Pierson.
The thought made me laugh softly to myself. Quick meeting at The Pierson. Quickie. If only I were having a different kind of quickie tonight. It had been a while since I’d indulged in one of those.
I’d dated an actor named Liam in the spring. He’d been charming, capable, and fantastic with his hands. But even when he had me pressed against a wall, I’d been thinking about someone else—Clay. My very good friend, Clay.
And the man I’d been madly in love with for ten years.
Unfortunately, Clay was also my brother’s best friend. And, as of a month ago, he was happily married.
To someone else.
Yep. Manhattan’s go-to therapist for intimacy issues was also a walking, talking oxymoron. I helped others heal from heartbreak, while my own heart was a certified disaster zone.
I was trying to move on. I blasted anti-love songs in my apartment, bowled with colleagues, and even ran a 10K last month. Running wasn’t my favorite, but pounding the pavement helped numb the ache of unrequited love.
Still, the best method of forgetting Clay was my work. It was my passion, my anchor. The chance to help others change and become healthier was my greatest joy—maybe one of these days, I could figure out how to do it for myself.
With that in mind, I headed to The Pierson Hotel.
The place oozed upscale decadence, from the neon-lit lobby bar to the designer drinks in thin, toweringly tall glasses. As I waited for the elevator, I caught sight of a man in the bar.
He was gorgeous—broad chest, dark wavy hair, and eyes so blue they practically glowed.
I couldn’t help myself. I lingered. And for a moment, I thought he was looking back at me, his gaze cutting across the open lobby.
My cheeks warmed as I stepped into the elevator. Maybe I’d remember his face later—just in case I needed a face to pair with my fantasies. After all, a little imagination never hurt anyone.