then dives.
It rings.
And rings.
And my heart is doing CrossFit.
Click.
“Dr. Mitchell’s office. This is Dr. Mitchell.”
My eyes widen.Shit.
She doesn’t have a receptionist or something?
Is this hercell phonenumber?
Celie got it like that?
I clear my throat.
“Hi, Dr. Mitchell, yes, this is Celie.”
“Remember me?”
Pause.
“Celie, it’s been a while. How are you?”
“Not good,” I blurt. “Spiraling. Emotional sepsis. High oxytocin, low impulse control. Need help. Got some questions. Rapid-fire. I’ll be brief, cool?”
I don’t wait for permission.
“Let’s say there’s this person—hypothetically—who runs her life by a‘no feelings, only orgasms’policy, and she stumbles into a once-in-a-lifetime connection. With a sincere guy. A monogamist. Who cried post handjob, then waited every night for twenty-eight nights for her to return. Do you think it could end without either of them dying or…?”
Silence.
“…. is this Allison?”
I clutch the phone tighter and whisper-yell.
“Okay, Dr. FBI. Calm your HIPAA. Yes, it’s me. No, I don’t have a therapist of my own. Yes, this is emotional identity theft. But you answered, so technically that’s consent. Can we move on?”
She sighs, betrayed but still professional.
“What’s going on?”
“Oh, buckle up.”
I drop to the edge of the tub,
phone in one hand, forehead in the other,
moral compass smashed to pieces all around me.
“Picture this. You spend your whole adult life building a system. Not a life. A system, with contracts, rules, men trained to worship your orgasms, but none allowed to want more. That was the rule. That’s how I kept my head above water.”
“...Go on," she says.
