Before trotting into the kitchen, I turned on the television in my living room to watch another episode of All The Queen's Men. Then I got started on my grilled chicken. While it was sizzling in the pan, I prepared my salad, then opened my personal laptop to browse. Nothing in particular, but I wanted to look into booking a massage at Bow Tie. The second my cursor clicked on the browser, the ad popped up, making my heart skip beats.
"I thought I closed this shit," I muttered to myself as I browsed the questionnaire. The questions were detailed, clinical, and surprisingly thoughtful. They asked about my sexual history, masturbation habits, what I'd tried, what felt good, my fantasies if any, my fears, and my expectations.
There was a section about boundaries and consent that was refreshingly thorough. Another section about health and STI testing, a financial disclosure form, and a liability waiver. At the bottom was a text box asking:Why do you want to do this?
Staring hard, my nude-colored almond-shaped nails tapped against the keyboard, and before I knew it, I began filling out thequestionnaire, leaving nothing unsaid—telling way too much of my damn business.
Chapter Two
I want to know what I’m missing. I want to understand my own body. I want to stop feeling broken—stop feeling different. I want to experience pleasure the way other women do. I want to stop being afraid that I’ll never be able to have a fulfilling sexual relationship because of this. I want to feel whole.
Over and over again, I read my paragraph, trying to make sure I wasn’t saying too much or not saying enough. Before I could talk myself out of it, I hit submit and released a sharp exhale. Staring blankly again once more, this time at the confirmation email, I bit down on my nails, a disgusting habit I accumulated when I was in college, and I did it anytime I was nervous. Snapping out of a trance was the smell of my grilled chicken burning on the stove.
“Shit,” I hissed as I stood up in a hurry and fast paced my steps inside the kitchen. I grabbed the tongs and flipped them over, thankfully they weren’t burnt. Once the other side was cooked to my liking, I sliced them to my liking and placed them on top of my delicious salad. Taking a small bite, I did a minidance, releasing a low moan because it was delicious, but also, I hadn’t put anything on my stomach since this morning when I ate a blue berry muffin, yogurt parfait, orange juice and a boiled egg.
That salad didn’t last long at all, and I wasn’t trying to savor a piece. I tore that salad up and caught up on my favorite show with my feet propped up. Long after I hadn’t realized I dozed off on the couch until something from the television startled me out of my sleep. Frowning, I grabbed the remote off the arm of the couch and turned it down.
I grabbed my phone from beside me and glanced at the time.
3:23 a.m.
There were also mass notifications from my student portal, but there was only one that stood out like a sore thumb.
Dear Nyne,
Thank you for your application. I’ve reviewed your questionnaire carefully, and I believe I can help you. Your situation is not uncommon—many women struggle with anorgasmia for phycological rather than physical reasons. The good news is that with patience, the right techniques, and a safe environment, most women can learn to orgasm.
I have an opening in six weeks. If you’re interested, please review the attached contract and let me know. Once you’ve signed, I’ll send you detailed instructions for travel arrangements and what to bring.
I look forward to working with you.
Syx.
My thumb hovered over the contract attached to the email and it was thorough, professional and surprisingly reassuring. It outlined exactly what would happen: two weeks on his private island, daily sessions focused on sexual education and exploration, complete confidentiality, clear boundaries around consent. For at any reason I can stop and if I’m not satisfied, I can request a full refund.
There was also a clause stating that while the experience would involve sexual contact, it was educational in nature and not on prostitution. Syx was licensed as a sex therapist and somatic practitioner.
Boldy, I signed it.
Everything was clear and set in stone, so there was no need to pivot. Maybe the push from Emma last night was all I needed. Much to my dismay, she’d keep her foot on my neck if I chickened out, but as nervous as I was, I needed this.
Logging into my job portal, I put in time for a sabbatical leave. I don’t take time off often, minus family vacations or anything focal but never impromptu—never felt the need too because I love teaching students. Of course aside from major holidays, which doesn’t count. I needed this shit and time off is well deserved, given how hard I work my ass off.
When the divorce became final and most of my business went public most of my colleagues felt like I’d quit as if that amount money was enough to make me quit, or that it was optional and that was never the case.
Staying ahead of schedule, I reserved a fully body wax appointment, including a Brazilian and butt strip. My nail tech had an opening then I scheduled an appointment to get my hair braided in some bohemian knotless braids. For some reason, blue water and palm trees meant boho braids or Jah locs. I never wore my real hair when vacationing anyway.
Randomly, I scrolled to Instagram and put his name in the search bar.
S-y-x.
My eyes squinted at the bright screen and there were a few guys with the profile name, but they weren’t him—at least they didn’t fit the profile. These guys appeared to be family men, and their profiles didn’t look like they’d be sex therapist. Exiting Instagram I lingered over to Facebook to lurk, but I came up short too. Probing further, I researched the name of the resort and came up with nothing, which made me wonder if the name even existed or what type of place it was.
If I don’t know nothing else, I know that women brag. We brag about good dick, sex and men—anything and as hyped Emma was, I’m sure there were other women who became involved in the same thing and nothing was ever mentioned…EVER! That sounds impossible, unless he makes them sign NDA’s, then it all makes sense if that’s the case.
Nothing bothering to probe further, I stood from the couch and sauntered inside my bedroom so I could continue to get some rest.
7:30 a.m.
