Page 11 of Stanton Adore

Abbie shakes her head in disgust. “You’re missing out. One day you are going to be forty-five, married and bored as hell and you’ll look back to these years and think I wish I had slept with all those hunks that were hot for me when I had the chance, and my body was smoking hot. You know the well dries up and turns into cellulite.”

I smile at her. “It’s OK, Abbs, I’m pretty sure you’re fucking enough for the three of us.”

She scrunches up her napkin and throws it at me and we all giggle.

“OK, back to you, Bridget. I think we need to set a trap.” I smile as I call the waitress over to order more coffees.

“Ohh, I do like your wicked mind,” she purrs.

“Now let me think.” As I rub my chin.

The movie screen plays a rerun.

“Natasha, make love to me. I need this connection with you.” His lips linger over mine tenderly. “It won’t hurt as much this time, baby. It’s getting easier, isn’t it?” His open mouth runs down the length of my neck.

Buzz. “Natasha, your ten o’clock is here.”

I rein in my now-pounding heart. “OK, thanks, Marg.” I buzz her. What the hell. Christ, how can he still affect me this much after seven years apart? I drop my glasses and put my face into my hands on my desk. With my left hand I rub my face in disgust. I literally still have a physical effect from my memories of this man. Why can’t I stop thinking about him? My heart rate, my breathing. I’m wet for fuck’s sake. Good god! With disgust I head to the bathroom, shaking my head.

Five minutes later, I stare into the mirror in my office bathroom and blow out a deep breath. I look like crap. I wash my face and pull my shoulder-length chocolate hair back into a ponytail. I am in my green scrubs, a mandatory uniform at SSAC, which stands for Sydney Sexual Awareness Clinic. Our boss feels it desexualizes us. If we are all wearing hospital scrubs, we look more professional, more clinical. I have to agree. I actually look sexless. I could be male or female and you wouldn’t be able to tell. I don’t wear any makeup to work as a twenty-four-year-old, perhaps semi-attractive female. I try to play down my looks.

My patients are damaged, beautiful but damaged. They all have a problem relating to sex or sexualization. They don’t need a psychologist throwing her sexuality and seemingly normal life in their face. What a joke. The irony is I’m just as damaged as them. Some days I feel like I should be the one on the black leather recliner chair telling them my problems, venting my insecurities. Today being a prime example. I take a deep breath and talk out loud to myself, like a total nut case. You’re just unsettled because he’s coming back. I take a deep steadying breath. He’s long forgotten you, Natasha, it’s time you forget him. With a resigned shake of my head, I mutter into the mirror. I wish.

I read through my clinical notes.

Patient: Bethany Marcus

Symptoms: Anorgasmia/inability to orgasm

Clinical Notes: Bethany has been unsuccessful in climaxing for a period of three years. It began when she went through a traumatic experience, i.e., her husband had a twelve-month affair. The marriage has survived; however, Bethany has been troubled since the ordeal. Bethany also suffers violent sexual dreams, which are distressing to her. Bethany blames herself for her husband’s infidelity.

Aim: Bethany would like to stay happily married to her husband, Anthony. She would like to fulfil her role as a wife and mother to her family. Bethany would like to be able to forgive her husband and resume a satisfying sexual relationship with him.

I blow out a breath. I really like my next patient. Bethany is beautiful and smart, with absolutely no confidence. Her cockroach of a husband has done a total number on her and then lets her blame herself for his inability to keep it in his pants. If I had my way, I would just tell her to leave him, but I can’t do that. I have to help her work toward her goal, which unfortunately is a happy life with Anthony. I would like to see Anthony but Bethany won’t allow it.

I open my office door.

“Hi, Bethany.” She smiles shyly and walks into my office. I gesture for her to take a seat. “How have you been since I last saw you?” I ask.

“Not very well,” she quietly answers.

“Oh, why is that?” I ask. She stays silent as I sit and wait for her answer. Sometimes waiting for answers is the hardest part of this role. She shrugs her shoulders.

“I see.”

“How have you been?” she asks me, and I smile. This is typical Bethany; she always puts others before herself and she sees me as a person and not just her therapist.

“Me? I’m good,” I answer. “A little demotivated this week.” I shrug and smile. “You know how it is.” She nods, grateful that my life isn’t perfect. “Tell me what’s happening,” I urge.

“Anthony told me I am terrible in bed.” Her devastated eyes meet mine. What the fuck.

“How did this come about?” I ask, trying to control my anger.

This guy is a total worm.

“We were in bed and you know my problem.” I nod and stay silent. “I just can’t come, I don’t know why. It doesn’t matter what I do, what I think about, it just doesn’t happen.”

“I see.” I nod. “And what happened then?” I keep my voice monotone so as to not throw her train of thought.