EPISODE 7 - SEX THERAPY (FAMILY FRIENDLY)

The seminarian slept in my arms; even though he was the dom, he had crawled into my armpit and snuggled against me, little spoon style. 

Asking him to stay was a leap I was glad I took. Several times during the night, terror took hold and I grounded myself by holding on tighter to his body. 

“Morning,” he whispered. 

“Morning.”

“I didn’t want to wake you.” 

“It’s OK.” I shrugged. 

“I’m sorry but I have to rush, it’s morning prayers and I simply can’t be late.” He had to climb over me to get out of the bed and I felt him hesitating. We were face to face, so close. He got off the bed and stood in front of me in all of his naked glory. 

“What time is it?” I asked. 

“6am! I know, I know, I’m sorry. Can I use your shower?”

“Don’t be silly, of course. There is a fresh towel in the cupboard.” 

As he walked out of the room, I stared at his incredible ass. 

I got up too and made us both coffee. He stepped out of the shower fully dressed and ready to go. I handed him a cup. 

“I can’t. I have to rush to mine and change before I get to Mass.” 

“Thank you for staying the night. Really. You made all the difference.”

“It’s nothing. We’re also mates and mates have to be there for each other.” 

“That was so cheesy!” I winked. “Alright, shoo!”  

As the door closed behind him, I realised he had taken two showers in less than 8 hours. I wondered if he was rubbing the sin away. 

I sat on the sofa with two cups of coffee and nothing to do. The sun hadn’t come up yet so I sank deeper into the sofa. What do I do now? I sipped from one of the cups. So. My mind went blank. What could I possibly say? Think? Overthink? That I have a tumour, that it’s somewhere inside of my head, possibly touching my brain—What’s the point? There is nothing I can do. I can’t remove it myself. I can’t shrink it gone. I can’t diet it gone. I can’t exercise it gone. I can’t even fuck it gone. It’s there. Right in the middle of everything. Right in the middle of my fucking head. I tapped my forehead with the palm of my hand, I wanted to hurt it. So I kept hitting. Fuck off! Fuck right off! Again and again, I hit my head. All I managed was to hurt myself and spill my coffees all over the sofa. I screamed. My insides ravaged by the rawness of the cry. I wanted to rage and break everything. But everything there was mine. My pragmatism always won in the end. Instead, I got up and headed to the kitchen to get what I needed to fix my mess. I dabbed the fabric with a cloth, and sprayed some anti-stain serum which wetted the fabric further. I dabbed and dabbed some more. I’d have to wait for the sofa to dry now. I stared at the wet patch, a cloth in one hand and the spray bottle in the other. Is that what life is? Just fucking cleaning up messes after messes? 

I thought about the bed bug infestation I had finally been able to clear; the washing machine that had broken down and that I had to replace; the shower dampening the downstairs neighbour’s ceiling that I needed to fix up, again; the air conditioning that refused to work; the constant pain in my shoulder; my tinnitus; the taxes I was filing; the paperwork that never ended; how my plants were dying because I wasn’t taking care of them; how everything was getting dirty because I couldn’t face cleaning up—argh! 

The anger rose in me again, threatening to devour everything in its path. I looked at my favourite trinkets and dared myself to smash them against the wall. I thought about jumping out of the balcony. 

Could I jump out of the balcony? Is it high enough to actually kill me? 

Knowing my luck, I would have ended up paralysed and in a worse shape than I already was. I put the spray bottle away instead. 

I remembered what my therapist had said to me years ago: you always had two choices: “accept or change.” What am I fucking supposed to do? Am I supposed to accept that my life is over? I was just getting started. It’s not fucking fair. It took me so long to finally be in a good place. To finally claim the space that was mine. And now, what? Now, I die? Or I spend whatever little time I have left trying not to die as I become less and less autonomous. That also means no more romantic partners, probably no more hooking up, no more falling in love. What can you possibly build when you’re not even sure you’re gonna be there next year? Who would give you the time of day? Who would risk getting involved? 

Why am I so focused on getting a man? The fuck? 

The sun started to fill the room with a warm glow. I moved to the balcony to let it warm my skin. I closed my eyes and bathed in the heat. 

That’s it, that’s all there is. No more tomorrows. Just this, right now. Some sun on my skin. No more plans. No more trips. No Thailand. No wedding. No fiftieth birthday week bingeing Broadway show. No more love stories. No second home by the beach. No clothes line. No, just no. 

Even if Bruno wasn’t actively nibbling through my head (yet—already?), he was taking all of the space. There seemed to be no corner of me that was not consumed by his presence. He was slowly driving me into madness, taking any inch of bandwidth left. I took a Lorazepam to stop me from spiraling. I knew it wouldn’t be enough. I picked up my phone, opened Grindr and looked for someone to fuck the pain into silence. Mr Big had done the trick; I was hoping for a repeat. 

Some rando showed up at my door half an hour later. 

“Hey!”

“Hey.” He walked into the living room and took off all of his clothes as he made his way to the sofa. He sat, completely naked and fully erect. I kneeled down instantly, and took his cock in my mouth. He didn’t say much but watched me hungrily. I worked on him for a good fifteen minutes before he spurted with a hoarse groan. He got dressed and left as he had come. I poured myself a cup of coffee. I checked Grindr — he had already blocked me. Men! 

I needed to wash him off me. My ego couldn’t take being blocked while I  was still tasting him in my mouth. The next one arrived shortly after. We made out for a long while. He was a good kisser and I loved how he moaned. Slowly, we took off all of our clothes and rubbed against each other on the sofa. He leaned away to get a good look at me and said, “¡Qué guapo!” His tongue explored my mouth with an intensity I had yearned for. I grabbed his dick and started stroking gently and his head rolled back. He pulled me in for a kiss, his eyes wild. I fantasised about an afternoon full of sex but before I knew it, he had jizzed all over my chest. I watched him put all of his clothes back on in awkward silence. “I needed that, thanks!” And he was off. The fuck!  

I sat there, the semen becoming stickier in my chest hair. I was turned on. I wanted more but I was also fuming. Fuming he had cum so fast—fucking fuming he had left without taking care of me. That was not the deal. Fuming he went from begging for more to barely acknowledging I was even in the room, in my own living room. I was pacing, sticky and half-naked, fingers playing with the cum on my tits. I realised that the lust and then the anger had kept the despair away. There was a way out. There was a way to keep Bruno out of my head. At least, out of my thoughts for a while. I was going to fuck my mind into stillness.

The following few days became a blur. I held onto sex like a buoy. Bodies of all shapes and sizes came and went. I was eager, ravenous. I couldn’t be satisfied. I wasn’t asking for validation. I wasn’t asking for love. I wasn’t asking for anything more than to be used, to force my senses to overload my mind so that it wouldn’t think, couldn’t think. The body over the mind; it was the only card I had left to play.  

I found myself at the end of a particularly intense session, curled up against a visiting doctor. He was everything one dreamed of: a disarming smile, a genuinely sweet personality, long luscious eyelashes and the body of a fantasy. He didn’t have abs. He had sharp grooves in between each perfectly defined muscle, I was nestled in his armpit, I playfully traced each of them with my finger. 

“I have a brain tumour.” I blurted out. Fuck! Why did I fucking just say that? I wasn’t even thinking about it. 

He didn’t move, didn’t flinch. 

“Shit! That must be hard. How are you holding up?”

“I’m fucking it away.” He laughed. 

“I hope I helped.” 

“You did.” And he very much had. 

“I find that people usually think it’s their fault when they get sick. Like they’re being punished or something. My mum was like that when she had cancer. She kept saying that Jesus was punishing her. She never said for what though.” I was stunned. I didn’t know how to respond. 

“I try to tell her: It’s not your fault, mum. It’s nobody’s fault! Nobody deserves to be in pain.” The hot doctor was talking to the ceiling. “I have patients like that. They are so angry. They keep screaming at me that they haven’t done anything wrong their whole lives, that this doesn’t make any kind of sense. All I usually say is to trust that I will take care of them to the best of my ability. That science has made incredible advancements.” He didn’t squeeze me while he talked, which I appreciated. It almost felt like he was just thinking out loud. Jeez, my pillow talk needs work!

Something he said struck me: “It’s not your fault.” 

At least, it’s not my fault. I sighed heavily. It’s not my fault! It’s not… I didn’t cause this. I didn’t. I mean, I would love to fucking blame it on someone, anyone. But that someone isn’t me. 

I snuggled into his muscles.  

It’s not my fault. 

When I woke up the doctor had gone. I didn’t know his name. Men come and run, even the best of them. I got up, poured myself a cup of coffee and stared at my wall of dicks. I had started keeping score the day the neurosurgeon told me about Bruno. I decided to draw every penis I encountered on my kitchen wall. The white tiles were being filled with multicolored cocks of different sizes and girth, balls and all. It was crude. It amused me. I dated each one like a painter signs his latest piece. I used erasable board markers from my teacher’s supplies and colour-coded them all. In red, the new shags; in blue, the returning shags; in green, the terrible ones and in black I circled the ones that happened simultaneously. It brightened the kitchen, gave it an edge. It might be all I leave behind. 

I took my Prep and washed it down with coffee. I grabbed a red marker and added the doctor’s 8 inches to the mural. 

It was barely 8 o’clock. I had an appointment with the neurosurgeon at 9:30. 

It’s not my fault.