Page 8 of Knot Broken

My phone rang when I got on the road. Glancing down at the screen was not smart at all, but when I saw who it was, I tapped the button on the steering wheel to answer it.

“Hey—” I started to say.

“Did you go through with it?” Helena’s voice blasted out of the car speakers, making me flinch. No chance of answering as she kept going. “You didn’t, did you? Look, it’s OK. I mean going from dusty, crusty Grant to three hotties is probably too big a step right out the gate, but damn….” I sucked in a breath, but was cut off again. “Anyway, me, you, a bottle of wine and some Chinese food⁠—”

“I did it.” There was no keeping the grin off my face. It wasn’t just the feel-good hormones that came from multiple orgasms. There was a bone deep satisfaction that came from finally, finally putting me first. While some part of me wanted to shrink back in horror at how bossy I had been, the other part was like a cat that got the cream. Smug. “Hel⁠—”

“YOU DID IT.” Resisting the urge to slap my hands over my ears was only possible because I’d go careening into the car in the next lane if I did. “Yes? Yes!” A muffled noise made me think she was probably doing a little victory dance right now. “Yeah, you did.” With a sigh, she settled down. “So, was it amazing? Please, please tell me it was amazing.”

“I’ll tell you all about it…” With a flick of the indicator, I turned left. “Tonight, over wine and Chinese food.”

“Chicken and cashews, Singapore noodles and you’re gonna give me all the details of your sweet and sour porking,” she crowed. “Six o’clock, bitch. I’ll be on your doorstep.”

Ending the call, I made my way home, and the drive had never been so peaceful. The sun shone a little brighter and cars seemed to just get out of my way. Another call came through when I was almost home, and for just a second, I frowned, seeing Brendan’s name pop up on my phone screen. He said we’d do a debrief afterwards, identify what went well and what needed work, but analysis was not the vibe right now. I’d get to it later, I decided, so I let it go to message bank.

Do it now or forget it even existed, that was my rule of thumb. Checking my messages or DMs when I woke up was a mistake as I’d read through them in a haze, then only remember to answer them weeks or months later. Perhaps that’s why I didn’t call back after I had a long, hot shower. Or maybe it was the soft, sweet ache that lingered, making me feel well used.

And treasured.

I paused midway through towelling myself dry, considering that word. Post-coital feelings might arise, Brendan had explained. Humans released all sorts of hormones after sex to create bonds. We craved bonds, but trying to connect on that level with a therapist wasn’t helpful.

I hung the towel up on the rail and then stared into the mirror.

In the condensation, it wasn’t hard to conjure the shapes of those beautiful men. Them, in my house. Them coming closer. With a look down, I saw my nipples were pulling tight and not just in response to the cold air. An experimental shift of my hips made clear that my body was ready for round two… three… I lost how many times it was, and that was just perfect. With a smile, I went into the bedroom and got dressed.

“Huh…”

I’d pulled on an old bra and then squirmed. The cups cut into my breasts a little, but the band was a bit loose. It was a terrible, raggedy, old beige thing I wore around the house, but it must’ve finally given up the ghost. Pulling on a t-shirt and some yoga pants, I went and preordered the Chinese food, then cleaned up the living room in preparation for Helena’s arrival. My phone was sitting on my coffee table and it buzzed again, Brendan’s name illuminated on the screen.

It didn’t make sense that I didn’t want to talk to him. Everything had gone perfectly, and that was the problem I quickly realised. If we talked about it in cool, correct terms, the session would lose some of its magic. I wanted to hang onto that for just a second, I realised, picking up my phone to leave myself a reminder to call him back on Monday. That done, I set my phone back down and got plates, glasses, and cutlery out.

“There she is!” Helena brandished a bag full of wine as she stood in the doorway. Bottles plural, clinked against each other as she pulled me into a full-body hug. “The girl that got it from all ends by a bunch of hotties for hire.”

Bustling over to the kitchen, the wine was dumped on the counter, then a bottle opened before our glasses were filled with a flourish.

“Tell me…” The glass was pushed my way as she grinned at me. “Everything.”

So I did.

Sometime later, we were sitting on my lounge room floor, plastic takeaway containers of Chinese food strewn across the coffee table.

“You’re doing this again,” she said decisively. “You have to.”

“A few times,” I admitted, not letting it show that something low down inside me curled tighter in anticipation. “But it’s an expensive thing. The government doesn’t subsidise sexual dysfunction treatments, so…”

“We’ll find the money.” Her grin spread wide. “Crowdfund it!”

“We are not crowdfunding me getting laid,” I said, filling her glass up, then tipping what was left of the bottle into mine.

“So can you show me a photo of these guys?” she asked. “I’m imagining each one a different celebrity, but actual details would be better.”

“No!” I replied.

“Did you take any photos?” Before I could respond, she grabbed my phone and then tapped on the screen, going still when she saw the notification. “He’s called you?”

“It’s not like that.” I held out my hands, trying to ward off her excitement. “It’s all part of the process. We talk through what happened to develop my skills in talking about sex and what I want.”

“Like a performance review?” She shot me a shocked look. “So why haven’t you given him five stars on Yelp for an excellent dicking?”