AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“I’d be cautious of the pace—” she starts, and I tug at the loose strands on my jeans nervously as I interject.
“We’re going slow. Really slow. In fact, I had to ask him to kiss me when we had a coffee date yesterday.”
She tilts her head a degree or two, enough to throw me off my axis a bit. “And how was it?”
“The kiss?” My hands stop playing with my pants and my feet stop their incessant sliding. I’ve never been asked about a kiss in therapy. Reading my confusion, Dr. Evans repositions herself in her leather chair, setting her notepad and pen down next to her.
“Did the intimacy bring with it any feelings of anxiousness or, perhaps even fear? With your past, in being essentially forced into sexual acts you were not privy to or on board with, some residual trauma is to be expected. Even if it were with a partner you love.”
I snort. “I’m not in love.”
She bats her thick lashes at me. “No, but you’ve expressed that Cohen is kind, and he clearly cares for you. Whether you’re in love or not, how was the kiss? How did it feel?”
I know what she’s asking, and it’s not about lip softness or anything else. My voice is quiet and a bit weak when I reply, “I felt safe. And important, and I’ve never felt those two things at once. Ever.”
“Where do you see things going from here?” she asks, picking a piece of fuzz from her skirt. I think part of the reason I’m so comfortable with Dr. Evans is how she doesn’t focus on me intently the entire session. She allows for my gaze to uncomfortably sneak away from hers, and she also focuses on other things to bring me ease. It’s perfect.
“I don’t know. I like him, but I don’t know.” Why does that truth sour my stomach?
“And you don’t have to know. All you have to do is move through each day, honoring yourself and your newfound strength.” She picks up her notepad, and jots things in it.
“There’s something else.” A knot ties in my throat. Whether I’m a porn star or not, talking about your self-love habits is slightly awkward.
“Oh?”
I clear my throat, push my braid back behind me, and sit taller.
“I had an orgasm. The first one since… Well, the first one in a long time.”
Her brows cinch. “You’ve still not had one at Crave, despite the fact everyone is professional and safe?”
I shake my head. “No, not even close. I mean, I enjoy the other actors and the scenes, but it’s still all been acting. I mean, at one point I thought whatever synapses in my brain that are connected to my ability to have orgasms were shot, and that maybe I’d never feel that type of pleasure again.”
“And how did it feel to achieve orgasm?” she asks, focused on me.
Understanding that she isn’t asking how the actual orgasm felt, I take my time formulating my answer. Because it is hard to put into words how complex that orgasm was.
I give it a try. “I really didn’t think I could so it was… it exceeded any pleasure in any previous orgasms.”
She smiles. “You’re not broken, Scarlett. And that orgasm should prove to you that you still work. All parts of you. You’re just rebuilding your heart to love and trust again. That’s all.”
Our time comes to an end, and I collect the appointment card for the session later this week, and head out.
I drive to the organic market a few blocks away, parking in a spot under a crooked “NO PARKING AFTER 6PM” sign. Closing my eyes, I relive the orgasm, I relive the kiss, I relive the feeling of his knuckles softly grazing my inner ankle. Beneath my white crop top, my nipples are hard, and my breasts actually ache when I envision Cohen.
Was that orgasm the flood-gate opener?
Bringing my thighs together beneath the steering wheel, I clench them once, sending a pulse through my groin. I’m wet, I can feel it sticking to my cotton panties. But I’m in public, and I’m not the girl rubbing one out in a parking lot, so I take a steadying breath, grab my purse, and head off to get some groceries.
Inside the store, with my cart full of essentials, I head to the produce section to collect items for a salad. If I’m heading to Cohen’s for dinner tonight, I’m going to help make a really good dinner. I want to show him I’m not just needy.
I gather ingredients for a salad, snag a bottle of the clean label dressing I like (and only discovered recently at a cast party at Tucker and Vienna’s apartment) and head toward the meat department. Telling the man at the counter just what type of steaks I want, I wander around as I wait for them to be cut and trimmed.
Down one aisle are self-care items, like tampons, PMS pills, and an elaborate assortment of body washes. There’s a new one that catches my eye, the word rainfall scrawled across the baby blue bottle in fancy cursive. I don’t know what rainfall smells like, and I’ve never heard of the brand, but I can’t take my eyes off of it.
The bottle is tall and bears a rounded cap. The girth of a thin can, with no external label, as the words are printed directly on. It’s an undeniablyfamiliarshape.
Leaving Pete so suddenly, I took the bare minimum. I left a lot of things because I had to, because I wanted to. And there were many things I didn’t need to take. I hadn’t thought to use them in years and I didn't want the reminder.
