What do you think of that?
“What do you think of that?” He raised one eyebrow and his full lips formed a subtle smirk. I could feel his eyes scanning me for any sign of discomfort.
He was a challenging case. All my cases were challenging. It’s how I built my reputation, how I built my practice, other therapists sent me the cases that made them uncomfortable or that they couldn’t make progress with. Sometimes I could help them, Sometimes I couldn’t, but for many clients I was the last stop before heading out the door, before my entire profession gave up on them. My strength wasn’t that I was particularly smart, or even particularly skilled as a therapist. I was both those things but there are many therapists who are yet those therapists filled my practice with their cast offs. My strength was the ability not to judge, to wrap my mind around a client’s issues and see them as if they were mine. It’s no surprise that many of my clients came to me with issues of a sexual nature. The United States no matter what people say is a very repressive place if you feel like you want something different than heteronormative sex and lots off it. My fellow therapists were not immune to this and clients could sense their discomfort, which kept them from making progress. My brain for one reason or another was wired differently. I understood shame in a very profound way and I could keep myself from judging my clients no matter how weird their kinks might be.
Not all of my clients had such issues and it was my understanding when I took on Bill that his issues were not of a sexual nature. His last therapists had been a woman I had gone to school with. They had worked together for almost 2 years until it came out she had been having an affair with him. This was the death of her career, as it should be. A therapeutic relationship is a very intimate one, but there are lines that should never be crossed.
Nothing in Bill’s file indicated any issues around sexuality. He was a married man with children, well off, the owner of several high end apartment buildings and other real estate which he had inherited from his mother after she died. He was a little anxious, a little depressed, but what concerned me most was the trauma he might be coping with after his last therapist had taken advantage of him.
This was our fifth session and he was finally beginning to trust me and today he shared with me that he frequently had sex with other men. Not just other men. Straight men, or at least men who told the world they were straight and if everything Bill said was to be believed, men who would likely have continued to be “straight” for the rest of their lives had they not for whatever reason had Bill come into their lives.
I had no issue with sex between men. I describe myself as mostly straight or bisexual in theory. I like Bill, was married with children. We live in a wealthy neighborhood in a suburb of Providence, Rhode Island. But I wasn’t unknown to sex with men. I had experimented with men. After high school and I turned 18 there had been periodic experiences. Nothing was ever planned. Usually when I was single and horny and couldn’t find a willing woman. I was at peace with the fact that I wasn’t straight. I certainly wasn’t gay, hadn’t been with a man since I got married, or at least since shortly after. Still sex between men wasn’t offensive to me. In fact I understood it better than most predominantly heterosexual men.
No what made me uncomfortable, and forced me to use all my clinical skills not to show it, was the power Bill held over these men. Bill said they were all adults and had all consented at some point. He had never been sued that I knew of and he spoke as if he was doing these men a favor. Several of them had been employees of Bill at the time, and others he had blackmailed though how he got the material he never said. This was his first personal disclosure, he was testing me, and how I reacted was important.
“What do you think of that?”
It was a simple question, the correct answer was some version of “why is it important to you what I think?” But the words stuck in my throat. My eyes locked on his perfect lips (perfect lips what am I thinking?) That sexy smirk (stop thinking this he’s a client) blood rushed to my face, my chest, my groin. My mind went blank. I stammered the only reply I could think of “I… I… I … don’t… I… don’t…”
“It’s okay” he said, the smirk becoming more obvious. “I’ll see you next week. Same time.” He got up and left my office.
I rescheduled the rest of my appointment for the day and told the receptionist I was going home sick. But I didn’t go home. First I went to a bar on the south side of town. I ordered a beer, then a shot, then another. Instead of going back to my car I found myself walking around past the gay bars, massage parlors, bathhouses and sex shops.
I knew what went on in the sex shops. I would be lying if said I was never tempted. I stayed away out of loyalty to my wife and fear about what it might mean for my career if one of these places got raided while I was inside. But today the pull was so strong. I waited until it got dark, looked around to make sure nobody was looking I went inside the sex shop that was well known for cruising (but how did I know that?) and went inside.
My heart was beating as I walked up to the counter. I bought a $10 ticket to the back room from the indifferent clerk and entered the dark maze at the back of the store. Some men stood in the hallway, some of the booths were in use. When I was younger the men in these places tripped over themselves to get to me, but a balding 50 yo man wasn’t so appealing. (yes I had been there before. how did I forget?) Still I found an open booth with a hole in the wall and I entered, locked the door, and after putting some lesbian porn on the screen I took out my cock and stuck it through the hole.
My balls ached for release but I wasn’t hard. The willing mouth on the other side of the hole took care of that. He (probably a he) was an expert cock sucker. It was like that hole was the doorway to heaven and my cock was overwhelmed with pleasure. The rest of me pressed against the wall writing, moaning, whimpering, and soon it was over. The mouth swallowed every drop and several passes more made sure my cock was clean except for the strangers saliva which smelled of Altoids and cigarettes.
I caught my breath. I didn’t offer to reciprocate. I had done this enough times to know the men who did the sucking weren’t looking for anything in return. If asked he would probably say I did him a favor. After zipping up and untucking my shirt to hide my still throbbing cock. I tried to leave the store unnoticed but as the often do the clerk said “goodbye have a good night” in a tone that said he didn’t give a fuck, and I looked over making eye contact and dropping my gaze. The smirk on the clerks face was the same as Bill’s. His lips were scarred and the teeth they covered shabby but it was the same smirk. The smirk said “I know what you are faggot. I know you’re a dirty faggot who gets his rocks off in dirty back rooms. You’ve probably sucked a thousand cocks you dirty pervert and you can’t hide it from me.”
I wanted to argue with him. Say I don’t really do this. I don’t even suck cock. I don’t like cocks. I’m not even gay. I don’t know what happened today but I just needed something. I’m not like the people in the back room and I’m never doing this again.