sat facing each other, her appraising me coolly over the rim of lowered spectacles. ‘I trust you know why you’re here?’
I nodded.
‘I see a lot of anger management cases. Most are men with a history of fighting or domestic abuse. Your case is something altogether different. I trust you know that too.’
I nodded again. Oh yeah, I’d gotten myself in a pile of shit, all right. After a night out drinking last summer, I’d stupidly driven home and gotten a DUI. Because it was my first offense and my court-appointed attorney played the sympathy card, explaining to the judge I was caring for my minor siblings, I was let off easy with fines and community service. Then after I’d brilliantly smarted off to the judge, he’d tacked on an order to see a counselor for anger management.
The first shrink I’d seen had dug into my brain, and concluded pretty quickly that my issues weren’t related to anger. After a battery of questions about my past and how I dealt with the stress in my life, she became convinced I had an issue with sex and referred me to Dr. Lowe. I didn’t think fucking was a crime, but apparently the counselor had felt differently. She’d written up some shit about stress being relived in sexual ways, and that I lacked the ability to form and maintain healthy relationships with the opposite sex. Bullshit. I was just horny.
I glanced up at Dr. Lowe, who was reading from a page in front of her. ‘When you were fifteen, you got kicked out of school for engaging in indecent acts with a female student.’
‘I don’t see how my high school flings have anything to do with this.’
She smiled tightly. ‘Nothing is off-limits in our sessions together, Mr. Bauer. Just because it’s not officially on your record doesn’t mean we’re not going to discuss it.’
I ground my teeth, and she pushed on. ‘When you were seventeen, you were sent to a boot-camp-style high school during your senior year. Three months later, you were arrested for public drunkenness and lewd behavior.’
I sighed. ‘My buddies and I had our first night out in months. I got drunk and I took a girl out in the back alleyway. I wasn’t hurting anyone, just blowing off some steam. And trust me, she was willing.’ The woman probably wouldn’t care that it was around that same time that my father had left us, so I didn’t mention it.
She leaned forward, removing her glasses and resting her elbows on the desk. ‘I know you feel these instances can be explained away, but you have a history of using sex to cope. And after gaining legal custody of your brothers—’
‘I’m not discussing that with you.’
She nodded. ‘Not yet.’
Motherfu— I cursed under my breath. No one needed to know our family business. I took good care of the boys. They weren’t part of this. I intentionally kept this side of myself from them.
‘I’m recommending something a bit unconventional for your treatment. I would like you to join a local Sex Addicts Anonymous support group.’
Sex addict? My jaw tightened. I wasn’t a fucking sex addict. I liked pussy. There was a difference. A big fucking difference.
‘Your sexual past has been noted, and according to your own admissions, you’ve had more partners than you can recall and you use sex as an escape.’
She glared at me, waiting for me to disagree. I bit my cheek and stayed quiet. It was true I thought about sex a lot. All the time, actually. But I thought most guys did. Though, if I were being honest, I knew I was worse than my buddies. When I was younger they’d nicknamed me Worm, because of how many girl’s panties I’d wormed my way into over the years. I wasn’t an addict, though; I was an opportunist. I’d never turn down a willing female.
‘This field of study is just emerging but most researchers agree, the definition of a sex addict is someone whose deviant sexual behavior interferes with daily life—their relationships, job, et cetera.’
Well, shit. I wouldn’t fight her on this. I was radioactive. An asshole. A user of women, but shit, they’d all been willing. Maybe she was right, though. I hated the tears and drama that came with my less-than-stellar behavior toward the opposite sex. And the last thing I wanted was my behavior to rub off on my brothers. I wanted better for them.
Dr. Lowe scribbled something on a piece of paper. ‘Here’s the group you’ll be attending. First meeting is tomorrow morning and they meet weekly. I’ll receive reports on your progress and what you’re learning about yourself during these group sessions. If you progress well, I’ll be able to note that in my letter to the judge. The choice is yours.’
She shoved the paper at me.
‘Okay.’ I kept my voice neutral as I picked up the paper, but inside? Inside, I was fighting the urge to curse and crumple it into a ball.
This was bullshit.
McKenna
I closed my eyes and said a silent prayer. I needed to stop my hands from shaking. This was going to be fine. I could do this. My pep talk did little good, though; I knew how pathetic I was. A sexual addiction counselor and technically still a virgin.
It wasn’t from lack of effort on my part. I’d made up my mind my sophomore year of college and decided to have sex with my boyfriend at the time, Jason. He’d been thrilled, of course; I’d made him wait six long months with only heavy make-out sessions to sustain him. He’d been weird about sex—often leaving me to initiate things and tell him when I was ready for more—which only made me feel undesired and insecure. I didn’t know what I was doing. I wanted him to take the lead, but never had the courage to tell him.
When I finally told him I was ready, we were in the backseat of his Toyota Prius, since we were both too embarrassed to tell our dorm roommates that we needed some privacy. He’d done it before but seemed almost more timid than me, repositioning us over and over in the tiny car, and then losing his erection when he’d finally slipped on the condom. I felt like a failure. Like it was somehow my fault, and it wasn’t an experience I wanted to repeat. So I hadn’t.
The only part of being a virgin that bugged me was that if anyone here knew, I was sure I’d be a laughingstock.
But I thrust my shoulders back, ready, or at least ready to fake it for my first solo group session without my mentor, Belinda. I could do this. I’d be fine. It was a different group than the one I’d trained with. Belinda had recommended that, which I thought was good advice.
I’d gotten to know the roughly dozen or so regulars who attended her Tuesday night meeting. I’d become familiar with their stories—like Pamela, the sweet Italian girl who was always looking for love, trying to make up for her father’s rejection. Or Ted, the middle-aged businessman who’d become addicted to Internet porn during the economic downturn when he was laid off and home alone every day. Bored and horny.
Today I’d have a whole new group to get to know, the Saturday morning group. As scary as it was, this was a fresh start. This group wouldn’t see me as just the trainee. I was the group leader. I’d studied for this, gone to school for this. But that didn’t mean my stomach wasn’t flipping violently when the doors opened and
