I sent him a text the night he broke up with me professionally. I sent him a picture of me in Hello Kitty underwear, and he said “I think I’m going to like being friends with you.” God, I wanna cry thinking about it. The release. I wanted to see him as soon as possible. But with the pandemic going on, I knew the possibilities of seeing my still married former psychiatrist were going to be limited. So I got a room at the Chateau Marmont. “To write in.” But he could come over and have dinner with me, if he’d like. And he did.
I got a one bedroom suite with a living room and dining room. I felt like the ghost of Marilyn Monroe. I was impeccably groomed. Waxed, shaved, hair washed, make-up done, starved to death. I wore what he had mentioned in his story, the outfit I wore when I told him about my crush on him. The crush that wasn’t really supposed to be a crush. Just transference, remember? That’s what the videos had said. Something he was supposed to fix. But the outfit. Cream and burgundy plaid skirt, black ribbed Reformation top, black thigh high socks, hair in a 60’s half-up ponytail ala Brigitte Bardot. Underneath I wore black panties and a black lace bra that I knew he would see. I wanted him to see.
He showed up at my hotel door with takeaway dinner. To-go cocktails I wouldn’t drink because I don’t drink. I’m fun that way. It was the first time I had seen him in civilian clothes. Jeans, t-shirt. He looked even taller out of scrubs. I wanted him to push me against the wall of the hotel and stick his fucking tongue down my throat. I didn’t want dinner. I couldn’t have eaten if I tried. I only wanted his cock in my mouth.
We sat at the dining room table, awkwardly, picking at our dinners. I don’t think either of us were really all that hungry. I was too nervous, too fucking horny. He told me nothing was going to happen between us that night. He wanted to be good. He was still married. I doubted that. Why would he come to my hotel room if he wanted to be “good”? Couldn’t eat. Did a magic trick for him. It’s weird, but sometimes endearing. He was a bit of a nerd, and he liked it, watching me struggle to shuffle the deck of cards with my sweaty, anxious hands. We ignored our dinner, sat on the couch and looked for something to “watch.” He showed me pics on his phone of his dog, his friends, what his life was like outside of the office. We got closer and closer. His hand on my thigh, my hand on his thigh. Holding hands. I wanted him to kiss me, but again he said he wanted to be good. No he didn’t. He just wanted to make me suffer. Wasn’t that what he had done up until now? We got even closer. I smelled his neck as he held me close to him. I straddled his lap, and he picked me up and sat me back in my spot. No, he was going to be good. But still, his hands were on me, still he breathed in the smell of my hair. He was teasing me, and I would’ve done anything for him. In that moment, I would have done anything. I was his.
I asked if we could lay down on the couch, we could. Closer. I told him I was going to take off my clothes. I wanted him. And I did. I undressed for him until I was in those black panties and black lace bra. I laid back down next to him, and he couldn’t stop himself then. He put his hand on my stomach, sliding it down and into my panties, feeling my wet pussy for the first time. I could hear him groan with delight. He had me where he wanted me. I was literally in the palm of his hand. I turned to him and said he may as well kiss me now because his hand was down my panties. And he kissed me. Laying down on the couch in a room at the Chateau Marmont. He kissed me. It was happening. I wasn’t crazy. He had wanted me. It was more than a fantasy. It was happening. This was happening.
I asked if he wanted to move to the bedroom. He did. I was dizzy and stumbled my way there, balancing myself with the walls. I hadn’t really eaten much that day, and I was lightheaded from this fantastical reality. Fuck, I wanted him. We kneeled on the bed facing each other, kissing, as he took off his clothes. I pawed at his belt, and looked up at him for permission, he said I could take it off. His pants came off, and he was naked in front of me. His cock was beautiful and thick. I knew it would be. He puffed up his chest, like he was trying to appear buff for me. He was already buff. I thought it was bro-y, but fuck it. I was going to fuck my therapist. Finally. After all these months of fucking agony. My panties came off. We touched and kissed each other until he pulled me to the side of the bed. He was going to taste me. He looked at my pussy, and at me, and said, “beautiful.” He thought my pussy was beautiful. I had imagined him saying those words over and over again in my obsessive thoughts. My pussy was beautiful to him. And he licked me. He tasted me. Put his finger inside of me while he did it. I moaned and squirmed on the bed. I wanted to cum in his mouth so fucking badly, but all the Prozac I was on, that he prescribed me, wasn’t having it. I couldn’t cum, and I laughed it off and said it was his fault. He had done this to me. Put me on Prozac. His name were on the bottles I had packed.
He got on the bed, and I swallowed his cock, gazing up at him with my big, winged eyeliner eyes. His cock in my mouth felt surreal. It was everything I had dreamt of. Hearing him moan, tasting his precum on my tongue. I looked up at him, and he asked me, “so do you want this thing in you now?” I’m not even kidding. Those were the words he chose. I think I secretly knew then that all of this would fall apart. But I said yes, and I laid on my back as he penetrated me for the first time. It took my breath away. A few days ago, this man had been my therapist, and now his cock was inside me while his name was still on my prescription bottles. I already suffered from derealization and dissociation, and I floated out of my body once his cock was inside of me. I don’t remember much else. I do remember thinking it wasn’t as good as I had imagined. It wasn’t at all like I had imagined. But I was devoted to him, and I couldn’t care fucking less. I had finally made it. This was the hill I would die on. He didn’t cum. He said it takes a lot for him to cum. But I think he was nervous. A little freaked out. He had cheated on his wife with his younger, obsessive barely former patient. I would hope he was a little freaked out. But maybe I’m giving him too much credit. We cuddled. We talked, and then he was gone. I didn’t sleep much that night.
The next day, I didn’t do anything but write about it in my journal and lay by the Chateau Marmont pool listening to Leonard Cohen, hoping he’d text me. My life as I had known it was over. That day was the first day of the next phase in my life. A phase where Sean and I met again in the botanical gardens, we held hands, we kissed, and we wondered what we would do next. We talked about our future together. We met again at a beach hotel, at the alleged suggestion of his wife. For him to take a break, but he said that she probably knew I would be there. And we laid on the beach on a bed sheet, he rubbed sunscreen onto my legs. We ate Mexican food, and we made love and laid in bed talking for hours. Yeah, we made love. It was better than the first time. More intense. And I came in his mouth. And he came inside me. Then my husband left me, for reasons that had nothing to do with Sean, but our relationship together was the catalyst. It would’ve happened without him, but Sean pushed it right over the edge. Sean asked for a divorce, and his wife left for her hometown. And it was just us for awhile. After all those months of obsessing. After all those things he had said. After telling me there was a 99% chance it would never happen. After telling me maybe in another life. I was finally his. He told me he knew he was in trouble when he met me. Knew it then, but he tried to fight it. He liked my persistence and the playlist. It was the playlist that made him realize that this was different.
He suspiciously closed down his private practice. He said I didn’t have anything to do with it; he had been planning on it for months. Uh huh. He didn’t make as much money with a private practice as he would elsewhere. His friend, a lawyer, told him he didn’t have anything to worry about with me. He would be safe. When did he ask him? Right before he gave me his story and decided we should be friends. He knew what he was doing. My friend, the one who recommended Sean to me stopped, talking to me. I would learn months later that before Sean stopped treating most of his patients, she had confronted him about our relationship together, and Sean had accused her of harboring romantic feelings for him, too, and reacted as if she were merely jealous. I didn’t understand why she or anybody else would have a problem with Sean and I being together. To me, I had the power in the relationship because I had the ability to end his entire career. But no, that power belonged to him, too. Read more »