Category: gonewildstories

This one will be sloppy because it’s hard to talk about it. It’ll be sloppy because I was sloppy. I’ll need breaks. I’ll have to save some things for the book. But let’s try to tell it in pieces. I’m sorry I can’t tell it all at once. I’ve tried to suppress everything. Not to be all “oh my god, I’m so depressed, I’m thinking about killing myself, please tell me how much I’m loved.” Please don’t do that. I hate when people do that because I’m a fucking bitch, and I’d rather you tell me you want to fuck me than you feel any sort of pity for me. But I bought a rope. It’s in my office closet. It’s pink and glittery, and I thought, at least everyone will say, “oh that’s so Kris.” I got this apartment in Beverly Hills thinking that I would be dead by the end of the year, and I could afford it until then but not after. Can’t afford to live after. That’s grim. But I’ve gotten better. I’ll probably live and have to move to Koreatown or the valley. Or fucking Hollywood. Ugh. But now you understand. It’s a nightmare, and I have to keep telling myself that I was sick. I was sick. Not my fault for being sloppy. Not my fault at all. It’s his fault.
And like I said, I told him, my psychiatrist, Sean, that I had a crush on him. I let him read one of my sexual fantasies. The one I told you about. And I’ll admit that when I let him read the first fantasy, I was hoping I’d catch a glimmer of some sort of reaction. I wasn’t that innocent. I hoped to see his cock getting hard beneath his scrubs. Maybe make his neck red again like it did when I told him about the crush. But he was good. Or so it seemed. He did tell me that nothing could happen. He was happily married. I was married. Oh yeah, I was married. That’s something worth mentioning. But not something I’m willing to talk about. That bit isn’t really my story to tell, but all you need to know is that it was over as soon as it began. We had an open relationship at this point. But Sean did not. I asked him if I was the first patient to have a crush on him, and he said no, but nobody as explicitly. And I felt proud. He had never dealt with anybody like me before. And I knew he didn’t stand a chance.
But after I shared my first fantasy with him, he reiterated that nothing could happen. And then. Then, he gave me a little treat — he said, “maybe in a different life.” Maybe in a different life. It seemed small, but it was enough. I agonized over these words for days on end. I scheduled an emergency phone appointment, pleaded with him to help me make my feelings stop. I asked him to tell me something different than “it could never happen.” I needed to hear him say very clearly, in very concise language that he wasn’t attracted to me, didn’t want to fuck me. But he refused. He said he couldn’t give me any answers because they would feed into my obsession. Ugh it killed me. I wanted something to shut the pain down, but the only thing Sean was willing to offer up was a plan where I’d write for 15 minutes a day and then the rest of the day, I was allowed to obsess over whatever I wanted. I just had to write for 15 minutes a day. I have no idea what writing I was working on at the time, none of it mattered. Didn’t know why this was the plan, can’t remember that either. I was lost in those fucking eyebrows. Those arms. That neck. Even when I was writing, he was there in the back of my mind. His arms. That red throat. I wanted to sit in his lap and feel his cock get hard against the little white panties covering my ass.
I’d stay up all night, changing my underwear multiple times because the wetness made me uncomfortable. He was my only dream. During the day, things were getting worse. Covid-19 had shut down everything, and we were forced to stay inside. The only thing I could do outside of the home, was go to therapy. He was my salvation. Couldn’t see my friends, couldn’t go on dates with my husband, could only see him. Sean. And I didn’t have to wear a mask when I did it, either.
My sessions went from every two weeks to every week because I couldn’t bear to be apart from him. I had to be in his presence. I needed to see his face, to analyze every moment, to search and search his body language to see if there was any sign that he wanted me back. But he was good at staying neutral. At first. Psychiatrists learn how to do that. The neutrality made my obsessions worse. I realized I didn’t know much about him, and I thought maybe if I knew more about him, maybe it would shut down the crush. I asked him what his favorite band was, what he wore outside of the office, what he liked doing, and again he remained neutral. He wouldn’t give me answers. Wouldn’t feed into my obsession. It’s funny how every time he said he wouldn’t feed into my obsession, he would actually feed into my obsession. I remember he had mentioned surfing in sessions before I told him about my crush, and that was all I knew. He surfed. And he wore these horrendous 90’s sneakers and an OP windbreaker over his scrubs. And I loved him. He was keeping me alive. How could I commit suicide before I had heard him say my name with his cock in my mouth? I wanted to hear him say, “cum for me Kris.” I wanted to cum all over his cock. I knew he’d have a beautiful cock.
As I lay daydreaming on my couch one afternoon, thinking about his mouth on me, I got a text from his assistant. His assistant told me Sean had wanted her to send me this video. She sent over a 15 minute video of the band The Sea and Cake doing a live performance. She told me Sean said to tell me it wasn’t his favorite band, but they were up there, and it was the right amount of time I should be writing. She hoped I would know what this meant because she had no clue. I knew what it meant. He was feeding me. He was giving me an answer. He was going back on what he had initially said. And he was taking over the 15 minutes I was supposed to not concentrate on him. How. How. How was I meant to listen to 15 minutes of music he liked while writing and not think of him? Looking for meaning in every single lyric. I couldn’t stop the fantasies, and I wrote them down. I wouldn’t try to fight them anymore. He wanted me, I knew it now.
He walked back on his original plan to not answer any of my questions. I’m not sure why. One day, it became, “Okay, I’ll answer any question you want.” And I asked him if he found me attractive. He said he thought I was very pretty. I asked if he ever had sexual fantasies about me. He said he’s thought about what it might be like to have sex with me. Oh god, I recoiled just writing that. It hurts that it turns me on. My therapist sitting across from me, looking me in the eye, saying, “I’ve thought about what it might be like to have sex with you.” He’d thought about my pussy, what it would be like to be inside me. He made it seem like this wasn’t weird. People have these thoughts. He was right. But I know for certain he wasn’t supposed to tell me that. But he had. And it got worse. I got worse.
———-
Het let me use his waiting room as a quiet space to write. Honest to God. With my husband working at home because of Covid, it was even harder to concentrate. But mostly, I wanted an excuse to be near Sean. I knew he would let me. I knew he wanted to be near me, too. I sat on the couch in his waiting room for an hour or two, writing and writing about nothing. Rambling. Waiting for him to come out and say hi. He would, but briefly. Hi. How’s writing going? Okay, gotta get back to paperwork. Except there was one time when he had a gift for me. A surfing book. I had mentioned I was thinking about getting back into surfing, hoping to fish out more personal details about him, knowing he surfed. He handed me an 80’s guide to LA surfspots. He had seen it on his shelf and thought I may like to have it. He made notes in the margins for me. Fuck that just broke my brain. I need a minute.
Things got bad. I asked him again to please be clear with me about what was happening. It seemed like he was saying one thing, but meaning another. Talking in code. Again, I only needed to hear him say it would never happen, he wasn’t interested. Set me free. But instead, he told me there was a 99.9% chance nothing would ever happen. So you’re saying there’s a chance. That was a low point for me. Quoting Dumb & Dumber. There was something there. I’d left my journal behind on purpose, came back to retrieve it, and as he handed it to me, I knew that was it. I was his. He was supposed to be helping me, but I had become his. I told him to please transfer me to another psychiatrist because I felt like I was drowning, but he believed it would be beneficial to me if I stayed.
I asked if I could email him. Maybe knowing I could speak to him outside of the office would help ease the direness I felt to make every moment count. He allowed it because of course he did. He knew what was happening. And he was allowing it to happen. Why wouldn’t he transfer me like I asked? I wish I had had the willpower to do it myself. But I was his. His, his, his. I wanted to live inside of him.