I felt a heavy weight in my stomach as I sat anxiously in my car, debating whether to get out or just drive home. I had no confidence that I was mentally prepared for this, but if I stalled any longer, I'd miss my appointment. I looked out across my corner of the parking lot and found it empty. That made it a little easier.
At long last, I left my car and started to make my way towards my actual destination. I had parked around the corner for the sake of discretion. I passed a man on my way there, he gave me a polite "good morning," but I averted my eyes in shame and said nothing in return. He was a complete stranger to me, but the embarrassment that I felt at that moment prevented me from handling any normal interaction whatsoever.
I reached the entrance, took one last panicked look around, and entered the door labeled 'Intimacy Clinic'.
The reception area felt entirely like a typical waiting room: cushioned plastic chairs, sporadic fake plants, and relatively unadorned walls. I avoided eye contact with the handful of people waiting for their appointments, whose heads turned to wordlessly acknowledge my entrance. I wondered if they felt as uncomfortable as me, but even if they did, I was not eager to share any modicum of our mutual shame.
I stood in the doorway for a moment before making my way towards the front desk, hesitant to the last. The woman behind the desk was pretty and young, with long blonde hair and bright blue eyes. I cursed fate for making her a pretty girl, humiliation is at its worst when attractive people are present to witness it. She looked up at me as I approached, gave me a pleasant smile and a kind "good morning!"
"Good morning," I echoed, quietly and awkwardly. "I, umm, have an appointment at eleven?"
She asked my name, and I gave it. She then gave me a collection of paperwork to fill out, and graciously invited me to take a seat. I took the most remote seat and began looking over the paperwork. I quickly scanned over a few waivers, disclaimers, and consent forms, all of which seemed pretty standard to me, so I signed them without reading too deeply.
I then found a privacy notice that I was much more interested in. I read every word, making sure that my sessions would remain confidential. I was satisfied to find that the clinic required my explicit consent to release any and all information about my sessions. There was a curious amount of legal jargon concerning the care of session recordings, but recordings could only be made with my knowledge and consent, so I thought nothing more of it and signed the document.
The final form was the single-page sheet of paper that I had been dreading. It requested my personal information. I felt a cold sweat developing as I looked it over. I felt a bit better when I saw some text stating that all fields on this form were optional. But at the same time, I knew that they could only help me if I told them the truth. I began to fill in:
Age: 27
Gender Identity: Cis Male
Sexuality: Bisexual, slight preference towards female
Relationship Status: In a long-term relationship
And I froze up at the next box, titled 'Reason for Visit'. This was the part that made me so anxious: having to admit to somebody else that I had an issue. I nervously glanced around, making sure that the nearest person was several seats away. I covered the paper from wandering eyes with my free hand, and quickly wrote down "Inability to orgasm during sex."
I started to tremble, despising the fact that there was now a record of my greatest shame. I kept my hand pressed down over the embarrassing truth while I proceeded to fill out the rest of the form:
Number of Sexual Partners in Last Year: 1
Current Frequency of Sex: Once every other week, or so
Current Frequency of Masturbation: Daily, at least
I found those last two embarrassing as well, once they were written. I took another sheet of paper to cover up all of my answers thus far as I continued giving my responses:
Preferred Sexual Act: Sex from behind
Preferred Method of Stimulation: Erotic photography and literature
I doubted the relevance of those last two, but there was a part of me that enjoyed confessing them. Nobody besides my partner knew about them, and they were hardly as embarrassing as my previous answers. The last field concerned my willingness to try new sexual experiences, on a scale from 1 to 10. I put an 8. On the backside of the page there was a dedicated space to list any specific requests or notes about my sexuality or interests, but I couldn't think of anything important enough to write, at the time.
I hurriedly rushed my papers back to the desk and handed them over. The receptionist smiled a thanks and asked me to wait for a moment. She turned away, towards a set of folders and filing cabinets. She flipped my packet open right to the last page and my stomach sank. Did she really need to be reading all of that?
She picked up a few folders and brought them to the desk in front of me. She laid them out and opened each as she started to explain, "there are three specialists who are available for an intake appointment at your scheduled time, whom would you prefer?" This seemed rather odd to me. I was entirely expecting to get randomly assigned to whomever happened to be available at the same time as me, I was shocked to even have a choice.
Each folder contained a large photo and a short biography of each specialist. The first photo was of a burly, bearded man with glasses. His name was Alex, his hair was just starting to gray, and he wore a dark suit. His biography included an education in psychology at a prestigious university and several accolades as a gay rights activist.
Next was a slender woman in a simple pair of jeans and a tee shirt. Her name was Susan, her black hair was tied up in a ponytail, and she was smiling widely at the camera with her hands on her hips. I would have guessed her age at an even 40. Her biography also lauded a number of degrees, as well as a best-selling book on sexuality, but otherwise emphasized the fact that she prioritizes the comfort of her clients, easing into the process of sexual betterment for those who might be more skittish around the subject matter. She certainly appealed to me.
The last option was a busty woman with short, dark hair. Her lips were pulled into a playful smirk and her arms were folded, framing her chest. Her name was Megan. She wore a black blazer with a red shirt underneath that showed just enough cleavage to catch my attention. Her age was hard to place, she could have been three years younger than me or six years older than me. Her biography spent no time whatsoever on her credentials, instead spending the time to talk about how she believes that the majority of sexual issues stem from a lack of understanding one's own needs and desires, and how she expects total openness and honesty from her clients.
So I had a well-educated and experienced man, an equally well-educated woman who might be easier to talk to, or an intimidatingly beautiful woman who just might push me out of my comfort zone. I had no way of knowing which call was the right to make for myself, each had clear pros and cons.
"I wasn't expecting to even have a choice," I admitted. "How do I know which one is right for me?"
The girl replied, "honestly, it's hard to say," she gestured to a filing cabinet behind her, "we have dozens of other specialists if none of these interest you, but we would have to move your appointment to accommodate their schedules." I frowned. "Besides, this is only an initial appointment, if things don't go the way that you want them to today, I'm certain that at the end of the session, they can refer you to someone who might be more suitable for your needs."
She sounded like she was reciting a well-rehearsed speech, but one that happened to be particularly unhelpful for me in making my decision. I stared at each photo for a moment, considering thoughtfully. After a few seconds of indecision, the girl finally hurried me along, in a voice just above a whisper, "I'm not supposed to say this, but to be totally honest, I'd just pick whomever you're most attracted to. It helps break the ice a lot faster, if you know what I mean."
I have to admit that I did not exactly know what she meant. How could being attracted to my therapist be a good thing at all? If anything, I'd be more comfortable talking to somebody whom I'd have nothing but professional feelings for. But at the same time, I kind of liked the way the receptionist looked at me as she talked. It was as if she had just told me some kind of sexy secret about herself, and she enjoyed knowing what pleasure I would take in knowing her secret.
Mildly turned on by her sudden breach of protocol, I took her advice, and chose the busty woman in the blazer. The receptionist quietly applauded my choice, and delightedly informed me that she would be ready for me in just a minute. I returned to my seat, puzzled and bewildered by the whole interaction. I basically just told a complete stranger that I found another complete stranger sexually attractive. It usually takes me years to develop that kind of relationship with a person.
I played the conversation back through my head, musing at its peculiarity as I began to wait. I lazily glanced around the room, still avoiding eye contact with the other clients. It was then that I finally noticed and considered the contents of the two pieces of artwork donning the wall opposite me. One was of a couple in bed, under a comforter, only their heads exposed, presumably getting intimate with each other, and the other was of a bare woman's back, from the waist up. At first glance, their presence made sense, this was a clinic that dealt with sexual issues, mild hints at sex in artwork seemed relatively appropriate, but as I looked again, each photo was decidedly less subtle. In the first, the couple wasn't actually a couple but a trio. What I thought was a throw pillow was actually the back of another man's head, and the central woman's expression was not just a generic enjoying-herself kind of face, she looked to be having a rather strong orgasm. And in the other, the bare-backed woman was actually being straddled by a pair of knees on either edge of the frame, and just out of focus in the top corner was another woman's face, mouth agape, making it not so much of an implication.
I honestly admired the way these photos got away with hiding their eroticism at first glance. It felt like stumbling upon a couple having sex in the woods, but instead of getting embarrassed, they invited you to join in. I let my arousal swell a little bit more, had I been alone, I easily could have enjoyed these photos much more physically with myself. However, it felt dirty to be looking at them in public.
After a few more quiet minutes of wondering to myself how appropriate it was to hang such artwork, the door next to the front desk opened, and out stepped Megan, my new therapist. Unlike the photo in her portfolio, she was now wearing a gray cardigan and a tight pair of jeans that quickly revealed the voluptuous curves of her lower half that were not visible from the photo.
