Page 9 of The Last Session

20 YEAR REUNION!!!!! We can’t believe it’s been 2 decades either!!! If you missed the 5, 10, or 15th year reunion, NOW is the time to return to the community that made you who you are today!!!! Tickets include a full night of swanky fun: dinner, drinks, and dancing. Contact Pam Felcher or Melissa Bellmont with any questions.

Special guests include: Mrs. Hobbs, Principal Duffy, and Pastor John—

I slammed the screen down.

I sat there for a moment, mind swirling, then threw the computer on the couch and went to the bathroom. I washed my hands, staring at myself in the mirror.

“You’re fine,” I told my reflection. I looked dazed, my freckles standing out more than usual against my pale skin. My eyes were ringed by blue circles, despite the concealer I’d spackled on. I hadn’t been sleeping well since the breakup.

In the kitchen, I pulled out the vodka. This called for a drink. Multiple drinks. The message from Melissa had opened the floodgates, and even as I took my giant gimlet back to the couch and turned on the TV, I couldn’t help but feel like I was back there, where I’d been frozen in time, at thirteen.

A year ago, Mom had gone on a Marie Kondo binge and had mailed me my old papers, drawings, and diaries. I’d tossed most of the assignments and art, but hadn’t been able to get rid of the diaries. Especially the one from eighth grade, with the grinning cartoon cat face on the front. Instead, I’d shoved them as far back in the closet as they’d go.

But it wasn’t that simple. Even though I could keep the memories locked away most of the time, there was one situation where they’d undoubtedly resurface:

If I wanted to have an orgasm.

It felt particularly cruel that everything that had happened with Pastor John and Adam that year would become what my sexuality would grow around, like a pearl forming around a rough grain of sand. Last year on a Reddit deep dive, I’d found the term “trauma-informed kink,” which seemed related, but not totally accurate. After all, it wasn’t like Ienjoyedwhat I had to do, to revisit, in my mind. It was just necessary for me to get off.

I’d never told anyone, imagining the horror that would spread over their face. I hadn’t even told my previous therapist Cynthia, the shame just too sharp. But with Ryan, I thought it’d be different. After all, he was a social worker, too, and the most understanding and sensitive man I’d ever dated. I’d felt at first a tug and then an urgent need to open up to him, to show him this part of me that felt so embarrassing and ugly.

After he asked me to be exclusive, I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I spilled one night while we were cuddling in sweaty sheets postsex. Ryan was the first man I’d been able to have sex with completely sober, something that would’ve blown my mind in my twenties. I’d never felt this safe and loved before.

“Can I tell you something?” I asked. “Something I’ve never told anyone?”

“Of course.” His eyes widened with anticipation.

So I told him. I watched his eyes go from sleepy to alert to, finally, pissed off.

And then, when I finished, he slipped out of bed and started putting his clothes on.

“What are you doing?” I asked, my voice caught in my throat.

He paused to look at me, his lips pressed in a line behind his beard. “I’m not sure what to say, Thea. Other than that makes me feel extremely uncomfortable. I’m not cool with it.”

“Well, I’m not either.” I wanted to melt quietly into the bed but forced myself to sit up. “I thought… I wanted to tell you because it’s something I struggle with. I don’tenjoyit. I hate it, actually.”

“Okay. Well, what are you doing about it? Are you working on it in therapy?”

“I told you—Cynthia moved away.”

“That was like a year ago. Why haven’t you gotten another therapist?”

“I’ve just been busy.” I looked down. “With work.” The truth was that when Cynthia had left so quickly—announcing her two-week departure after years of working together, years in which she’d helped me survive COVID alone in a tiny studio in Queens—I’d felt completely blindsided and burned. I couldn’t even imagine starting all over again, trying to trust someone who might end up dropping me in the same way.

And I knew it was hopeless, anyway. I’d tried many times to have an orgasm without dipping back into the memory—but it just didn’t work. It was like trying to unlock a door without the key.

Ryan clapped the back of his jeans to check for his wallet, and I forced myself to continue. “Maybe I’m not explaining it right. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“I mean, what do you expect? You’re using my body like a sex doll.”He raised his hands. “Not that there’s anything wrong with sex dolls. But I’m not okay being used in that way.”

“That’s not what it’s like,” I protested, but Ryan was already striding out of the room.

I sat there stunned, listening to him gathering his things. By the time I pulled my discarded dress over my head and went out into the living room, the door was slamming shut behind him.

If only Dom had been there that night. Maybe I would’ve told her what had happened. Maybe she would’ve responded more kindly than Ryan had.

But instead I drank a bottle of wine, cried, and passed out in bed.

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