This is why I loved being online. Online, I was Ash. The sexy, hot twink you wanted to fuck but couldn’t, so you had to settle for a picture and your right hand.
In the real world? I was a loser who couldn’t read a room to save his life. Someone who relied so much on sex appeal that I forgot how to speak around real, straight men, and women, honestly.
God. I just had to get caught touching myself in public.
To be fair, it was super late at night. I didn’t think anyone would see.
Dr. Peterson started tapping the edge of his notebook with his pen. Tap. Tap. His eyes scanned me, thoughtful, assessing. Intelligent.
My throat tightened. Felt like it was stuffed with cotton. I forced myself to swallow. “Can I please have some water?”
He narrowed his eyes for just a moment, so fast I wondered if I imagined it. “No coffee?” he asked dryly, giving me the smallest smile before heading to a mini fridge in the corner.
My cheeks burned. I turned away. I hate when men make me feel stupid.
I hated how, in that moment, he had all the control. I should’ve taken the time to find a gay therapist, someone who could look at me and see something fuckable, not pitiful.
His office was massive. Not your typical therapy space. I glanced down at the wooden nameplate on the coffee table between us.
Dr. Peterson, PsyD
Clinical Psychologist
There was a single couch: firm, but soft enough to mold around my weight. He had a large armchair by a corner desk, and even a kitchenette. A break room disguised as an office.
He returned, handing me a glass of water with a lemon slice.
“Fancy,” I muttered, taking a bigger sip than I meant to. The cold, citrusy water soothed my throat instantly.
“So, tell me, Asher.” He leaned forward slightly, voice lower now. “Why do you think you were sent to court-mandated therapy?”
I sucked the lemon slice dry and tossed it toward the coffee table. It bounced to the floor. His eyes followed it.
“I dunno. Sexual deviant, maybe?” I scoffed, rolling my eyes, completely forgetting I was supposed to be making him like me.
“Pick it up,” he said, scribbling something in his notebook.
“What?”
“Pick up the lemon. You’re not at home.”
His tone carried authority. I scoffed, but he looked up and met my eyes.
“Do you need an adult to do it for you?”
He leaned forward, but I snatched the lemon off the floor and slapped it onto the table. “I am an adult!” I snapped.
His eyebrows raised slightly.
“What are you fucking writing?” I snapped again. “I haven’t even said anything yet!”
Something about him pissed me off. Maybe it was knowing he was probably straight. Maybe it was that I’d actually have to go through with this therapy thing so he could sign my forms.
I breathed in, trying to calm myself. He finally stopped writing. Then he turned the notebook around.
Shy or manipulative.
The flush that followed was instant and red-hot. I covered my zipper without thinking.
