Page 46 of The Games We Play

“You’re therapizing me,” I reply with a half-smile, because Penny just can’t help herself sometimes. I’ve shared with her a few details about Seamus moving in next door, and she continues to pick at questions and make comments. I know she’s worried, but it’s exhausting.

“Oh sorry, girl. Occupational habit. I’ll stop.” She holds her hands up in surrender.

Penny is a brilliant family therapist and my best friend. She was one of the first people I met after I moved to Seattle. I spent the majority of my senior year at home, finishing my high school diploma and getting home schooled by my mother, then went to community college as a default because I had no idea what I wanted to do.

I took a few courses including a sociology course, where Penny and I met and bonded pretty much immediately.

It didn’t take long for me to realize that I had no idea what Iwanted to do with my life. But, it didn’t involve me sitting in a classroom getting a degree for something I knew I truly didn’t want, nor would be useful in the future.

So, I dropped my classes and started my CYT training to be a yoga instructor. Starting with a two hundred hour certification course, then a year later completing the five hundred hour course. Being on my mat, teaching, guiding and sharing that love with people was exactly where I wanted to be.

“Speaking of, whatdidSabrina say?” she asks.

“Nothing,” I reply, looking up to see Penny’s brows furrowed together in confusion.

“I didn’t tell her. I mean…I haven’t told her yet.” My tone drips with guilt because I know myactualtherapist is the first person I should be telling these things to. “I’ll tell her, I just haven’t had a scheduled session since I realized it was Seamus that moved in next door.”

Penny’s lips roll over each other before she looks around the restaurant, attempting to smother what she really wants to say. I look around awkwardly, following her lead.

This is our favorite place to eat. She loves their pancakes, and I love the egg white omelets and their never-fail, perfectly cooked hash browns.

The carafe of the seasonal fruit flavored mimosas are a pretty decent selling point, too.

“I don’t want to be the one to point out the elephant in the room, but you have to be careful here, Naomi. A man from a very distressing part of your past moves in next door, and he’s determined tolove you.” She air quotes with her fingers. “If that past didn’t have so much underlying trauma, it would be romantic, but you do see how this is actually very problematic, right?”

“I know.” I nod in agreement. It’s all I can muster to say, because I know she’s right, but she’s mentioned it a few times and I’m emotionally drained by all of it.

I need her to be my friend, not a therapist.

I’m thankful I didn’t share all the details with her, like him watching me through his second story window and the caveman stunt he pulled at Afterburn.

That was a few days ago, and I’ve been a professional dodgeball player since, avoiding my backyard and rushing in and out of my house when I leave or come home.

I completely shut down after my—I don’t know what to even call it, emotional breakdown? Of course, it was post that mind blowing orgasm, so I’d like to blame my unpredictable hormones and overly stimulated endorphins.

Oh, and the fact that another man hasn’t made me come, since—well him—ten years ago.

My trust issues with men run so far deep I’ve never been able to open myself up sexually or otherwise. I’ve only been able to please my partners by giving hand jobs or oral sex, but the moment they attempt to touch me, I completely shut down.

I’ve always played it off that I like to be in control, telling them I like giving pleasure instead of receiving it. At first, most of the men were fine with that, thinking I was just some lighter version of a dominatrix.

Ironically, that couldn’t be further from the truth. I want to be able to give in, give up control and I want to fully trust someone with my body. I’ve fantasized about being tied up and blindfolded, allowing a man to take control of me, giving me the most erotic pleasure.

Yet, I can barely stand when a man touches me in real life.

I’ve tried with other men, but panic, almost immediately with the slightest touch. The guys would get immediately frustrated, and then I’d spend weeks blanketing myself in shame.

Because someone like me shouldn’t crave that kind of sex.

Penny knows about my history with men, which is why I’m opting to leave out the tree incident that happened in my backyard. She’ll Sigmund Freud that half to death.

I’m not even a therapist andI’moveranalyzing the fact thatSeamus has been the only man to successfully get me there, yet he was the originator of a large part of my trust issues.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Penny asks, with a dorky giggle.

I smile and change the subject.

“I have my first tantric massage class at Afterburn this weekend,” I say instead as I take a bite of my veggie omelet, ignoring the big fat elephant.

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