I promptly forgot all about it when a man came out to greet me, introducing himself as Dr. Bob Cooper. He said he was taking over my counseling, effective immediately.
“Dr. Cheska thinks that you’d benefit more from talking to me instead of to her.”
I kept my face impassive and held in the snort. The only one who would benefit from her passing me off was Dr. Cheska.
We settled into his office (oddly, it was decorated almost identically to Dr. Cheska’s) and Dr. Cooper asked if the diary was helping.
I admitted that I’d forgotten to use it.
He assigned me one entry by Friday—which he said he’d glance over, but not read word-for-word. He mostly wanted to see that I was at least attempting to use it as a learning tool, although the entries were really mine alone, for me to work out whatever was cropping up during the week.
I couldn’t stop the smirk. If only he knew.
Somehow, our talk wound around to the roots of my attitudes toward women, and how I lost my virginity in particular.
So I relayed the story of the all-girl Bon Jovi cover band, and how I’d been their gigolo-in-training for a while.
“It was cool, I guess,” I said in response to his query of how it made me feel. “I mean, most high school guys have to practically beg their girlfriends to have sex, and it’s usually in the back seat of a car or somewhere else awkward and stupid. I didn’t have to go through that. Or the arguing or broken hearts afterward.”
“But Tack,” he asked, “what do you think about it now, knowing how your life has turned out?”
Wow. Way to judge, Doc. “You make it sound like the way I live my life is a bad thing. And it isn’t. I like playing the ever-changing field. No strings. No disagreements. No hearts involved to break.”
I didn’t know him well enough to admit that a string or two were beginning to sound mighty appealing. Nor that I was now thinking that maybe I’d actually missed out by losing my virginity to a bunch of women who didn’t care about me in the least.
By the time the hour with Dr. Cooper was over, I wasn’t sure if he was shocked or envious. Whatever, man. It was still the truth.
And I was horny all over again.
Dammit.
I came home raw, which was normal after one of the Tack-talking hours, but this time, with desire floating way too close to the surface, as well. Today was geared to kill me with testosterone overload, and I hadn’t been able to shake it off on the drive home.
I walked in to find Jen sautéing chicken and snowpeas. I was drooling already, and wasn’t sure if the cause was the delicious aroma or from seeing Jen in shorts and an apron.
“You don’t mind, do you? I figured it was my turn to take care of you a little.”
After the way the day had gone, I’m sure my thoughts of her taking care of me were far different from hers.
I went into the bedroom to change into sweats. That zipper was leaving permadents in my dick. I picked my loosest fleece, and hoped they’d hide the tent that wouldn’t completely go away.
Once she’d stuffed me with dinner and beer, I told her to find something to do while I took care of the dishes.
Mostly, I needed a little breather from her closeness.
I went into the living room after and found her playing a hand of some kind of solitaire I’d never seen before, taking up most of the coffee table. I’d brought her another beer and set it near her elbow, then sat down next to her on the couch.
“You don’t have to alter your routine just because I’m here,” she said without looking at me.
Yeah, right. I could stay out all night with her in my house, and come home smelling like sex. With someone else. Instead, I told her I liked her company.
Which was the truth. The place seemed a little brighter with her in it.
“Wanna play with me?”
Not a good question to ask me today, little cockblocker.
I cleared my throat, because it felt like I was strangling, and squeezed out, “What’s your game?”
If she noticed that I sounded funny, she didn’t let on. I put some bluesy rock on the stereo, low and mellow, and fetched myself a beer of my own.
We settled on gin rummy, and after two hands of being beaten quite soundly, I was beginning to think she’d played me for a chump.
Good thing we weren’t betting.
Bad thing that every new hand brought a fresh bottle of beer.
I was getting a little buzzed and feeling silly, so when Jensen flashed her third winning hand in a row, I launched myself at her, tickling under her arms and down her sides. Her cards flew over the back of the couch and she squirmed and shrieked, trying to get away.
“You, my wench, need to learn how to soothe the male ego by letting me win once in a while.” I punctuated that by dancing my fingers down both sides of her ribs. Jen tried to scoot toward the end of the couch to escape, but that just laid her out flat under me.