by Rowan Shaw
I could no longer lie to myself about my desires. I may have been able to ignore the cravings before, but last night made it plain clear that I wasn't straight. And I wanted to succumb to that part of me so much, the growing needs were slowly overriding my fears.
Chapter 6
PATRICK
After grabbing breakfast quickly and rushing through my shower to soap off the remains of Brandon's masculine scent from my skin, I put on a suit and drove through the morning traffic to arrive at my office at nine A.M. My first appointment wasn't until ten-thirty, but I liked going through all my files before the day started.
I sat behind my large elm desk and rocked in my black leather chair. Everything here was neat to a fault: the files on my desk were in a straight pile, the blue and gold brocade couch and armchair in the corner free of dust, and the walls covered in peaceful Monet reproductions. A clear space for a clear mind.
I logged on to my computer and checked my schedule, frowning when I saw the name of the patient coming at one P.M. What were the odds of meeting two different Brandons in twenty-four hours? I opened the file that he had filled out online.
Brandon was two years older than me, but he was born in the United States. I stared at the place of birth. Then I blinked and stared again. Queens, New York City. Shit! Shit, shit, shit. I perused his entire file. He was a piano teacher, and he needed counseling to accept his orientation and come out to his family.
A piano teacher? Fuck me.
I rubbed my mouth. Maybe it was all just a coincidence, and this was some other Brandon who was also born in Queens and who taught the piano...
I wondered if there was a way to cancel the appointment. Except I never did that. In four years of doing this job, never had I cancelled an appointment. Not once. If Brandon needed counseling, I could give him the name of another therapist who was open to queers, but I could not give up on someone seeking help. I read the rest of his file, took a few notes, and reclined in my armchair, my hands steepled in front of my mouth as I closed my eyes. Inhaling a few times, I tried to relax while the clock ticked by.
I prepared everything for the rest of the day, saw a few clients, but the hours dragged by until lunchtime. I wasn't hungry, though I was supposed to meet Jean-François. I messaged him to ask if we could grab lunch some other time, and he made a joke, asking if I was tired from spending the night with the handsome Asian man I'd picked up at the bar. I wasn't sure how he knew about Brandon, but I gathered Enrique had filled him in after my departure.
I had nothing to do for another forty-five minutes, and I couldn't focus enough to read one of the new psychology books I'd bought during one of my outings with Enzo. What the fuck was I supposed to do about the guy I'd spent all night defiling? I stood and paced for over thirty minutes before Chantal, my secretary, knocked on the door and stepped in.
"There've been two cancellations for tomorrow, but someone else called for an emergency meeting. I was able to fit him in during one of the free slots."
"Who is it?"
"Monsieur Vanier."
"You couldn't fit him in today?" I asked.
"After Monsieur Smith, your schedule is full back-to-back until eight P.M."
I was supposed to meet with Enzo for dinner tonight, but Monsieur Vanier wasn't someone who could wait until the next day. After months of hard work, he was finally making progress. He would never call for an emergency unless it was vital. We couldn't afford a relapse.
"Please call him back and tell him to come at eight."
I would have to cancel dinner with my best friend—again.
When Chantal left, I messaged Enzo to let him know we'd have to reschedule unless he wanted to meet at nine. I wondered if he was sulking on his couch again, going through his huge list of Michel Drucker shows or rewatching that documentary about Dalida he'd been babbling about for weeks. Though Enzo was deaf like my sister, Margaux, he wore a cochlear implant that allowed him to hear when his processor was on. However, those were probably the only shows he ever bothered watching though they didn't offer subtitles to facilitate his understanding.
As always since his breakup with Florian, his reply didn't wait.
ENZO: You work too hard.
ME: You always say that.
ENZO: Because it's true. I'm concerned about you.
ME: I'll be fine, mon lapin. This really couldn't wait. I'm sorry. I'll take you out on Saturday. A vegetarian restaurant. Your choice, my treat.
ENZO: Fine. But this isn't about me. You need to slow down.
ME: I will, mon chou, I promise. I need to go, though. Bye bye now.
Of course, we both knew I wouldn't, but he didn't reply.
Picking up my landline phone and pressing one digit, I glanced at the clock. "Chantal, is Monsieur Smith here yet?"
"Yes, he just arrived."
"Please let him in."
Breathing deeply, I heard him knock on the door before he took a hesitant step in. I rose to my feet and looked him straight in the eyes as I shook his hand. His palm was warm against mine, sending my mind in directions I couldn't control. I couldn't forget the feel of his tight grip on me, my head overflowing with vivid visions of him jerking me off after I'd backed him toward my bed. Goosebumps rose all over my skin, forcing me to close my eyes. I hoped the blood pumping through my veins wouldn't head down south. The current situation was bad enough.
He was as breathtaking in broad daylight as he was in the dim glow of my bedroom—maybe even more so as he stood there in all his splendor, transfixed and frozen, with a bewildered look on his face.
"I..." he started, the words dying in his throat as he gaped at me.
Without a smile, I tilted my head toward the couch. "Please, sit down."
Chapter 7
PATRICK
Brandon removed his jacket while I took the armchair facing him. After a quick inquisitive look at my office, he wrung his hands in repetitive nervous movements, his gaze never quite meeting mine.
My legs crossed at the knees, I leaned back with my clipboard. "So, Brandon, what brings you here today?" I asked, though I already knew his reasons based on his file.
He turned his eyes to me at last and bit his lower lip. "Are we going to talk about what happened last night? I didn't know who you were, and—"
"Not here."
"But—"
"We will have this session. I'd like to make an assessment, but we can't discuss last night. When we're done, I'll send your file to another specialist in the field."
He didn't protest in spite of the disappointment pooling out of his eyes.
I couldn't believe I'd put myself in this situation.
"So, tell me why you're here," I repeated, trying to smooth the edge of my voice.
"I would like to come out to my family."
He wasn't the first gay man to need my help due to family issues. Those problems often led to self-hatred among my clients, especially when coupled with looming filial rejections.
"None of them know you're queer?"
Brandon shook his head, his lips caught between his teeth.
"How come?"
He cleared his throat and averted his gaze. "When I realized what was going on, I wasn't sure I truly was queer, or if it was all inside my head."
A late bloomer, then. That would explain his edginess when we met. Even during sex, I would have thought it was his first time fucking a guy. There was some awkwardness about him, mixed with the same kind of thrill encountered among virgins getting their first lay—except he had an ex—someone he was stable enough with that he'd moved all the way here for him.
"I mean, I knew on some level," he continued, "but I felt so confused, I tried to deny my attraction to men. Then the closet grew so comfortable, and now I'm worried everyone will think I was lying the whole time."
I narrowed my eyes. I could sense there was more to the story than that, but he didn't seem ready to open up yet. "Does anyone know at all?"
I couldn't imagine bearing
such a deep secret on my own, but so many queers did. It infuriated me how it comforted bigots to force so many of us to hide so they could pretend we didn't exist.
I took down a few notes, then looked at Brandon again when he answered, "My ex does, and a few friends."
"When did you become aware of your taste for men?"
"When I was about fifteen. It happened a bit before I dated my ex."
"I see. And no one else suspected anything?"
He shook his head.
"How long did your relationship with your ex last?"
"Almost six years."
My eyes bulged. "And you remained in the closet the entire time?"
He gave a short nod. "Like I said, I had a hard time accepting the truth."
I nodded and scribbled down all the details. "Have you accepted it now?"
He sure didn't feel like a queer who hated himself when he was in my arms last night. Though he was incredibly shy and let me take control, there was an eagerness to his touch, almost like repressed hunger he had failed to satiate over the years. That puzzled me the most. His attitude last night didn't make sense if he'd dated a man for six years...unless he'd gone through a long period of celibacy afterward. Surely he'd had sex since then...
"I think I've accepted myself, yes," he replied with a hint of hesitation.
"You think or you're sure?" I looked at him from over the black frames of my glasses that I only wore for work. "It's important that you accept and love yourself first before coming out to other people."
"I know. I mean, I know I've accepted myself now."
I gave a nod. "I take it your family isn't open about our community?"
Brandon took a little while to answer. His eyes scanned the room as if he was looking for an escape. I had to repeat my question to grab his attention.
"My mom isn't narrow-minded. She's the sweetest person I know. She's had a difficult life, but I've never seen her hate on anyone. She always wants the best for other people. She cried for joy when they passed the equality marriage law in the US."
I gave a little smile. My mom was ecstatic when the law passed here too—until she realized I wasn't going to change my ways and marry a man anytime soon. Didn't stop her from hoping, though.
"D'you have any siblings?" I asked.
"No."
"Have you ever felt pressured into being the perfect child?"
Brandon took a moment to reply. His hesitation spoke volumes. "I imposed it upon myself more than anything else, I think. My mom isn't demanding. My family is... They're good people. My mom and aunt volunteer at Habitat every Saturday."
"What's Habitat?"
"An organization in the US. People build houses for those in need. They arrange trips to foreign countries to help with housing there as well. My mom and aunt go every year."
"If they're open to the LGBTQ community, why are you scared of coming out?"
I'd seen that happen with a few queers. It was more common than one might think. Their fear was often rooted in societal hatred toward our community. Even with a loving family, many queers chose to remain closeted.
"I told you. I'm worried they'll think I lied. I'm scared my duplicity might break my mom's heart."
"I wouldn't call it duplicity. Everyone has parts of themselves they don't tell other people about. You can always explain you had to come to terms with the truth first."
I wasn't sure what was bothering him exactly, but I could tell he was hiding something. He'd hesitated one time too many before answering, and the quick, jittery movements of his intertwined hands spoke for him. He seemed edgy whenever I brought up his reasons for being closeted.
"I'm worried it'll make her sad or anxious."
"It's not your job to make other people happy, Brandon. Everyone is responsible for their own happiness in life." I took a quick glance at him before writing some more. "If anyone close to you said something negative when you come out, would you be ready for that?"
"Can anyone ever get ready for that?" he asked. "Hatred hurts, no matter where it comes from."
I gave a nod as I kept scrawling things down, then peeked at him. "If you grow enough self-love and self-esteem, people's words won't dig as deeply. It's possible to rise above the hatred, but it takes work."
"I don't think I'm ready."
"You don't have to come out if you're not up to it yet. Your family lives in the US, right?"
"Yes."
"Do you plan to return there to live?"
"Not really, no. I acquired my French citizenship. It took a long time to grow my business. My life is rather stable now. I'd like to keep it that way."
I gave a genuine smile. "Congratulations on the citizenship. When did you get it?"
"Nine months ago."
"If you live here, you can work on yourself first before coming out. There's no rush."
He shook his head. "Hiding the truth stifles me. I feel like a fraud."
"I understand, but it seems you still need to do a bit more work on yourself first. It's not my job to tell you what to do or not, Brandon. I'm only here to guide you and help you feel better."
He nodded, though he didn't seem convinced.
I glimpsed at the clock on the wall. "Our session is over for today. Like I said before, I—"
"When can I see you again?"
I wasn't sure if he meant for a consultation or for sex. This right here was the exact reason why I had to put a stop to our sessions—that and the fact I couldn't stop thinking about last night. It hadn't even been twenty-four hours since I'd plunged deep inside him, and just looking at him made me want to do it all over again. I couldn't counsel him. There would be too many factors involved. Seeing a shrink after fucking him wasn't the best option for his mental health.
"I think you should see another therapist," I reiterated. "I'll give you her references before you leave."
He studied me for a minute, his eyes narrowed. "I don't want another therapist."
Without acknowledging his request, I stood and grabbed a notepad from my desk, where I scribbled down the name of an associate. When I turned to him, I caught him right in the act of staring at my ass. I raised an eyebrow and handed the paper to him.
"She's a great psychologist. She's open to the LGBT community. She's very busy, but I can make the transfer for you and get you a spot as soon as you need it."
Slightly deflated, Brandon rose from the couch. "If I go to her instead, can I see you again?"
"I don't think it's the best idea."
He held my gaze unhappily. "Why not?"
"Because you walked into this office today and became my client."
"I don't get what you mean. I'm not your client if I see that other therapist."
He was tempting me too much, and for the first time in a very long time, I had trouble denying myself the chance to go for seconds.
"Will you be at the club tonight?" he asked.
"I have to work tomorrow. I can't be out every night."
"I see." His mouth twirled down, his tone accusatory.
"What?"
He propped himself off the couch, shaking his head as he grabbed and put on his jacket. "You're one of them."
I slanted my eyes. "You need to be a bit more explicit."
"You tricked me into bed last night, so now you're ready to move on."
I nearly laughed. He was so far from the truth. Just looking at him made my dick swell. I would take him right here, right now if I could. I remembered too clearly how hard he'd made me come as I brought him to the other side along with me. But I couldn't let it go further than that one night.
"It's not that," I corrected him. "And I didn't trick you. You were more than willing."
"What is it then?"
"I explained it to you." I checked the clock. My next patient was due any minute. I couldn't have that conversation. Not here, not now. It was clear the issue wasn't settled, and I couldn't have a client I'd fucked—albeit unknowingly—going around frustrated at me. I k
new better than to leave the problem unsolved. "What about you come directly to my place tonight? You know where I live. We can talk some more."
Who was I fooling? I didn't know what the hell I was doing, but I knew we'd fuck again if we ended up alone together. I wouldn't be able to resist him.
Still, I needed to fix this mess somehow. Shit like this could spread fast, and I couldn't afford a smear on my professional reputation.
"I'll be done at nine P.M. I'll be home around nine-thirty. If it's not too late for you, I can cook us something quickly first, and we can talk."
"Okay." He gave a smile that nearly undid me and reached for the doorknob. "See you then."
Chapter 8
BRANDON
My phone rang the moment I stepped into the street. I wasn't sure how I felt about the session. I didn't want to meet a therapist who wasn't part of the community. What if she gaslighted me or erased me or something? Even if Patrick claimed she was perfect for the job, I wasn't convinced.
I didn't have time to ponder the issue for long. The buzzing and vibration in my pocket wouldn't stop, forcing me to sneak a peek at the screen and pick up upon the fifth ring. "Hey."
"How did it go?" Ling asked without a greeting.
"I'll let you guess." The heat outside was so stifling when I walked to my car, droplets of sweat were already gathering on my neck and forehead.
"It was that bad?"
"Worse."
"I don't understand. The person who recommended him spoke so highly of him."
I looked at the bright blue sky and shielded my eyes with my hand, squinting instinctively against the sun. "The session wasn't the issue. He was great."
"What is it, then? And please don't tell me you're chickening out and you've decided not to come out after all."
I stopped in my tracks and pressed my shoulder against the gray façade of some building, seeking shade that barely alleviated the agony of such unbearable heat. "The guy I met at the club last night...that was the shrink I saw today."
"Wait! What? Are you serious?"
I could feel a headache coming as I proceeded down the street and finally reached the parking lot. "You told me his name was Lefèvre. But you never said his first name was Patrick."
