The O Doctor

by Brandy Ayers

  “My patients at my family counseling firm call me Dr. O, but you guys can call me the O Doctor.” I smirk back at Marci, whose eyes immediately go down to the pad of paper in her lap. The blank paper I should add. “Not really, call me Micah. So, let's get started. Usually, in the first class, I like to try and get to know you better, as well as give you more insight into what we’ll be learning. So, first, show of hands, who here is in a steady, committed relationship?”

  Slowly, eleven of the hands go up. The twelfth guy kind of half raises his hand, then pulls it back and shrugs.

  “What about you?” I nod at the guy who couldn't figure out if he’s in a relationship or not. “If you aren't in a relationship, why did you sign up for the class?”

  He’s a youngish guy, maybe early twenties, a little on the skinny side, but not bad looking at all. Obviously nervous, he glances back at Marci with blatant fear.

  “Don’t worry about her. She’s only here to observe. Like it said in the email I sent everyone, she isn’t allowed to give names or describe any of you and will only discuss what we talk about here in general terms.” I nod encouragingly at my student, and he relaxes a little.

  “Well, I’ve been seeing this girl for a while now, about three months. We haven’t had sex yet, but I know she wants to. Um, but I’ve never had sex. I mean I came close, like knocking at the door close a couple times, but both times stopped.” The guy spins the pen in his hand around his fingers, and blushes, obviously embarrassed that he is a guy in his twenties who hasn’t had sex. “Once because it dawned on me that we were both way too drunk, her more so than me, and that’s not cool. And once because her step-brother barged in and professed his love for her.”

  The guys collectively groan, and I can’t hide the wince. “First off, props for recognizing when a woman can’t give consent and backing off. I wish all men could recognize those signs and did the right thing. Obviously, the woman you’re involved with is lucky to have you.” Okay, I might be over stating this a little bit, but the guy obviously needs a little ego boost. “Second, fuck, that is bad luck with the second girl.”

  He kinda scoffs and nods his head before continuing. “Anyway, the girl I’m dating now is a lot more experienced than me, and I want to be sure I’ll be able to make her feel good from the get go.” His blush deepens, and I wish I could buy the guy a beer right now, but we’re not allowed to drink during the class.

  “That is a great reason to be here, and that is what most of these guys are here for too. The bottom line is, you all want to make sure the women you are with are having fun and getting pleasure when you’re intimate.” I see a few of the guys rolling their eyes at my wording, and I hold back a laugh. “Okay, okay. You want to make her come hard while you’re fucking her. Don’t worry, we’ll get there.”

  A round of chuckles spreads through the room, and I swear I even see Miss Uptight in the back crack a smile and rub her thighs together under the table. I could tell from the second we locked eyes that she was attracted to me. God knows I am to her as well. But there isn’t a chance in hell I’d pursue something with a woman who judges that fast with such little information.

  “So, another show of hands, how many of you suspect your ladies have faked an orgasm during sex?” Four of the guys raise their hands, and I make sure to take in their faces. They are obviously the more open ones for this round, and I’ll make sure to use them to help me draw out the more reserved guys. “Well, I can pretty much guarantee that the rest of you guys should have your hands up too.”

  At the back of the room, I see Marci take some notes. Her eyes widen, and she nods, acknowledging the sad truth that most women have faked at some point or another. For some reason, this woman not getting the pleasure she deserves distracts me, a little anger welling up inside my stomach. I brush the feeling off and get back to my point.

  “The question is, why are your partners faking it? Well, according to several research studies, there are several reasons. Who wants to give a stab at one?”

  I point to one of the braver souls I noticed earlier. He’s a Latino guy in his mid-forties, and I notice the wedding ring on his finger right away. “Um, well, I just found out my wife has been faking it about half the time we’ve been together. She said she didn’t want me to feel bad when I was doing everything right. She just wasn’t in the right headspace.”

  “Okay, good. So, there are actually two reasons in there.” I hold up my index finger. “Number one, she wants to save her husband’s fragile male ego. I would say that is the number one reason women fake it. They don't want us to feel bad. The other reason in there is because she knows she’s not going to get there, so she just wants it done so she can worry about other things.”

  I turn back to the Latino gentleman. “So, if you were to guess, what is the first step you need to take to address both of those issues?”

  To his credit, the guy actually stops and thinks about his answer instead of just spewing out the first thing that pops into his head. I have to give him props. He obviously wants things to be different for his wife. “Well, um, maybe I can let her know that I won’t be hurt if she just isn’t in the mood every night? And, maybe I could help her out more with the kids and stuff, help her worry less?”

  “Dang man, your wife is putting out every night?” A guy in his thirties gapes in shock.

  “Well, yes, almost every night. But I’d rather only have sex a few times a month and have her enjoy it every time, then have it every night with her just waiting for it to be over.”

  Jesus, I want to shake this guy’s hand. These classes can attract all kinds, but this man is showing true respect and love for his wife with just that statement.

  My eyes wander back to Marci again. They can’t seem to help themselves, and she is looking at me with a little bit of a dumbfounded expression. Obviously, this wasn’t what she had been expecting from tonight. I appreciate that she at least seems to be taking the whole thing a little more seriously now. Though I’m still wary about how this article is going to turn out.

  For the rest of the class, we go around the room talking about reasons why women might fake an orgasm during sex and talking about how we as men can make it clear that they don’t need to do that. I’m glad this is the group Marci is sitting in with, because most of these guys have open minds and are truly here for the right reasons.

  As we begin to wrap up this week’s class, I notice that a lot of the guys are looking around, rolling their eyes, folding their arms and closing themselves off. I get it. In all honesty, the first class isn’t one they walk away from with a lot of knowledge to put into action. The first class is meant to get them thinking about someone other than themselves, and it is easy for them to think, ‘That’s it?’

  “Okay guys, I have homework for you tonight.” A few of the guys groan. No matter how old we get, homework will always illicit that reaction. “Don't worry. It will be fun. I want each of you to go home and do something for the women in your life that does not involve anything sexual. And no buying flowers, either. That is a cop out. Cook her dinner. Do something around the house to make her life easier. Take her out to a date that she will love, but you don't care all that much about. Do something purely for her, nothing in it for you. And don't expect anything for it. If your woman tries to reward you in a sexual manner, flip it around and make sex that night all about her. And you aren’t allowed to come.”

  I swear some of the guys look a little green. Men never go into sex thinking there is a good chance they aren’t going to get their rocks off. For us, it is forgone conclusion. Most the time anyway.

  “The point of this homework is to tune into the needs of your partner, without thinking about yourself. Put your own needs aside for a night or two. I promise, it won’t kill you.” After thanking them all for coming and making sure they know the next class will be in the same place and time on Thursday night, I wave them all off.

  Once the last of them file out, I swing my gaze to the back tabl
e where Marci is now leaning back in her chair, thumbs tucked into her pockets, and chair tipped back, balancing on two legs. I truly struggle to keep my eyes above her neck. I can see in my peripheral vision that the complicated shirt she’s wearing has slipped a little, exposing the top of her breasts and just the edge of one red lacy bra cup. I want to let my eyes drift down and take a good look but refuse to give her the satisfaction of knowing just how attractive I find her. Her body and face might be the things teenage dreams are made of, but what I’ve seen of her personality is the thing of nightmares.

  “So, do dive bars like this serve crow? Because I have the sudden hankering for some.” Marci gives me this sassy-slash-shy smile, that I’m sure has gotten her out of a lot of trouble in her life, but I’m not buying for a minute. Hell, she just insulted my uncle’s bar in the same breath as she made her half-assed apology.

  Needing her to know I’m not particularly impressed by her, I lean back against the table behind me, crossing my arms. “If you think this is a dive bar, I’d love to see the pretentious places you frequent.”

  Her smile falters, and I kind of hate myself for making it dim.

  Pursing her lips, Marci narrows her eyes at me a little. “Well, on the rare occasion I decide to go out on the town, I do tend to pick places where my shoes don’t stick to the floor.”

  A loud laugh bursts out of me, and Marci looks startled. Certainly, her come back didn’t warrant that level of reaction. “Actually, the floor here is usually pristine. But my aunt passed a few months back, and Uncle Pete refuses to hire a cleaning lady to take over the things his wife did around the bar. I try to do the floors for him before my classes, since he’s not getting any younger, but I skipped out today because I was expecting this reporter assigned to do a story on my classes.”

  Marci has enough grace to blush a little, but her eyes never waiver from mine. “Fuck.” Marci sits up abruptly, the front two legs of her chair banging on the wood floor. “Okay, I’ve managed to put my foot in it at every turn with you, so I’m just going to start over.” She stands and crosses over to me. “Hi, I’m Marci Sinclair, features reporter for My Way Magazine. It’s so nice to meet you. The packet of information I received on you, which I have now read, is quite impressive.”

  I sit and consider her for a moment, letting it stretch just a little bit longer than necessary to make her squirm. But she doesn’t. She stands firm, not backing down even an inch. Which makes me wonder, what would it take to make her squirm? What makes this tough as nails, slightly snobby, beautiful woman break her facade?

  Finally, I reach out and take her hand in mine. The second our skin touches, a sharp shock of electricity zaps up my arm, making my heart rate spike a moment. I wonder if there was some built up static electricity that we just released, but no. That feeling has nothing to do with electricity and everything to do with chemistry.

  “Nice to meet you, Marci. I have a feeling this will be an interesting few weeks.”

  Chapter Three

  Marci

  Beads of condensation drip down the side of my untouched glass to pool on the thin bar napkin beneath. There is a sprig of rosemary artfully placed in the glass. Besides that, I’m not really sure what the trendy cocktail contains besides a lot of booze. Glancing around, the embarrassment and shame from the afternoon washes over me once again.

  This place is pretentious.

  Slowly, I slump down in my seat, banging my forehead on the table hard enough to make my twenty-dollar cocktail slosh over the sides a little.

  “What is your problem tonight?” I don't even have to look at Lacy to know she is throwing me some serious side eye. It is discernible from the contempt in her voice alone. “Jesus, you show up in the same outfit you wore all day. You haven’t even touched your Walk in the Woods cocktail, and at least five different guys have made eyes at you, and you haven’t acknowledged a single one.”

  I prop my chin up on the heel of my hand and look around. Yup, I catch three guys’ eyes, and another two turn just as I look at them. Twenty-four hours ago, I would have given anyone of them a chance. They are all the typical skinny hipster guys I typically go for. But now, they leave me cold. Because all I can see is a big lumberjack of a man filling out a pair of slacks like no man should be able to.

  A sexy, dual doctorate, thick thighed, bubble butted, sweet man. The way he talked to his students, encouraged them, not to mention all the talk about women’s orgasms and why we fake them. I can’t even remember the last time I’d been that aroused by not only a man’s body, but his brain, his heart.

  And what did I do? I showed up late, acted like a presumptuous bitch, and then while attempting to apologize, I inadvertently insulted his uncle.

  “Do you think I’m judgmental?” Guilt settles into the pit of my stomach. Because if I acted this way toward one person, I probably have towards others. And regardless of someone’s station in life, do I have any right to judge them?

  “Of course you are. So am I. So is everyone in this bar. Everyone on the planet judges someone in their life.” Lacey sips from whatever is in the bright green drink she’s been nursing for an hour now. But even as she talks to me, she doesn’t stop her perusal of those around us, and sadly, I know what she’s doing. She’s looking to see if there is anyone here worthier of her attention than I am. “Show me someone that is completely non-judgmental, and I will show you a giant pile of bullshit. Even Mother Teresa was probably judging all those lazy-ass nuns that stayed in cushy convents in non-third-world countries.”

  At least twice a week, I wonder why I am still friends with Lacy. We went to college together, and while she’s always been a bit of a snob, ever since she found internet fame and officially became a social media influencer, she’s been obsessed with status. I miss the girl I bonded with freshman year in a too small dorm room over awful cafeteria food and a love for CW shows.

  “Listen, whoever this guy is, he is a loser for making you feel like shit.” Lacy barely manages to sound interested in her own pep talk, and it does nothing for me.

  “He’s not a loser. And he didn’t make me feel like shit. I’m doing an awesome job of that myself.” Truthfully, Micah had been nothing but gracious after my second attempt at an apology. He offered to get some drinks and finish the interview, but I decided it would be best if I left and we tried again at the next class. After I recovered from my complete mortification. And took a hard look at myself.

  The whole experience had been a strange mix of enlightening, mortifying, and arousing. I’m not ashamed to admit, I spent a good portion of the class trying to get a better look at Micah’s round butt. That thing is an ass made for gripping while he drives into a woman’s body. Damn, did I want to be that woman. Hearing him talk about ways to make women feel special in and out of the bedroom, encouraging the men to step outside their own needs for a while and think about the needs of their women. Jesus, it created a need deep in my core that I haven’t felt in a very long time. Maybe ever.

  Looking around the club, I instantly know that none of these men would give two shits about my pleasure. About what I need. If I went home with one of them, they would jack rabbit on top of me until they had their weak little orgasms and scurried off to find a cab home.

  Not Micah though. I only met him once, and I know that he wouldn’t rest until I was a sweaty, sobbing, wrung out mess. But I can’t think about him like that. Not only is it unethical while I’m doing the story about his classes, but I effectively ruined any chance I would have had at discovering whether or not he can put his money where his mouth is the moment I opened my mouth.

  “Why did we come here again?” Seriously, the club makes no sense. It is Shakespearean themed with balconies and columns covered in actual vines and shrubbery. The music is this weird techno mix of bass and fucking pan flutes. The waitresses have the equivalent of the sexy wench outfits and are completely ridiculous.

  “What do you mean? This place is so now. Everyone who is anyone comes here.”
Somewhere across the room, Lacy spots someone more impressive than me, she gives them a disinterested wave, and then does her whole I see you, but I’m too important to come over act.

  “What do you mean this club is so now? It can’t be so now. It is Shakespearean themed. He died seven hundred years ago.” I sip from the truly awful cocktail, cringing at the weird mix of rosemary, lemon and gin. It’s called a midsummer’s walk through the woods. Excuse me while I roll my eyes.

  Lacy flings her hand out over her shoulder, the universal sign for dismissing everything I just said. “Shakespeare is having a moment. He hasn’t been this big since Gwyneth Paltrow won her Oscar.”

  I start to remind her that William Shakespeare is dead, and therefore cannot have a moment. But before I get a word out, Lacy stands from the table, holds up one finger, and saunters off to someone who looks equally as fake bored as she tries to be. Despite her gesture, I know that would be the last I see of her for the rest of the night. Which is fine. This whole night has been one comedy of error after another. I have about as much desire to be in this club as I do to live the whole embarrassing Micah interview over again.

  As soon as Lacy disappears from sight, I throw a twenty on the table and leave, catching a cab just outside the door and directing him toward my apartment in Brooklyn.

  The drive flies by thanks to my mind being so preoccupied by the big bear of a man that is Micah. I never obsess about men like this. I have my career. I have my family. I don't need a man to be fulfilled. I am fulfilled. But I can’t deny that a big part of me wants to know what he’d be like in bed. Is he so considerate and kind that he likes to have a slow gentle pace?