The Sex Surrogate

The

Sex

Surrogate

–

Jessica
Gadziala

©
Jessica
Gadziala 2015

Dedication:

To
those who know all about the

safest
place in the world.

And
to those who so lovingly provide it.

xx

Before
the Sessions

“I
am going to see a sex surrogate.” There. I said it. Out loud.
Granted, only to myself and in the privacy of my car with the windows
up. But, hey, it counts. It's not like it is something I could share
with my family, or my coworkers, my roommate or... well, that's about
all the people I have in my life. And they wouldn't get it. They hear
“sex surrogate” and they think “prostitute”.
Besides, admitting it would mean admitting to them that I am dealing
with some form of sexual dysfunction. Which, I am. Totally. But they
don't need to friggen know that. That would be so humiliating. It was
bad enough that the guys I have (tried) to date are all too aware.

This
was for me. No one else needed to know.

I
pulled into the parking garage, three floors up, and parked my car. I
was early. They said to come early because, apparently, there was a
detailed questionnaire to fill out. But I'm pretty sure they didn't
mean... an hour and a half early. Honestly, I had to leave my
apartment or there was no way in hell I was going to go through with
it. So, I just got to sit for forty-five minutes and freak the fuck
out wedged between a van and a SUV, in perfect seclusion.

Six
months ago, I had no idea there was even such a thing as help for me.
I thought I was doomed to uncomfortable discussions with men I was
interested in for the rest of my life. Or, more likely, a lifetime of
being a spinster. Because, let's face it, how many times can you be
expected to sit down and tell someone that you don't like sex? To see
that look cross their face: confusion, disappointment, arrogant male
pride. Because every guy thinks they'll be different. They will
change it. They can make you writhe and moan and get over the fears
and insecurities that make you lie there like a dead freaking fish,
internalizing a panic attack because you're terrified of what they
would do if you pushed them off like you wanted to.

No
one changed it.

Four
men down. And I was so over it.

I
was supposed to be out enjoying sex. Hooking up. Dating. Having one
night stands. All those things that normal twenty-seven year olds do
before they finally get serious and give thought to settling down in
their thirties. I had already lost so much time.

And
it's not like I don't want to want sex. I totally do. I can get as
turned on as the next girl just thinking about it. But when it comes
down to it and he's there and you're there... and clothes need to
come off, and touching needs t happen... I just flip out inside. And
then that makes me lose the drive and then... yeah, dead fish,
someone plowing into me, pissed off because I was not enjoying it.

Something
needed to change.

Especially
because... I have no trauma. I have no legitimate reason to be afraid
of sex. I was never abused as a child. I never witnessed anything
twisted or gross. I had never been raped or coerced into doing things
I was uncomfortable with.

There
was no good reason why I couldn't enjoy a healthy sex life.

Except
my own stupid head.

And
I had tried the traditional therapy route. Actually, I had been in
and out of treatment
for
my anxiety issues since I was a teenager. The last therapist was a
middle aged woman with
startling
green eyes and a soothing voice. To her, I spilled it all. All of the
sordid, awful tales of my quest to have physical contact with men.
She did her best, bless her, to help. Gave me workbooks meant to help
me bolster my confidence, talked to me about sex in as frank a manner
as possible to get me comfortable with the idea, hoping the action
would be easier for me afterward. But nope.

Finally,
frustrated with her inability to help, and sorry for me in her
detached, professional kind of way... she had produced a card. It was
small and white with raised black writing.

Dr.
Chase Hudson

Psychologist/
Sexologist/ Sexual Surrogate

“Call
his office,” she urged, nodding for emphasis. “I know it
seems far fetched, Ava, but it's worth a shot. You've tried
everything else.”

Afterward
commenced a long, drawn out internet search on the topic of sexual
surrogacy. A profession, I found, dominated mostly by women. Which, I
guess, made sense. Men were a lot more likely to suffer from sexual
dysfunction. But there was a growing subset of male practitioners. It
was a legitimate, legal business. They could talk with me, touch me,
have sex with me. It was all perfectly safe and, from the law's
standpoint, acceptable.

I
researched Dr. Chase Hudson, finding an amazing, upscale looking
website with information on his degrees and certifications, a brief
outline of all his services, and a place to set up an appointment
online. Which sent a tiny surge of gratitude through my body,
because, well... there was no way I could have set up that kind of
appointment over the phone.

I
got a call from a secretary the next day, confirming my appointment
and telling me to arrive at least a half an hour before my scheduled
time on the first visit so I could fill out paperwork.

My
alarm went off at eight in the morning and I crawled out of bed,
showered, and stood in front of my mirror for the better part of
twenty minutes.

There
was nothing wrong with me physically. My face is soft, slight
cheekbones, a straight and well proportioned nose, a slightly pointed
chin, brown eyes with light brown lashes, a somewhat plump lower
lip, and long blonde hair. If I catch myself on a good day, I'd say I
am pretty. It was not a good day.

My
body is perfectly average. Not super thin, but not heavy either. A
slight flare of hip. A decent rack. An ass that doesn't live up to
current beauty standards (meaning big enough to be seen from the
fucking front), but it isn't flat either. I like my legs most of all,
I guess. Long, lean, slightly muscled from from all the squats I have
done to try to get my butt to be seen from the front.

I
dried my hair, applied a little eye liner and lip balm, and made my
way to my closet. I hemmed and hawed over an outfit for forever.
What, exactly, does one wear to meet a man who you are going to be
paying (three thousand dollars for ten sessions!) to, essentially,
sleep with you? I was assured, however, that the introductory meeting
(not included in the ten sessions, thankfully) was just about getting
acquainted. No touching. No nothing but a little talk therapy. But
still, I would be sleeping with him eventually.

In
the end, I decided on skinny leg blue jeans and a long sleeve v-neck
white shirt. Tight.
But
chaste. And comfortable. Lord knew I was going to be uncomfortable
enough, I didn't need to be worried about flashing my panties when I
crossed my legs in a skirt or pulling up my bodice because it kept
showing too much cleavage.

I
ate dry rye toast, had a cup of tea, and started losing my cool.

Which
put me in my car, frantically tapping my fingers on the steering
wheel, trying to listen to the music on the radio instead of the
voice inside my head.

Because,
seriously, what a strange freaking situation. I am paying a
psychologist, not some two-bit hack calling themselves a therapist,
but an actual psychologist, to touch me and... yeah, didn't need my
mind to go there. He was going to
do
things
to
me. Because I gave him a huge chunk of my savings to do it. Who else
could say that?

I
didn't even know what the hell he looked like for goodness sakes. He
could be as old as my father with a belly spilling over his waistband
and clammy meat hands. Literally. He could look like that. I had no
clue. But I had spent the last few days trying to convince myself
that that didn't matter. What mattered was learning how to feel
comfortable in a man's presence, comfortable with them looking at me
naked, touching me. That was what was important. Not whether or not
he had huge ears or man boobs.

I
wasn't expecting miracles. Maybe just some small breakthroughs. Maybe
just not... cringing when someone reached out to touch me. Maybe not
feeling completely horrified at being naked in front of someone else.
I wasn't expecting to walk out of the office being some kind of sex
goddess. Just... normal. I just wanted to be normal.

So,
if that meant I had to sleep with some sixty year old with fake
teeth... so be it.

I
took a deep breath, checking the time, then grabbed my purse and got
out of my car. I was still too early, but I could take my time with
the paperwork. Check out the office.

I
shivered against the late Fall air, grabbing the office door and
pulling it open. And I stepped into straight up elegance. There was
no other way to describe the waiting area of this office. The wall
straight ahead, behind the white reception desk, was painted black
with the doctor's name emblazoned across it. The rest of the walls
were covered in some sort of white, shiny, textured panels. The hard
wood floors were pristine and dark stained. There were two captain's
chairs upholstered in a aqua color in front of a low white coffee
table with two books on top.

Neat,
clean, expensive.

Those
were the three words that came to mind immediately.

The
woman behind the desk was in her mid or late forties with a kind
round face with large brown eyes and her brown hair pulled back at
the nape of her neck. She looked up when I walked in, a kind,
non-judgmental smile on her face.

“Miss.
Davis?” she asked, standing behind the massive desk that kept
her body under her chest hidden from view.

“Y...
yes,” I said, shaking my head slightly.

“Great
timing,” she smiled, reaching around for, I assumed, my
paperwork. “You'd be surprised how many people take 'come at
least a half an hour early' to mean 'show up five minutes after your
scheduled appointment time',” she laughed.

I
walked up to the desk, swallowing past the sudden fist in my throat.

“Nervous?”
she asked, leaning closer, like she wanted to keep it between the two
of us, despite the office being empty except for her.

I
knew she was just being professionally kind, but I felt a bit of the
flurries in my
stomach
subside. “Only in the way that I am ready to turn and bolt out
the door at any
moment,”
I admitted.

She
smiled, producing a pile of papers on a white clipboard. “Then
you picked the wrong shoes,” she said, her eyes bright. I felt
a giggle rise up, shaking my head and looking at my feet, wrapped in
beige boots with a three inch stiletto heel. “Don't worry,”
she said, putting a hand on the paperwork, “everyone is always
nervous. It's completely normal.”

I
nodded. “So, I just... fill all these out?”

“Yep,”
she said, pulling back, away from me. Back into professional mode.
“Some are just basic medical questions. Mental health
questions. And then the last few pages are an in-depth sexual
questionnaire. You seal all of it into that manila folder in the
back,” she said, flipping the pages. “No one but Dr.
Hudson will be privy to that information.”

Thank
god.