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Until about three months ago, everything in my life seemed close to perfect. Julie and I were approaching our third anniversary and had started to talk about “the last big step”. That’s what she called parenthood. So many steps to becoming a “grownup”: college, shacking up, getting married. But you’re not all the way adulting until you have a child. Adults have children, and I was eager to take the last big step.

Julie wasn’t, but was too timid to tell me that flat out. She was clear enough about her lack of enthusiasm, but she never came right out and said “I don’t want to.” We’d tossed the idea around for almost a year, but she just kept pushing it back, never asking it to be taken off the table.

Then, three months ago, she finally spoke from the heart. Yes, motherhood meant being a fully actualized and independent grown-up. But to her, it also meant becoming an old lady, or, as she told me, “Leaving my youth behind, forever.”

We saw a marriage counselor a few times. He pretty much saw through her explanations about fearing middle-age. He detected and explored the real, long-repressed issues. Julie’s anxiety and trepidation seemed to be based on her own childhood family. Michelle, her mother, began having children at age 19 and then had three more the next five years. Julie was the youngest. She saw her Mom get gray-haired and overweight while Julie was still in grade school. Deep down inside, Julie associated motherhood with becoming an old hag. I had a hard time relating to this, because Michelle at 50 was a total MILF, and her pixie-cut silver hair was part of the package. But I came around to my wife’s point-of-view when I saw the old family snapshots: in her 30s, Michelle had indeed been frumpy and unattractive. Rational or not, Julie’s neuroses were what they were, and she was struggling about taking the irreversible step of bearing a child.

Our insurance only paid for four consultations, but as we wrapped up the last one the therapist told us to bring “the end of our childhood” out of the closet and celebrate it. Think of things we could do as a couple to emotionally “jump away from youth.”

“You two are dealing with serious inhibitions. But they are yours, inside you. They’re not universal, they’re perceptions and attitudes, not facts, and they’re not permanent. Go crazy. Buy a motorcycle, or vacation at a nude beach. Get a tattoo, or new boobs. Let your hair down in a limited way, do something totally unlike you – and then move on with life.”


Little did he know. Julie and I were both clinging to sexual fantasies we had never for a moment considered sharing with each other. They were firmly based on mildly traumatic events we had endured back in high school, long before we met each other. There is, I remain convinced, no way we ever would have shared these fetishes with each other if it hadn’t been for the counseling. But now we were opening up to each other.

Julie earned money throughout her teens as a babysitter. Her senior year in high school one of the dads, returning home drunk, tried to seduce her. There had been a little wrestling on the couch, and one of his hands made it to one of her breasts, but the man eventually took “no” for an answer. He walked back upstairs in a huff, leaving Julie to exit the house and drive home.

As he turned away from her to stomp out, he pulled four $50 bills out of his wallet and tossed them at her. He only owed her $100, and he snarled something about the extra pay being because he wanted her to keep quiet about what happened. Then, as she had finished straightening her blouse and he had one foot on the stairs, he said to her more gently, “If you change your mind, I’ll pay you more…”

Julie had never told anyone about this event until the night she told me. She rationalized that he was a nice guy who’d drunk too much. That he didn’t hurt her. That he never bothered her again. That she was ashamed of herself for keeping the extra $100.

But the thing that bothered her the most? That ever since that night, Julie fantasized about going back and letting him have sex for money.

He was a good looking guy, in a dad-bod sort of way. In the beginning, she told me, they were vague dreams about baring her breasts for money, or jacking him off for money. Unmet sexual cravings fester and grow, however, and by the time we had begun living together her fantasy was that he fucked her for money whenever she went home on college vacations. And he always threw the money at her, to humiliate her. To treat her like a whore, beneath contempt. A rented cunt.

Now here we were, teetering on the edge of the biggest decision of our lives. My dear wife wanted just once to fuck for money and be degraded by her “John”, to get the whole sick episode behind her.

“Well,” said I, completely failing to grasp the profound hold her fantasy had on her, “let me help.” I grabbed my wallet and tried to take her into the bedroom. I was kind of proud of myself for having so swiftly and Maltepe Olgun Escort intuitively seen the path forward. So I wasn’t expecting her reaction – anger.

“You’re not taking me seriously,” she shouted. “This isn’t some little game. You think I’m a kid and you can trick me about the Easter Bunny by dyeing some fucking eggs? It has to be a real man, with real money. Just once. For an hour or two. But I have to be a real fucking whore. Like I was for him when I kept his money. I’m already a whore; I took his money. He didn’t get the sex, but I kept the money. Don’t you get it? “

I did now. I slept on the couch that night, and could hear her in our bedroom, working herself over with her vibrator, cumming and cumming. I laid in the dark in the living room and finally copied her, flogging my cock and imagining her making money down the hall. I blew a big load all over the blanket.


My own deepest secret involved my college roommate, Bradley. Ironically, it also sort of involved drunken sexual predation. I woke up one night in my dorm room with my very drunk roommate sucking my cock. I was slow to react, not only because I had been deeply asleep, but also because he had come at me from the side of the bed, his head and torso under the blanket, on his knees. At first I had no idea what was going on. Then I had no idea who it was. I fact, it took me a few seconds merely to process that it was really happening.

When I finally uncovered Brad I was too far gone to care. I let him continue and even grabbed his head to pump him up and down more vigorously. I ejaculated into his mouth, blasting the contents of my prostate gland down his throat. He smirked at me as if he had won a prize, mumbled that now I owed him one, and crawled into his bed.

The next day he remembered nothing. He asked me who had brought him home. I didn’t know. He asked me what time he got home, and I pretended not to know that, either, saying that I slept through the night. I didn’t need to conceal or deflect anything else, because Brad had no recollection of getting into bed, either. I had apparently gotten a blackout blowjob from a guy who didn’t know he’d done it. I guess I could live with that.

And for a few weeks things were fine. He continued binge drinking to unconsciousness most week nights and all through the weekends. His grades approached zero. Three more times I received blackout blowjobs, and he always said something about me owing him one, The next day either he truly didn’t remember them, or he wanted to pretend. It soon didn’t matter; he was expelled and went home to Tennessee and I never heard from him again.

A major part of his life had ended in tragic failure, and I had benefitted to the tune of four blow jobs. I could have tried to help him with his alcohol addiction, pointed him towards a counselor, but I didn’t. I could have had the strength of character not to benefit from his drunken cock sucking, but I didn’t. I’d not lifted a finger to help the poor sorry fuck. He was out there somewhere, a college flame-out, an alcoholic, a failure at everything, perhaps a bitter self-loathing closet faggot. I was his roommate, and I had done nothing to help him when he most needed help.

And I owed him four blowjobs, at the very least.

My bad dreams started right away. Brad returned, still had a room key, and woke me up to suck his cock. I met him somewhere on campus, and he loudly shouted that I owed him a blow job. People I knew, friends and family, told me Brad had contacted them, demanding I blow him. One nightmare after another. In most of them he was now a skid row bum, wandering around with his fly open, telling everyone that his roomie Don had taken advantage of him and owed him four blowjobs.


So there we were, Julie and I, hung up on our teenage sexual fantasies. Our counselor, with whom we had not shared these fantasies, had urged us “Go crazy. … Let your hair down in a limited way, do something totally unlike you – and then move on with life.”

My best friend and neighbor lived on the ground floor of our apartment building. Julie never begrudged me a few hours a week of gaming and vaping with Jason. She’d begun bringing work home from her office, putting in overtime hours on extra projects after dinner. She was by far the better cook, so I balanced the scales by always taking care of all the after-dinner clean-up and dishwashing. This allowed her to log in to the office network and earn the money we were going to need soon if we decided to have a baby. Once I had finished my chores, I’d hang up my apron – Julie loved teasing me about my girly apron – clear the apartment, and go downstairs to hang, smoke, and game.

Jase and I had known each other for years, and what they say about men keeping everything inside, bottled up, men don’t share with their guy friends? That didn’t seem to apply to us. I normally pretty much told Jase everything and he was a good listener with good suggestions. So of Maltepe Sarışın Escort course Jason already knew about our baby issues, and even that we’d seen a counselor. He teased me that he could have given us the same advice and charged us less money.

I didn’t take that joke seriously, but I opened up to Jase for the first time about my fucked-up college experience. It was difficult for me to tell him about Bradley, but Jase was my best friend and what I had done weighed on me so heavily. I didn’t share the whole story at first, I left out all the sex, but I was fully open with talking about my failure to do anything to try to help my roommate stay sober, or get help.

We drank beer while I talked, and I’d pretty much told all of the G-rated parts of the story after an hour or so. Jason made a few lame therapist jokes as I talked, following up almost every paragraph of my tale with “and how did that make you feel?” We laughed a bit but Jase was serious when he said “our time today is up. Make an appointment with my secretary on your way out.” And then he joked “Your insurance pays for the first four sessions, but there’s a $20 copay.”

I stared at him, pretty sure he was kidding, but thrown off balance by his very businesslike tone. “Cash only. $20.” And he held his hand out. I mutely took out my wallet and gave him two tens. “Same time tomorrow? My next client will be here soon. Do you know the way out?”

Two minutes later I was entering my apartment upstairs, my head spinning. It was a stupid joke, the paying, but I didn’t mind the money. Heck, I drank his beer and smoked his dope – I ought to give him $20 every week. But something about paying for the time of a listener weirdly elevated the whole experience for me. I kind of felt like I’d gotten my money’s worth. Pretending it was a counseling session made me feel, well, better about my issues. I’d unpacked some of what was bothering me. But if I didn’t want to talk about the homosexual activities, what would I say tomorrow? I tossed and turned in bed that night, less troubled by the college dreams but a little more burdened by the thought of telling Jason about my blow job debt.

I dawdled after dinner the next night until it Julie said, “Aren’t you going to play with your friend Jason? I need to concentrate on my project.” She meant video games, of course, but my mind took it the wrong way.

Instead of just dropping in on him as usual, I phoned him first. The moment Caller ID told him it was me he started the Dr. Freud gags. “Doctor Jason Fisher’s office. How may I direct your call?”

I busted out laughing and ran with it. “I was hoping the doctor could see me again this evening. Does he have an opening?” We were both laughing as we rang off, but he ended with “As always, please bring your insurance card and your copay.”

And so it went the second night. I gave Jason $20 as I walked in and immediately noticed some furniture had moved. He gestured me to the couch and he sat in an armchair next to it. It was a stupid gag but you know what? Lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling instead of all the regular distractions, I felt myself getting really relaxed. A little smoke helped, for sure, but tonight Jason learned all about Bradley’s blowjobs years ago. It was so much easier to say awkward and embarrassing things when you’re not looking at the person who is listening.

About fifteen minutes into my story Jase broke out of the role-play and spoke to me at some length. I was so chill that I didn’t sit up, but as he spoke I rolled over to face him instead of the ceiling.

He started by saying that I might not believe it, but only girlfriend he ever had that tried to suck him, he hated it. He said it was sloppy, toothy, and awkward, and that he never ejaculated. But, he stressed, more than the fact that it was sexually unsatisfying, Jase told me he felt vaguely used. She was exerting a kind of power over him, doing something sexual he didn’t want or request, but that she enjoyed. She was kind of showing off her own sexuality.

I had never framed my own college experiences with Brad quite that way. But what Jason said – while playing at therapy – was kind of therapeutic! Brad had taken advantage of me, not the other way around. In my brain, I owed him, but in the real world I was kind of his victim. When I went back upstairs I felt pretty good about what happened that night, and I slept better than I had in quite a while.

After dinner the next night I wasn’t sure what to do. I had never established a pattern with Jason that I visit every night, but I felt so calm and peaceful after the night before that I really wanted to go again. So once again as I finished the dishes and hung up my apron, I phoned.

Again Jase played the role of a therapist in his office. I was at his door a few minutes later, surprisingly eager to hand him my “copay”. This game was not only fun, but it was making me better somehow.

As I took my normal position on Maltepe Şişman Escort the couch, on my back, head elevated at one end, Jason stood next to me and asked how I felt. He was standing at my shoulder, and I couldn’t avoid seeing up the baggy leg of his athletic shorts. His junk was hanging there, inches from my face. He went on and on while I tried hard not to stare at his shaved balls and long cock. He must have known what he was doing.

When he sat, he tugged the legs up a bit and it was only a matter of minutes before his cock was emerging slightly from the shorts. He made no mention of exposing himself as we talked, but tonight’s “therapy” took a strange turn.

I recapped for him how beneficial last night had been. He had really helped me, I said, when he set those dorm room actions long ago in the context of Bradley initiating non-consensual sex with me. Perhaps, I said now, I should have helped him with his alcohol problem, but Jason had helped me better conceptualize the cock sucking. Maybe I hadn’t taken advantage of Bradley after all.

Jason smiled broadly. “This started as a bit of a gag, this “counseling”, but it seems that another person’s point-of-view can help any of us deal with a burden.” I nodded. Jason made a lot of sense.

He lowered his voice, and I had to lean closer to hear him. “You’re almost clear. If you can just make the final adjustments, you’ll let go of your troubles and get ready with Julie to become a parent.”

I remembered that I had never mentioned to Jason that Julie also had unresolved childhood issues holding her back. It would have been too big a violation of her privacy to involve my friend, whom she barely knew, in her troubled sexual history. Jason thought straightening me out was the whole ball game. I’d let him think that for now. I wouldn’t share Julie’s secrets until and unless she asked me to.

Jason acted distracted, absent-minded, as he manipulated his shorts enough for the head of his penis to emerge. “You’re almost clear,” he repeated, almost a whisper now.

“Almost.” His voice was hypnotic now. He tugged more, and completely exposed his cock out the leg of the baggy shorts.

“Almost clear,” he said a third time. “You want to be clear, don’t you, Don? Clear of all the troubles and history.”

I tore my eyes from his lengthening penis and looked at his face.

“You haven’t settled your debts, Don, and they weigh on you. You need to make it even.”

“How? What do you mean?” I stammered. My mouth was dry.

“You still have the debt, weighing you, holding you back. You are almost clear. Four blowjobs will set you free, even the score. Then you can be a parent if you want.”

“But Bradley…”

“Not Bradley, Don. We know now you don’t owe him. He doesn’t a blowjob.”

“But you do? I’m so confused.”

“Four times and you’ll set yourself free. Doesn’t ‘free’ sound like what you deserve?”

“I want to put that college stuff behind me. I need to get on with my life, with Julie.”

“Let’s start with just one. See how it makes you feel. I helped you this far, didn’t I?”

I thought for a moment. Talking to Jason had been surprisingly helpful so far. Should I trust him further? Should I ask Julie what to do?

“It’s your future, Don, not mine. You’re at the crossroad, I’m just helping you sort through your feelings. Are you scared?”

“I’ve never done this before, Jase.”

His right hand slowly stroked his stiff erection; his shorts now pulled all the way back. Neither one of us spoke as I felt my mind trying to sort this out. Bradley had put this terrible problem in my head but he was long gone.

“You paid $20 for this, Don. Take your medicine. Even the score.”

That’s what tipped the scales. I was paying to be made to feel better. I wasn’t gay, but I was sick and needed help. Jason had helped. I leaned forward and took my medicine.

Like most medicine, once I swallowed, it didn’t taste as bad as I’d feared.

Walking back into my apartment twenty minutes later, I felt terrific for the first time in months. Crazy as it sounds, Jase was going to get me past my problems. Three more visits and I’d be clear. Yet as happy as I felt, I suddenly had a nagging thought – how would Julie and I find a solution to her hangups?


Now that I had turned a corner and was only three more mouthfuls of semen away from mental health, I turned to Julie’s issues. I’d learned my lesson about taking her emotions lightly, so I approached her with “the real deal”. I offered to find her a “John” who would actually pay her money to have sex with her. Like a real prostitute, she wouldn’t know in advance who it would be.

Julie thought this was the stupidest idea I’d ever had. But at breakfast the next morning she was considering it. She laid down a few guidelines – no oral or anal, just straight sex. Condom required. Not here, at home. It would be at a motel – a sleazy motel. He would appear, pay, fuck, and leave. No conversation, just an act of sex for pay. She said over and over again that she did not expect to enjoy the encounter, sexually. It would be therapy, not recreation. I nodded, even as I thought to myself that maybe she might enjoy it. Would she enjoy it so much that she would want to do it again?

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