I was five years old the first time I heard the word – anxiety.
“XXX is showing intense signs of anxiety, and we think it goes deeper than just the current situation.”
The current situation was a year’s worth of state-mandated therapy, a result of my parents’ messy split and all the legalities surrounding it. It didn’t really matter that they were trying to diagnose me, though, because the state only required one more month of therapy, and we would be finished as soon as the mandate was over.
I was young, sure, but my mother never even asked me what I wanted to do. About the comfort my soft child-self found in therapy sessions. I wanted to keep going, but if I was learning anything in my early age, it’s that want was never enough.
…
“So, what do you want?” she asks me, her eyes intense, roaming my naked body. His eyes are on me too, just as intense as hers, her question prompting them into deeper hunger.
“I mean,” I said, a nervous edge in my voice, “To have sex, I guess?”
She chuckles, “Well, obviously. But I mean, what do you want us to do for you? How do you like to be touched? What positions do you like? Do you want to fuck me or him first? Or would you rather warm yourself up while watching us fuck each other?”
I make a noise halfway between a sigh and a choked, “Um.”
He puts a cool hand on my arm, stroking a finger along my inner elbow: “Don’t be intimidated. We’re just trying to figure out how to make this good for you. We both want you to enjoy yourself.”
There’s a flash in my head of all my previous partners: the girls in middle and high school who let me go down on them but never returned the favor; the first boy I had sex with, whose cock was so big that I was always sore afterward; a previous attempt at a threesome where I felt like I couldn’t tell them no; last year’s boyfriend, who always wallowed in Christian guilt afterwards; and the one night stand a few weeks ago where I had faked it, just to feed his ego.
Had any of them ever asked me what I wanted?
“I’m just not used to this, being asked what I want,” I said, and then hesitate on the second part, “or actually even knowing what I want.”
They smiled at me, soft and wanting, but a little sad and sorry too.
“Don’t worry,” she told me, as she leaned down to kiss my neck and his hand fell from my arm to my thigh, “We’ll help you figure that out.”
…
I heard the word anxiety again when I was thirteen years old.
“It sounds like XXX probably had a panic attack at school today. We’d like to do some testing for anxiety, and possibly some other mental health issues.”
But people in my family didn’t have mental health issues. Except they did. And the proof was in my grandmother’s on and off tenure across five different asylums in Alabama and Washington throughout the 1960s and 1970s. Let’s attribute it to the way institutions treated mentally ill women during that time, because now no one in our family talks about the patchwork quilt of mental health issues that run through our veins.
My mother’s response to the doctor is a resounding “No.”
I often think about how quick that “no” was – short and simple and to the point. My mother had very little patience to give to the mental health professionals, even less to offer me, and none to spare for the drag of mental health issues and all they implied. Patience was too heavy a load to carry, and I’d be making myself a burden if I asked for anymore.
…
“Are you enjoying this?” she asks, lifting her head from between my knees.
I pull my tongue away from his dick, my hand still wrapped around the base as I look at her. I was enjoying it, the soft lap of her tongue across my clit, the grip of her hands around my thighs. But I enjoy it in the same way I might sink into a hot bath after a long day, a comforting warmth, soft waves of pleasure, but never enough to push me over the edge.
“It’s nice,” I say, trying to sound convincing.
“I’d like to give you more than just nice,” she says. She snaps at him: “You come here; we’re going to focus on her now.”
He pulls himself away from me with a mirthful smile in her direction, “Whatever you say.”
And they do focus on me. They push and pull; grip and grind; suck and like and bite me all over. Like every other time, it feels the same. Hills and highlights of pleasure in certain positions and by touching me here or there, but never enough to go further. It’s like running to a cliff, ready to throw yourself in the air, but stopping short just a second before you do.
After what could be minutes or hours, I don’t know, I let out a shaky and breathless: “I’m so sorry.”
They both stop what they’re doing, and I expect them to look at me with exasperated faces, patience worn thin. But instead, they’re painted in expressions of curiosity and concern.
“Is everything okay?” he asks.
I look at them, body throbbing and heart racing, and decide there’s nothing to lose. They’re a ridiculously hot older couple and I never expected to be invited back to their apartment anyway, so even if saying this now means I’ll get kicked out, I’ve more than gotten my fill.
“The thing is…I don’t orgasm during sex. Or at least I never have, had an orgasm at all, I mean. And it’s fine, because I’m still enjoying it, but if you expect me to cum, it’s not going to happen. I know some people take that as a challenge, but I’m not trying to challenge you, I’m just trying to be honest. And I get how it’s frustrating or not sexy or anything like that, but you don’t have to keep focusing on me. There’s plenty I can do for both of you too, and I’m good that, so we –”
“Hey,” she cuts me off, as my rambling becomes frantic, “You’re fine. We’re fine.”
“I can leave, if this is stupid, I’m sorry –” I begin to ramble again, but this time, he interrupts me: “We don’t want you to leave. We’re sorry you’ve never gotten to cum, and I know you told us not to take it as a challenge, but I do think we’d like to change that.”
“I struggle to orgasm too,” she says, “And it took me a long time before I could do it during sex. But it usually just takes a little patience…”
She glances at him then and there’s a connection in their gaze, an unspoken agreement before she turns back to me: “We’re both very patient people. And if you’re willing to be just as patient, we could share something with you that just might help.
I look back and forth between them, take a deep breath, and nod my head.
…
When I’m sixteen I make an attempt, dumb and desperate, and also an utter failure, but attention grabbing enough for the doctors to tell us, “We recommend XXX begin immediate treatment for anxiety and depression, therapy to start and medication eventually. Sometimes it takes a while to figure that latter part out.”
“No thank you,” my mother says, “We’ll figure this out ourselves.”
And I did, figure it out all by myself, that is. Throughout late high school and early college, I collected coping mechanisms like I was drowning, and they were the air I needed to breathe. I wrote miles and miles of plans, built altars to organization, and my systemized daily life into oblivion – as if control was the only answer to surviving this anxiety.
…
They tell me about something called BDSM, about the true nature of their relationship. He’s her sub and she’s his dom, though she’s willing to be switch when they’re with other people. For them it’s mostly during sex, but for others it’s a lifestyle. They tell me about toys and tricks, about the importance of aftercare, about how there’s an entire community dedicated to BDSM in our little corner of Alabama.
“We know it’s a lot, but if you’re willing to give it a try, we’d like to show you what it’s all about,” he says, reaching under their bed frame, pulling out a series of complicated ropes.
“It’s how I learned to get more comfortable with myself,” she says as she opens the bottom drawer of their dresser. It’s filled with an array of things: blindfolds and handcuffs; ball gags and cock rings; paddles and restraints. She pulls out something, holds it in my direction: “Now I cum every single time.”
There’s a sudden drop in my stomach, a deep ache of need that raises goosebumps on my skin and gets my heart racing in a way that I’ve never felt before. Not in fear, not in nerves, and not even in hesitance. No, this is something entirely new – this is excitement.
….
Finally, as a young adult, out from my mother’s thumb and holding my breath while they tell me: “You have generalized anxiety disorder and panic disorder. We also think you’re showing significant signs of obsessive-compulsive personality disorder, but we’ll need a few more sessions before we can figure that out.”
They walk me through the recommendations for therapies and medications, make suggestions to see an additional specialist for exploring a potential OCPD diagnosis, and ask about my goals going forward in addressing my mental health.
“There is one more thing,” I say after we’ve talked through all things practical and purposeful.
“Another goal you’d like to think about in the coming months?”
“Well…I’d really like to have an orgasm.”
…
When it happens, I’m wearing the strap on that she pulled from the drawer. Her arms are above her head, wrists tied by ropes to the headboard. And the way she pulses under me, hips and tits bouncing, each move I make sending thrills through her body and my own – it feels like hot heat washing over my entire body. He’s on his knees behind me, mouth on my slit and fingers inside of me. He’s whispering sweet nothings about how much he’d like to worship me. I whisper a few choice words back to him, degradation, they called it, let him know that he doesn’t even deserve to be tasting me, that’s he’s so lucky he gets to do so. The words leave my tongue and dance through my nerves, and rush of it pushing more heat through me. I’m dripping with want, comforted by the patience we’re showing each other’s writhing bodies, and reeling from the control they’ve granted me – I’m running to the cliff and yelling as I jump right off it!
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anonymous
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