Deflowered By My Shrink: The Story Of How My Therapist Took My Virginity
A cautionary tale.
A young woman’s sex life is merely a safe exploration of her own boundaries. A pleasure spree, leisurely, simple, and fun. Isn’t it?
At least that’s what I’ve been thinking my entire (post-pubescent) life — that it is a liberating journey towards slowly understanding her own tastes and needs. This is why, in desperate late-bloomer fashion, I decided to dive head-first into sex at 21 (having no experience whatsoever except for the self-focused kind) with a man twenty years my senior and non-other than my therapist at the time.
That’s right, my shrink (and, in retrospect, a downright creep) deflowered me. Here’s that story, if you’re intrigued.
Disclaimer: Please don’t think me dumb for only realizing after the fact what a douchey weirdo he was. I did know it at the time, vaguely. I only chose to shove the knowledge to the back of my mind in order to advance my own self-serving means (read: this isn’t a victim narrative), and do so without my intuition getting in the way. An intuition which was screaming what a gross idea it was to develop a sexual relationship with my therapist. She was right, but alas, I did not listen.
I think the man gave me more issues than he ever helped me get over, so take these words as a cautionary tale. At least those of you who are likely to find yourselves in a similar situation.
By the way, remember that first season of You on Netflix? That one plotline where Beck gets bored of Joe and fucks her therapist? I remember watching that when the series came out and thinking, ‘who the hell does that?’ I’m not sure if I meant, ‘what kind of therapist would act so unethically,’ or ‘what type of patient would be so stupid as to breach that line,’ but either way, my answer came just a couple of years later. I suppose I digress.
If my theory about a young woman’s sex life held true, these would be the rules: condoms (always), lube (in abundance), and trust (in yourself and whoever you’re sharing the experience with). I had all but that last pesky rule in check.
Three years ago, I walked into a new therapist’s office. He was the first male psychologist I’d ever consulted with, and I was hesitant. I tend to get on best with women and have a hard time opening up to men, but someone dear had recommended him, so I decided to give the man a shot with an open-ish mind. He said hello, shook my hand, asked my name, gave me his, and excused himself to use the toilet in his office, ‘real quick.’ It gave me time to settle my anxious mind and study my surroundings. The first thing I saw when I turned to my right was a candle with Sigmund Freud’s face on the mantle. One of those candles Catholic people burn with Jesus or other religious idols on them. Ha ha, I thought. Funny. Not funny, I think now. Run, past-self, run.
Perhaps it was me the whole time, future me, screaming not to listen to a word he said and not my “intuition,” as I thought.
As you can guess, the man brought up daddy issues a lot. I came to see him about some pretty debilitating anxiety, but the man focused on two things almost exclusively: my relationship with my parents and my non-existent sex life. Sometimes I think these topics got him off. What advice he had for me throughout the year or so that I went to him boiled down to this: stop wanting to fuck your father (I never did want to) and stop being afraid to do things (ok, how?). Not much depth beyond that.
Needless to say, he was not very helpful, but my muddled psyche decided that he did, actually, have something I wanted. Needed. Not, perhaps, good advice and the ability to help my mental disorder, but a desire for me that I could use in a controlled setting.
The man was all over me.
He would compliment me constantly, saying I was inarguably gorgeous whenever I fell into one of my self-hating soliloquies. He would openly state he was dying to fuck me, and that any guy likely felt the same way. I would laugh awkwardly and pointedly not say thank you.
But back to my starting hypothesis — what is a young woman’s sex life, if not a way to push barriers and find boundaries? By which I mean, apparently, what are your twenties for if not to push every limit you think have until you find yourself at one of the lowest places of your life? For me, that low place came early in my sexcapades, and it was being fucked doggy-style in my therapist's dingy office couch. The very couch I got therapized on weekly. The couch other people sat on daily to word-vomit about their life and trauma. My face smooshed sideways against the pillows people cuddled to comfort them. I’m so sorry everyone. I’m sorry, me.
And it started out innocent, too. Him asking about my sex life, me opening up about it being one of the things affected by my anxiety. Him sharing a weird story about his college best friend asking him to take her virginity because she was tired of having it — because virginity is something you hold onto, apparently? And here’s the thing: the story oddly resonated with 21-year-old me, who often fantasized about asking friends to just get it over with even though I was terrified of that type of intimacy.
He would weasel in the topic of sex each and every session, no matter how hard I fought it. I knew it was weird, but I rationalized it every time. He was just trying to help. He knew I needed to get out of my shell, and talking about things that made me uncomfortable was one way to do that. The man had some strong, oftentimes hands-on approaches to therapy. He once told me about an agoraphobic patient of his with an added fear of public transport whom he stuck on a bus and waved to as the patient’s terrified face showed their slow realization that Mr. Nice Therapist wasn’t on the bus with them. He said all turned out fine and the patient was instantly cured, but I have a hard time believing that.
I guess his thought process was similar when it came to my dilemma. Not the dilemma I came to him for originally, meaning crippling anxiety that wouldn’t let me advance my career, social life, personal growth, and all things human. He wanted to help with my aversion to sex dilemma, which to be fair was tied to everything else. It was a small part of a gargantuan issue, but it existed. And he wanted to help, in his hands-on, maniacal, lecherous sort of way. Let’s fuck the girl, see if that helps.
It did not. It only turned me off sex further. As it turns out, fucking a man you are not the slightest bit attracted to, making awkward eye contact as you find out you do not like people sucking on your nipples during sex, having him aggressively rubbing on your “super pretty hard” clit while calling it exactly that, feeling his sweat drip onto you for an hour, hearing his voice whisper, “sweetheart” into your ear as his three-inch penis thrusts in and out of you while worrying about what you look like from behind — yeah, all of that is not conducive to losing one’s fear of intimacy.
His fucked-up version of pillow talk afterward was a short-lived pseudo-therapy session in which I explored my emotions and fears during the act. Wasn’t that alright, sweetheart? What are you thinking now? What will you be taking away from the experience? Fun, huh? So, all in all, not much better than the sex itself.
I didn’t have sex for a year after this dude. It was my vibrator and me for a while.
I left his office that evening as quickly as I could after. Because, if it wasn’t clear, we fucked in his office during his work hours. I was a scheduled patient that evening. I only went back once out of curiosity and in the name of closure. As it turns out, the boundary between therapist and patient is a thin yet essential one, and once it’s gone it can’t be retrieved. I can’t remember if he charged me for that sex session and it bugs me big time.
My advice? Don’t fuck your therapist. Find a friend who’ll do it for you, if you must. At least the trust will be there.
And still, the question remains, why did I turn into that stupid patient I wondered about? Call it daddy issues, if you must. He probably does.