Hannah wasn’t sure that therapy was for her. Some of her best friends had seen therapists over the years who had genuinely helped them, but her friends had actual problems, serious issues they needed trained guidance and support with. Hannah, however, didn’t have anything like that to deal with. There was nothing horrible or sordid to dig up in her past, no particular issues with her parents to discuss. Sure, she’d had ups and downs over the years, and yes, midlife was taking its toll. Things were mundane, weeks bled into months and very little changed. Life had become almost automated: prepare lunch here, pick up the kids there, kiss husband goodbye, empty dishwasher, vacuum-up, apply for renewal passport for child number two, take car to the garage. The list of things to take care of was endless, but none of it excited her.
Of course, there was that one boyfriend from her past that had gotten away. She only ever let herself think about him when she had some time to herself, when she could let her imagination take over, without fear of being interrupted. She would wait until everyone was out of the house, children at school, husband at work. Preparing everything the way she wanted it in order to go back in time and revisit those mind-blowing memories. Opening the window to let the outside air into her bedroom, remaking the bed so that the sheets were crisp and smooth again, putting on music from that time in her life, slipping off her clothes and sliding between the sheets, picking out her favourite toy from her bedside table, and closing her eyes, she let herself think back to the frantic sex they used to have. The extreme desire she had for him. How she often had to physically remove herself from his presence when they were in public together, to prevent herself from doing something indecent. She had always been ready for him to take her, no matter where they were. And when she was with him, her cunt would pulsate like some sort of internal clock, ticking down to the next orgasm he would give her. She would think back to the feeling of their bodies pressed up against one another—young, taut, sweaty bodies, aching to be linked together. Hannah had always loved being penetrated. That feeling of having someone that lights something up inside you, stimulates you on all levels, actually inside your body, made her ache with lust. She loved it when he would suck her nipples, sending wild sensations to her clitoris. He had been one excellent fuck and she hated to admit to herself how terribly she missed his touch.
Masturbation served a purpose for Hannah. It was a way to climax, but it could never replace sex. She never understood why the women in her life would make such a fuss about it. She genuinely felt sorry for them, if that was the best orgasm they could achieve—one that was entirely self-stimulated. But of course, she would never say that to them. With age she’d come to realise that everyone was different. If they loved touching themselves more than anything else, then good for them. Of course, she also knew that a lot of the time they were just fucking men that were just terrible in bed. It made her sad to think that was the case. Hannah had always adored being touched by a man. Not all the men who had touched her had been amazingly skilled at what they were doing. Still, she counted herself lucky that she’d had many more good than average encounters in her past. And when it was good, giving into someone else’s touch was the most fabulous feeling. Surrendering yourself to them, letting yourself be played like an instrument. To have someone wanting to make you climax so hard that they’ll touch you anywhere and everywhere to make it happen, that was the most beautiful thing she’d ever experienced.
Having come to masturbation later in life, never having felt the need for it before, she could clearly see the benefits, especially as a mother. It was privileged time to herself, to go inwards and focus on her needs, her body. The same body that she’d given up to her pregnancies, to breastfeeding, and to generally being used as a climbing frame by small children. She had been a bit lost at first. It felt odd to be discovering this in her mid-thirties, like learning to lose her virginity, but by herself. So she’d begun investigating toys online, wary of the websites she really didn’t want to find herself on. She didn’t want the whole experience to feel dirty. She had been naively surprised by how much choice there was, but luckily had found what worked for her quite quickly, sometimes being happy to just focus on her clitoris for a quick orgasm, other times needing to use a vibrator for internal stimulation, which she found more intense. She kept meaning to buy herself a dildo to add to her collection as well, but kept forgetting to get around to it. Anyway, no matter what toys she bought, masturbation would never compare to being fucked.
And so, on the morning that Hannah decided to take the leap and contact a therapist, despite not being completely sure what she would talk to them about, she also took some time to masturbate.
As her climax faded away, her breathing beginning to slow, she opened her eyes and blurrily took in her current reality: the bed she shared with her husband, her older body, and the fact, as per every time she masturbated, that her ex wasn’t here, beside her, enjoying the view. A tinge of sadness threatened to ruin the whole experience, but Hannah abruptly batted it away, shoving down all her memories of him back into the well-worn box that they lived in, in her mind. She proceeded to pick herself up, still a little tingly and damp, only stopping to reflect on the specifically shaped stains she’d created on the sheets, quickly reminding herself that they would dry off to nothing before her husband arrived home—and even if they didn’t, he’d never notice, men just don’t. She pulled the duvet back across the bed and picked up her now inanimate toy that had become so slippery that she had to use both hands to keep from dropping it on the way to the bathroom.
Hannah’s wasn’t the cleanest of homes, because so often she just couldn’t be bothered to do it all just to have someone else, or frequently several people, come in and ruin her hard work, but she kept her sex toys sparkling clean, spraying them with a special antibacterial spray then washing them with soapy water. She’d only ever had one UTI in her life, and that had felt like someone had rubbed chilli sauce on her labia and she didn’t want that again. Cleaning the phallic vibrator with her hands under the hot running water, she appreciated its form, and as she closed her eyes, she could imagine that it was a real penis—albeit a very rigid, silicone one. She shook her head as if to physically dislodge this thought from her mind. There was no point in getting excited again, real life was waiting.
Chapter 2.
Sat in front of her computer Hannah didn’t know how to start looking for a therapist. What was she meant to be looking for? She scrolled down the directory of local therapists. Some of the profile pictures were downright awful—taken with smartphones in bad lighting. “Can you trust someone with your mental health, if they can’t take a good photo?” she wondered. Some profile pictures were images of trees. “Was this meant to represent life?” she thought. Other people didn’t look particularly inviting, some looked too inviting, and slightly motherly, she definitely didn’t want that. Hannah sighed and began scrolling impatiently through the seemingly interminable list when suddenly a black-and-white photo of a man caught her eye. She hadn’t really considered having a male therapist. The photo had obviously been taken by a professional. It looked good, but more importantly so did he. There was something about him that she was instinctively drawn to. She quickly scanned his profile, managing to skip all the vital information that she truly needed—tariff, specialisms, location—and proceeded to click on his email address.
She began typing, not really knowing what she wanted to say. “Hi,” she wrote. “I’m not sure where to start. I don’t have much going on in my life right now, but my friends keep telling me that it might be worth talking to a professional about my life at the moment. I don’t have any big issues. I listen to all the right podcasts to help with my mental health. I think I’m pretty emotionally stable, but, of course, it’s hard to know when it’s you, and my friends haven’t reported back that I’m a nut job so far. Sorry, I shouldn’t use language like that, should I? I can be a bit direct at times, is that ok in a professional setting like this? Anyway, I do occasionally have sexual thoughts about this ex. The one that got away! But everyone has one of them, right? I think maybe I’m just a bit bored in life, but then everyone is, aren’t they? I don’t know. Could I be having a mid-life crisis of sorts? I suppose that’s probably what I need to work out… Anyway I’m just rambling now. Thanks for reading this. Kind regards. Hannah.”
After pressing the send button, she hesitated for a moment. “Oh god,” she thought, “that was a mistake! Why did I do that? What was I thinking?”
Later that day, Hannah was in her kitchen-diner, staring into space, not really focused on anything, her children were playing nearby when her phone pinged and an email notification appeared on her screen. She clicked on it without registering that it could be important.
“Hi Hannah, thanks for getting in contact,” it read. “I know it can be really tough to make the first steps of contacting a therapist. I’m really glad you reached out. I’d be happy to work with you. I have a free appointment next Monday at 3pm, would that suit? If not, just let me know and we can arrange a session at a different time. Hope to speak to you soon. Elliot”.
“Fuck!” Hannah exclaimed louder than she meant to.
The youngest of her two children turned to her and sternly said, “We don’t say ‘fuck’ Mummy!”