Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 75599 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75599 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
But, I’d gotten a taste of perfection. And I didn’t care how long it’d take, but I’d find her again. I knew it.
And when I did, I’d never let her slip away from me again.
Chapter Two
Natalie
“Doctor Owenson will be with you in a minute.”
The doctor’s personal assistant smiled a vague, practiced smile before she turned and stepped out of the exam room. I chewed on my lip, the crinkly paper of the exam table ruffling under my butt as I shifted. I kicked my legs, my heels tapping the side of the table as I picked at my nails.
Okay, I was nervous.
I furrowed my brow, still twisting my fingers together as I glanced around the small, white, sterile room. The exam room was off of Doctor Owenson’s main office — this gorgeous, elegantly decorated mix of modern and old, with the big windows overlooking Manhattan. The office was beautiful, and warm. But the exam room off it it was, well, an exam room.
I sighed heavily to myself. This whole thing was stupid. And I wanted to roll my eyes and ask myself why the hell I was even there. But then, I knew why I was there.
Because of my problem.
My issue.
Whatever. I was twenty-four, I had a killer apartment, and I had a job with Haut Fashion Magazine that I was — frankly — kicking ass at. I mean, I was the youngest junior editor they’d ever had, and I wasn’t even done rising through the ranks. No, it hadn’t been handed to me or anything like that. I worked my ass off. I’d put in the time.
And why did I do those things? Well, because I had zero distractions. And by distractions, I mean men. No, I wasn’t repulsive, or socially weird or anything like that. I worked out, I ate right, I dressed well. I had a killer shoe collection.
But attracting men wasn’t my problem. It was what happened after that. It was the looming, inevitable conversation that’d happen sooner than later, and the inevitable giving up on their part.
Maybe I’d have done okay in another era. The fifties, maybe. I mean, Don Draper never cared about making a girl come, right? But men in today’s world, they cared. Which is a good thing, don’t get me wrong. But, they cared a lot — like, it’s a blow to them if you don’t, which is why women fake it all the time.
That’d been me. For years, I faked it.
Every. Single. Time.
The problem — well, besides the fact that I was faking my orgasms — was that it wasn’t just with my boyfriends.
…It was with myself too.
That’s why I was waiting in Doctor Owenson’s office that day. Because I was twenty-four, successful, single, doing great in life, and I’d never had an orgasm.
And I do mean never.
Not with a man, not by myself, nada.
I’d stopped dating because of it. My first boyfriend had left when I finally admitted the truth, that he’d never, you know, pulled my trigger. He just flat out left after two years of dating. Great. There were two serious boyfriends in college, and one not so serious one after. Decent, good looking, nice guys. But, yeah, same thing.
No “O.”
And it was getting ridiculous. I mean, I tried — hell, I’d tried everything. I had a drawer full of the latest and greatest sex toys in my apartment to prove it — all of them used multiple times, on every setting, to zero effect.
It was Savannah, my best friend and an art director at Haut Fashion who’d finally gotten it out of me, after we’d had one too many tequilas after work. She asked why I was so tense, I’d brushed it off, and she’d jokingly said I needed to get laid and blow off some steam.
“Nothing a good orgasm can’t fix,” she’d said.
And then I’d started bawling, and the whole thing had come out.
She soothed and comforted me, because she’s a great friend. But the more I told her, the more serious she got.
“Wait you mean never?”
“Yes, I mean never.”
“Ever?”
The next day, she’d come over and sat me down, and talked to me about the doctor her sister-in-law had gone to.
“Oh, after my brother and Patricia’s first kid?” She’d shook her head sternly. “No way. She just couldn’t anymore. The baby like, moved things around down there.”
“Um, oversharing?”
She’d laughed. “Look, I’m telling you because this doctor she saw is a miracle worker. Three sessions and she was right back on the horse.”
Savannah made a face. “Ew. Actually, pretend I never said that.”
“C’mon, Van—”
“I’m serious! Go see him. You have to. He’s in the city.”
“I’m not seeing a…” My face had blushed. “An orgasm doctor.”
She laughed again. “He’s not an orgasm doctor, he’s a fucking gynecologist. But...” she giggled.
“What?”
“Well, Patricia did start calling him ‘Doctor O.’ I mean, he’s a women’s sexual health doctor, and his name starts with O.”