WHILE JEREMY KNOWS the feel of my lips, the curves of my naked body, Dr. Derek knows my soul. He’s seen the black pit of it, knows the things I think, things I can’t imagine confessing to Jeremy. Things that would make teenage boys plug in a night-light. Things that scare me more than anyone, since I hold the keys to their containment.
Derek has never made me feel ashamed of my sickness. He has, out of everyone, judged me the least. He has always been supremely unaffected by the dark confessions that come from my lips, has not flinched. And while, in some ways, he knows me better than anyone… in other ways he is ignorant. He doesn’t know what I spend my days doing. Doesn’t know about the bed, the cameras, the toys. He doesn’t know about the men who whisper through my speakers, about the graphic way I can describe a sexual act. He thinks I design websites, spend all day with plug-ins, shopping carts, and graphic design. I initially lied to control the conversation, to steer our talks away from my daily activities and to focus them on what mattered. Stopping my fantasies, fixing my brain. Making it possible for me to reenter the world.
Now? Now that we have talked my sickness to pieces, looked at it from every possible angle, made little progress in two years of appointments—I could bring my job up. But why? For what purpose? I think, when I turn the psychoanalysis on myself, it is because I am embarrassed. Embarrassed to be both sexual and insane. He knows so much about my brain, yet still—in some crazy way—treats me like I’m innocent. I don’t want to ruin that side of our relationship. And I’m pretty sure stuffy straitlaced Derek will not approve. Of the words I say, the actions I perform. He’ll turn it into something dirty, stack a psychological sentence on top of it, give all sorts of clinical reasons for my motivation. Make me feel guilty for it.
So I haven’t told him. And I most likely won’t.