Surrender to a Sex Therapist Read Online Free PDF

eyes shine. “You look beautiful.”
    The kids make silly noises at this, and Michael asks when me and Jake are getting married, with a cheeky grin spread across his face. I tell him to eat his bacon and mind his business. He just laughs. He gets his precocious streak from me, I admit. His brother just grins a lopsided grin and chows down on his eggs.
    Now sitting in my beat up old Pontiac Sunfire, I take a last minute to inspect myself before I drive off. I’m wearing my best dress--one of my only dresses, now I’m on a tight budget. A spring knee-length number in pink with tiny white polka dots spotting the thin material. I’ve put on my Aunt Peg’s pearls for good luck and pinned up my fiery red hair in a neat, simple chignon. Applied a bit of makeup to my cheeks, a wisp of shadow to enhance my blue eyes, and a tint of pink lip gloss to my lips. I frown at my reflection, worried that I look more like June Cleaver than someone with an open mind and a healthy attitude toward sex.
    “ Oh well.” I tell my worrisome self. “It’ll have to do.”
    ***
    The building at 353 Bloominfield Blvd used to be an old brownstone, but it’s been recently converted into office space. I approach a man with a pleasant smile and a bulldog face to ask him where exactly Suite 001 is. But first I send Jake a text to let him know all looks good so far.
    His face blanches and he raises an eyebrow. “Why does a respectable looking lady like you want Suite 001?”
    I play with my pearls and almost consider telling him I’ve made a mistake. I contemplate this and leaving, but the dollar amount in the ad flashes in my mind again. “I’m here about the job advertised.” I point to the classified I’ve circled with yellow highlighter.
    His bushy eyebrows climb higher. He clears his throat and straightens his navy blue uniform coat. “Lady, that job is not for you.”
    Now I’m getting just a little miffed. No one tells Carrie Brannigan what to do. And when someone tells me no, I just get all the more determined. “I think I’ll be the judge of that, thank you. Now, if you don’t mind?”
    With a disapproving scowl, he directs me to an elevator with ugly orange doors. Someone really needs to paint that , I think.
    “ Basement,” the security guard says, and as the doors close he adds, “Good luck. You’re gonna need it.”
    “ Not exactly a confidence booster,” I mumble to myself before I hit the button indicating lower levels.
    When the elevator slides open, I find myself in a drab, narrow grey hallway lined with white doors with gold numbers and keycard slots on each one. I locate Suite 001 and ring a doorbell situated near the keycard slot. A brief moment passes before someone swings it open.
    The man standing before me has an aura of danger and mystery that instantly puts me on guard. “Hello,” he says, letting his thick, pouty lips curl in a sensuous smile full of lecherous intent. I detect a slight British accent. Then he steps back from the threshold, still not inviting me in as he gives me a bold up and down perusal while stroking his trimmed goatee. “Yes… as long as you’re not as good a girl as you look, I think you’ll do quite nicely. Come in.”
    He takes my hand and I feel an instant spark. I study his face briefly as he leads me into the room. His eyes are ice blue, like slivers cut from a glacier, and set wide apart, which gives him a deceptively innocent look. His nose is wide at the nostrils, tapered as it moves toward the bridge, and his cheekbones are not too defined but still prominent. He reminds me of a man found in paintings of old world nobility. He’s slender and not much taller than my 5 ft. 6. With my curves and heavy breasts, I feel fat next to his proud figure with spiked hair that isn’t quite sure if it’s meant to be brown or golden blond.
    The retort I had ready dies in the back of my throat when I glance around the room I’ve entered. Stainless steel tables are strategically placed