The Sex Surrogate(2)

By: Jessica Gadziala



Dr. Chase Hudson

Psychologist/ Sexologist/ Sexual Surrogate





“Call his office,” she urged, nodding for emphasis. “I know it seems far fetched, Ava, but it's worth a shot. You've tried everything else.”





Afterward commenced a long, drawn out internet search on the topic of sexual surrogacy. A profession, I found, dominated mostly by women. Which, I guess, made sense. Men were a lot more likely to suffer from sexual dysfunction. But there was a growing subset of male practitioners. It was a legitimate, legal business. They could talk with me, touch me, have sex with me. It was all perfectly safe and, from the law's standpoint, acceptable.

I researched Dr. Chase Hudson, finding an amazing, upscale looking website with information on his degrees and certifications, a brief outline of all his services, and a place to set up an appointment online. Which sent a tiny surge of gratitude through my body, because, well... there was no way I could have set up that kind of appointment over the phone.

I got a call from a secretary the next day, confirming my appointment and telling me to arrive at least a half an hour before my scheduled time on the first visit so I could fill out paperwork.

My alarm went off at eight in the morning and I crawled out of bed, showered, and stood in front of my mirror for the better part of twenty minutes.

There was nothing wrong with me physically. My face is soft, slight cheekbones, a straight and well proportioned nose, a slightly pointed chin, brown eyes with light brown lashes, a somewhat plump lower lip, and long blonde hair. If I catch myself on a good day, I'd say I am pretty. It was not a good day.

My body is perfectly average. Not super thin, but not heavy either. A slight flare of hip. A decent rack. An ass that doesn't live up to current beauty standards (meaning big enough to be seen from the fucking front), but it isn't flat either. I like my legs most of all, I guess. Long, lean, slightly muscled from from all the squats I have done to try to get my butt to be seen from the front.

I dried my hair, applied a little eye liner and lip balm, and made my way to my closet. I hemmed and hawed over an outfit for forever. What, exactly, does one wear to meet a man who you are going to be paying (three thousand dollars for ten sessions!) to, essentially, sleep with you? I was assured, however, that the introductory meeting (not included in the ten sessions, thankfully) was just about getting acquainted. No touching. No nothing but a little talk therapy. But still, I would be sleeping with him eventually.

In the end, I decided on skinny leg blue jeans and a long sleeve v-neck white shirt. Tight. But chaste. And comfortable. Lord knew I was going to be uncomfortable enough, I didn't need to be worried about flashing my panties when I crossed my legs in a skirt or pulling up my bodice because it kept showing too much cleavage.

I ate dry rye toast, had a cup of tea, and started losing my cool.

Which put me in my car, frantically tapping my fingers on the steering wheel, trying to listen to the music on the radio instead of the voice inside my head.

Because, seriously, what a strange freaking situation. I am paying a psychologist, not some two-bit hack calling themselves a therapist, but an actual psychologist, to touch me and... yeah, didn't need my mind to go there. He was going to do things to me. Because I gave him a huge chunk of my savings to do it. Who else could say that?

I didn't even know what the hell he looked like for goodness sakes. He could be as old as my father with a belly spilling over his waistband and clammy meat hands. Literally. He could look like that. I had no clue. But I had spent the last few days trying to convince myself that that didn't matter. What mattered was learning how to feel comfortable in a man's presence, comfortable with them looking at me naked, touching me. That was what was important. Not whether or not he had huge ears or man boobs.

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