The Sex SurrogateBy: Jessica Gadziala
To those who know all about the
safest place in the world.
And to those who so lovingly provide it.
Before the Sessions
“I am going to see a sex surrogate.” There. I said it. Out loud. Granted, only to myself and in the privacy of my car with the windows up. But, hey, it counts. It's not like it is something I could share with my family, or my coworkers, my roommate or... well, that's about all the people I have in my life. And they wouldn't get it. They hear “sex surrogate” and they think “prostitute”. Besides, admitting it would mean admitting to them that I am dealing with some form of sexual dysfunction. Which, I am. Totally. But they don't need to friggen know that. That would be so humiliating. It was bad enough that the guys I have (tried) to date are all too aware.
This was for me. No one else needed to know.
I pulled into the parking garage, three floors up, and parked my car. I was early. They said to come early because, apparently, there was a detailed questionnaire to fill out. But I'm pretty sure they didn't mean... an hour and a half early. Honestly, I had to leave my apartment or there was no way in hell I was going to go through with it. So, I just got to sit for forty-five minutes and freak the fuck out wedged between a van and a SUV, in perfect seclusion.
Six months ago, I had no idea there was even such a thing as help for me. I thought I was doomed to uncomfortable discussions with men I was interested in for the rest of my life. Or, more likely, a lifetime of being a spinster. Because, let's face it, how many times can you be expected to sit down and tell someone that you don't like sex? To see that look cross their face: confusion, disappointment, arrogant male pride. Because every guy thinks they'll be different. They will change it. They can make you writhe and moan and get over the fears and insecurities that make you lie there like a dead freaking fish, internalizing a panic attack because you're terrified of what they would do if you pushed them off like you wanted to.
No one changed it.
Four men down. And I was so over it.
I was supposed to be out enjoying sex. Hooking up. Dating. Having one night stands. All those things that normal twenty-seven year olds do before they finally get serious and give thought to settling down in their thirties. I had already lost so much time.
And it's not like I don't want to want sex. I totally do. I can get as turned on as the next girl just thinking about it. But when it comes down to it and he's there and you're there... and clothes need to come off, and touching needs t happen... I just flip out inside. And then that makes me lose the drive and then... yeah, dead fish, someone plowing into me, pissed off because I was not enjoying it.
Something needed to change.
Especially because... I have no trauma. I have no legitimate reason to be afraid of sex. I was never abused as a child. I never witnessed anything twisted or gross. I had never been raped or coerced into doing things I was uncomfortable with.
There was no good reason why I couldn't enjoy a healthy sex life.
Except my own stupid head.
And I had tried the traditional therapy route. Actually, I had been in and out of treatment for my anxiety issues since I was a teenager. The last therapist was a middle aged woman with startling green eyes and a soothing voice. To her, I spilled it all. All of the sordid, awful tales of my quest to have physical contact with men. She did her best, bless her, to help. Gave me workbooks meant to help me bolster my confidence, talked to me about sex in as frank a manner as possible to get me comfortable with the idea, hoping the action would be easier for me afterward. But nope.
Finally, frustrated with her inability to help, and sorry for me in her detached, professional kind of way... she had produced a card. It was small and white with raised black writing.