Chapter Text
Porsche never thought that at the age of twenty-five, instead of going to parties and getting drunk in bars, he would be sitting in a stuffy, crowded cabinet at a local hospital, listening to strangers' failed sex lives.
But here he was.
In fact, it wasn't that bad. As long as it made him money (and some people are willing to pay quite a lot to make sure that all their sexual problems and strange sexual fantasies don't go beyond that cabinet ) it was even interesting. Of course, there were some strange people too. You know, the types who would call him in the evening, thinking they had the right to distract him from his housework and offer to put all his theoretical knowledge to the practice. Just block the number.Don’t make problems.
Porsche shakes off the small circles of wet napkins left behind by Mrs. Nop. The woman was on his unofficial list of strange clients. Her main problem was her husband, who never brought her to orgasm no matter how hard he tried, and no matter what advice Porsche gave them in bed. So Mrs. Nop came week after week and cried out all her problems and worries to Porsche as if he were a regular therapist. Mrs. Nop always dabbed her eyes with brown eyeliner, which had been worn off by tears, and rolled balls from the leftover wet napkins. Her pink bag was always lying on one of the soft sofas nearby, and her blue jacket (she never changed it, but who was Porsche to judge) hung on a wooden coat rack near the entrance. Every time, five minutes before the end of the session, the phone would ring from the jacket pocket and Mrs. Nop would run out of the room, telling her husband about a new way that would definitely help them.
He had never considered himself as a good sex therapist, and as his behavior was professional. Professionals, experts in their field, do not judge people for their preferences. Professionals are unlikely to gossip with their colleagues about the size of one of their clients' boyfriends' penises or about all the hypersexual teenagers brought to the hospital by equally concerned parents. He always observes the face with which their parents look at their children, always follows the adult eyes full of shame and disgust.
As long as there was enough money to pay the rent, buy clothes a couple of times a year, and pay for his younger brother's college, it was fine. For the sake of Porchay's sweet smile, he could endure calls at two in the morning or strange people from mydoctor.thai. Most of his sane clients, however, found him on the recommendation of other psychologists. He was ready to erect a monument to Pete for this; The guy had actually increased his income by 40%.
It seems to me, ma'am, that you also have sexual problems. It's okay, don't worry, I have a recommendation for a good doctor who can help you.
He wasn't sure if it was legal.
Porsche had to spend the next two hours in the cabinet , wiping down the shelves of old books his predecessor had left and waiting for his shift to end. Never take clients for the evening a couple of hours before the end of the shift - they will want to sit longer and tell you their life story, then you won't have time to clean the office and fill out the paperwork and you will have to stay a couple more hours to clean up the mess. Just go home and watch movies with your brother. Twilight movie marathon tonight at 9 p.m. That was the plan.
A couple of men in suits opening the cabinet door without knocking was not part of the plan.
Porsche immediately jumps up and heads for the door, only to have a black-haired guy flash past him before he can get a proper look at him, let alone say hello.
Startled, but determined to put on a good face, Porsche closed the door and turned to the man.This was definitely not one of his usual clientele types: stylish, poised and regal, but when dark eyes met Porsche's, he saw clear confusion.
"I'm not sure if you have an appointment," Porsche starts to say, but is cut off by a sharp voice.
"A friend of mine said you might be able to help me."
And, God, he hoped that friend was Pete, not the dealer who had visited him a couple of months ago.
"Well, why don't you tell me about your problem, and I'll see if I can help?" said Porsche respectfully. Strange guy gestured to the soft couch in the middle of the office and the man immediately sat down, putting his feet up on the coffee table next to him. Porsche took a deep breath before following him. He had a feeling this was going to be an interesting case.
Porsche sneaked a glance at the other guest, who stood at attention as if he were in a school choir. He was wearing a black suit, much simpler than the man's on the couch, but Porsche could hardly ever afford that one. He looked no more than twenty-five, but his face already showed signs of sleep deprivation and stress.He had to be either a bodyguard or a pretentious idiot.
"So, let's start with introductions, shall we? My name is Porsche." He blinks.
"That's a beautiful name, sweetheart."
"I'm sorry, but I still haven't heard who you are."
"So you don't know who I am?" A smile appears on the man's elegant face. "And the name Terapanyakul means nothing to you?"
Porsche silently shook his head.
"It's good," the man says again. "Makes things less complicated. You can call me Kinn."
Porsche nodded and memorized the name quickly, then looked up to see that Kinn was looking at him expectantly.
"So, what can I do for you, Khun Kinn?"
The man studied the Porsche with his eyes for a moment longer before putting his arm behind the back of the couch and starting to speak. A flare of anger burns around his neck, but he extinguishes it. Clearing his throat, man says: "I need help with my relationship."
"Okay, what's wrong with your relationship?"
"Aren't you a sex therapist, doctor ?" The man started to get irritated. "So I obviously came here because there are problems with it."
The Porsche rolled his eyes at the man at the door. Was he really just going to stand there and listen to his probably-boss's life? Usually, his clients were willing to check the room for recording devices and, at least at first, were at a loss to give a concrete answer.
"Yes, sure." Now Porsche has to walk around the table to the other side to sit in the chair opposite the other man. "Can I ask you a few basic questions?" He continues after the man nods. "How would you describe your sex life lately?"
"Obviously shitty." A tired smile appears on the Guy’s
Kinn's face. "I think my boyfriend is having some sexual problems, which is probably causing problems for me."
Usually people with problems came in pairs. They would sit on different sides of the couch and try not to hurt their partner by talking about their complete lack of pleasure. And no matter how tense the air in the office was when some guy talked about how his girlfriend didn't turn him on at all, no matter how strange the atmosphere was when couples left the office trying to pretend that everything was fine between them, it always helped. You can hardly solve a problem if you know only one side of the conflict. And no matter how incompetent therapist some people thought he was, Porsche always had advice. Just listen to two people, find a common problem, and move in that direction.
But the man sat alone. And this made things twice as difficult.
"So, what exactly is the problem? This may seem strange and embarrassing to you, sharing this kind of information with someone, but-"
"I can’t come. I can't come, and it's hard for him to turn on. He doesn't want me anymore, not like he used to." Kinn cuts it off, his jaw tensing as if in anger.
Oh, that's good. So not modest. He could work with that.
"Why exactly do you think he doesn't want you?"
"It's hard to explain, it's like he's tired of me. Like I'm not what he needs anymore. When we fuck, it's like I'm sleeping with a doll." With each sentence, Kinn's voice grew louder, and he began to gesture with his hands more actively. " And who can come when their partner in bed acts like they're in hard labor?"
"And what exactly does your sexual relationship look like now?" Porsche tries.
"Unhealthy." Kinn's jaw finally relaxes, but he looks thoughtful, as if he's trying to remember something important but can't quite put his finger on it. "I told you. He says he wants me, he pretends to want me, but I know he doesn't. I can feel it! His movements now, his words, are just an attempt to recreate something that happened before. Sometimes he sits on the table in his bathrobe that he wore at the beginning of our relationship, and I easily fall for it. And yet, all his current attempts to seduce me are more like a street prostitute trying to get money. They don't feel real."
Porsche listens intently to the man and turns his gaze to the figure at the door. The pretentious boy is still there, though he's trying to pretend not to hear anything. These strange, dark guys in suits give him the creeps.
"The last time we had sex, he looked away, and he- he was thinking about something else. Like he wasn't in our bed at all, he was somewhere else." Kinn's hands were now pointing at him. "And I feel like I'm forcing him, even though he's the one starting it all."
"You've already said you don't feel pleasured, but I'd like to know if that's every time, or on rare occasions?"
"Every fucking time. When we done, I guess. He comes, and I tell him how good it was. But with him like that, it looks like a theater of two bad actors, not sex."
"And how long have you been having these strange problems?"
"Almost two months."
"And how long has your relationship been going on?"
"Gonna be six years in June."
"That's a long time, but it's a great time for a couple." Porsche summarizes. "And how often do you try something new in bed? Have you wondered if, maybe, your boyfriend wants something different in bed? Since I don't know your partner, I can only assume a few things."
"Go ahead, doctor."
"Maybe he has a kink or something he would like to try in bed, but was afraid to scare you off. It's a common practice among couples."
"Like what?"
Was this guy expecting a full kamasutra recitation?
"Well, there are many different things. Some people like to be choked during intercourse, or to be done roughly, while others find it strange."
"Are you suggesting that I go up to him and ask him, 'Hey, babe, do you want me to strangle you while you ride on my dick?' or something?"
"You don't have to do it that way. And it doesn't have to be a chokehold. Just an example." Porsche defends himself. Whoever this strange man with the overbuilt eyebrows was, he needed to cool down. "You just need to share your interests with him. It's never too late to explore each other. Have you ever talked to him like this? "
Kinn looks defeated. His shoulders slump and his back stiffens.
"No, I don't think so." His voice sounds quiet and hoarse.
"I suggest you talk to him about it, and if it works out or fails - we'll discuss it at the next session. How about we make an appointment for next week? Would Thursday work for you?"
"Thursday would be great, doctor. Thank you." He says, getting up from the couch and heading for the door. "I will definitely come back again."
As the door closes behind the strangers, Porsche realizes that he hasn't received payment for the session. This good-looking thug had better come back next Thursday and give him his hard-earned 1,500 baht.
Then his eyes fall on his watch.
9:45 p.m.
Damn, he's completely forgotten about Porchay.