“Do you think I need therapy?” Evan asked. “I probably should start seeing a therapist.” He sighed and I shrugged.
“I can’t really answer that for you,” I said. “But it’s really helped me.” Evan and I had been fuck buddies off and on for over a year, but in the last few months we’d become better buddies and been doing less fucking, which, he told me, was how things usually went for him.
“Once I start to like a girl more as a person,” he had explained, “I’m less interested in having sex with her.” I looked at him like he was a little crazy, but whatever. His friendship was better than the sex, so if I had to choose between the two, friends it was.
“You seem to really know what you want in life,” Evan said. “You seem really in touch with, like, your issues. I don’t think I am.” And now, here we were, with Evan asking me if I thought he needed therapy. I do, by the way, but I think everyone does. Especially the guys I’ve dated and/or slept with. Many of them have gotten help for their various issues — crippling insecurity, narcissism, depression, anxiety, rage issues, etc. — but always after we’ve gone our separate ways.
See, I’m always the girl before the therapist. I’m a fluffier for mental health professionals. And it is fucking annoying. Keep reading »
