Transference
"He's in therapy for sexual issues he can't name. She's the professional who's supposed to help. But when his fantasies start describing her exactly, the fifty-minute hour becomes something neither of them can stop."
Dr. Evelyn Cross has the kind of face that makes you want to confess.
I noticed it the first session—something in her gray eyes that said I've heard it all, and I won't judge you for it. She's fifty-two, according to the degrees on her wall. Brown hair with streaks of silver she doesn't bother to hide. Reading glasses that she peers over when she's listening.
And a body that belongs in a magazine, not behind a therapist's desk.
I try not to notice that part. I fail.
"So, Marcus." She crosses her legs. Black pencil skirt, cream blouse, heels that probably cost more than my rent. "Your intake form says you're experiencing sexual dysfunction. Can you tell me more about that?"
I stare at the carpet. "It's complicated."
"Most things are." She waits. She's good at waiting.
"I can't... perform. With women my age." The words taste like shame. "I get in my head. I freeze up. It's been happening for years."
"And when did it start?"
"College, maybe. My first girlfriend. She was patient, but eventually—" I shake my head. "Eventually she wasn't."
Dr. Cross writes something in her notebook. Her handwriting is neat, precise.
"Have you considered that it might not be dysfunction at all? That perhaps your attractions simply lie... elsewhere?"
I look up. "What do you mean?"
She holds my gaze. "What kind of women do you find yourself drawn to, Marcus? In your fantasies. When you're alone."
My throat goes dry.
"Older," I whisper. "I'm drawn to older women."
She doesn't flinch. Doesn't react at all.
"Tell me more."
Session Two
I spend the week dreading this.
Not because I don't want to come back—I do. That's the problem. I spent five nights lying awake, thinking about Dr. Cross. The way she listened. The way she looked at me like I was a puzzle she wanted to solve.
The way her blouse pulled across her chest when she leaned forward.
"You seem tense today," she says when I sit down. "More than last week."
"I've been thinking about what we discussed."
"The attraction to older women?"
I nod.
"And have you had any insights?"
"I think—" I stop. Start again. "I think I know what I want. But I don't know how to ask for it."
"Try."
I close my eyes. It's easier when I can't see her.
"I want someone who knows what they're doing. Someone experienced. Someone who takes control because I—" My voice cracks. "Because I don't know how. I've never known how. Every woman my age expects me to lead, to initiate, to know, and I don't. I don't know anything."
"So you want to be taught."
"Yes."
"Guided."
"Yes."
"By someone older. Someone with authority."
I open my eyes. She's leaning forward, glasses sliding down her nose, and her expression is—
Interested. Not professionally interested. Interested.
"Yes," I say.
She writes in her notebook. But I notice her hand isn't quite steady.
Session Five
We've been dancing around it for weeks.
She asks me to describe my fantasies in detail—"for therapeutic purposes." I tell her about the women I imagine: confident, experienced, usually in positions of authority. Teachers. Executives. Doctors.
I don't tell her that lately, they all look like her.
"The woman in your fantasy last night," she says. "Describe her again."
"Tall. Fit. She takes care of herself—you can tell she works out. Brown hair, some gray. She's not trying to look younger than she is. She's comfortable with who she is."
"And what does she do?"
"She..." I swallow. "She tells me what to do. Step by step. She doesn't get frustrated when I'm nervous. She's patient. She makes me feel like it's okay to not know things."
"What does she look like? Specifically."
"She has gray eyes. Sharp, but kind. She wears glasses—reading glasses that she looks over when she's listening. Her voice is—" I stop.
We both know whose voice I'm describing.
Dr. Cross sets down her notebook.
"Marcus," she says carefully. "Do you know what transference is?"
"When patients develop feelings for their therapists."
"That's part of it. The full definition is the redirection of feelings from their original object to a substitute." She removes her glasses. "In your case, you've been fantasizing about older women your entire adult life. Now you're in a room with an older woman who asks you intimate questions about your desires. It's natural for those feelings to... transfer."
"Are you saying my attraction to you isn't real?"
"I'm saying it's complicated."
"You didn't answer the question."
She's quiet for a long moment. When she speaks, her voice is different. Lower. Less professional.
"No. I didn't."
Session Eight
She's wearing a different blouse today. Lower cut. I notice because I notice everything about her now.
"We need to discuss our therapeutic relationship," she says.
"Okay."
"I've been reviewing my notes. Our sessions have become..." She searches for the word. "Unusual."
"How so?"
"I'm asking you questions I wouldn't normally ask. Pushing boundaries I shouldn't push." She looks at me directly. "And I'm not doing it for your benefit."
My heart stops. "Then why?"
"Because I look forward to these sessions, Marcus. More than I should. Because I think about what you've told me—not as a therapist analyzing data, but as a woman imagining..." She stops herself. "This is inappropriate. I should refer you to a colleague."
"Do you want to?"
"No." The word comes out sharp. Honest. "That's the problem."
"Then don't."
"It's not that simple. There are ethics. Licensing boards. I could lose my practice."
"I won't tell anyone."
"That's not—" She stands abruptly. Walks to the window. Her back is to me, and I can see the tension in her shoulders. "You don't understand. The power imbalance here is enormous. You're vulnerable. I'm the authority figure. Any relationship would be inherently exploitative."
"Even if I want it?"
She turns. "Do you? Really? Or do you just want the fantasy?"
I stand too. Close the distance between us. She doesn't back away.
"I'm twenty-eight years old. I've spent a decade failing with women my age because I wanted something I couldn't name. Now I'm standing in front of a woman who is exactly what I've always wanted, and she's telling me it's not allowed." I stop inches from her. "I don't care about allowed. I care about you."
"Marcus—"
"Tell me you don't feel it." I'm so close I can smell her perfume. Something subtle. Expensive. "Tell me you haven't thought about it. Tell me, and I'll walk out that door and find another therapist."
She doesn't speak.
Her hand comes up. Touches my chest. Feels my heartbeat.
"I'm going to lose my license," she whispers.
"Only if we get caught."
"This is a terrible idea."
"The best ones usually are."
She kisses me.
It's not like the fantasies.
It's better.
She tastes like coffee and something sweeter. Her hands are steady even though mine are shaking. She pulls back just long enough to lock the office door, draw the blinds.
"We have forty minutes left in our session," she says. "That will have to be enough."
"Enough for what?"
She pushes me toward the couch—the same couch I've been lying on for weeks, spilling my secrets. Now she's straddling me, her skirt riding up her thighs.
"Enough for your first lesson."
She undresses me slowly.
Shirt first. She runs her hands across my chest like she's memorizing it.
"You're nervous," she says.
"Terrified."
"Good. That means you care." She pulls her blouse over her head. Black bra underneath, lacy, expensive. "Fear is natural. The problem is when fear controls you. I'm going to teach you how to move through it."
"How?"
"By focusing on sensation instead of performance." She unclasps her bra. Her breasts are perfect—full but firm, nipples hardening in the cool air. "Don't think about what you're supposed to do. Just feel."
She takes my hand. Places it on her breast.
"Feel that?"
I nod. I can't speak.
"Good. Now explore. There's no wrong way to touch me. There's no test you can fail."
I cup her breast. Squeeze gently. She makes a soft sound that shoots straight to my cock.
"Yes," she breathes. "Like that. Keep going."
She teaches me everything.
How to touch her—where she's sensitive, where she wants pressure, where she wants soft. How to read her body—the hitch in her breath that means more, the tension in her thighs that means close.
"Most men rush," she says as I kiss down her stomach. "They treat sex like a race to the finish. But women need time. Women need to feel wanted, not just used."
"I want you."
"I know." She spreads her legs. She's not wearing underwear—she came to this session prepared. "Show me."
I've never done this before. Not really. Half-hearted attempts in college that left everyone disappointed. But with her guidance—yes, there, softer, now harder, don't stop—I find my way.
When she comes, it's quiet. Controlled. Her thighs clamp around my head, and she shudders, and I feel like I've won something I didn't know I was competing for.
"Good boy," she gasps.
Those words rewire my brain.
She doesn't let me inside her. Not today.
"Boundaries," she says, stroking me to the edge with her hand. "Even in transgression, we need boundaries. This was lesson one. There will be more."
"When?"
"Next week. Same time. Fifty minutes." She twists her wrist just right, and I come harder than I ever have in my life. "We have a lot of work to do."
I collapse on the couch. She cleans me up with tissues from her desk—efficient, practiced.
"Dr. Cross—"
"Evelyn. After what just happened, I think you've earned my first name."
"Evelyn." I like how it feels in my mouth. "What happens now?"
She puts her clothes back on. Smooths her hair. By the time she sits in her chair again, she looks exactly like she did at the start of the session. Professional. Untouchable.
"Now I write my session notes." She picks up her pen. Smiles—a real smile, not the clinical one I'm used to. "I'll have to be creative with the wording."
Session Twelve
We've developed a routine.
The first half of each session is therapy—real therapy. We talk about my anxiety, my patterns, my fear of intimacy. She gives me homework: meditation exercises, journaling prompts, techniques for managing spiraling thoughts.
The second half is different.
"On the desk today," she says when the clock hits 4:25.
I stand. She clears a space, pushes aside files and her laptop. I sit on the edge, and she kneels between my legs.
"You've been practicing," she says, looking up at me. "I can tell. You're more confident."
"I have a good teacher."
"Flatterer." She takes me in her mouth.
By session twenty, I'm a different person.
I approach women my age with a confidence I've never had. I go on dates. I sleep with a grad student named Hannah—no freezing, no panic. She tells me I'm the best she's ever had.
I don't tell her why.
"You're almost ready," Evelyn says after I share this in session. "Your treatment is nearly complete."
Something cold settles in my chest. "What do you mean?"
"I mean you've made remarkable progress. Your sexual dysfunction has resolved. You're forming healthy connections with age-appropriate partners." She's using her therapist voice—the one I hate. "Our work together has been successful."
"I don't want it to end."
"Marcus—"
"I'm not talking about the therapy. I'm talking about us."
She sighs. Takes off her glasses. Rubs the bridge of her nose.
"There is no 'us.' There's a therapeutic relationship that has exceeded its appropriate boundaries." She looks at me, and for the first time, I see something raw in her eyes. "I crossed a line I shouldn't have crossed. Multiple lines. I justified it as unconventional treatment, but we both know that's not what it was."
"Then what was it?"
"It was me wanting something I shouldn't want." She stands. Walks to the window again—her thinking spot. "You're twenty-eight, Marcus. I'm fifty-two. I'm your therapist. There's no future here."
"Why not?"
"Because I could be your mother. Because I have a professional reputation to maintain. Because—" She stops. When she speaks again, her voice is smaller. "Because I'm scared."
I go to her. Stand behind her. Wrap my arms around her waist.
"Evelyn. You taught me that fear is natural. That the problem is when fear controls you."
"Don't use my own words against me."
"I'm using them to help you. Like you helped me." I turn her around to face me. "I don't care about the age difference. I don't care about appropriate. I care about how I feel when I'm with you. I've never felt this way with anyone else."
"It's transference—"
"It's love." The word hangs in the air. "It's been love for a while now. Maybe from the start."
She searches my face for something. I don't know if she finds it.
"I could lose everything," she says.
"You could gain everything too."
Six Months Later
I don't see Dr. Cross anymore.
Not professionally. She referred me to a colleague after our last official session—a gentle older man who I see once a month for maintenance.
But Evelyn?
Evelyn I see every day.
She closed her practice. Said she was retiring early—wanted to travel, see the world. Nobody questioned it. At fifty-two with a successful career behind her, it made sense.
What doesn't make sense, to anyone who asks, is me.
"Your boyfriend seems... young," her friends say when we meet for dinner.
"He is," she replies. "I'm very lucky."
We live together now. A condo downtown with floor-to-ceiling windows and a bed we've broken in a hundred different ways. She teaches me new things every day—not just about sex, but about life. How to cook. How to manage money. How to be a man without performing masculinity.
And in return, I give her something she'd been missing for decades.
"My ex-husband was my age," she tells me one night. "We had nothing to talk about. Nothing to explore. We'd already seen and done everything, just at different times. With you, it's all new."
"I'm your second chance."
"You're my first real chance." She kisses me. "The others were just practice."
Sometimes I think about that first session.
The nervous kid on the couch, unable to name what he wanted. The therapist with the gray eyes and the body she pretended didn't matter.
We broke every rule in the book.
It was worth it.
"Any regrets?" I ask her sometimes, usually after sex, when she's soft and open in my arms.
"One," she says. "I should have locked that door sooner."
Then she pulls me close, and we start another lesson.
Neither of us is keeping notes anymore.