*Trigger Warning* This post contains references to suicide
I followed him down the corridor, sneaking peaks at his bum as his long legs strode in front of me. Glancing down I readjusted my top to show a little more cleavage. Manipulation? Maybe. But I was desperate for just one look from him that may confirm a reciprocation of my desires. One look to give me the inkling he might want me too. I mean ideally, he’d grab me the second we shut the door, rip my clothes off and ravish me on his desk. But he was a professional. And for the following hour, he looked at nothing but my blushing smile and his notebook.
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I’m going to take you a step back to six years ago. I was 21 and extremely mentally unwell. After a week of being hospitalised, I received a diagnosis which changed my life. Finally, I understood what was wrong with me. It was the ultimate validation to the utter distress my life had been up to that point. It was also the moment I had to come face to face with the fact that there was no magic pill to fix me. I had one hope of getting better, and that was yet more therapy.
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For those who don’t know, erotic transference is a feeling of love for your therapist. Usually combined with sexual feelings towards them.
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I guess you could say I was at a point of desperation in my life. All hope of my mental health improving was reliant upon this man. The man who had already lifted me from despair and given me the validation of a diagnosis. A man I would never usually look twice at. A man more than twice my age; with balding ginger hair and often sporting a pair of corduroy trousers and an elbow patch blazer. Sure he was a reasonably good-looking man, but I was more of a skater boy lover. And skater boy he most definitely was not.
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I remember leaving my first session and just thinking, ‘Oh fuck.’ Of course in hindsight the reasoning behind my erotic transference was obvious. I was a damsel in distress and he was my knight in shining corduroy. This was no crush though, this was a heavily sexual obsession. I fantasized about him all day, every day. Sex at his office, sex at his home; mine. Bumping into him in the streets and having sex with him there. Looking back at my life there was never a time I felt so sexually charged towards another individual. Surely he must have felt it too? The heat between us was palpable.
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Sat in my best clothes I shamelessly flirted. Suggestively biting my lip, gazing in his eyes, twiddling my hair and giggling like a love-struck schoolgirl. The only thing I most definitely was not doing was focusing on my mental health. ‘No, I’m absolutely fine,’ I’d say. I mean there was nothing sexy about mental illness. He wasn’t going to want me if I told him the truth.
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I should probably mention that at this time in my life I was living with my long-term partner. He was my lover and my best friend. And he was well aware of my feelings towards my therapist. If not through seeing it in the way my eyes lit up at his name than most definitely through my internet history. The Google searches of ‘How to seduce an older man,’ easily gave the game away. I saw the hurt in his eyes and the guilt devoured me. But what could I do? I was in so deep. I was besotted.
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I now know that part of my obsession with my therapist probably had a lot to do with my dwindling love for my partner. There was no chemistry between us anymore. I was just plain bored. We had the most amazing Xbox sessions, but sex sessions were few and far between. At that time the connection hadn’t clicked. But the end of our soulless relationship saw the gradual end to my erotic transference.
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I remember sitting opposite the man I’d fantasized about profusely. Feeling just a little less desire since my recent break up. I admitted I’d been feeling down, I’d been experiencing suicidal ideation. Things were just a bit shit for me. I really opened up for the first time to him. I let go of the amorous facade and showed him the real me. He asked me how I planned to harm myself. I honestly replied. He then went on to give me suggestions of more effective methods. And yes, you read that correctly.
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It was at this point it occurred to me that this man not only had no sexual feelings towards me, but he actually rather disliked me. It was also the moment my fantasy perception of him turned to dust. Perhaps it was intentional? A means of breaking my erotic illusions? Either way, my one to one therapy discontinued from that moment onwards, as did my erotic transference.
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A year later I was playing with my son whilst the TV played in the background. I looked over and there he was on Cbeebies. The man I’d spent months of my life dreaming of. There he was getting married, his children grinning at his side. I felt nothing. No jealousy. No lust. No desire. He was never my knight in shining armor. In the end, it turned out, that was me.
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If you liked this post then check out my post on Why I Wouldn’t Give Up Kink For Anyone!
