Journal Entry - Dr. Carlton Chadwick
*October 17th*
I am a professional. I have been one for over thirty-five years. I held licenses, degrees, and a feeling of calm detachment through hundreds of cases. I was a rock.
Today, that rock developed a hairline fracture.
His name is Ted. Twenty-three years old. Heterosexual. Comes in with premature ejaculation, shame, the whole dance. He has the kind of face they put on college brochures -- all broad jaw and midwestern innocence. His body is firm, young, full of a kind of vitality that I haven't felt in my own frame for decades. I initiated the Glossopharyngial Diagnostic Protocol.
I put aside my own orientation. I focused on the physiology, on the mechanics. The fellatio was a means to an end. I was a professional. And then he ejaculated. I will not lie in these pages. The taste was... unexpectedly pleasant. It wasn't just the biological fact of it; there was a warmth, a vigor to it that seemed to echo his youth. It felt heterosexual, if that makes any sense -- a different quality entirely from what I've experienced in my own personal life.
I swallowed. Professional courtesy. And also, I must admit, because in that moment, I wanted to.
Now he is gone. His appointment ended, his shame enveloping him like a cloak. He thinks he failed. He doesn't know that I can still taste him, hours later. That I keep reliving the weight of him, the intensity of that final moment.
I am his therapist. I am supposed to be his guide. I promised him I would help him overcome his problem. And I will. I will be professional. I will focus on the exercises, the desensitization, the control. But as I sit here, in the quiet of my office, the only thing I can think about is the next time. The next session. The next chance to feel that warmth again. I am a professional. I am also a man who has not felt this alive in years. The next appointment is on Wednesday. I will be ready for him.
Journal Entry - Dr. Carlton Chadwick
*October 24th*
Today he asked me about his penis.
Not in those words, of course. Ted is too polite, too Midwestern for such directness. It was framed as a cliniqcal inquiry, born from our work together. "Doctor," he said, with that earnest furrow between his brows, "is there something... wrong with the shape? I mean, functionally. Megan has never said anything, but I wonder if the curvature might affect--" He trailed off, blushing to the roots of his hair.
I assured him there was nothing wrong. I used words like "normal anatomical variation" and "within expected parameters." i spoke of penile geometry as if discussing architecture. All the while, I could feel the heat rising in my own chest.
He wanted to understand himself better. So I explained. I told him about the corpus cavernosum, the glans, the frenulum. I described the mechanics of erection and ejaculation with the detached precision of a textbook. He listened intently, nodding, asking follow-up questions like the diligent student he is.
"Is the volume... average? he asked, staring at his hands.
"Perfectly average," I lied. His volume is above average. Considerably above. I have the data.
"And the taste? Is that normal too?" He looked up at me with those guileless eyes. "I've always wondered. Megan doesn't... I mean, we haven't..."
Innocent. Completely, devastatingly innocent.
I told him that taste varies based on diet, hydration, genetics. That there is no "normal," only individual variation. I described the pH balance, the fructose content, the alkaline properties. Clinical terms. Safe terms.
I did not tell him that his taste is the most exquisite thing I have ever experienced. That I crave it between sessions like an addict craves their drug. That I lie awake at night reconstructing the sensation of him filling my mouth.
He thanked me afterward. Shook my hand. Scheduled the next appointment.
He has no idea that while I was describing his own anatomy to him in sterile medical language, I was hard beneath my desk. That I was remembering the weight of him on my tongue, the pulse of him, the way his eyes roll back when he releases.
He thinks I am helping him.
I am helping myself to him.
The worst part -- the very worst part -- is that I am beginning to believe I love him. Not just his body, not just his taste, but *him*. The earnestness. The innocence. The way he says "sir" like he means it.
I am a monster wearing a kind man's face.
And I cannot stop.
Journal Entry - Dr. Carlton Chadwick
*November 7th*
Today was the third session.
Three sessions.
Three times I have tasted him now.
I am beyond the pretense of professionalism. I cling to it like a fraying rope, but my knuckles are white and the fibers are snapping one by one.
Today was supposed to be about technique. The "stop-start" method. Conscious control. I explained it to him with diagrams, with clinical terms. He sat there, that beautiful, tormented boy, nodding along, trusting me completely. He has no idea what is happening inside me.
When he undressed, I noted the faint tan line on his hips. The way his skin flushes pink across his chest when he's nervous. The tiny scare above his left eyebrow from what he later told me was a childhood bike accident. I am collecting these details like a miser collects coins.
The exercise began. I touched him. He responded. And then--
**Stop**
I commanded it. He obeyed, trembling. The power in that moment, the electric tension in his body as he fought his own nature at my instruction. I could see the confusion in his eyes, the desperate trust. "Am I doing it right, Doctor?"
Oh, Ted. If you only knew.
We repeated the cycle four times. Four times I brought him to the edge. Four times I ulled him back. His breathing became ragged, desperate. He called me "sir" without prompting, his voice crackling with need.
The fifth time, I did not say stop.
He cried out when he finally released. A sound I will carry with me to my grave. And I, Carlton Chadwick, sixty-four years old, swallowed every drop again, because by now I am addicted to the taste of his heterosexuality. It is warm and salty and alive in a way nothing in my life has been for decades.
He apologized afterward. Of course he did. "I'm sorry, Doctor, I tried to hold it, I really tried--"
I held his face in my hands. Looked into those earnest, shame-filled eyes. "Ted," I told him, "you did wonderfully. This is progress. This is exactly what progress looks like."
And he believed me. He smiled. A small, hopeful smile that made my chest ache with something I refuse to name.
He is coming back on Monday. He thinks we are curing him.
I am counting the hours.
What am I becoming? I ask myself this in the dark of my apartment, alone with the memory of him. The answer comes back with terrifying clarity: I am becoming the man who needs Ted Sheridan.
And the worst part -- the absolute worst part -- is that I no longer care.
**Journal Entry -- Dr. Carlton Chadwick**
*November 14th*
He sat across from me today, fully clothed for the first twenty minutes, and talked about his girlfriend.
Her name is Megan. She works at a daycare. She has a laugh like a wind chime, apparently. She makes him grilled cheese when he's had a bad day. He showed me a photo on his phone -- a blandly pretty girl with too much eyeliner, smiling at the camera like she's captured something precious.
She has no idea what I have tasted. What I have swallowed. What I will swallow again.
Ted is so innocent. That's what undoes me. He sat there in the chair-- my chair, the one where I've watched him undress so many times -- and spoke about Megan with such earnest, boyish affection. He wants to propose next year. He's saving for a ring. He asked me, his trusted therapist, if I thought that was a good idea.
"Do you love her?" I asked, my voice steady as a surgeon's hand.
"Yes, sir. I really do."
Sir. He calls me sir. Every time, it lands somewhere deep in my gut.
I told him that love was the foundation of any healthy relationship. I gave him professional advice. I was the picture of wisdom and detachment.
Inside, I was imagining pushing him against the wall of my office. I was imagining the look on his face if I confessed everything-- that I don't want to cure him. I want to keep him. That every session is a countdown to the moment I can taste him again, that Megan is an obstacle, a nuisance, a distraction for the man that belongs in my bed.
He is straight. Completely, thoroughly, innocently straight. He has no capacity to see what I feel. To him, I am a kindly old doctor, a mentor, a guide. A safe space.
I am none of those things.
I am a predator wearing a therapist's mask, and the prey is the most beautiful creature I have ever known.
After the talk, we did the exercises. He performed beautifully. Longer today. Nearly seven minutes before he lost control. He was so proud of himself, so grateful. He shook my hand afterward--two full pumps, eye contact, that guileless smile.
"You're really helping me, Doctor. I can't thank you enough."
If he thanks me again, I might weep. Or I might kiss him. I don't know which terrifies me more.
He left. I locked the door after him. I sat in the chair where he had sat, still warm from his body, and I breathed him in. The faint scent of his soap. The ghost of his presence.
I masturbated. I thought about his face when he comes. I thought about the sound he makes. I thought about Megan, and how she will never know that I have had parts of him she may never have.
When I finished, there was no relief. Only more hunger.
**Journal Entry -- Dr. Carlton Chadwick**
*November 21st*
Ten minutes.
Ten entire minutes.
I watched the clock on my desk -- the antique one with the brass trim, a gift from a colleague decades ago -- tick past the numbers in slow, deliberate increments. 3:14. 3:15. 3:16. Each second another small victory. Each minute a triumph I had engineered with my own hands, my own mouth, my own patiences.
He was magnificent.
The concentration on his fact, the way his breath caught and stuttered, the involuntary twitch of his hips that he fought to control-- all of it was a symphony I had composed. When he finally lose the battle at 3:24, the sound he made was one of pure, unfiltered release. Relief and pleasure tangled together.
"I did it," he gasped, still catching his breath. "Doctor, I did it. Ten minutes. That's... that's normal, right? That's actually normal?"
I assured him it was. More than normal. Excellent progress. A testament to his dedication.
He say up, still flushed, and grabbed my hand in both of his. The gesture was so guileless, so purely Ted. His eyes were bright with something like joy. "I couldn't have done this without you. You've changed my life. I mean it. My whole life."
I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to push him back down and start again. I wanted to tell him that his life wasn't the only one being changed.
Instead, I smiled warmly and said, "You did the work, Ted. I only guided you."
And then he asked the question.
"What about you, Doctor? You must have someone special. What's your wife's name? Does she know how amazing you are at your job?"
The words hung in the air like smoke.
I hesitated. Just for a moment. A flicker, but it was enough to change the air in the room.
"I'm not married, Ted."
"Oh." He blinked. "Girlfriend?"
An awkwardness passed through that we could both feel.
"No. I'm... I'm single, Ted."
And there it was. The first crack in his perfect trust. A tiny furrow between his brows. A micro-expression of confusion that crossed his face before he smoothed it away. He looked at me-- really looked at me-- and for one horrible, electric moment, I wondered if he saw something. If some buried instinct was whispering to him that the kindly old doctor who spent so much time with his mouth on Ted's body might not be entirely motivated by therapeutic altruism.
But then it passed. He smiled again, though something in it was different. Polite. A fraction less warm.
"Well," he said, standing and reaching for his pants, "whoever you end up with is lucky. Just saying."
He dressed quickly after that. The easy conversation from before was gone. He thanked me again, professionally, and scheduled next week's appointment with his usual earnestness.
But he didn't shake my hand when he left.
I have been sitting in my chair for two hours now, staring at nothing. The taste of him is still on my tongue -- it always is, for hours afterward. But this time, it brings no pleasure.
He looked at me differently today. Just for a second. But I saw it. And he saw that I saw it.
He doesn't know. He can't know. But something shifted. Some small gear in the clockwork of his innocence turned a fraction of a degree.
I should stop this. I should refer him to another therapist. I should let him go marry his Megan and live his normal, heterosexual life and forget that Carlton Chadwick ever existed.
I won't.
I can't.
He'll be back on Monday. I will be here. Waiting.
**Journal Entry -- Dr. Carlton Chadwick**
*November 28th*
Seven seconds.
From the moment my tips touched him to the moment he flooded my throat: seven seconds. A new record. A devastating one.
He didn't even have time to close his eyes. One moment he was watching me with that familiar, trusting gaze; the next, his hips bucked involuntarily and he was gasping my name-- not "Doctor," but my name-- as if he'd been struck by something he didn't understand.
I swallowed. Of course I swallowed. I always swallow. But the taste was different today. Sharper. Panic-flavored.
When I looked up, he was staring at me with an expression I had never seen before on his face. Not shame. Not embarrassment. Something else. Something that made my old heart seize in my chest.
"That was..." He trailed off, still breathing hard.
"Seven seconds," I said quietly, wiping my mouth with the handkerchief I keep in my desk drawer. Professional habit.
"I know. I felt it. I just--" He ran both hands through his hair, pulling at the roots. "I don't understand. Last week was ten minutes. Ten minutes, Doctor. What happened?"
I should have kept it clinical. I should have asked about diet, sleep, stress levels. Standard questions. Instead, I heard myself asking, "What were you thinking about? In the moments before?"
He looked at me. Directly. His eyes held mine for a beat too long.
"You," he said.
The word landed in the silence like a stone in still water.
I waited. Said nothing. Let the silence do its work.
"You," he repeated, slower this time. "I was thinking about you. About..." He gestured vaguely, his face coloring. "About what you must think of me. Doing this every week. Letting you..." Another gesture. "I was wondering if it's weird for you. If you ever think about it outside the office. If you go home and--" He stopped himself. He looked straight down at the floor.
The air in the room had changed. Thicker. Charged.
"Ted," I said carefully, "these sessions are strictly professional. You understand that, don't you?"
"Do I?" The question wasn't accusatory. It was genuinely curious. He looked at me like I was a puzzle he was trying to solve. "Because sometimes I wonder. Most therapist wouldn't--"
"I'm not most therapists." The words came out before I could stop them. Too fast. Too revealing.
He heard it. I saw in the way his eyes widened slightly. The way his breathing changed.
For a long moment, neither of us moved. He was still half-hard from the aborted session. I was still kneeling on the floor where I'd been when he came. The position was intimate in a way it had never been before. Obscene, almost. The power dynamic flipped and exposed.
"Doctor," he said quietly, "are you... I mean, when you do this... do you..."
"Ted," I interrupted. It came out harsher than I'd intended. "The only thing that matters is your progress. Your treatment. Your relationship with Megan."
At the mention of her name, something flickered across his face. Guilt? Confusion? I couldn't read it.
"Megan doesn't know about this," he said. "The details, I mean. I told her it was talk therapy. I didn't tell her about the..." He gestured at his own body. "About you and me. This."
"Why not?"
He thought about it. Really thought. I watched the realization dawn on his face in slow motion.
"I don't know," he whispered. And for the first time, he sounded frightened.
The session ended shortly after. He dressed in silence. Didn't schedule the next appointment. At the door, he paused with his hand on the knob.
"Doctor," he said without turning around, "are you gay?"
The question hung between us like a blade.
"Yes," I said. Because lying felt impossible in that moment. Because he deserved at least that much truth.
He nodded. Once. Opened the door.
"See you next week," I said. But he left without acknowledging it.
I don't know if he'll come back. I don't know if I want him to.
Yes, I do. I want him to come back more than I have ever wanted anything.
And that is the most terrifying thing of all.
**Journal Entry -- Dr. Carlton Chadwick**
*December 5th*
He came in like a stranger wearing Ted's face.
The boy who sat in my chair today was not the same one who had trusted me with his body, his shame, his most intimate secrets. This version of Ted was coiled tight, shoulders rigid, eyes that wouldn't meet mine for more than a flicker. He sat as far from me as the small office would allow. His hands were shoved deep into his jacket pockets.
I asked how his week had been. Fine, he said. Megan? Fine. Work? Fine. Everything was fine. The word landed like stones dropped into a well -- dull, hollow, final.
I should have stopped there. I should have asked if he wanted to talk. I should have addressed what hung between us.
Instead, I instructed him to undress.
He hesitated. A full three seconds where we both knew something fundamental had cracked. Then, slowly, mechanically, he complied. He kept his eyes on the wall the entire time. When he was ready, he lay back and stared at the ceiling. Waiting.
I took my time. Deliberately. Maliciously, perhaps. I wanted him to feel every moment. Every touch. Every slow, lingering pass of my tongue. I wanted him to know, without words, that this was not therapy. That it had never been therapy. Not for me.
Twenty-five minutes.
I made him last twenty-five minutes.
I used every technique I had taught him -- the stop-start, the breathing, the mental distraction -- but in reverse. I brought him to the edge and pulled back. I varied rhythm and pressure. I watched his hands grip the edge of the futon, white-knuckled, as he fought a battle he didn't want to win.
When he finally came, it was with a sound I had never heard from him before. Not relief. Not joy. Something closer to surrender. Defeat.
I swallowed. Of course I swallowed. I always swallow.
Then I sat up, wiped my mouth, and smiled my professional smile. "Twenty-five minutes, Ted. That's remarkable progress. You should be proud."
He didn't respond. He was already reaching for his clothes, dressing with quick, efficient movements. His back was to me the entire time.
"Ted," I said softly. "Talk to me."
"What's there to talk about?" His voice was flat. Dead. "You did your job. I lasted twenty-five minutes. Treatment successful. Right?"
"That's not--"
He turned then. Finally met my eyes. And what I saw in them made my breath catch.
Not anger. Not disgust. Something worse: knowledge. He looked at me like he was seeing me clearly for the first time. Like all the pieces had finally fallen into place.
"You enjoyed that," he said quietly. It wasn't a question. "All of it. Every time. You weren't just... treating me. You were..." He couldn't finish the sentence. Didn't need to.
I said nothing. What could I say?
He nodded slowly. Once. "I thought you were helping me. I thought you were--" He stopped. "God. I'm so stupid."
"You're not stupid." The words came out desperate. Pleading. "Ted, you're not--"
"Don't." His voice cracked. "Just... don't."
He finished dressing in silence. At the door, he paused with his hand on the knob. The same pause as last week.
"I'm not coming back," he said. Not angry. Just matter-of-fact. "I'm going to marry Megan. I'm going to have a normal life. And I'm going to forget this ever happened."
He opened the door.
"Ted." My voice stopped him. Just for a moment. "I am sorry. Not for wanting you. But for... for not being honest. For letting you trust me when I didn't deserve it."
He didn't turn around. "Goodbye, Doctor."
The door closed behind him.
I sat in my chair for a long time after he left. The office felt empty in a way it never had before. The silence was absolute.
I thought about his taste. His warmth. The way he said my name that one time, surprised out of him by pleasure he didn't understand.
I thought about Megan. About grilled cheese sandwiches and engagement rings and a future I would never be part of.
I thought about twenty-five minutes. About control. About the difference between helping someone and taking something from them.
I am still sitting here. The light through the window has changed from afternoon to evening to night. This journal is open on my lap. My pen is still in my hand.
He is gone.
I am still here.
And I have never felt more alone.
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