By Bradley Baddley
It’s a typical Thursday in the Valley. A cloud of yellowish-green smog hangs in low and the afternoon traffic on the Ventura Freeway looks like it’s just about ready to gridlock. I can see the crowded highway clearly from my fifth-floor window at the Wholeness Center in Sherman Oaks.
My name is Bradley Baddley, and my partner Jim Airhart and I work as sex counselors. (When I say Jim is my partner, I don’t mean partner as in sex partner – far from it.) Sex counseling is a lucrative business in the City of Angels, though I’m still waiting for my first raise, and I’ve worked at the Wholeness Center for over a year now.
My three o’clock appointment is a rich kid named Grayson Flitwick. I probably shouldn’t call him “kid,” he’s twenty, but he has boyish looks, and I can tell he hasn’t worked a day in his life; lives in his parents’ guesthouse in the Hollywood Hills and drives a brand-new Bentley.
My partner Jim takes the straight clients, and I take the gay, lesbian, and trans clients. Why? Because Jim is straight as an arrow and I’m bisexual, that’s why. So, you guessed it, my three o’clock client has a gay sex problem.
I’m a totally passable cross-dresser and have an alter ego named Becky. I’m 19, live in Tujunga with three obnoxious roommates, and drive a crappy old Subaru wagon.
I originally showed up at the Wholeness Center as a client, and after talking to Jim Airhart for an hour, he said I was easily the most unusual person he’d ever met. Jim said my unique sexuality was only a problem if I chose to make it one, and when I showed him a pic of me dressed as Becky, he said I looked just like Britney Spears, but with smaller tits. (Jim said it, not me.) And that was when he offered me a job.
Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday, I dress as Brad and counsel gay clients. Wednesday and Friday, I dress as Becky and counsel lesbian and trans clients.
Before I showed up, Jim counselled all the clients, which was tough for him, because he doesn’t know much about gay sex beyond what they taught him in his sex counsellor classes at the community college in Canoga Park.
So anyhow, Flitwick shows up 15 minutes late, skulks into my office and takes a seat. When I say, “my office,” I’m stretching the truth. Jim and I share the same conference room, but we have one of those cheesy soundboard dividers set up between the desks so our clients will think they’re meeting with us in private. Normally I’m busier than Jim, and sometimes I can tell he’s eavesdropping because I can hear him trying to hold back the laughter. I’ve heard him fart too – the divider doesn’t work for sour grapes, and sometimes Jim will really cut loose when he’s been drinking lots of coffee.
Grayson is concerned. “That other guy can’t hear what we’re saying, can he?”
“Jim? No, don’t worry about him. Mr. Airhart and I are professionals, and when he’s not with a client, he’s listening to his Britney Spears files on his headphones.”
“Well, I’m sort of shy and I’ve never talked to anyone before about this little sex problem I have. Actually, it’s a big sex problem, not a little one.”
“Relax, Mr. Flitwick. Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“Call me Grayson, and I detest coffee. Especially the crap that comes out of those cheap electric coffee makers like the one I saw by the door.”
Well, that certainly was calling the kettle black. “So, tell me, Grayson, what brings you to the Wholeness Center?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I have all the time in the world.” I sit back in my office chair on wheels, fold my hands behind my head, and smile. I’m not kidding either. The Wholeness Center charges $300.00 a half hour, and my boss, Ms. Dewberry, encourages us to take our time and “beat around the bush as much as possible,” as she puts it.
In any event, that’s when Grayson opens up and tells me all about his big gay sex problem. “I’ve never done well on those gay dating apps. Between the scam artists and the losers, and it seems like every gay guy in LA is a bottom, and I’m a bottom too.”
“Yup,” I agree, “good top men are hard to find.”
He brightens up. “You really are gay, aren’t you?”
“Actually, I’m bi, but I know all about the ins and outs of gay sex, Grayson. It’s my job.”
He continues on: “Masturbation is a dead-end street-”
“So, I went to the Pleasuratronic store in Van Nuys and bought a virtual sex simulator device.”
“How’d that work out for you?”
“It was interesting having sex with a hologram, I’ll say that much, but the novelty wore off fast and the damn thing uses an obscene amount of data. Plus, you have to plug it into 220. It constantly popped the GFI, and that was usually just about the time I was ready to climax.”
“Sounds like the virtual sex simulator was a real dud.”
“I expected more, let’s say that much. I tried calling customer service about the electrical problem, but the service rep was AI that intentionally ran me around in circles and then hung up on me. It was frustrating.”
“Did you try taking it back to the store in Van Nuys?”
“No, they won’t take returns on electronics. I still have the damn thing, but I did go back to the Pleasuratronic store to do some more shopping, and that was when things got really hairy.”
“Why? What happened?” I look at the clock. We were already into the second half hour.
“I decided to invest in one of those new Pleasuratronic sex robots.”
“Kinda pricey, aren’t they?”
“I’ll say. Five figures worth, but I’m a trust funder don’t ya know, so I thought I could afford it.”
“How’d the sex robot work out?”
“Well, the thing looks and feels like a buffed-up stud, and I simply adored that part of it, but when I ordered it, I made a big mistake.”
“How so, Grayson?”
“The Smart Peter I chose is too big. Way too big.”
“How big is too big?”
“Holy crap, Grayson. You ordered a sex robot with a thirteen inch long Smart Peter?”
“Yup. You see, I thought I would have more control over the damn thing, but it’s like it’s got a mind of its own and once it gets going, it’s hard to control the amount of penetration.”
“Can’t you take it back and get them to swap out the Smart Peter for a smaller one?”
“Nope. Retooling the robot is almost as expensive as buying a new one, and there’s no returns on electronics at the Pleasuratronic store.”
“So, you’re stuck with a thirteen inch long Smart Peter on your new sex robot?”
“It looks that way.”
I had never counselled a client with a problem like that, and I’m careful not to say the wrong thing. “It looks to me like you have two options. You can take the robot to the electronics dump and call it a loss-”
“I spent 30K, my Mom will kill me!”
“Or you can try to accommodate it.”
“Boy did I screw up this time.” He frowns and covers his eyes with his hand.
“Try using extra lube.” That’s the only answer I can come up with. He hands me his credit card and after charging him $600.00 for the hour-long session, I walk him to the door. “Good luck, Grayson.”
Once the door was shut behind him, Jim bursts out laughing. “Jesus H. Christ, Brad, are all gay guys size queens?” He pulls a tape measure out of his desk drawer and partially extends it in front of his crotch. “Thirteen inches.” He points to the graduation on the tape and rolls his eyes. “That’s completely insane.”
“Sounds like his sex fantasy got the better of him.”
“I’ll say.” Jim shuts down his computer and loads up his briefcase. “Tomorrow’s Friday – you coming in as Becky?”
“Can’t wait. In your yellow mini-skirt?”
“Just for you, Jim, and I’ll wear that little white halter top with the Britney Spears sized falsies too.”
“Sounds righteous. I’ll buy you lunch in Van Nuys.” He gives me a salacious wink as he walks out the door. (It’s all in fun, because in truth he’s as straight as an Arkansas bible salesman.)
Jim Airheart might be done for the day, but I still have one client to go. I check my planner. The guy’s name is Harvey Washburn, an IT worker from Pacoima, and if he’s on my list, he has a gay sex problem.
He shows up five minutes early and knocks on the door frame, even though the cheap Luan hollow core is wide open. “I’m looking for Mr. Baddley.”
“Call me Brad. There’s no need for formality here at the Wholeness Center.”
Something’s up with Washburn, I sense it right away. His voice sounds like he might be a woman dressed like a man, and he’s looking up and down the hallway nervously before he pulls the door shut behind him. “Are we alone?”
“We’re alone, alright.”
As I continue to look him over suspiciously, he abruptly peels off his fake mustache and without it, I recognize him instantly. “Ms. Manchini. What are you doing here? I thought you were in prison.”
“I just got out on parole you little shit.” She pulls out a 9mm pistol and sticks it in my face. “One false move and it’s curtains.”
I’m shocked and aghast at the same time… and momentarily speechless. Ms. Manchini was my ninth-grade social studies teacher at Chesterfield High. The same ninth grade teacher who took me inside a stuffy storeroom and turned me into her personal sex toy. She made me promise to keep my mouth shut, and at first, I did.
To be truthful about things, I’ll admit it was damn exciting for an adolescent boy to be sexually abused by a full-grown woman, and when she left paddle marks on my rear end, my gym teacher noticed.
Mr. Penbrook kept a close watch on our naked rear ends when we were in the locker room and when he saw the fresh paddle marks, he called the cops. Next thing you know, the police show up at my house and threaten to arrest my parents for child abuse. My Mom starts crying and my Dad is like WTF? so I spill the beans and tell the cops about the kinky sex I’m having with Ms. Manchini in the storeroom. I had no choice. She already had a record as a sex offender, so the judge threw the book at her – ten years in the Missouri State Penitentiary.
“Okay, Bradley, we’re going to take the elevator to the parking garage. One false move and I drill you, got it?”
“Sure, Ms. Manchini, but then what?”
“I’m going to lock you up in the dungeon in my basement, I built it just for you.”
“I thought they gave you ten years.”
“I was released early on parole and now we’re going to finish what we started.”
And that was how I ended up in Ms. Manchini’s basement. I’m sure you’re just dying to find out about all the dirty things she did to me in her dungeon, but you’ll have to wait until the next episode of Ms. Manchini Wants to Murder Me to find out …