Vivian felt nervous. Her legs itched from mosquito bites in the balcony. Her nail polish looked cheap with chipped continents of red polish. The ripped Levi shorts she bought on sale last weekend felt tighter than usual. What if I fall down the stairs today? What if I never wake up? Questions cornered her into a place of fear. It wasn’t irregular for her to feel like this. She had anxiety. The kind of anxiety that made her wonder about death a lot. Did her friends still like her? Hate is a strong word; but she knew she had behaved badly in a blackout the weekend prior. Her memory had played tricks on her. Vivian knew that. But she didn’t know how to ask for help the way her friends did. She blamed chemistry. Her genes. The drugs. The weather. Crappy WiFi. The list went on.
Therapy wasn’t always the answer. At first her problems were easily fixed with alcohol. In the afternoon, when her nerves gave her rashes and pimples, she poured herself a glass of Vodka like the other women did. It was normal to feel this way, right? Wine usually did the trick. One glass. Two glasses. Maybe the whole bottle But after a while, her anxiety turned numb. She couldn’t remember things. Not the way she would have had she not drank. As weeks marched forward, her anxiety adopted new shapes, people, things and shadows. She lost track. Didn’t care anymore. Work felt harder to go to, so she stopped showing up all together. Her original dream to become a barrister would have to wait. In the meantime, she relied too heavily on her parents to help her get through “this bump in the road”, as her father tried to describe. A bump in the road, seriously dad? That’s when her mother recommended she try therapy. “There’s no harm in trying Omo mi , it could be good for you” – Whatever, if this was rock bottom, the only further down she could go was hell. I’ll try it, at least for my mom’s sake. And so she found a therapist recommended to her by a pal, and went to her first session.
Weeks into therapy, things had started looking up. The sky wasn’t any bluer. Her anxiety was still as dark and confusing as it ever was. But now she felt a little different. Now she was able to talk about the anxiety that way it actually was; paralyzing. Compared to her close pals, Vivian always knew her anxiety was a different category of fucked up. Her friends complained about salary, asshole colleagues, half-hard dicks and traffic. Vivian stressed out about dying, disappearing forever and never waking up. She didn’t want her friends to worry too much, so she hid her problems underneath a disguise of surface level issues; the mascara that had discontinued at Sephora, the sour wine in her fridge that she drank anyways, the teen with B.O who sat beside her on the subway. Her friends believed her. But she knew that her anxiety ran deeper than the rivers of materialism, intimacy and reproduction. She needed help, and if her mom was willing to pay for her therapy, then fine: she’d do it.
When Vivian arrived at her very first session, she was greeted by Dr. Nathalie Onwuzo. She was calm with bright red hair, her eyes smiled, and she was relaxed in a way that felt rare. In her first session, Dr. Onwuzo told Vivian that she could call her “Nat” if she wanted. Vivian liked her immediately. She wasn’t about to bullshit like she had bullshitted her entire life, so she confessed without a social filter about her anxiety problems and her obsession with death. She continued, to tell Nat about the fear that there were things outside of her control that left her feeling powerless. Dr. Onwuzo listened; something that Vivian really appreciated. Her friends and parents listened, but Dr. Onwuzo listened like nobody else she’d ever met before. Their conversations moved to different subject areas, where Vivian was coached to visualize her anxiety in a different shape; to consider the root of the anxiety versus the short-term answer (vodka). Why had she become so paralyzed by death? When did the anxiety get this bad? Nat gave her the tools she needed to wake up in the morning and live a little. Sleeping clearly wasn’t helping, so Viv listened to Nat and tried to find other methods to succeed at doing basic-normal-stuff like waking up, socializing and showing up to work (on time, sort of). Time flew by in Nat’s chair. It felt good to be with her therapist; a feeling that Vivian had forgotten since her first panic attack in 2012.
Vivian and Nat got along in a way that was hard to explain. Was Nat forcing their great chemistry? She felt tempted to call Nat every time she felt a panic attack, which still happened more than Vivian would like to admit. It was a problem that had become a bit of a nuisance after her last boyfriend became fed up with her constant complaints and sadness. After a few sessions, Vivian was curious to learn more about the therapist that already knew so much about her. Did Nat also live on the island ? Kids? A husband? So often, Vivian imagined the type of life Nat lived outside of the walls of their mint green safe room. She probably had a husband who worked in Chevron, a house with fucking expensive furniture.
It became apparent that Vivian might have a crush on her therapist. She had never been with a woman before. Are my feelings even real right now? Vivian didn’t know. But she was eager to do something about it for the sake of overcoming something that scared the shit out of her. She began to feel like her old self again; the Vivian who felt feelings. Sober feelings. Sadness. Happiness. Laughter. Purpose. It didn’t really make sense; but then again, nothing ever did. Vivian wanted to fuck her therapist. And plus: for Vivian, nothing could be scarier than eating out a woman for the first time. If she could overcome this; she could overcome the nerves that shackled her to the bed in the morning. Perspective is everything. She repeated to herself every morning in the mirror.
Before her therapy session, Vivian started drinking. She felt apprehensive, a different type of nervousness she forgot about after the panic attacks consumed her life. It was harmless. Like a stomach full of butterflies that made her feel like one of her close pals; like she was alive. Behind a stack of old books, she reached behind to her hiding place where she stashed her cigarettes weed, lighters and a bong she had bought a while ago. Smoking a joint felt rebellious and absolute necessary for the afternoon of lesbionic activity ahead. Lesbionic is a word right? The smoke felt warm against the roof of her throat. Two or three glasses of vodka in, she quickly brushed her over priced Brazilian hair, throwing a pack of gum into her purse and sprayed enough perfume to drown the smell of weed.
Driving out of lekki, Vivian reminded herself: Breathe, remember to breathe. Slower. Slower. Breathe. Breathe. You’re almost there. Don’t be scared.
Vivian’s appointment began at 7:45pm, the last therapy session of Tuesday afternoon. She didn’t know exactly how she was going to make the first move; only that she wanted to do it. “Come in Viv!” Dr. Onwuzo shouted from her office. Vivian made her way into the room, staring at the new Aloe Vera tree on Nat’s table. “Oh, new plant? It’s nice.” Viv commented. “Thanks, I just bought it!” The glasses of vodka had added a fuzzy warmth to Vivian’s body; confidence easily mistaken for intoxication. She did her best not to slur her words; despite feeling an overwhelming tipsiness that radiated from her entire body. Her body temperature began to cool once she sat down. Vivian made sure to cross her legs to stop them from shaking. “Is everything okay, Viv?” Dr. Onwuzo asked.
“Yeah! Totally fine, I’m just feeling a little nervous today. That’s all.” Vivian replied.
She could feel her heart beating, a little louder than before. An intense wave of fear hit her like a giant meteor crashing into the earth’s atmosphere. Oh god, I’m going to fucking die. She struggled to catch her breath. Slowly, Vivian lied down on the couch to stare at the ceiling; remembering to breathe. Startled, Dr. Onwuzo jumped from her seat to help Vivian who lay crippled with fear. “Viv, you’re having a panic attack. I need you to breathe in and out, very slowly”. Vivian stared up into Dr. Onwuzo’s eyes. Now is your chance! Do it! Viv raised her head upwards, kissing Dr. Onwuzo who froze in total shock. Dr. Onwuzo’s lips were soft; not like the ones she had kissed. Her eyes closed, Viv drew her therapist closer, pulling her arm to straddle her on the couch. For the first time since her therapy had started, the room fell silent.
On top, Vivian’s panic attack had turned into a full body takeover by an aggressive lesbian spirit. Her body movements felt primal, almost animalistic, as she gently grabbed and squeezed the outline of Nat’s body underneath her silk white blouse. Wow, tits feel fucking amazing! Vivian had never thought about it really before. She knew what her tits felt like, but Dr. Onwuzo’s were different. Smaller, perkier than hers. Dr. Onuwzo gently guided Vivian as if her therapy session had turned into a Lesbian 101 course at Unilag. Undressing a man had always been pretty easy, but a woman? There were clasps, buttons, little zippers and undershirts. Vivian couldn’t even take off her own bra without turning it around to de-clasp it. But whatever, it was fun and cool and Vivian’s head raced into a hyper drive of uncharted land. Vivian was now an official explorer of the mature female body. And Dr. Onwuzo was a land that had yet to be discovered. Meanwhile, Vivian had conquered something of an entirely different sort: her panic attack. High in a state of bold fearlessness, Vivian undressed her therapist with ease. She recognized the buttons, knew exactly where to pull and zip. Underneath her blouse, Dr. Onwuzo’s body was thinner than hers, slim like a runway model Her nipples peaked out from underneath her lace Victoria secret bra. Shit, It’s was so fucking perfect on her. Vivian thought to herself.
Dr. Onwuzo grabbed Vivian’s face, now distracted by a bra she totally should have bought when she saw it. “Viv, listen to me. I want you to shut up.” Vivian couldn’t formulate words in that moment. Vivian was so turned on she took charge, slowly kissing the doctor’s neck. Moving her body down, Vivian playfully kissed her way between her tits. Gently, she sucked on the tips of her raised nipples – causing Dr. Onwuzo to position her body so Vivian could make her way to the pussy. UMMMM. What the hell do I do now? Vivian tried to pretend like she knew exactly what to do next. But she hesitated. Dr. Onwuzo was quick to rescue her from humiliation. Changing positions, her therapist jumped on top of Vivian, shushing her as Vivian tried to speak. “No words. Not necessary.” Dr. Onuwzo unzipped Vivian’s Levis. Staring, like a student in class, she watched her therapist firmly move her hand beneath her panties, now wet from her moment of submission. Her hand was gentle, electric on the peaks of her clit. She could feel her cunt expanding, bursting, with affection like a dog panting with its tongue out. She hadn’t been fingered like this, by anybody. Closely, as if to tell Vivian’s vagina a secret, Dr. Onwuzo pushed her tongue up and down sucking her clit sending ripples to the inner reaches of Vivian’s soul. Holy shit. I can’t breathe again. She stared below at Nat, who looked up with her big beautiful brown eyes.
Her tongue trailed into the untouched territories of Vivian’s cunt; and for a moment she felt like she could breathe again – through her vagina. After a quivering wave of relaxation, Dr. Onwuzo’s fingers slipped in forcefully. Flustered by her heavy hand, Vivian bit her lip as Dr. Onwuzo interchanged, one, two and three fingers into her. Pretty soon, her legs became tense from the jolt of energy zapping into her. The therapist circled her tongue into a high-speed propeller engine. HOLY MAMA. DR. Onwuzo! Vivian slipped back into the couch, her body burning into a melting pile of sand. For a moment, Vivian imagined she had died, as she watched Dr. Onwuzo eat her out from above. It was hot. Really hot. She stared overhead, closely watching Dr. Onwuzo’s hands as they clutched upwards, bringing her back to life with her tits resurrected forward. The sweat mounted behind her shoulders, she came into climax with a panic attack that erupted between her legs. Seconds before cumming, Dr. Onwuzo shot up aggressively – slapping her in the face like a drunk bitch at a bar. Her cheek burned like the joint she inhaled earlier.
“Vivian. Wake up. It’s Dr. Onwuzo.” Vivian’s eye lids fluttered in the bright light of the room. Someone had turned on the overhead lamp, now beaming into Vivian’s flushed face. Confused, she sat up, fully clothed, calm as if she had died and come back to life. The panic attack had passed; her panties wet with wonder.
Dr. Onwuzo grabbed Vivian’s hand, “Viv. You had a panic attack and passed out. Are you alright?”..the end #crazinigerian addup 7976D6BE
If u liked this,share with your friends…..