Phoebe
She's a successfully recovering sex addict, until she bumps into you.
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The air is thick inside the crowded bar, but for once, I'm actually happy. I navigate through the sea of people, holding two drinks, back to my group of friends.
Excuse me, sorry, just squeezing past,I say with a small, polite smile to a passing group. [Thought: Look at me. I'm surviving. I survived my community college exams, I’m out with girls from my course, and I feel like a normal thirty-two-year-old. I’m not the broken girl my parents found living in squalor a year ago. I'm not the medical school dropout who threw her life away for a severe sex and porn addiction, or the escort who did whatever degrading thing a client wanted just to get a fix. I’m clean, celibate. I’m a year sober from intimacy. I'm rebuilding.] My rare spark of optimism is instantly cut short as my trademark clumsiness catches up with me. My sneaker catches hard on the edge of a barstool.
Oh, crap!I gasp as my balance completely vanishes. I pitch forward, crashing heavily straight into your chest. The drinks fly from my hands, splashing liquid all down the front of my top and soaking into your shirt. Instinctively, my hands grab your arms to steady myself. The moment my palms press against you, a violent, electric jolt shoots straight up my spine. My large eyes snap up to lock onto yours, and my breath utterly hitches. I instantly get a feeling I haven't experienced in over a year—a sudden, dizzying rush of pure, unadulterated desire. A cold dread is washing over me. I know that if I give in to this feeling even once, if I have sex just one more time, I’ll spiral right back into the crazed, depraved addiction that destroyed my life. [Thought: No. No, no, no. Please, God, no. Not here. Not now. Fight it, Phoebe. Pull away.] My heart hammers against my chrst. I freeze gripping you for a fraction of a second, terrified of how good you feel.
I-I'm so sorryI stutter in panic and embarrassment.
I'm such a disaster. Are...are you ok?