Chapter 5:Lessons started well

 Mabel

The flyer had been sitting on my nightstand for twenty-four hours, slightly crumpled from where I kept picking it up, smoothing it out, then folding it again like I could make the words disappear if I creased it hard enough. Dr. Adrian Cole, Women’s Sexual Health & Wellness. The silhouette of that woman arching on the front looked so calm, so sure of herself. I hated her a little.

Last night had been another disaster. I’d waited until the apartment was dead quiet, lights off, window cracked so the city noise would cover any sound. I’d even put a towel down like some teenager afraid of making a mess. Then I tried.

Really tried. Thought about the way Dr. Cole’s gloved fingers had felt yesterday (clinical, yes, but careful, almost reverent). Thought about the way he’d said, “Your responses are perfectly healthy, Mabel,” like it was a promise instead of a diagnosis.

I got close. So close my legs were shaking. And then Ethan’s voice slithered in (frigid, buzzkill, waste of a good body) and the whole thing collapsed like a bad soufflé. I ended up curled on my side crying into my pillow, mad at myself for crying, mad at Ethan for making me cry, mad at my own body for betraying me again.

By morning I was done. Done feeling broken. Done letting Ethan’s ghost live rent-free in my head. I dialed the number before I could talk myself out of it for the hundredth time.

It rang twice.

“Dr. Cole’s office, this is Adrian speaking.”

God, even his phone voice was unfair. Warm, low, a little rough at the edges like he’d just woken up. My stomach flipped.

“Hi—um—it’s Mabel. Mabel Cole. From yesterday?” I sounded twelve. I cringed so hard I had to turn away from my own reflection in the hallway mirror.

A soft exhale, almost a smile. “Mabel. I was hoping you’d call.” Pause. “How are you feeling today?”

The question was gentle, but it cracked me open anyway. I started pacing the living room, phone pressed to my ear, twisting the hem of my sleep shirt until it rode up my thigh.

“I’m… I don’t know. Frustrated. Confused. I thought about what you said, about the class, and I think I want to come tonight. If there’s still space.” The last part rushed out like I was scared he’d say it was full and I’d have to crawl back into my shame-hole.

“There’s always space for you,” he said, and the way he said you made my knees actually wobble. “Seven o’clock at the community center on Maple. Side entrance. I’ll text you the exact room.”

“Okay,” I whispered.

“Mabel?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re already braver than you think. See you tonight.”

I hung up and stood there in the middle of my living room, phone still against my cheek long after the call ended, feeling like I’d just agreed to something way bigger than a Thursday night workshop.

The rest of the day dragged and raced at the same time. I showered twice. Shaved my legs even though no one was going to see them. Stood in front of my closet for forty minutes having a full-blown panic about what to wear to a class where I might possibly let a stranger (who happened to share my last name and starred in last night’s failed masturbation attempt) talk about my clitoris in front of other women.

I finally settled on dark jeans and a soft emerald sweater that made me feel pretty without trying too hard. Minimal makeup. Hair down. I told myself it was just practical. I lied.

I got to the community center twenty minutes early and sat in my car with the heater blasting, watching women trickle in through the side door. They looked normal. A mom in yoga pants. A woman in a business suit carrying a tote that said Nevertheless, She Persisted. A college girl with purple braids and combat boots. I felt less like a freak with every person who walked inside.

At 6:58 I forced myself out of the car. The October air bit my cheeks, but it helped calm the shaking in my hands.

The room was smaller than I expected, low lighting, candles flickering on low tables, cushions scattered on the floor for anyone who wanted to sit there instead of the chairs arranged in a loose circle. Soft music played—some acoustic thing with a woman singing in French. It smelled like lavender and cedar. I picked a chair toward the back and tried to look anywhere except the low platform at the front.

Then he walked in.

Dr. Cole (Adrian) looked different out of the white coat. Dark jeans, navy button-down rolled to the elbows, hair a little messier than yesterday. He carried a bottle of water and a small stack of handouts, moving like he owned the room without being cocky about it. His eyes swept the circle, warm and welcoming, and when they landed on me they paused. A small smile curved his mouth, just for me, before he greeted everyone else.

“Good evening, ladies. I’m Adrian. Thank you for trusting me with your time tonight.”

His voice rolled through the room like warm honey. I crossed my legs and immediately uncrossed them because the seam of my jeans pressed exactly where I didn’t need pressure right now.

He started simple: introductions, ground rules, consent reminders. Then he dove into anatomy like it was the most fascinating story he’d ever told. Diagrams on a screen, but he barely looked at them. He talked about the clitoris (eight thousand nerve endings, internal structure like a wishbone, how most of the good stuff happens beneath the surface). He said the word clitoris like it was sacred, not dirty. Every time our eyes met, heat pooled low in my belly. I shifted again. The woman next to me gave me a knowing smile, like she could smell the arousal on me.

He told anonymized stories: the newly divorced mom who cried the first time she orgasmed alone after twenty years; the twenty-five-year-old who’d only ever come from a vibrator on high and thought that was the only way; the wife whose husband called her “starfish” until she learned to ask for what she actually needed. Each story chipped away at the shame I’d been carrying like a backpack full of bricks.

“You are not broken,” he said, looking straight at me for a long second. “You’ve just been told a lie so many times you started to believe it.”

My eyes stung. I blinked hard and stared at my knees.

The room got quieter as the night went on, confessions floating up like smoke. A woman admitted she’d never had an orgasm with another person. Another said her fiancé made her feel like a chore. I stayed silent, but every word felt like it was being pulled out of my own chest.

Then Adrian dimmed the lights further and rolled out a low padded bench draped in black velvet. My heart slammed against my ribs.

“To really understand,” he said, voice dropping into something darker, richer, “we need to see it in practice. I’m going to demonstrate proper self-touch technique: rhythm, pressure, mindset. Fully clothed, completely respectful. Nothing exposed that you don’t want exposed.”

Nervous laughter rippled through the circle.

“I need a volunteer.” His gaze moved slowly, deliberately, until it settled on me. “Someone who trusts the process.”

The air left my lungs.

“Mabel?” he asked softly. “Would you help me show them?”

Every eye turned. My skin prickled like I’d been dipped in carbonation. I couldn’t move.

He waited. No pressure in his face, just patience, and something else (want, maybe, or recognition).

I stood on legs that felt borrowed. The few steps to the platform stretched like miles. When I reached him, he offered his hand, palm up. I took it. His fingers closed around mine, warm and steady.

The spotlight found us. The rest of the room blurred into shadow.

I was trembling.

He leaned in just enough that only I could hear. “Color?”

“Green,” I breathed.

His smile was small, private, devastating.

And right there, on the edge of the moment that would rewrite everything I thought I knew about my own body, the world narrowed to the heat of his hand and the wild thundering of my pulse…