Mr. Harrison and the Girl Next Door

"What do you want me to say—that I want to fuck my neighbor's daughter?" I snapped.

Dr. Lainey didn't flinch—she never did. "I'm not sure why you're being defensive, Randall," she replied. "All I did was point out that this girl seems to be on your mind a lot lately. Middle aged men fantasizing about young women is hardly rare. There's nothing wrong with being attracted to someone—it's how we act on it that counts."

That was Amanda Lainey, PsyD all over: calm, reasonable, maddeningly unshakable. I'd been sitting across from her for almost a year now, and I couldn't deny she'd gotten me through some ugly things. Therapy had always seemed like quackery to me until my wife's affair had cracked me in half. I was desperate enough to try anything back then. And damned if Dr. Lainey didn't guide me through it—through the anger, the shame, even the moment I somehow found the strength to forgive. Dana and I had survived. The wound had never fully closed, but in some ways the marriage was better, more honest, even more trusting than it had been before.

I owed Dr. Lainey for that. Which only made it worse, sitting here admitting to her the kind of thoughts I couldn't get out of my head.

I rubbed my palms against my jeans, the denim suddenly hot under my hands. Saying it out loud made me feel like some dirty old man. "She's...she's twenty-two, Dr. Lainey."

"You're worried about what it means to be attracted to a much younger woman?"

"Yeah. No. I mean—both. It's not just the age. I've known Kyra since she was in high school, you know? I'm buddies with her dad, Larry. We've had beers in his garage. The whole thing feels...creepy."

Dr. Lainey tilted her head. "If you've known her for years, what's changed? Why does it feel different now?"

I swallowed again, my throat dry. "I don't know. When she was younger I knew she was pretty—everyone did. But she was a kid, and that's how I always saw her. Then, these last couple years, she just...grew up. Part of it is her, uh, figure—" My voice faltered. I wasn't about to say out loud that Kyra had come back from college with curves that could stop traffic. The thought alone made me feel like a creep, but it was the plain truth. "—and part of it is how she acts. The way she carries herself. More...womanly."

"Womanly?" Dr. Lainey repeated, tilting her head. "What does that mean for you, exactly?"

"You know," I said quickly, "more self-possessed. Confident. Grounded." I tossed in the therapy terms like breadcrumbs, hoping they made me sound less like a lecher.

"I see." Her pen tapped once against the pad. "And you find this attractive." She didn't phrase it as a question.

A flush prickled at my neck. "Well...yeah. I guess I do."

"And what, precisely, is wrong with being attracted to a grounded, confident, pretty young woman?"

"By itself, nothing. I know that. But the context is all wrong. When I see her and get, erm...excited, the first thing I picture is Larry's face if he knew. He'd probably pound me into the dirt. And Dana—after everything we've been through—she'd go ballistic. And I wouldn't blame her."

Dr. Lainey gave a small, wry smile. "The good news, Randall, is that neither Dana nor Larry are mind readers. What happens inside your mind belongs to you alone."

"Sure, but it doesn'tfeelthat way," I muttered. "It feels like a flashing neon sign over me whenever I see Kyra in those running shorts. Like anyone could take one look at me and know what I'm thinking. It's humiliating."

"Humiliating?" she echoed gently.

I rubbed the back of my neck, the heat crawling up into my ears. "Because it's not just some passing thought, like noticing a pretty girl at Starbucks. It feels like I can't control my own brain around her. I'm fifty-two and suddenly I'm fourteen again. My skin prickles, my chest tightens. It's not just catching a side-eye glance at a cute face or a nice butt—that happens all the time. With Kyra, it's different. I feel a...hunger."

"And this hunger feels wrong to you—made worse by the fear that someone will see it and that you'll be judged and punished."

I gave a low laugh, shaking my head. "Christ, Dr. Lainey. I don't know how you do it. That's exactly it. You take all the noise in my head and distill it down to a single, sharp sentence."

She smiled faintly. "Since this is so, tell me, Randall—are you afraid ofmyjudgment and rejection?"

I just blinked at her. Dr. Lainey had a way of turning our conversations in ways I could never predict. It was uncomfortable because it always caught me off guard, but I had learned to trust her methods.

"Well...yeah. I mean, of course. I know you won't just throw me out, but you're still a woman—I could imagine you writing 'pathetic creep' in that notebook of yours."

With a smile she quickly showed me her notepad. "See, no 'creep' anywhere."

I huffed a laugh, though my face still burned. "Okay, but you could just as easily be thinking it."

She set the pad back on her lap, her expression warm but measured. "That's the part worth noticing. Not what I might be thinking, but what youassumeI'm thinking. You're already carrying judgment with you, Randall. You don't need mine."

That stung, mostly because it was true. "So what—you're saying all this shame is just...self-inflicted?"

"Not just," she said, her tone steady. "Context matters. Your marriage, your friendship with Larry, the history of knowing Kyra since she was a teenager—it's not surprising that this would conjure of feelings of shame. But the shame lives inside you. And here, in this room, you have a choice. You can keep fighting it, or you can look at it directly."

I sat back, my fingers gripping the arm of the chair. It was ridiculous how fast my heart pounded in these moments. "And what if I don't like what I see when I look at it directly?"

Dr. Lainey's voice softened, almost kind. "Then you'll be in the right place to figure out why—and what to do about it. I acknowledge your worry about being discovered, but this is the one place, perhaps in the whole world, where you don't have to worry about being judged."

I just stared at her. For a moment I thought I might actually cry—not just because I believed her, but because I realized I didn't even feel that safe with Dana. Things were better between us, sure, but I did not feel safe from judgment. Maybe this was a place I could really be honest.

I took a deep breath. "Okay then. The truth."

Her expression didn't change, but I could feel her attention sharpen. "Go on."

My fingers fidgeted against the chair's armrest. "It's not just that I notice her, or that I get...you know, turned on. It's that I catch myself waiting for it. I'll be out mowing the lawn and realize I'm half-hoping she'll jog by. I'll walk to the mailbox when I hear their font door open. It's like I'm building these little traps for myself, just to get a glimpse of her."

Dr. Lainey nodded, her face open, unreadable.

"And when she does show up," I said, my voice dropping, "it's like my imagination takes off without my permission. She smiles at me, and suddenly I'm picturing things. Things I can't stop once they start."

Dr. Lainey tilted her head slightly. "What kinds of things?"

My throat constricted. I shifted in my seat, stalling. "Do I have to say it out loud?"

Her reply was gentle but firm. "Of course not. You don't have to say anything you don't want to. But I think part of what makes all this so painful is that you're keeping it bottled inside. If you let it out, it might not feel so scary or powerful. But it's up to you, as always."

I stared at the carpet, my mouth dry. She was right—half the reason it felt so overwhelming was because I carried it alone, like a secret tumor I couldn't show anyone. Still, saying it out loud meant hearing just how bad it sounded.

"I...okay." I exhaled sharply, bracing myself. "It's never just one thing. Sometimes I imagine her coming to the door, still flushed from her run, sweat on her skin. Sometimes she's in the kitchen, leaning on the counter while I pour her a drink. Ordinary moments. But in my head, they always turn into something else. I touch her hand, then her arm. I lean closer. And she...she doesn't stop me. She wants it."

Dr. Lainey didn't move, didn't write, didn't even blink. Her silence forced me to keep going.

"And once I start imagining that—her leaning into me, kissing me back—it's like my brain goes into overdrive. I can't stop the reel. Every time I see her, it's like a trigger."

Finally, Dr. Lainey spoke, her voice calm, measured. "So it isn't simply attraction, Randall. It's the fantasy of reciprocity—the idea that she desires you as much as you desire her."

I nodded, heat flooding my face. "Yeah. And that's the part that makes it feel dangerous. Because if she ever...if she ever actually did give me that kind of look, I don't know if I could trust myself to walk away."

Dr. Lainey let the silence settle, her eyes steady on mine. "So the danger isn't only in what you imagine, but in the possibility of acting if you were given an opening."

I shifted in my chair, my gut twisting. "Exactly. That's what keeps me up at night. I tell myself it's just a fantasy, just something in my head. But then I see her smile, the way she tilts her head when she talks to me, and I start thinking...what if?"

"What if," she repeated softly.

"Yeah. What if she really did knock on the door? What if she wasn't just being friendly, but...interested? Horny?" My laugh came out shaky. "That's when it feels less like daydreaming and more like I'm standing on the edge of something I'm scared to fall into."

Dr. Lainey leaned forward slightly, her tone still even. "And how do you feel when you imagine stepping over that edge?"

The question hit me low, unexpected. I rubbed my face with both hands before answering. "It feels incredible. Like electricity. Like being alive again. And then the crash comes—guilt, shame, panic. It's this cycle that eats me up."

"So you swing between exhilaration and self-condemnation," she said. "No middle ground."

"Right," I muttered. "It's either I'm pathetic for wanting her, or I'm a monster for imagining what I'd do if she wanted me back. There's no in-between where I'm just...a man noticing a woman."

Dr. Lainey nodded slowly. "That's a tough place to be, feeling like you're either pathetic or a monster. I'm wondering if there's a third possibility—a way of thinking about it that doesn't make you horrible or worthless."

This wasn't an unusual tack for her. Dr. Lainey frequently tried to pull me out of my "dichotomous thinking," which was a genuinely bad habit of mine. But in this case, I really couldn't think of a middle ground. I wasn't about to tell her of how often I jerk off thinking about Kyra. Or that I have a pretty big dick and get off on imagining Kyra's delight at seeing it followed by her orgasmic surprise in having her tight little pussy stretched by it. Even just thinking about it was starting to get an erection going and I needed to push these thoughts out of my head.

Although, I had to admit to myself—and not for the first time—that a part of me would like Dr. Lainey to see it. Sure, I've had fantasies about her—she's a really attractive woman and a little closer to my age, somewhere in her early 40s I'd guess. Most of the time she wore tailored suits and blouses that kept her figure hidden, but once she'd walked in with a fitted skirt, and the way it hugged her hips told me plenty—her legs and ass were in excellent shape. More than once I'd gotten off imagining her finally breaking down on this very sofa, giving in to a desire she couldn't control, begging me to fuck her from behind.

Still, those silly, juvenile thoughts stayed in the harmless fantasy drawer. She was my therapist, the one who'd pulled me through the wreckage of Dana's affair, and her demeanor had never strayed an inch from professional. That boundary made it safe, even playful, in my head.

I wish it was like that with twenty-two-year-old Kyra Benning—something I could tuck away and forget about, a fleeting indulgence with no weight. But it wasn't. With her, it was heat and hunger, the kind that followed me into every quiet corner of my day.

And behind it all was the gnawing fear that one wrong glance, one second too long staring, would give me away—that someone, maybe even Kyra herself, would see the lechery in my eyes and I'd be done for.

"Randall, are you with me?" Dr. Lainey asked.

I blinked and came back into the room. My cheeks burned—I felt caught, like a perverted fourteen-year-old with a dirty drawing.

"You're right," I said quickly, fumbling for composure. "I need to get out of this doom loop. I'm not sure how yet, but...I appreciate your help."

Dr. Lainey's gaze softened, though her voice stayed steady. "Just remember—you're the one in control of your behavior. If you're doing things that make you feel anxious or guilty, start with changing those behaviors. That's a lot easier than trying to change the feelings themselves. Let's see how that goes this week, okay?"

I nodded, though the ache still prickled under my skin. Still, Dr. Lainey had always steered me in the right direction, and I trusted her to guide me through this. She was right, as always—I'd been obsessing over my thoughts and feelings instead of looking at what I was actually doing. That was something I could manage, and I was determined to try.

I had to for my own sanity.

***************

***************

I felt a lot better on the drive home. I often did after my sessions with Dr. Lainey, but today made a big difference. She had given me something solid to work on: change my behavior. Stop setting traps for myself. Since I couldn't simply stop being attracted to Kyra, I could certainly stop putting myself in situations where I would likely see her. No more timing my trips to the mailbox. No more "forgetting" tools in the garage when I thought she would be outside. No more looking for her car in the driveway every time I pulled into mine. That was the plan. Simple, practical. A way forward.

By the time I turned onto our street, I felt in control and hopeful.

And then I saw her.

Kyra was in her front yard, one leg propped high on the porch railing, obviously stretching before a run. Her tank top clung to her back, damp with a sheen of sweat from whatever warm-up she'd already done, and the grey running shorts rode up high on her thighs as she leaned deep into the stretch. Her gorgeous reddish-auburn hair was pulled into a loose ponytail, and she wore a look of easy focus, earbuds in, oblivious to the world.

I should've looked away. Just kept rolling by, eyes on the driveway. But instead I slowed without meaning to, drinking in the long line of her leg, the curve of her hip, the slight arch of her back as she switched sides. Every movement was casual, unstudied—but my pulse kicked like I was watching something staged just for me.

Then she glanced up, catching me mid-stare. She didn't look bothered—just smiled, lifted a hand in a lazy wave, and turned away to start her run.

I managed a wave in return before pulling into my drive. My chest thudded. My grand plan, my new resolve—it had lasted all of twelve minutes.

As she bounced down the street, I couldn't resist another glance. Her ass was flawless in those shorts, somehow both round and firm, each stride making it shift with effortless rhythm. My mind betrayed me instantly: I pictured myself kneeling behind her, pulling those shorts down inch by inch, revealing cute panties stretched across her curves. My hand sliding over that supple flesh, squeezing, then slipping beneath the already-wet strip of fabric, fingers parting her slick labia, hearing her moan under my touch...

By the time she disappeared around the corner, I was hard as a rock, and knew I'd have to sit there a few minutes before I could walk into the house without betraying myself. The erection pulsed in my lap like proof of my failure.

And then the anger and disgust hit. I hadn't eventriedto look away. I'd even slowed down for the privilege. I could see myself from the outside, slack-jawed and pathetic—just like that loser dad inAmerican Beauty,lusting after someone he had no business even thinking about.

The wheel creaked under my grip as I leaned forward, muttering a curse. But then I forced myself to breathe, to reel it back. This wasn't my fault. I hadn't been prowling around outside, pulling weeds or some nonsense. I'd just been driving home, same as always. Kyra wasn't usually out at that hour—how the hell was I supposed to predict she'd be stretching on the porch right then?

I let out a long breath, loosening my grip on the wheel. Right. This didn't count. I hadn't broken my plan because I hadn't had a chance to follow it yet. No more excuses, no more accidental detours. Starting now, I'd change my behavior. If she was outside, I'd look away. If she jogged by, I'd keep my eyes on the ground. If I caught myself waiting for her, I'd stop. Simple rules. Completely doable.

I shifted in the seat, waiting for my body to calm down. By the time I finally cut the engine and stepped out of the car, I'd convinced myself: this time I meant it. The plan was in effect now.

I finally got out of the car, looking up at our house. I liked our house. It was a nice brick craftsman with a long front porch that ran the width of the place, the kind of porch that looked made for sitting with a beer on summer evenings. The low-pitched roof and sturdy square columns gave it a grounded, no-nonsense feel, while the slate-blue shutters Dana had picked out softened the lines with a touch of grace. It wasn't grand or expensive, but it was warm and solid.

The lawn was clipped neat, the flowerbeds along the sides and the porch bursting with color. Dana's touch was everywhere—her roses blooming in organic-looking rows, the ornamental grasses swaying just so. It all looked like a picture from a magazine: domestic order, a tidy slice of suburban life. It wasn't exciting, and at my age that was okay—it was comfortable. Pleasant. Harmonious.

As I reached the porch, Elliot barreled up from inside, tail wagging like a metronome gone mad waiting for me to open the screen door. Loyal as ever, tongue lolling, eyes bright with uncomplicated love. I scratched behind his ears, grateful for his simple joy, the way he didn't know or care about the mess in my head.

Inside waited the life I'd promised myself I wanted—the marriage I'd fought to salvage, the home I'd worked to build. And yet I stepped through the door with Kyra's body still etched in my mind, her curves moving in rhythm, as if she'd left footprints on my imagination I couldn't wash away.

Dana was at the sink, either cleaning dishes or watering some small plant. She would know I was home because of the noisy dog, but she was probably focused on her chore. I was still horny as hell from Kyra's innocent little performance, and decided to focus that energy on my wife (thinking that Dr. Lainey would be proud of me).

I slid up behind her, wrapping my arms around her belly as she worked. She gave a little giggle until I pressed my hardness into the soft swell of her ass. It had widened with the years, but I still loved the round, generous feel of it. She leaned her head back against me and murmured, "Well, hello sailor."

I gave a dramatic growl, which elicited another giggle. Normally this was where she'd brush me off with a peck on the cheek, tell me she was busy—but something about the timing must've hit right. She didn't move away when I slid my hands lower, cupping her hips.