Finding the Soul (Enchantment & Chilltix)

[Enchantment]

Oliver

Name: Oliver Valerie Fernsby
Nickname Ollie, Fern, Fernie
Age: 24
Physique: 6’0” even, lean and willowy, tanned and freckle-skinned, sky blue eyes. Pierced ears and tongue.
Marks: His soul mark is located on his lower back, right above his ass, and reads: “I guess I’m just sexually frustrated.” Surrounding it is a tattoo of roses, which he had gotten to try to cover it up. Turns out soul marks will change colors to noticeable no matter what.
Sexuality: Pansexual

@chilltix

Therapy.

The word alone sent shivers of distaste through Oliver’s spine, right down to his sock-covered toes as they wiggled in the open space of his boots. A rough, inflexible length of metal dug into the skin of his back as he leaned his full weight against the hard fold-out chair. One of many placed in a semi-circle that faced a much softer, more comfortable looking office seat. He would have loved that chair. The nice, supportive armrests and the ability to spin in circles until he vomited would have been plenty to distract himself from the impending doom of group therapy. No, not just therapy conducted in a group—therapy about sex that needed to be addressed in a small collection of near strangers. He didn’t want to be here. At all. Not a bit. It was his worst nightmare: talking about nothing but sex, being surrounded by people who cared a lot about sex, and not having the ability to take any of the few attractive people to bed.

According to therapy guidelines it was and he quoted, “extremely inappropriate to hit on, come onto or make sexual remarks towards other individuals in the process of improving their lives through the help of a medical professional’s irrefutable opinion.” Okay, maybe he was over exaggerating a little.

So what if he wanted to get laid and the other clients were hot? They wanted to get laid, too! As long as they consented and felt comfortable, what was the issue?

“Life isn’t all about sex,” Dr. Wilka said to the group in her sweet, honeyed tone that made him want to close his eyes and fall asleep. She was young, pretty, blond hair pulled back into a ponytail and glasses perched low on her tiny nose. “It may seem that way because society has made it that way. Your peers constantly bombard you with sexual jokes, experiences of their own encounters, or individuals that they’d like to have sex with. And maybe you participate or pretend to listen but in the back of your mind, you’re comparing yourself to them. Asking yourself questions like: am I good enough? Should I be having sex? Am I not having enough sex? Or too much? Who should I have sex with? Why does this person or that person not feel attracted to me? So on and so forth. All of these fears, questions and concerns are perfectly natural, and some of them are those that members of this group have anonymously shared with me.”

The woman’s voice droned on and on. Too soft, too loud. Bothersome and unwanted in the quiet, sterile space of the white-walled room with its aesthetically odd cat-themed clocks, paintings and rugs. Dr. Wilka had an odd fascination with the fuzzy creatures. He wanted to sleep. Or to get a coffee. Not to sit through a second day of her psychoanalyzing his love of sex. It took him a few minutes to adjust to the tone of her voice so that he could close his eyes and try to drift off, arms crossed over his chest.

Until he heard his name.

“Oliver, why don’t you partner up with Avery for this exercise? Remember to introduce your problem, then your name, and talk about how you feel.”

Chatter filled the small room as Ollie sat up reluctantly, shoulders hunched, and let his eyes drift for the unfamiliar Avery. The only man left by himself, he guessed. Cute guy. Fluffy hair, pretty eyes, adorable nose. All around easy on the eyes. He could see himself taking a guy like him to bed, showing him a good time, maybe letting him stick around in the morning for breakfast and round three. Or four. Five, if he was lucky enough and had the time. He lifted his bottle of water to his lips and took a sip, wondered what Mystery Man Avery would be like beneath the sheets. Calm and ordinary? A little freaky? It was anyone’s guess. He seemed normal enough at first glance but looks could be deceiving.

The stranger broke the silence first. “I guess I’m just sexually frustrated.”

Ollie choked on his water. Coughed and sputtered, unable to suck in a breath, and felt his chest tighten with each gasp. He knew those words. Those stupid, terrible, ducking by horrible words—I guess I’m just sexually frustrated. Marked in dark, black font across smooth skin, right above his own ass. It earned him enough laughter, jokes and mockery to be burned permanently into the back of his mind.

A mind that, against all odds, failed him at that moment. Oliver would hate himself for it later, but all he could manage was a rough, “Uh...sex?”​

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