The O Doctor Read online

  The O Doctor

  Brandy Ayers

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  The O Doctor

  COPYRIGHT © 2018 by Brandy Ayers

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Visit me at www.brandyayers.com

  Digital ISBN: B07GL9W5V7

  Published in the United States of America

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Epilogue One

  Also By Brandy Ayers

  About Brandy

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to the Clit.

  That’s right, the clitoris.

  The pink pearl.

  The hot button.

  The bald man in a boat.

  May your partner know where it is.

  If not, I will draw him/her a map.

  If you don’t have a partner, you can borrow Micah.

  Sign up for my newsletter for exclusive content and contests!

  Chapter One

  Marci

  There are times I both love and hate my job. Profiling women who have blazed paths in STEM fields? Loved. Interviewing Supreme Court Judge Ruth Bader Ginsburg, loved! Writing a puff piece on some asshole who claims he holds all the secrets to giving women the big O and teaches classes twice a week to men with too much money and not enough sense? Not so much.

  I haven’t even met the guy yet and can already tell he’s going to be a giant douche. My editor set the whole thing up, including talking with the guy and coming up with the premise for the story: Sex guru hands down the secrets of the female anatomy from on high to the unwashed masses.

  That may be what my editor is looking for out of this piece, but what I want to know is where in the hell this guy gets off thinking he knows everything there is to know about a woman’s body? Just because he’s a playboy who has probably slept with hundreds of women and maybe gotten a good portion of those women off does not make him an expert. And the fact that he bills himself as The O Doctor is just wrong.

  But to cover the stories I love and think are important for the public to see, I occasionally also have to cover the bullshit fluff stories my boss finds because her boyfriend figured out how to throw her some foreplay.

  My Way Magazine is my dream job. Millions of women turn to our pages to find out about politics, health, religion, and yes, the ten best sex positions while you’re on your period. But like every job, you take the good with the bad.

  Today is just going to be one of those bad days.

  I can’t help but stomp a little harder in my stiletto heels as I make my way through the office to my desk after the assignment meeting. I know I’m one pout away from looking like a toddler who didn’t get their way, but I can’t help it. I hate this shit.

  I have an hour to gather my things together and make it across town to the bar where the classes are held. There will be a brief interview with whomever this Micah guy is, and then I’m sitting in on one of his classes. I can’t believe I have to sit through an entire three weeks of this guy’s bullshit. Twice a week for three weeks, I get to listen to some pseudo-pick-up artist tell other men how to fuck a woman into submission.

  “Marcie, can I have a word?” My editor sits on the edge of my desk while I shove my portable phone charger, laptop, and a file of information on The O Doctor, which I haven’t even bothered to open, into my bag. Francesca keeps talking even though I haven’t said a word to her. “I understand you possess very little interest in this story, but I think there is real merit here. I hope you will take it seriously.”

  “I take each of my assignments seriously, Francesca. You know that. I promise I will have a full three thousand words on The O Doctor on your desk in three weeks.” I don’t say that it might end up being an expose on his bullshit instead of the puff piece she wants. Thankfully, I know I have a little leeway with my assignments. I’ve been at the magazine for five years and won several awards for my writing. If there is such a thing as job security in the current print journalism world, I have it.

  Francesca narrows her eyes at me, her silver hair perfectly draped around her shoulders and her Chanel power suit crisp and wrinkle free. As much as I hate the assignment whims which come with her revolving door of boy toys, I respect Francesca more than anyone else in my life. She is power personified, and I’ve seen more than a few men emerge from her office with tears in their eyes and hands reflexively covering their balls.

  “Okay. In the meantime, I will look into the logistics of your pitch on the all-girls school in Africa.” She rises from her perched position and finishes her thought as she’s walking away. It’s something she does all the time. If she is already leaving when she finishes talking, then you can’t get the last word in. Brilliant. “Just remember, if you want to educate the women of the world on world politics, you have to occasionally throw them a bone about what men think about sex.”

  I roll my eyes but concede in my own head that she’s right. Just because we sometimes must write these pieces that I consider below me, doesn’t mean they aren’t worth while too. We’re all curious about sex. It’s natural. I just wish someone else had to do this one.

  Trying to look on the bright side, I thank the gods above that I didn’t have to participate in the menstrual cup comparison article this month. Never been so happy to have irregular periods in all my life.

  Traffic across town is especially crappy at this time of day, and I know even grabbing an Uber isn’t going to get me there on time. I should use the driving time to look over the notes prepared for me on Micah, but I honestly can’t even muster the interest. Instead, I search Reddit and my favorite political blogs for potential story pitches for next week. I’ll still be on this bullshit assignment, but if I can at least have something a little meatier in my back pocket for the next issue, I know it will make this one go a lot faster.

  We finally pull up to the bar about fifteen minutes late, and I know we’re going to be rushed for the pre-interview. Oh well.

  The place is a dude’s dream come true. Pete’s Sports Bar is all wood paneling with light up beer signs and taps as far as the eye can see. My shoes stick to the floor, and I cringe at the thought of what has landed on this old linoleum over the years. There are at least eight TVs showing classic games from every New York sports team known to man. I really can’t help the eye roll as I cross toward the bar, which is surprisingly clean and damn near sparkles with the intensity of the shine on it. Even still, I try my best not to touch anything for too long.

  “What can I do for ya miss?” The guy behind the bar is a walking stereotype. No more than five-five, shirt opened to mid-chest to show off more hair than is on his head, and a gut which hangs low over his polyester pants.

  “I’m looking for the Satisfying Your Woman with The O Doctor class.” Seriously, just saying the name of the class is making me want to turn around and walk right back out the door.

  The bartender smirks and looks me up and down. I�
��m fairly dressed down for today, boyfriend jeans, black leather booties, and a red silk wrap blouse. But even dressed down, I’m still leagues above what this place normally sees. “I can’t see a lady like you havin’ troubles satisfying anyone, man or woman.”

  I don't even try to contain the eyeroll. And I end it with a glare which slices normal human beings down to size, but just makes this guy chuckle.

  “Micah’s gonna love you.” He tilts his head in the direction of two frosted glass doors at the very back of the bar, in a dark corner. “Straight through those doors. I believe he is expecting you.”

  Turning my back to the lovely bartender, I make my way to the room where the class will be held. The room isn’t really what I expected. There are long wooden tables like you’d see in a library lined up in three rows, three chairs behind each one. In the front of the room is a portable projection screen, and at the back, a projector setup on a tall bookcase that was obviously dragged in here just for this occasion. At first, I don’t see anyone around and wonder where this Micah guy might be.

  “Motherfucker, I swear to god, if you don’t get going, I am going to drop kick you across the room,” a rough voice mumbles from the other side of the projector.

  The little hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention with just that one sentence. I try to convince myself it’s because his words have me instantly on guard and not because it is the sexiest voice I’ve ever heard in my entire life.

  “I know I’m late, but I don’t think drop kicking me is an appropriate response.”

  The man tries to straighten from his crouched position behind the bookcase and whacks his head on the top shelf. The whole set up wobbles, threatening to topple over before settling with everything secure on top. Then Mr. Sexy Voice himself stands to his full height, and I have to fight to keep my jaw off the floor.

  Because Mr. Sexy Voice is also Mr. Sexy Everything. This guy isn’t your typical New York fare. He’s tall, ridiculously so, and broad in a he should be chopping down trees in Alaska kind of way. Half his face is covered by a thick, but well-maintained beard, and above that, sharp cheekbones. The eyes are really what kill me though. Moss green, with golden flecks which sparkle at me across the room. I can’t even begin to fathom what their effect would be in close proximity.

  “Sorry, I was talking to this ancient projector. Keep telling Pete I’m going to buy a new one for this place and take the price out of his room rental fee, but he just laughs at me.” Mr. Sexy Everything comes around from behind the tables with his arm outstretched and obviously looking for a handshake. “You must be Marci. I’m Micah Othon.”

  Keeping my eyes off his tree trunk legs, barely encased in a pair of perfectly tailored Hugo Boss slacks is one of the greatest accomplishments of my life. Because seriously, those legs were made to drive a man full force into a woman beneath him. The dirty thoughts have got to stop. I remind myself that this douchebag is trying to peddle his bed hopping ways as actual advice to men across the city, and while he might be attractive, and I can understand why women would roll over and beg him to take them, it doesn’t make him any less deplorable.

  “Yes, Marci from My Way Magazine. Nice to meet you.” I shake his hand, ignoring the growing wet spot in my panties at just that small contact, and give him my driest smile possible. “I apologize for being late. Traffic was horrendous. I think the president is in town again.”

  “No problem, we might have to break the interview up into two parts, though, so we can start class on time.” Micah drops my hand and stuffs both his huge mitts in his pockets. The man is a study in dichotomy. He has rugged, lumberjack good looks, but he’s dressed better than most male models I know.

  I can tell from here all his clothes are designer, and I don’t miss the genuine Prada leather wingtips he’s sporting on those enormous feet. Apparently spouting bullshit to men twice a week pays well.

  “I took your editor’s advice and got all the guys in class to sign waiver forms. You aren’t allowed to use their real names, but you can print some of their concerns and questions. No defining characteristics though. It’s hard enough to get these guys to open up and be honest, I can’t have them being afraid their girlfriends are going to read about their sex lives in next month’s issue.”

  Oh yes, we don’t want these scumbags to tip off their girlfriends that they are learning how to seduce other women. Teeth clamped together, I try to keep the snarky reply to myself. And keep my eyes on his. Not wandering to the biceps straining his powder blue button up shirt.

  “Very good. So, should we get started?” I take a seat at one of the tables, and Micah goes to the other side, spinning one of the chairs around to sit across from me. “Do you mind if I record the interview?”

  “Not at all.”

  Once the voice recording app on my phone is going, I dive right in, hoping to throw him off balance right from the start. “So, Micah, why on Earth do you think you have the right to teach men how to get women into bed?”

  His eyes widen, and then narrow, obviously not happy with my question. “I’m sorry, but you must have been given the wrong impression of what we do here. The goal isn’t to get women into bed…”

  “So, you don’t have a session in each course called, How to get her to say yes every time?” I lean back, totally relaxed. Portraying a non-aggressive stance usually makes people at ease, but in this case, I’m hoping it just pisses him off, because angry people usually say things they shouldn’t.

  “Yes, but that class isn’t about getting her into bed. It's about getting her to scream yes in bed. Every time.” Micah doesn’t get riled up at all. He simply smiles at me and continues with his answer, mirroring my position in his chair. “The session titles can sometimes be misconstrued if you haven’t researched what it is I teach.”

  “So, you purposely try to mislead your students?”

  His smile widens. “Not at all. I occasionally get a guy enrolled who doesn’t understand what we do here, but he does by the end, and he has usually learned something to make him a better man.”

  “And what is it that you do here?”

  “Did you do any research on my class? The way I understood it, your editor would be giving you all the information you needed before you came here today. There was a whole description of each class, my biography including credentials, and several names of men who have completed the course and were willing to give testimonials.” Those damn gold flecks in his eyes sparkle like he’s enjoying beating me at my own game, and I admit, I should have read the packet on him.

  “I didn’t have the time to read the packet on my way here. But really, what credentials could a pick-up artist possibly have? A running score card of all the women you’ve banged?” I shift in my chair, a little uncomfortable with the way things are turning out. But I’m still confidant I’ll be able to get the story I want.

  Micah leans forward placing his elbows on the table, his cheeks above the beard turning a little pink with anger or frustration. “First of all, this isn’t a course on picking up women. Most of my students are men already in relationships or looking to be in a long-term relationship. I don’t teach them how to find or attract a woman. Second of all…”

  Just as I’m sure Micah is about to really start working up a good head of steam and possibly say something that I’ll actually be able to use, the door swings open and several men walk into the room, all eyeing me warily.

  “Well, I guess you’ll just have to learn as we go. If you don't mind, I’d prefer you sit in the back of the room, so you aren’t too much of a distraction for the guys.” Micah stands from his seat, turning the chair back to its original position, and walks to the front of the room without even a glance in my direction. I can see his shoulders rise and fall as he takes several deep breaths. I don't know if that is to calm himself down after I obviously pissed him off or to get ready for speaking to a small group of observers.

  I take up my seat at the very back of the room, next to the projector wh
ere I’ll be partially hidden from view. About a dozen men file in varying in age and attractiveness. Some are well into their forties, while others are obviously young bucks.

  Once everyone is seated, Micah turns at the front of the room and starts in on his first lesson.

  “Hey, everyone. Thanks for being here. Before we get started, I’d like to tell you all a little about myself, so you know what you are spending your hard-earned money on.” Though the words are directed at the class at large, Micah’s eyes land right on me, and stay on me. “My name is Micah Othon, and as you might have seen in the bio on my website, I have a bachelor’s degree in biology, a master’s degree in psychology, and dual doctorates in human sexuality and women’s studies from Cornell University.”

  I look around for a juke box, because I swear to God, I just heard a record scratch. Dual fucking doctorates?

  Chapter Two

  Micah

  I’m not going to even try to pretend I don't love seeing the confidant smile wiped off this pretentious, know-it-all reporter’s face. Even if that face is the fucking prettiest thing I’ve seen in a good long time.

  To be honest, I’m pissed as hell. It took the editor at her magazine weeks to get me to agree to do this story with them. The only reason I caved is because she swore they would protect the identities of the men in my class and that it would be clear that the true point of my class is to get men outside their own heads and thinking about the needs of their women.

  Men like to be cared for, coddled even. It is a generalization but true. Even when they’re completely in love with the women in their lives, the best of men sometimes can’t see past their own nose and look at what is right in front of them. Ask anyone what the number one issue in their relationship is, and it is almost always feeling like they aren’t being heard by their partner. Whether it’s in bed, distribution of responsibilities, or money, everyone just wants to have their opinions and needs taken into account.

  That’s what I’m trying to teach these guys. Sure, I frame it in a sexual manner, and I do teach them anatomy and tricks to use in bed to ensure their women are receiving as much pleasure as possible, but really, I’m teaching them to listen, to process that information, and follow through. And to not think about themselves so much. I just disguise the information in innuendo and dick jokes.