It was eleven o'clock before I came out of my room at the clinic.

The truth was, I was afraid. I was embarrassed and ashamed to be here. I hadn't answered when the phone rang, telling me breakfast was ending. I didn't answer the door when they knocked to tell me my therapist, Hank was in and wanted to meet with me.

Jeez-- what if I had committed suicide or something? You'd think they'd be worried and break down the door.

Unless they were videotaping me.

I became paranoid and looked for a camera. I stripped the entire room, looking...but found nothing. And then I felt even more ashamed. It took me an hour and a half to put the room together and finally, I felt ready to start this fiasco.

I went to find Hank.

*****

"From everything that happened at your intervention, from everything leading up to it, like your need to 're-invent' yourself-- your obsession with perfection, your sexual compulsion-- all of it, culminating with those rampant sexual acts means, Eric, you're in the right place. I know if you want this to work, if you want to get well, you will."

I hadn't heard a word Hank said. I was staring at him and smiling a little, acting interested, acting concerned-- but I hadn't heard a word this stunning, powerful black man had said.

I'd never had sex with a black man. I'd always wanted to.

Hank was about thirty, with incredible features and a body of death. He wore a polo shirt and khaki pants, topsiders and no socks-- the "relax, I'm not really a therapist" kind of attire.

When he smiled-- the room lit up. His eyes sparkled a little and he had two amazing dimples in his cheeks. A cleft chin, short sleek hair...and big hands and feet. I knew he was hung.

Hank looked at me and smiled again.

"You're imagining having sex with me, aren't you Eric?" he asked.

I froze. Shit, he was good.

"No, don't flatter yourself. I'm not attracted to black men."

"Good, Ôcause I'm not attracted to white men, either."

I froze again. This was going to be a long three months.

And I couldn't wait.