fag for STRAIGHT PRIDE

Noah had to admit he was nervous about his first psychiatrist appointment. For one thing, the psych had been chosen by the HR department in response to Noah's complaint, rather than by Noah himself. For another, until the complaint, Noah had never talked to anyone other than his gay friends about his straight co-workers' toxic masculinity. Moreover, the psych was a dude -- probably a straight one at that, if his athletic build and the sport paraphernalia adorning his desk were any guide. And it didn't help that he was uncomfortably attractive. To his private shame, Noah felt his anus loosen involuntarily as they first made eye contact, before he anxiously set the thought aside. He took a deep breath, and took his seat on the couch.

Once he started talking, though, Noah couldn't stop. For the next hour, he detailed the insults and microaggressions he'd endured in the office for the past six months. The other guys' smirks when he entered the room, or tried to speak up at meetings. The way they'd subtly mock his voice when they were talking with him, and openly mock it when they were talking to each other. And the jokes -- the endless fucking jokes. Jokes when he was late to work ("awake all night taking it up the ass again?"), when he was early ("sucking the boss's dick, I see!"), when he skipped lunch ("looks like Noah's preparing to take some dick up the ass again!"), when he ate lunch ("fuck me, you're wolfing that down like it's my dick!"), even when he got angry about all the fucking jokes ("uh oh, she's getting bitchy again -- been too long since you had a cock up your ass, Noah?"). He'd begun to feel like his main role at the firm was to serve as a laughingstock for the kind of toxic men who'd been humiliating him since high school. And, finally, he'd had enough.

By the time he was finished talking, Noah had begun to wonder what the psychiatrist was even for. He'd identified the problems himself, after all, while the psych just sat there and listened, no doubt replaying soccer games or straight porn clips in his overpaid, dumb head. It was almost time to leave, in any case. Noah was done here.

Then the psychiatrist spoke, with the slightest hint of a smile.

"Thank you Noah. You've described your predicament very well. And I think I have a solution that's going to really help you out. I'd like you to try wearing a butt plug."

Noah gasped in shock, in an embarrassingly high register, and felt his cheeks turning bright red. He began to sputter impotently, in angry disbelief.

"Yes," continued the psychiatrist, "a butt plug. Twenty-four hours a day, or as close as you can come to it. I think it's going to really help relieve some of the sexual and professional frustration you feel, which you've obviously been taking out on your male colleagues." He smiled confidently.

Noah was apoplectic. "You fucking disgust me," he shouted, having composed himself enough that his masculine voice was back in force. "You fucking backward, homophobic piece of shit." He stormed out of the office and onto the street, still reeling and furious. Forget the bullshit he'd encountered at work. This was the most humiliating day of his life.

Or at least, it was, until two months later, when Noah sheepishly returned for the follow-up appointment he'd finally requested. He was still tired and disoriented from weeks of shameful, intrusive thoughts about the psychiatrist's humiliating advice, which had driven him to insomnia -- and, more recently, frequent bouts of desperate masturbation. And the butt plug he'd ordered a few days prior, paying a small fortune extra for privacy packaging, was firmly lodged up his tightly clenched asshole.

The young man at the reception desk grinned smugly as Noah approached. "Back again, I see! Good thing you're more amenable now to accepting medical advice. I have a few forms for you to complete for your second visit."

For the next five minutes, Noah squirmed on the waiting room couch, completing the Sexual Habits Questionnaire as the firm cushions pushed the butt plug deeper into his anus, and his penis stiffened and leaked against his underwear. Then, trying to hide his straining erection, he shuffled awkwardly back to the desk, and handed the smirking young man his Questionnaire. The lad glanced over Noah's responses, shaking his head at the blank entries under "Recent Sexual Encounters," then openly chuckling as he noted the page detailing Noah's extensive masturbatory habits. He placed a hand sanitizer dispenser on the counter, mockingly: "For all I know, it's only been 5 minutes", he smirked. And Noah complied. After all, following another emasculating morning at work, and with the added stimulation of the butt plug, Noah had, in fact, been driven to relieve himself for the fourth time that day, furtively bringing himself off in the second-floor bathroom, on the way to his afternoon appointment.

After a further twenty uncomfortable minutes on the couch, Noah was finally called into the psychiatrist's office, and found himself planted on the even firmer seating in front of the smirking doctor. "I take it you're finally plugged, then?", the psych asked, barely hiding his amusement. Noah tried to answer, but the indignity was too much. He nodded meekly. The psychiatrist grinned. "I could tell. Much more respectful. The guys at work noticed, too. They've been very pleased with your recent behavior." He held up the Questionnaire, gently frowning. "Although, they might have some concerns about your ... remarkably frequent masturbation." Noah whimpered in panic, before managing to beg pathetically: "No, please ... fuck, please, you can't ... please don't tell them. Don't tell anyone. That's private. Oh, fuck, please." The psychiatrist laughed with a faint look of pity. "Private? Not any more, it isn't. Max in reception has already circulated it to your colleagues. Your bosses are paying for these sessions, after all, and surely you can see that your colleagues have a right to know how often you've been masturbating in the shared bathrooms on the company's dollar!" Noah was humiliated beyond belief. He also felt the undignified sensation of his penis, suddenly twitching and leaking, straining desperately against his underwear. The psychiatrist glanced at the tent in Noah's pants, and rolled his eyes. Noah wanted to disappear from embarrassment. Worse, he wanted to masturbate again.

"In any case," the psychiatrist continued, "let's get started, now that you're ready to engage more openly with your problem. As a gay man, why do you think you want your straight male colleagues' cocks up your ass so much? Why have you been unable to admit it, even when they've repeatedly tried to engage with you honestly on the topic? And why have you instead reacted by filing a complaint against them? I have my own thoughts, of course, but I want to know your understanding to start with. Then we can keep working on managing your frustration, and the acting out that sometimes results."

To his utter emasculation, Noah realized he was on the verge of tears. He somehow simultaneously felt that his clothes were too hot and tight-fitting, and that he wasn't wearing them at all: that he was stripped naked, intimately exposed, plugged and erect, in front of a more confident, attractive, perceptive man. He had nowhere to hide. And, for the first time in his life, he was going to have to swallow his pride, and admit the humiliating truth.