The process of leaving the house became a bigger issue than it needed to be and without my coat it took a lot more mental persuading to walk out the door. But I was determined to change my life even if it took an extra hour to do so. In the only suit I now owned, today was the day I would visit the gallery. I had called ahead the day before allowing myself a miserable evening of torment and anxiety. The pill I took before walking out the door seemed to be the strength I needed but the drive into the city left me in a cold sweat.

Located in the centre of the city, the gallery wasn’t difficult to find. The large glass front displayed paintings and sculptures within the long, bright building. I drove past twice before parking the car. The people I saw in the gallery left me conflicted about visiting. I knew I couldn’t delay; the pill worked several hours but the sooner I saw the gallery the sooner I could return home.

I focus all my attention on the location of the gallery and walk there paying no regard to my surroundings. Those that notice me I ignore. It never goes unnoticed that I am still able to draw the attention of strangers to me. Though my good looks and physique allow me to stand out, my insides are rotten and tarnished. Afraid people will be blemished if they come in contact with me; I keep my hands buried deep in my pant pockets, one hand firmly wrapped around the small pill bottle.

I don’t dawdle at the entrance of the gallery, entering; I let out a deep breath and my body momentarily relaxes. But now the issue with being in the gallery brings new problems. At a glance I see the gallery is deserted. Where there were people when I drove past, now there were none. I took the opportunity to admire the art on display as I once more mentally prepared myself. From behind, footsteps and I turned to come face to face with a man slightly smaller than me, wearing a grey suit, with the most adorable face.

I can’t help but return his smile as I introduce myself.

His name is Patrick and the friend Sophie told me about. He had been talking with her and my name came up in conversation. I listen to Patrick explain how he visited Sophie’s boutique and fell in love with my work.

“I love the detail. There’s something about it that draws you to it. I would like to exhibit it in my gallery.”

“You own this gallery?” I ask somewhat embarrassed by his words.

“Yes, my father owns the building, but I own the gallery. I've always loved art but was never good at it and so I put all my efforts into finding amazing artists and holding exhibitions for them.”

I shift my feet; a sudden explosion of discomfort engulfs me and Patrick notices immediately.

“Sophie explained you were somewhat of a recluse, but I was hoping I might be able to persuade you to consider an exhibition.”

I browse around the gallery ignoring his mention of my being a recluse. I become uncomfortable and don’t know how to respond. Not sure if an exhibition is what I really want for my work; I glance back down at Patrick and his eager face. His eyes hold a glint of excitement I can’t refuse.

“I have some pieces you could be interested in. I tend to make whatever I like or what the customer orders. If there’s a particular style of work you want, I can make it.”

The words fall from my mouth and I once more glance away as I clench the pill bottle in my pocket.

“I would love to see what you have. Perhaps I could come passed and we can discuss what best to display.”

Patrick’s eager face muddles my thoughts and I find I don’t want to disappoint him; he seems like a nice man.

“You can come over anytime but if I do exhibit, I’m not likely to be at any opening night. I’m not good with crowds.”

If he and Sophie had been talking, then he would understand.

Patrick nods, “That’s fine, we can work around that. When would be a good time to come passed, are evenings fine?”

“The evenings are fine, tonight is good if you want to come over.” I tell him, wanting to get it over with sooner rather than later.

“Tonight is good, after eight if that’s not too late for you?”

“No, eight is fine.”

I give Patrick my address and he extends his hand. I’m left with no choice but to remove a hand from my pocket. My warm palm against his cool one leaves a tingling sensation behind. His grip is firm, deceiving his thin frame. There’s a strength to Patrick I missed and as I tuck my hand back in my pocket and leave, I can’t get him from my mind.

From the gallery, I visit my parents and tell them the news about exhibiting. Mum is extremely proud and my father too. We talk about the type of pieces I should supply and with my father; we talk for several hours about the types of woods I should use. He and I are closer now than when I was growing up and on the drive home, I barely gave my condition any thought. The happiness my parents showed, the decisions about what pieces to make, these consumed my thoughts and for several hours I forgot about my anxiety.

Takeaway for dinner was not something I did often but with Patrick coming over at eight and with little time to prepare dinner, led me to pull into the drive through. Back home, I find my way to the workshop and become engrossed in finding various styles of woods, making out ideas in pencil, until Patrick arrived at eight exactly.

In casual clothes, he looks quite young and when I mention this to him, his laughter fills the house, making me unwillingly smile.

“I get that a lot. I’m thirty-seven. I guess I’m fortunate that I’m able to hold my age well.”

“Very well. I bet the women are extremely jealous?” I tell him.

“I guess.”

I sense from his tone it may be a sore point, and one in which I don’t choose to follow up.

I lead Patrick to my workshop, which he’s impressed with.

“You keep your work place clean.”

“Thank you, I like it this way, and if my father saw it any differently, there would be hell to pay.”

Patrick laughs and again the sensations I experience when hearing it brings a calming effect over me. It’s then it occurs to me I’ve not taken another pill and I suddenly become anxious. My palms grow sweaty now that it’s on my mind and as my heart rate increases I’m conscious of the effect this will have on me. I quickly turn away from Patrick and make my way over to the bench. The walls I build up around me grow higher as my arousal takes control. I fight it mentally but I’m not winning. I don’t want to draw unnecessary attention to myself but Patrick has already noticed my behaviour.

Pressed against the bench, hands clenching the edge for strength, my unfocused gazed on my finished pieces. I’m hoping he’ll choose the items he wants and go without making comment. But to my surprise Patrick comments in a manner I was not prepared for.

“You’re uncomfortable with me because I’m gay.”

It is then that I look at him and see the disappointment in his face. It’s an expression I’m familiar with and I can see in him the pain I too have known. Fear, disappointment, rejection and the struggle to be accepted.

I don’t want to have to explain my reasons for my behaviour but I also don’t want him to think his sexuality is the reason I’m behaving the way I am. Patrick shakes his head when I don’t reply and turns to leave. I instinctively reach out and stop him, my hand on his shoulder. As he recoils under my touch a sense of protection overcomes me.

“It’s not you.” I quietly tell him as I remove my hand, knowing my holding him there is not helping.

I return to the workbench and Patrick remains in the middle of the workshop.

The room is silent and I can’t be certain if he intends to stay or go, but I can’t bring myself to face him again. When he comes back over to the workbench, he looks at the pieces and reaching out takes one and studies it.

If he looks in my direction, especially my groin area the possibility of him noticing my erection are high. I can’t hide it and I’m too scared to move. Patrick takes another piece to examine and then placing it back down he turns to me and asks, “Are you attracted to me?”

I can’t look at him, my fears are drowning me, and somehow he realizes something is not right. He’s studying me, trying to work out what is going on. When he reaches out to me I close my eyes as my desires begin to take control of my body and all I can think about is having sex with him and what it would feel like to have him under me.

It would never be fair if I did something like that to him. We’ve only met and I refuse to allow myself to do something that could ruin me.

With eyes squeezed shut, I tell him, “I have a condition where I suffer from spontaneous erections. It can happen at any time. When I was younger, I would screw anyone who was interested but I can’t work that way now. I can’t screw anything to satisfy my constant arousals; it’s not fair on those people or me. I don’t want to be like this but that how I am. I hate it.”

My grip on the bench is tight and I feel like I’m holding on for my life.

“Does having sex control the arousals?” He asks.

His question has a reaction on my body I’m not expecting. My grip on the bench slackens, the pressure in my muscles relax and I open my eyes to stare steadily at him. His expression is something I’ve seen before; excitement, bewilderment, as though he’s eager, and I find myself drawn to this.

“It does, but I haven’t been with anyone for a long while. I’ve tried one night stands but I don’t enjoy hook-ups to appease this condition.”

Patrick looks up at me and asks, “You want a partner that can live with your condition and understand your needs.”

“If I could find someone who loves sex that much, it would be a dream come true. Then I would be one step closer to removing the stigma I have.”

Patrick looks at me deep in thought, and then turning back to the workbench goes back to looking at the items. I look at him for a moment longer before moving away from the table to stand across the room from him. After several minutes, Patrick has chosen seven pieces he wants to use for the exhibition and requests three new pieces, slightly larger and different from what I currently make.

I offer to show him some of the furniture I have in my home, all the time we both ignore my condition. It is a strange situation to find myself in but I show Patrick the kitchen and living room and the pieces I have there. He suggests a chair, a nest of tables and a small footstool, in addition to the other pieces, which I agree to make.

I enquire at how soon he would like then and he gives me four weeks, which I tell him is long enough to get them completed. When our business is done, I expect him to say goodbye and leave but instead he surprises me.

“I’ve had some bad luck in relationships, most times I want more than my partner can give. I’ll admit I’m needy and like to take control. I think I might like to help you. If you are not bothered by an open relationship with me.”

“What do you mean by open?”

“Were our relationship is public to our friends and family.” He replies.

“And you’ll take care of my needs, even if that means moving in.”

“Yes.”

“Can I think about it?” I ask, not wanting to rush my answer.

“Yes.”

I walk Patrick out and after he is gone, I make my way to the bathroom because my erection is throbbing ready for release and as I take care of myself Patrick is who I’m jacking off too.