by Phil Stern
“Well, you should know,” she pouted. “This stuff is important.”
About two minutes went by in uncomfortable silence before the waiter returned with our orders.
“Thank You!” Jen nearly yelled out, bobbing her head up and down for good measure. “I really appreciate the prompt and courteous service you’re providing for us here today! Please know I don’t take it for granted!”
The waiter rolled his eyes, striding briskly off to another table. “You see!” Jen hissed, leaning in close to me. “Now he knows we see him as a Real-Life Individual!”
“You consider yourself such a social expert?” I shot back. “How about, just once, trying to get somewhere on time?”
“You’re an idiot,” she said, digging into her sundae. “I don’t even know why I go out with you.”
“All right, Jen.” As soon as we got out of here I was just going to tell her it was over.
Ten minutes later, though, after finishing her ice cream, Jen suddenly appeared very pale. “Dave, can you go with me over to the emergency room?”
“Are you sick?”
“I don’t know.” Thoughtfully, she rubbed her stomach. “I’ve been feeling nauseous the last few days. Mom says I should go to the hospital.”
So we walked over to the campus ER. Along the way she made small talk, speaking of future classes and professors as if she hadn’t already been kicked out of school. I said little, simply enjoying the unusually warm spring air.
Since she wasn’t in immediate danger, we had to wait for an hour in the emergency room. Finally we were called in to see a harried young female doctor obviously near the end of a long shift.
Following a brief examination the doctor asked Jen a series of standard questions, the third of which was whether she could be pregnant.
“No.” Jen seemed puzzled.
The doctor paused, casting a look at me. “I mean, if the two of you are together…”
“We are.”
“And sexually active?” The doctor left that one hanging in the air.
Jen pouted. “Doctor, we take precautions. I’m not pregnant.”
Like thousands of doctors in untold college towns, the doctor then briskly announced she needed to do some blood work. After the sample was drawn we went back to wait. Twenty minutes after that Jen was called back in to see the doctor by herself. Ten minutes later I was sent for.
While a stunned Jen sat in a chair, the doctor explained that my girlfriend was pregnant.
“That’s not possible,” Jen stated. I had the feeling this had been going on for a while. I was too shocked to say much of anything.
“Ms. Canton,” the doctor continued, “I assure you that you are pregnant. About six weeks along.”
“That’s not possible. I’m on the pill.”
The doctor consulted some notes. “The level of medication in your blood stream is far too low to be of prophylactic benefit.”
“Are you saying…she missed some pills?” This wasn’t my best day either.
“Dave, shut the fuck up!” Clearly, Airport Jen was coming to the fore. “I didn’t miss any fucking pills! Every time I remembered to take the pills, I took them! Why do you always have to be such an asshole?”
“Did you always take them at the same time of day?” the doctor asked.
“Of course I did! When I remembered!” Obviously, Jen was in the presence of another person who didn’t understand Jen Time. “And if I remembered later, that’s when I took them! But it was always the same time!”
“I see.” Tapping her clip board a few times, the doctor shrugged. “Well, in any event, Ms. Canton is pregnant. Perhaps the how’s and why’s don’t matter much.”
“Great!” Jen snapped. “So now you both think it’s my fault!”
“Birth control doesn’t fail,” I mumbled, stupidly repeating something my mother said growing up. “People fail to use birth control correctly.”
“Dave, shut up!”
“Well, look,” the doctor said. “Let’s talk about this. Did you always start your next cycle of pills on the Sunday following the onset of menstruation?”
The blank look Jen bestowed on the doctor was all the answer anybody needed. “What are you talking about?”
“All right.” Smiling, the doctor put up her hands. She’d had enough of us. “Clearly, this is an unwelcome pregnancy. There are counselors here to speak with about this kind of situation.”
Since it was after hours, the doctor gave Jen a number for scheduling an appointment in the morning. We then glumly walked out of the emergency room together.
In typical Jen fashion, the full import of the situation hadn’t yet sunk in. Indeed, by the time we reached her dorm, she actually seemed in fairly good spirits.
“Well,” she said, kissing me on the lips, “at least we know what we did wrong.”
Utterly stupefied by the sudden turn of events, I had trouble even thinking. “And what mistake would that be?”
“I guess people on the pill aren’t supposed to have sex on Sunday,” Jen sighed. “At least that’s what that doctor said, anyway.”
Rubbing my forehead, I winced. “Yeah, that’s what she said.”
“You want to come up?” Jen asked, motioning up at her room.
“No. I think…I think I need be alone for a while.”
“Fine.” Kissing me again, she then turned around, marching into her dorm.
All right, enough about Jen for now. It really does give me a headache.
Here’s something I was thinking about last night, watching Star Trek. Not the original show, but the follow up one with Captain Picard and Data.
Don’t you think at some point Starfleet would have just banned the holodecks? I mean there must have been at least a dozen times where the holodeck “safeties” malfunctioned, plunging the whole ship into danger from fictional characters. If I was a starship captain I would have just padlocked the whole deal and told the crew to jerk off somewhere else.
One other thing I can’t get out of my head. I saw a story online recently about a famous model from the 80's, now in the middle of her third divorce, being picked up for drinking and driving. There’s even a picture of her in handcuffs by the side of the road, drunk and puffy, as the cops searched her car. Apparently she’s blown through all her money and will soon declare bankruptcy.
You know, the hot models from our youth should never age. There needs to be a sunny beach in some special universe somewhere where they’re perpetually 25, frolicking in bikinis all day long, laughing at the sky. They should remain that way forever, just like we remember them.
STEVE LEVINE
Thinking about it now, I can’t believe Dave and I drifted apart the way we did. He’s actually the best friend I ever had.
Let me explain something here. Dave, Sophia, Brooke and I were best friends until a specific night destroyed everything. We were like planets blown out of orbit by the detonation of some toxic waste dump, sent hurtling helplessly from the solar system (you know, like in Space 1999?). It was full of mistakes, and misunderstandings…but there it is. It changed our lives forever. Well, at least mine.
And what a fucking mess it was. If ever a single evening in the history of humanity went completely, utterly wrong, that was it. I used to play over what happened again and again in my mind, dreaming up different scenarios, new outcomes. In my fantasies we weren’t all messed up, our ties severed for all time. But then reality hits, and I realize the past can never be changed. And anyway, at this point it’s way too late to go back.
I’ll talk about it at some point. Maybe the others will. Well, probably not Sophia. She really wouldn’t give a shit anymore.
I mean, look, Dave was the kind of friend you felt as if you knew your whole life after having actually met them a week before. College did that, especially early on. We saw things the same way, had the same sense of humor…it was great.
And I really liked Brooke, even though we often argued. Actually, I miss her a
lot, even if we didn’t see eye to eye on everything.
But Sophia…my God, where do I even begin? If I lived to be a thousand years old, I’d remember her most of all. She was so repressed, and then it all just burst out, like she was bitten by a Sex Fairy or something. (Or maybe banged by one. I’d think that’s what Sex Fairies would do to people.) But yeah, it was like being there at the birth of some supercharged, sexual super hero, able to slay mortal men with a single glance. I know that sounds crazy, but there it is.
It’s kind of like this. When we first built a nuclear bomb, no one knew how powerful it would be. So the tools who first tested it just put on safety goggles and observed from some blockhouse a short distance away, like they were there to watch some guy weld a fender rather than detonate the most powerful force in human history. They were lucky, really.
That’s what Sophia was like, raw nuclear material ignited by SUNY Buffalo. And yeah, some of us still have the burn marks to prove it.
SOPHIA DANTON
Here’s something I’ve never told anyone before. For two straight weeks after losing my virginity at SUNY Buffalo I had sex about five times a day, followed by this equally unquenchable urge to feed the campus squirrels.
First of all, I don’t understand these women who talk about not having orgasms, or rarely having them, or having one now and then in their mid-20's. For me, it was right away. That very first time it was as if my mind was exploding throughout my body, leaving me racked and raw. And all I wanted to do was have more and even better sex.
Nothing mattered anymore, not the guy, or God, or classes, or even my parents. The only thing I cared about was that incredible sensation of utter, complete fulfillment. Despite the horror of Virgin-Gate that soon followed, I’ve never regretted my fortnight of utter fornication, not for a single moment.
The two-week marathon only ended when I realized why I couldn’t help racing out of my dorm and throwing sunflower seeds to the squirrels after each orgasm.
You see, when I was quite young, my family owned a summer house on a beautiful lake in Wisconsin. Every year we’d spend three weeks there. I loved ambling through the woods with my taciturn father, the bucolic surroundings generally lightening his mood. Usually I’d pick a bouquet of flowers for the table that night, everyone complementing me on their style and grace.
Still, there was one year we opened the house after a long winter absence to discover a large family of squirrels had taken up residence. I thought the squirrels were cute, even after one zipped from underneath my bed and bolted downstairs. My father wasn’t as amused.
Sternly, Michael and I were sent off into the woods to play. (My younger brother Brian had been left with relatives back east, while Liz wasn’t yet born.) Michael simply barreled deeper into the forest. Curious about what my father intended for the squirrels, I turned around to watch the house.
Three minutes later I heard the first shotgun blast. Aghast, I could see the frightened squirrels dashing out of the home’s upper windows and darting off into the trees. Another salvo brought several more scurrying to safety. Falling down in the leaves, I curled up and cried. How could my father do such a thing?
Some time later there was a rustling nearby. Picking up my head, I found myself staring at a wounded squirrel. Grievously injured, body covered in blood, the animal stumbled forward on an obviously broken leg. Staring me straight in the eye, she was clearly begging for help. Even as I watched the squirrel keeled over in the leaves, breathing heavily. Without thinking I gathered the bloody creature in my shirt, rushing back to the house.
With the exception of Virgin-Gate, I’ve never seen my father angrier. Utterly enraged, he wanted to instantly snatch my squirrel away and drown it. Swept away by the same instincts driving my own actions, Mother would have none of it.
“Give me that animal!” Dad bellowed. “Now!”
“Daddy, she’s hurt!” I cried. “I want to make her better!”
“Claude. Control yourself.” Interposing herself between Dad and me, Mom spread her arms wide. “This animal is no threat.”
“Get rid of it!”
“Daddy!” I pleaded. Oh, how I wanted him to understand! “God wouldn’t want us to hurt the squirrel. Why are you doing this?”
“Don’t you tell me about God!”
“Our daughter’s correct.” Never have I been more grateful for my mother’s support. “The Lord would not approve.”
Soon thereafter Daddy collapsed, holding his chest. Mommy helped him up to bed while I found a box for my squirrel. Daddy was at breakfast the next morning, glowering fiercely, though my patient was never mentioned.
For two weeks I carefully nursed the squirrel back to health, terrified my father would find and kill her. Though her leg never fully recovered, the young animal could soon get around on her own. I released my squirrel a long way from the house, where my father could never hurt her again. Twittering her thanks my former patient hobbled up a tree, obviously enjoying the sensation of wind and sun on her fur.
But I never understood. In church we were told to love all of God’s creatures. Wasn’t Daddy supposed to do what God said? And the squirrels weren’t bothering anybody. Still, he managed to shoot three, burying the bodies out back. How could he be so cruel?
So the two-week collegiate sexual marathon ended rather abruptly with me, mid-sunflower seed fling, superimposing the mental image of the long-gone bloody squirrel of my childhood over the healthy, happy, post-carnal squirrels of SUNY Buffalo. For several moments I sat stock still, the terrible emotions I felt as a young girl suffusing my mind and body just as strongly as the day’s latest toe curling climax.
I then burst into tears, went back inside, and hugged my stud for all he was worth. Obviously the relationship was over, which was a shame, since he had so expertly and lovingly deflowered me two Saturday’s before. But after a final, first-class blow job I sent him on his way.
Of course the guy kept calling, but I knew it was not to be. Actually he was so enraptured of me that he inadvertently touched off Virgin Gate, but that’s another story for another time.
But here’s the thing. That very afternoon, after the stud left for the final time, I bought an expensive camera and photographed every squirrel I could find. Then I pasted squirrel pictures all over my room.
I enjoyed them very much, especially when I had male company over. It felt good to have the squirrels watching over me, protecting me from harm, just as I’d protected my baby squirrel so long ago.
How odd. As I’m writing this, Breaking Benjamin’s Breath just crashed out on Pandora. If there was ever a more perfect accompaniment for sex than Breath, I have yet to hear it. If Steve and I were ever to get together again…but no, that was long ago.
But if we did, Breath would definitely be the first song in the CD rack.
HAYLEY SYKES
Hi. My name is Hayley Sykes. I’m 23 years old, and I live in the same apartment building as Steve Levine in Orlando.
I met Steve about four months ago. We were riding down the elevator one day and he asked me if I worked in one of the theme parks, so I told him no, I’m a teacher. Well, Steve then breathlessly tells me his mother had been a teacher, like he and I now have some kind of cosmic connection or something. Ever since then he’s always looking for things to say to me.
Look, let’s get one thing straight. Being a teacher sucks. I can’t stand it when old ladies make a big fucking deal about me being a teacher, like I’m saving the human race or something. Trust me, we’re not. We’re just trying to get through the day like everyone else.
And by the way, don’t be a tard and get all jealous of all the time we get off. Being a teacher requires a lot more effort than other jobs, so it makes sense that we get so much vacation! And let’s be honest. If teachers didn’t get 13 weeks a year off, why would anybody do it? I rest my case.
Actually, some teachers need more time off than others. My friend Beth teaches “special needs” children, which is why I call peo
ple tards. She calls all her students tards, and it kind of stuck. I mean, she doesn’t call them tards to their faces, but just with me later on.
Like, Beth might say, “One of my tards flipped out today and threw a book across the room.” Or maybe, “A tard started chewing on his desk and I had to call the principal to make him stop!” Or sometimes even, “I can’t stand these fucking tards anymore!”
But that’s just on a really bad day. Actually, Beth may go back to school for a Master’s degree next year. I don’t think she really wants to go back to school, but it’s better than babysitting tards all day.
Steve’s all right, for an old guy. But let’s get one thing straight. He’s not my boyfriend, he and I have never even kissed, and he’s a real jerk when he looks down my shirt! Memo to all old creepy guys everywhere: When a girl wears a nice shirt, or a nice skirt or something, it’s not because she wants to sleep with you! There is no invitation involved. She just wants to look nice, that’s all.
Anyway, Steve asked me to help him write a “Life Project,” because I guess some woman named Brooke he knew fifty years ago in college won’t talk to him anymore or something. At first I wasn’t going to do it, but then I thought, why not? I have thoughts on things and stuff. And maybe if people hear what I have to say, they might act better sometimes! I think people need to act better. If everyone acted better, the world would be a much better place.
Actually, I’m often jealous of Beth. You know why? When she wants to reward one of her tards, or just put them in a better mood or something, you know what she does? She gives them a sticker. That’s right, tards LOVE stickers! It’s like their favorite thing. They actually have these tard notebooks and when Beth gives them a sticker, they carefully put their sticker in the notebook. Then they get another sticker to put on their shirt, so everybody can see them. Beth buys new stickers every week, with her own money, just to give to the tards.
She even has a system. A yellow sticker is good, a green sticker is better, and a blue sticker…well, that’s the best! It’s like tard nirvana or something to get a blue sticker. The tards love that! Blue stickers can make their whole week.
