How to Avoid Sex

by Revert, Matthew

  “This is a topic better discussed when you can see me,” said the stranger.

  “No. I think I’d like to know now. I must insist that you give me some answers or I’ll be compelled to cease this interaction.”

  The stranger sighed at my defiance. “Okay. I’ll tell you. But out of context, it will strike you as unusual.”

  “Try me,” I challenged, surprised by my lack of social grace.

  “I had wanted to broach this with a little more tact, but… here goes nothing… there is one solitary activity that causes me sexual excitement.”

  “And that activity is?”

  “I like to be sat on. For long periods of time.”

  This wasn’t what I was expecting to hear. My instinctive reaction was one of disgust. Even if the activity didn’t involve the usual sexual calamities, it was still an unnecessary bonding of two people in a physical sense. In fact, the niche qualities of this stranger’s desires did little to assuage me of deviant assumptions. At least penetrative coupling was considered normal. Why would one sit on another? To what possible gain? It wasn’t normal. My internal dialogue was manifesting as a lengthy silence.

  “You sound somewhat ill at ease,” said the stranger. “When you see me, I think what I have just said will make a little more sense. I’d hate to think you ceased contact based upon a misunderstanding.”

  My frustration continued its ascent. If I were to be completely honest, I’ve always hungered after a relationship. Companionship with a like-minded soul is something I see great value in and would welcome it into my life with open arms were it not for the presence of sex. It spoils everything. In my obsession, I had built this stranger up to be a symbol of everything I was too afraid to admit I wanted. It was unreasonable of me to burden this stranger with such expectation. In fact, his toilet wall solicitation clearly stated a sexual need and it was I who decided to ignore it when concocting my private fantasies.

  I felt a sense of guilt and wanted to extend some goodwill toward the stranger. Even if we weren’t destined to be together, perhaps we might still find a way to be friends. The very least I could do was open the door. This stranger was determined to have me see them. And I was intrigued as to its gender. Given we were in a male toilet block, it was only reasonable to assume I was speaking to a male, but if that were the case, nothing inherent in the voice suggested as such.

  I turned the lock and the cubicle clicked open. I stood up and pushed slowly on the door. The stranger was standing before me in the warm artificial light. I fell back against the toilet bowl and stared in confusion.

  “Good heavens,” I said. “You’re a chair!”

  CHAPTER 6

  I walked a slow circle around the chair, taking it in. The situation was difficult for my comprehension to grasp. The chair remained silent, allowing for my confusion. He/she/it was a standard Windsor Stick-back constructed of elm with an idiosyncratic cleft curved section. The grain of the dark wood formed luscious circular patterns and was polished to perfection. The seat was solid with a subtle saddle shape out of which sprung perfect back staves. My new friend was indeed a classic chair in anyone’s estimation.

  “I must admit to a certain level of surprise,” I said.

  “Understandable,” replied the chair. “Now you can see why I thought it important for you to see me before you made a decision.”

  The locus of the voice was a mystery. It seemed to emanate from the chair’s whole rather than from any one mouth-like source.

  “How do you speak?”

  “That’s a question I stopped asking myself a long time ago. I simply accept my capabilities.”

  “Do you have a name?”

  “You can call me Windsor. It’s not very original, but it’s the only name I’ve ever felt comfortable with. How about you? I’m guessing you have a name?”

  “Yes of course. Worthington. Montgomery Worthington.”

  “Pleased to make you acquaintance, Montgomery”

  “Pleased to make yours, Windsor.”

  What alarmed me, maybe more than anything else, was I really did feel pleased to make this chair’s acquaintance. The discomfort that accompanies my interactions with other people was absent. This was an agreeable situation for me. I had worked myself up into a panic for nothing. Sexual relations would not play a role in our trajectory and my purity would remain. I sit on chairs all the time – it’s something I pursue with vim, and not once has the activity felt vaguely sexual.

  “So,” continued Windsor, “this begs the question, would you like to continue to see me?”

  I had to consider my next move carefully. Yes, I was interested in continuing to see Windsor, but it didn’t feel prudent to make that immediately apparent. Maintaining self-control in this situation was important to me and I didn’t want to appear weak-willed. There was a chance I was being swept away by the incongruity of it all and I wanted to nip that in the bud to ensure any decision I made was done so for the right reasons.

  “Here is my proposition,” I said. “Let us approach this with restraint. I would be interested in seeing you again, but I propose we do this in a controlled environment – somewhere we can get to know each other a little better.”

  “This sounds reasonable.”

  “Very good. How about you and I go on a date? We make a commitment to meet each other for dinner this Friday night at a nice restaurant and, only at the conclusion of this date, do we discuss our next move.”

  Windsor turned in a circle and begun to scrape backward and forward, as if pacing in contemplation. I became worried that perhaps I was enforcing my will too heavily and putting him off.

  “Okay,” he said. “I like this proposal. This is a sensible way to approach the situation.”

  Relief flooded throughout me. I felt my body relax. I was certain that this approach would result in a greater level of respect between Windsor and myself.

  “Excellent,” I said. “I suggest the two of us go our separate ways and reconvene on Friday night. Are there any particular restaurants you enjoy?”

  I wasn’t sure whether this was an appropriate question. Do chairs even eat? There was so much I didn’t know. I hadn’t been on a date since my early teens and only had a basic understanding of the protocol involved. In a typical scenario, taking my partner to a restaurant wouldn’t have raised any uncertainty, but this was far from typical.

  “Do you know a restaurant called ‘Angina’?” Asked Windsor. “It’s on Melton Street.”

  “Yes,” I lied. “I know ‘Angina’ well.”

  “Perfect! How does 8pm this Friday at ‘Angina’ sound? I’ll make some reservations.”

  I had mixed feelings about Windsor’s control of the situation. It was difficult to ascertain which roles we were falling into, but I couldn’t escape the feeling I was a meek female wallflower. I half-expected Windsor to phone my father to ask permission first. What struck me as most alarming, had this occurred, I think I would have been quite agreeable. I quickly nodded my approval before I became too perturbed by my thoughts.

  “Sensational!” said Windsor. “I think it would be sensible for either of us to go about our separate ways until Friday, but before I go, here’s my card.”

  I glanced down at Windsor and was stunned to see a white business card sitting on his seat where there was none seconds prior. I plucked it up, sneaking a clandestine feel of his varnished surface. It felt smooth and stately. Wood of this quality isn’t merely born. It must mature slowly over many decades. I glanced at the card, which simply read ‘Chair’ followed by an email address.

  “If for any reason, you have to reschedule, just shoot me an email, said Windsor as I stared at his card. “I’d hate to feel you’d jilted me.”

  Windsor shot me a laugh unlike any I’d heard. Perhaps if one programmed a robot to respond to humorous situations with laughter, this is what it would have sounded like. I got the feeling chairs were inherently humourless and any laughter one might elicit was merely a form of pat
tern recognition. I didn’t begrudge Windsor this. It was enough he could communicate at all, let alone conceptualise the complexities of human interaction.

  “Don’t you worry,” I said. “I will be at ‘Angina’ at 8pm sharp.”

  “Fantastic! Well, Montgomery, I sincerely look forward to seeing you then.”

  Windsor tipped himself toward me and I tipped my hat back. I watched him swing around and scrape out of the toilet block, whistling as he did. When he was out of sight, I took a seat back on the toilet to take stock of the events I had just experienced. I had a date! What’s more, I was excited about it. I felt like giggling. I didn’t, of course, but were I a man of frivolous constitution, it would have been on the cards. I allowed by body to relax and enjoy the moment, but the myriad questions began to seep in. Who was Windsor? Why could he talk and move about? Was he actually alive of was this some perversion of science? Was he male or female or neither? I had attributed male characteristics to him, but I acknowledge this was my own doing. Would it be appropriate to ask these questions on our first date? It seemed I should act with restraint. I wanted to make a pleasant impression on him and a fusillade of questions was unlikely to achieve that aim. I took one last look at his business card before sliding it carefully into my breast pocket.

  I left the toilet block to find the kind birdman waiting for me like a faithful servant. It had a knowing glint in its eye and I wondered if perhaps this creature was a matchmaker of sorts. Rather than provide me the tools to build an answer, it started to walk its way out of the bamboo forest. I followed with obedience, wondering how Windsor had found his way in and out. Perhaps he had his own little birdman, or maybe he had been coming here for so long that the route was no longer an issue. I felt a surge of sadness for poor Windsor. I thought about all the liaisons that never manifested. I admired his patience, but felt his loneliness. Truth be told, I was lonely too – desperately lonely. One might assume that mine was an exile of choice, maybe that’s true, but it had also been painful. It was unwise to rest so many of my hopes upon Windsor, but I couldn’t help myself. Perhaps we were destined to guide one another out of isolation.

  Ladies and gentlemen, I admit it… I was smitten.

  CHAPTER 7

  The following days were a painful crawl of self-doubt and nervousness. The last time I felt this much anxiety was when I was mistaken for the band, Queen, and forced to perform a national tour. I had tried on so many different outfits I was starting to feel like a bad montage. By the time Friday arrived, I had grown so confused I couldn’t tell what looked good on me any more. My typically immaculate apartment had become an ocean of impeccable but inappropriate clothing that I had to wade through. I finally settled on an Alexander Amosu cashmere and silver mink bespoke suit because it was familiar to me. I decided to adorn this with my faithful Montecristi Panama Hat. I would be impeccably (but not over) dressed.

  I drew several maps to ‘Angina’ from various starting locations so there would be no doubt in my ability to get there. I don’t like to admit it to people, but I have a woeful sense of direction. When I first moved to my current apartment, I would often get lost on the way from the lounge room to the bedroom and find myself stranded for days in a netherworld that existed between the two. Eventually I had to be rescued by bemused firemen.

  Any date preparation that could conceivably be explored was explored thoroughly. I had never felt so utterly prepared for anything. I harangued myself with nightmare scenarios wherein I’d say the wrong thing or, heaven forbid, forget to wear my hat, but I knew these were anxious delusions. I was a thoroughly capable, socially superior human being, and would make for a perfect date. I hoped desperately that Windsor was as excited as me and that maybe we’d become better people via our association.

  When Friday finally arrived, it’s safe to say I left for the date a bit early. I called in sick for work the day prior and camped out in front of ‘Angina’ from 3:00am onward. It was vitally important that I locate the restaurant without issue and wanted to give myself a healthy amount of time in which to do so. It wasn’t as hard to find as I feared and five minutes after leaving my apartment, I was standing in front of it. I congratulated myself on a rare instance of superior navigation and settled in across the road. Watching an unfrequented restaurant in the early hours is a disquieting experience. Where there should be bustle, there is ghostly silence. One could almost sense the building aching with loneliness. All things appreciate their function, and without it, there is loss. I knew this too well. The sexual function in which most living things engage with instinctive hunger was absent in me, and as such, I was rendered a pariah. I never used to believe that sex was an important force within the world beyond its biological function. But as I grew, I began to notice the way it floods every nook of life. Men and women are a calamity of bubbling chemistry that collides with one another, wreaking havoc and spawning disaster. Every action is laced with sex. Every living thing is the result of sex. Nothing would exist without it. I never underwent a formative experience that detracted me from it; rather it never bloomed within me. And when life taught me how truly pervasive sex was, I knew that my passage through would be a difficult one.

  Windsor struck me as different. He admitted that sex was something he craved, but his means of engaging were illustrative of a chair’s sole function anyway. Can one truly begrudge a chair for wanting to be sat on? I believed Windsor was mistaking sex with purpose. The problem with the human animal is that it is capable of so much more than sex, yet little else tends to motivate them. A chair however, would quickly become useless in a society that refused to sit down. No… Windsor wasn’t sexually rambunctious; rather he wanted to justify his existence in the only way made available to him. And if I was able to help him experience that justification, I was willing to do so without sexual investment.

  As first light began to paint the city around me, I felt a sense of peace. Every person and thing possessed a quiet type of beauty I had never seen before. Within the chaos resided an order. Within the order resided hope. Understanding that I was getting a little ahead of myself, with Windsor in my life, it was as if I had finally found my order among the chaos. Was it possible for love to grow from something so small? I always assumed love at first sight was a fantasy created by Bolivian soap dramas.

  I continued my patient wait, ignoring the increasing hunger and simply allowing time to unfold at the pace it deemed suitable. I surveyed the surrounding area, hoping I might see Windsor, having arrived too early and waiting from his own vantage point. If he was here, he was well hidden. It was more likely that he wasn’t here, which although expected, was mildly disappointing.

  At around noon I started to become agitated. The inner peace of the morning was giving way to the collective malaise of humanity crammed together in the city. Passing birds were making a habit of dropping stolen bracelets on me. On several occasions, this was followed by the distressed owner of a bracelet spotting me with it in my possession. They approached with murderous anger in their eyes and it was difficult to convince them that I was not the thief. One woman even made a point of seeking assistance from a policeman, but luckily for me, it was the same policeman I admitted my gibbon murder to, and he was unable to take me seriously. At 4pm, I erected netting to prevent the bracelets from falling into my unwitting possession and made a mental note to start disliking birds.

  My hunger was starting to get the better of me and rather than wait for dinner, I thought it wise to seek out some food. It wouldn’t have been socially decent to appear unseemly by gorging myself at the dinner table. I flagged down a vendor selling deep fried moss jelly and ordered two blocks. I guided the quivering mess into my mouth, trying to protect the cleanliness of my suit. I was heartened when an elderly lady, seeing my predicament, offered to help feed me. I accepted this act of goodwill and managed to consume the moss jelly without further issue. I tipped my hat toward her in thanks and she raised her skirt to me in deviance. I grimaced and averted my gaze.
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  When 8pm finally arrived, I arose from my seat and felt the bones in my body crack like heating ice. I stretched until my stagnated body loosened up and made a shaky path to the entrance of Angina. It was precisely 8pm when a disinterested-looking gentleman manning a reservation book asked if I needed assistance. Up until this moment it had never crossed my mind that Windsor may never show up. Perhaps he didn’t even make the reservation. I was so utterly involved in my own whimsy that I never stopped to think about the other party. What if, after reflection, he had decided this wasn’t what he wanted? He never sought out my contact details, so there would have been no way to notify me.

  My voice broke as I said, “Table for two, under the name… ‘Windsor’.

  The disinterested gentleman glanced down at the reservation book, making a point to take his time. I felt nauseous with worry. I wanted to turn around and walk away – avoid any potential embarrassment.

  “Right this way, sir,” said the gentleman.

  He began to walk into the body of the restaurant. The relief that swarmed every part of me made it difficult to walk. That was one victory, now I just needed Windsor to show up.

  CHAPTER 8

  ‘Angina’ was a buzzing restaurant populated by a trendy crowd of vacuity. I usually made a habit of avoiding restaurants because they tend to attract the sort of people who go to restaurants. Theirs wasn’t a true concern with gastronomy. This was merely an expression of that strange communal tendency to eat food around other people eating food. I hoped that Windsor would be waiting for me when I arrived, but the table I was led to made a point of being empty. A single tea light sat at the table’s centre, casting restless shadows. I took a seat, placed my hat and tried not to squirm as a cloth napkin was folded and placed on my lap – an activity that struck me as vulgar.