by T. Bester
Something flits through Zoey’s eyes, a shadow I never thought I’d see, but just as soon as I see it, it’s gone.
“Yeah, I get it.” Her voice is soft, but laden with a profound sense of knowing. I never knew why Zoey left Austin, I never asked her, but right now, I get the distinct impression it’s because she was hurt. Maybe she understands my feelings better than I do, and I think that’s why I’m not angry. I need a friend, a girlfriend I can talk to about anything without having to justify how I feel. Someone who gets it, without explanation. The fact that Nathan used to be that for me doesn’t slip my mind, but I’m quick to dismiss it.
“Hey.” I touch Zoey’s hand. “You okay?”
“Fine.” She shuttered her expression and pastes on a smile. “So, you want to tell me what you learned about the female orgasm?”
“Oh, God,” I moan, rolling onto my side.
Zoey snickers. “Your second sex joke, go you!”
I slap her arm, and can’t help but laugh with her. “You have a dirty mind, Zoey Penn.”
She winks. “You have no idea.”
“Maybe you should write the column,” I suggest, only half-serious.
“I don’t think so, but I’m happy to find you a naughty little helper.”
“Not happening,” I murmur. “Hey.” I sit up. “How did it go with your advisor today?”
Zoey’s face lights up. “It was so exciting…” She rambles on and on about her day, talking animatedly about the classes she’ll be taking from now on and the change in topic is most welcome. We spend the rest of the evening in front of the television, and I listen, enraptured, as Zoey talks about taking art classes, and possibly teaching ballet classes for toddlers at the local dance center. Her happiness is infectious, so much so that Nathan doesn’t cross my mind. Not once. Which is a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. Because in the early hours of the morning, when the sun starts making its way towards the sky, he’s all I can think about.
By the time Sunday comes around, I’m ready to start writing. Zoey and I spent Saturday shopping, and enjoyed a blissful boy-free weekend. I spoke to Griffin once, while he was en-route to our parents for a few days, and Zoey spent Friday night with Nathan. I took the time to do some extra recon, and after scouring the web for hours, I decided I had enough information to write an informative piece for Toby.
My cursor blinks, daring me to start.
Keep it simple, I remind myself. To the point. Concise.
Easy enough.
I think.
I glance at the notebook covered in my scribbles, and get to putting my thoughts in order, focusing on what I think is the most important without sounding completely misinformed. And like Zoey said, how hard can it really be?
For years, scientists have wondered what happens to the female body during their climax, and women across the world have shown a desire to better understand their own orgasms. During arousal, often referred to as foreplay, blood rushes to the woman’s pelvis, making the nervous system react to sensory stimulation. In this state, the woman’s heartbeat speeds up, her blood pressure increases, her breast become enlarges, her nipples erect, and her clitoris becomes engorged. The vagina secretes a natural lubricant that beads along the vaginal wall to allow for smooth penetration. The Labia flattens out and opens, and the inside of the vagina lengthens and widens to grip the penis and make room for it to be inserted. In order to achieve climax, the body needs to be in a state of relaxation, so the body sends signals to parts of the brain, the Hippocampus and the Amygdela, which inhibits the parts of the brain responsible for fear and anxiety, allowing for mental and physical repose before and during intercourse. The woman’s clitoris begins to retract beneath the clitoral hood, and shortens by 50 percent before she climaxes, heightening sensitivity and increasing blood flow to the vaginal extremities.
In the missionary position, the head of the penis — also sensitive and engorged due to increased blood flow during foreplay — rubs against the g-spot, an area of very sensitive tissue located two to three inches inside the vagina. As the woman approaches climax, she may feel her heartbeat in her vagina and a throbbing in her pelvis.
During climax, the woman experiences involuntary muscle contractions of the pelvic floor, extending to the outer parts of the vagina, the uterus and the anus. These contractions can last for several minutes, ranging from an average of eight pulses per second, and in some cases, ten to fifteen pulses per second. The woman’s muscles tighten for the duration of climax, and once the contractions stop, blood flow to the pelvic area returns to normal, as does the size of the woman’s breasts. Her nipples flatten, the major and minor lips of her vagina shrink, and her body enters a state of physical exertion, sometimes resulting in a heaviness in the pelvis and surrounding muscles.
I read through it a few more times, check for typos and any grammatical inconsistencies, and then add a list of sources, just in case. When I’m satisfied, I print it out and read it one last time, feeling proud.
“Nailed it,” I say to the empty room, feeling my confidence grow.
I can totally rock this.
TOBY FROWNS down at the paper in his hand. He looks exhausted, his eyes red with blue rings beneath them. I’m sure my brother doesn’t look any better, but that’s not why I’m here.
“I can’t publish this.” He looks up at me, his expression annoyed and impatient. He has a serious case of the Break-Up Blues, and has been taking it out on everyone in the office. Now, it seems to be my turn.
“But I thought that’s what you wanted?”
“This reads like an excerpt from a damn medical journal. You’ll be the laughing stock of this whole university if I print this, Savannah.”
“I’m sorry, but I thought that’s what you wanted. You handed me a piece of paper about the female orgasm, and sent me on my way.”
“God,” he mutters, leaning against his desk. I get that he’s tired, but I did what I thought he wanted. His instructions on the matter weren’t clear, so I took some initiative. “No,” he barks. “No.”
I fold my arms across my chest, and dig deep for some compassion because he’s upset and I’m not about to be insensitive to that fact. “That was the assignment you gave me, Toby.” My voice comes out a little harsher than intended, but I’m irritated. I worked really hard on that piece, and now he’s insulting it.
“It’s not an assignment,” he snaps. He falls into his office chair, and rubs his temples. “This is a column that’s meant to help women express their sexuality, their individuality, and you can’t see it as an assignment. It’s real people, with real problems, and it’s based on the experiences they have. It needs to be personal, not a biology lesson for a horny housewife who can’t figure out where her fucking g-spot is.”
Uh. Okay.
“But you gave me a paper on the female orgasm, without any further instruction. Why couldn’t you have given me something about how not to screw up a first date? You knew exactly what you were getting yourself into when you asked me to do this.”
I would be more than happy to pull out a big fat I told you so, but judging by Toby’s mood, it will only makes things worse. Safer to keep my mouth closed.
“Look,” he sighs. “I’m sorry, I should have been clearer, but your brother just left and I was a mess. I have no excuse for that. But, I chose this ‘topic’ because ‘how do I have an orgasm’ is one of the most frequently asked questions. There are blogs that have entire series dedicated to the subject. I don’t want the column to start off light and easy, then we’d might as well call ourselves Seventeen Magazine.”
Something akin to failure sparks in my belly. I hate failure. I was always a top achiever in high school, and aced all my classes in my first semester at Hudson. It’s just a sex advice column, one I was pretty hell bent on not writing, but still, it feels like I’m letting Toby down in some way. I take a seat in the chair opposite his desk, fortified by my intentness on doing this right. “Tell me what you want, because i
f you’re not going to help me, I won’t do this. You can’t just throw me in the deep end, that’s not fair.”
Toby regards me quietly with a tired gaze. “You’re right, Sav. I’m sorry. I allowed what happened with Griff to cloud my professionalism, and it won’t happen again.” He takes a moment, and then continues, “The column is going to be launched in a few days, on the Hudson University Press website. In an effort to comply with the University’s ‘Go Green’ policy, we are looking to digitalize the newspaper completely within the next few months. Are you sure about the name you want? If so, I will have the team in graphics finalize the layout of your column today.”
I nod. “Yes. I like Dear Delilah.”
Toby makes a note on his desk pad. “So do I, I think our readers will respond well to it, which is what we want.” More scribbles, and the longer he takes to tell me what he expects of me, the more anxious I become. These are details that should have been cleared up before I agreed to this, a small oversight on my part in my haste to become the voice for female empowerment at Hudson University.
“So,” I start. “How is this going to work exactly? Will I have to wait for readers to write in, or will I have to write posts on topics of my choice?”
“Initially, I thought you would have to choose what you write about, but after a survey we did towards the end of last year, it won’t be necessary. I don’t think you’ll have a problem getting students to write in, they were extremely responsive to the idea of having the column.” He purses his lips. “I had the idea of having a letter box, and each week, you pick a letter at random to respond to. That way, there’s no bias on our end. The only time we will reconsider a letter or question is if it’s wildly inappropriate, derogatory or libelous. The University is strict on that kind of thing, and it already took me forever to convince them we could run a column like Dear Delilah and not have it be a repeat of the last sex advice column.” He finishes whatever he’s writing, and then looks up at me. “I want you to rewrite this,” — he holds up my disastrous first attempt at sex advice, if you can call it that — “and this time, make it personal. Someone will read this and it needs to resonate with their own experience. Tell them you understand, that you commiserate with them. I want them to feel your connection to their problems.”
Hoo boy.
I am in way over my head.
“I can do that.”
I’m going to burn in hell for lying.
10
NATHAN
THE SOUND of the orbit sander reverberates through the garage-turned-workshop. I run it over the wood, watching as the dust becomes part of the air. It’s a mindless task really, something that requires minimal effort, but I’m so focused on what I’m doing that everything else around me fades into silence. It quiets the noise in my head, which is the hardest to escape these days and not even being behind my camera seems to bring me that reprieve. I’ve been on autopilot for almost a week, doing everything in steps until it’s done and when I go to bed, I become reacquainted with the lines and shapes on my ceiling. I’m tired, and cranky as fuck, and my friends have all noticed.
The door to the workshop opens just as I stop sanding down the new dining room table I’m making. I like to take offcuts from the houses we flip, and make something new. Often, the items are sold before they are even complete, and while the money is good, it’s working with my hands that I love most. I wipe down the wood, making sure the grain is silky smooth and then look up. Brian pulls up a chair, and hands me a plate.
“Erin thought you might be hungry. You’ve been out here a while, missed dinner.” His brows are furrowed, and his eyes are fixed on my face, probing, questioning.
“Thanks,” I grumble. I take my goggles off, wipe my forehead, and sit down before digging into the Dagwood Burger Erin made. My stomach growls in appreciation. Brian’s gaze is hot on my face, and like most things at the moment, it nettles me, makes my skin feel too tight. Like the good friend he is though, he lets me finish my dinner before he starts. I shove the plate onto the nearest workbench, aware that Brian is still watching me with a keen eye.
“Whatever you came here to say, just say it so I can get back to work. This table needs to be finished by tomorrow.”
Brian leans back, his pose not nearly as formidable as his gaze. He has this creepy ability to see past bullshit, and I know he’s seeing straight past mine. We’ve been friends a long time, so he knows me well.
“I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and pretend I don’t know what crawled up your ass and died. So tell me, what the hell is going on with you, Nate?” He knows damn well what’s going on, but the sick fuck wants me to get touchy-feely and talk about it. Erin’s handy work, no doubt. She’s turned Brian into a man who communicates how he feels and whatever is going on in his head. I never thought it was something I’d understand, until I met Savannah.
“It’s just hard,” I admit. I fidget with my hands. This kind of shit makes me somewhat uncomfortable, but only because it’s easier to hide what I feel than be honest about it to someone else. Unless it’s Zoey, but I don’t want to put her between me and Savannah and if I told her what was going on in my head, she’d be smack-bang in the middle. I can’t do that to her. Or Savannah.
“What’s hard, Nathan? Spell it the fuck out for me.” Brian’s voice hardens, a hint of vexation in his tone.
“Damnit, Bri!” I snap, slamming my fist on the workbench. “I fucking miss her, okay? I can’t sleep, I can’t fucking eat. I avoid going to the office because she’ll be there, and if I want to see my sister, then she comes here just so that Sav doesn’t have to see me at their place. It’s a fucking mess, man. And it’s driving me up the wall.”
“So, stop being an ass and change it.” He makes it sound so easy. But then again, I know what he had to do to get Erin to forgive him for the shit he put her through in high school. There’s a reason I listen to what he says, even if I don’t always want to. I trust him, and when he gives me advice, no matter how infuriating at the time, it’s coming from a good place.
“How?” I throw my hands up, and stand, my body humming with enough repressed energy to kick start a fighter jet. Everything I’ve kept bottled up is coming to the surface, and there is no safer place for me to let it out. “I don’t know how to fix it. We’re avoiding each other, and it’s killing me.” I wipe my hands down my face, and then pull my fingers through my hair, breathing out a heavy breath. “I miss talking to her, you know? There are moments at night, late at night, when I have to stop myself from reaching for my phone because all I want to do is call her. I catch glimpses of her on campus, in the office, and I have to restrain myself from grabbing her, just to feel her, make sure she’s still here. There’s this gaping hole in my life, a place that belongs only to her, and the idea of her never taking up that space again scares me more than realizing I loved her for the first time.” I look up. “How do I fix it?”
“You can’t,” says Brian. What? What kind of fucking pep talk is this? He’s supposed to be helping me get my shit together, not tell me it’s unfixable. I flip houses, and build new things out of discarded crap. Everything is fixable. “And I know what you’re thinking, we fix houses so we can fix anything.” He shakes his head as if the idea is ludicrous. “That’s your problem, Nate. We don’t fix houses, we change them into something new. We raze them to the ground, start from scratch. That’s what we do,” he pauses, “and that’s how you have to see your relationship with Savannah. You can’t fix it, but you can change it and start again.”
“That makes no sense, Brian.” At least right now it doesn’t. Maybe if I weren’t so damn tired I’d be quicker on the uptake. I know he has a point to this spiel, but I just can’t see it yet.
“How do you think I got Erin to forgive me?” It’s a rhetorical question, of course. I have no idea how he did it. “I became her friend. I knew an apology wasn’t going to be enough, so I became her friend all over again and proved to her that she could trust me, rea
lly trust me. I got to know her again. I mean, I’ll never be worthy of her, but I wake every damn day and I try. That’s what matters. And I think that’s how you need to approach things with Savannah, if you want her back in your life.”
I ponder it, coming to the most logical conclusion. “Start over.”
He nods. “Start over. Be her friend, and accept that your relationship with her will never be the same, but it can be more than what you had to begin with.”
“You think I have a shot?” I ask.
Brian laughs. “Fuck no.” His expression grows somber. “But, I didn’t stand a chance with Erin either, and look where we are. I wasn’t focused on an end goal with her, because there is no definitive way of knowing how things will work out, but I took the risk because life without her is not worth living, man. I wake up next to her and think, ‘fuck, this woman loves me’ and I’m humbled because God knows I didn’t deserve her back in high school, and I still don’t, but for whatever reason, I’m hers and she’s mine. And had I not taken that risk, whether I believed I had an honest-to-God shot with her, I never would have known otherwise.”
“You’re saying I should take the risk, regardless of the outcome.”
“I’m saying forget the fucking outcome. Focus on the journey. Getting to know her can be a beautiful thing, Nate. You’ll discover things you never knew, and be blown away by what you find. And in the end, you’ll wake up and realize that no matter what, it was fucking worth it.”
“And if I fuck it up again?”
“I can guarantee you’re going to fuck up again, it’s in our nature.”
“Bri, what the fuck? You’re supposed to be helping me here, not telling me I’m going to fuck up again. I can’t lose her for good.”
“You won’t,” he reassures me. Dick. “She misses you too, Nate. So stop being a damn pussy and change it, before some other fuckwit beats you to it.”
“Over my dead body,” I mutter. Savannah Leigh is spoken for, even if she doesn’t yet know it.
