by Queen, Roxy
I wait for ten minutes before a woman with long, braided gray hair and thin, wire-framed glasses comes through a door that opens into the waiting room. “You must be Audrey,” she says, with a warm smile. “I’m Dr. Markson.”
“Hi,” I say, offering her my hand. It’s awkward knowing that she knows why I’m here. I feel like I have an arrow pointing to my broken vagina, announcing my defectiveness. “Nice to meet you.”
“Come into my office and we’ll talk a little.”
I follow her through the door and into an eclectic, cluttered office. A big window on the back wall provides a lot of light and draws attention to the small, downtown area of the college. Comfortable looking furniture is arranged in the middle of the room. Rows of books and trinkets line bookshelves against the walls. I catch a whiff of incense and tinkling, windchimey, music.
“Sit wherever you’d like,” she says, and I attempt to make myself comfortable on a small gray chair. Dr. Markson sits across from me on a chair with a batik print. “Let me explain a little about our program here and then I’ll ask you some questions. This will help me determine if you’re a good candidate for our experimental therapy program.”
“Okay.”
“First, as with all therapist-patient relationships everything that happens here is confidential. Because this is an experiment, there will be a select group of graduate students who will see your results; but they are bound by the same confidentiality.” She pulls out a small pad and marks something with her pencil. “I’ve spent the last thirty years studying sexual anxiety disorders. Many methods have been used, most utilizing medication and cognitive therapy. For a while, hypnotherapy was popular; but, recently, I’ve been focusing my efforts on techniques relying on exposure therapy. Are you familiar with the term?”
“Not specifically,” I say. “But I could guess. You expose your patients to different levels of their fear until their anxiety is gone.”
“Exactly,” she says with a smile. “No therapeutic method is the same for each patient; but when Dr. Weir told me about your specific symptoms, I felt you might be a perfect candidate for a trial I’ve been preparing to run.”
“How so?” I wrinkle my nose, feeling the beginnings of an incense induced headache coming on.
“Well, your history says you have no known history of abuse or trauma, correct?”
“Correct,” I say, answering the question I’d asked myself a million times. “At least, not that I’m aware of.”
“That’s unusual because often sexual anxiety is directly related to an event in one’s life. Often as a child or following a violent event.”
“No, I’ve thought about it. I can’t come up with any sort of memory that says something bad has ever happened to me.”
Again, she jots something on her pad. “Can you describe your first sexually related anxiety attack?”
I nod and start to describe the first of many personal failures, but stop to say, “Can I just go ahead and explain that I’m going to cry while we talk about this?”
“I understand that this is a very difficult subject for you to discuss. There are no judgments here. Ever.”
“I hate it. I hate crying about something I can’t control.” I take a deep breath and steady my hands on the armrests. “I was sixteen and had been dating a boy for about a year. Things had progressed to the point where we both wanted to have sex. I thought it was a good idea and that I was ready. Nevertheless, when the time came, I just froze. Literally. You know that term cockblock?” she nods. “That’s what happened. My vagina blocked his cock and the little bit he put in hurt like hell, as though he was ripping me in half. I guess if he’d tried to push it, something may have happened; but the pain was too much and my body just shut him down.”
“How did that feel? Emotionally?”
“I felt horrible. Like a complete failure. I mean, all anyone ever warns a girl about is being a slut; and here I was trying to have sex, and I couldn’t do it.” Tears well in my eyes and I feel like such a loser. Why can’t I stop crying about this?
“How did the boy respond?”
“It was awkward. Obviously, we were young, probably too young to be having sex in the first place. We tried once more and it was worse. I had a full panic attack in addition to the pain. We broke up not long after that.”
“Can you describe the pain for me?”
“It hurts. As if something too big is going into somewhere, it shouldn’t. I’ve accepted the idea of pain, but my body just won’t let it happen. Like literally, it shuts down. Then I start panicking about if this is going to happen or how much will it hurt, so I freak out before we even get too far.”
“How many sexual partners have you attempted to have?”
“Three. My first boyfriend, and then I tried to hook up with a guy at a frat party my junior year. Thank God, he was drunk and didn’t really realize what was going on.” I shudder at the memory. “I thought, maybe if I just took the pressure off and did it on a whim, it would be easier. I thought maybe he would just do it and I’d have no chance to back out. I was wrong.”
“Who was the third?”
I wipe away a tear. “My ex, Dylan, we just broke up over this. He was really sweet about it and we tried several times, but…”
She waits for me to continue, and finally says, “But what?”
“But he deserves better than what I can give him.”
Dr. Markson wrote several things down on her pad. “Did he break up with you?”
“No.” In fact, he’s been calling, trying to get in touch. I ignored all his messages. “I broke up with him.”
“Just a couple more questions. If you had to describe how having this anxiety makes you feel, what would you say?”
“It makes me feel horrible, worthless, and broken. I have this body and the desire. I want to have sex as much as the next girl, but something about me is flawed. I hate it.” I’m sobbing real tears now and Dr. Markson hands me a full box of tissues. I take a few and blow my nose several times. God, I must look like hell.
“You’re very brave, Audrey.”
“Yeah, right,” I say, feeling like I’ve just been put through an obstacle course for my emotions. I don’t say it aloud, but the last thing I feel is brave. I feel like the biggest wimp ever. I’m scared and pathetic. Coming here was a bad idea.
“If you’re interested in working with us, I’d love for you to come back tomorrow so I can show you how our project works. Once you have all the information, we can move forward with treatment,” she says. “That is, if you choose to.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea. I don’t think I’m ready.”
“Audrey, I’m not going to pressure you, but I really do think I can help you.”
I agree to set up an appointment for the next day, even though there’s no chance in hell I’m coming back.
*
“Of course, you’re going back,” says Reese.
“No. I’m not. No.”
“Why not? Give me one good reason.”
I turn my head away. “Because it’s embarrassing. Humiliating.”
“You’re scared.”
“Shitless.”
“Well then, that’s all the more reason to do it.”
“You’re so infuriating,” I tell her, trying to catch up as we jog on one of the trails weaving through the woods, near campus.
“Because I’m right.” We finish the last half mile in silence other than our panting breaths. I stop at the end of the trail, and bend over, hands on my knees. Reese stops next to me and asks, “So what are you going to do?”
I roll my eyes. “I’ll un-cancel my cancelled appointment.”
“Why?”
I sigh and stare at the sky. “Because you’re right.”
Reese wraps her sweaty arms around my shoulders and says, “You’ve got this.”
“No, I don’t, but what other choice do I have?” I hop back on the trail and run as fast as I can, until the needs of my bod
y overtake the fear in my brain.
Chapter 3
(Graham)
Sweat drips between us, sticky and slick. Breathy moans come with each thrust and I tighten my grip on her hips, bracing both of us.
Margaret’s bent over the footboard, hands gripping the curved, wooden rail. If I turn to the right, I can see our bodies silhouetted in the massive full-length mirror leaning artistically against the bedroom wall. I catch her eye in the reflection and she smiles, arching her back. Her tits look fantastic from this angle and her ass feels firm under my hands. And her pussy? Wet and warm. So very, very warm.
She lifts her butt just a little higher and I run my fingers down her back. “That’s it, baby,” I say through gritted teeth. “You’re so tight.” The cliché term does the trick and she cries out, her body clenching tight around me. I break my rhythm, gripping the rail with my own hands and pound in twice more before one long, final thrust.
“That was spectacular,” Margaret says, hanging over the edge of the bed. I help her stand and kiss her neck before pulling out. Delicately, I remove the condom, trapping the jizz inside. “Graham, don’t forget…” she starts, still panting. Red marks from my hands are visible on her upper arms. I caress the flaming skin.
“I won’t.” I take the condom to the bathroom and wrap it in toilet paper. The plastic baggie waits on the granite countertop next to the array of men’s hair and facial products. I zip up the condom and pick up the shaving cream, taking a whiff. “Ugh,” I mutter, wrinkling my nose. Smells like shit.
I leave the baggie on the counter. Margaret’s a total neat freak. God forbid semen get on the countertop. I know part of this is to make sure her husband doesn’t discover it, but I’m not disposing of it. That’s for her to take care of.
Wrapped in a black silk robe, Margaret meets me outside the bathroom door with my boxers and T-shirt. “Thanks,” she says, running her hand down my chest. My cock twitches. Not now, dude, I think. She’ll want to go again and I have a meeting this afternoon. “I needed that. James has been gone every night this week. A girl gets a little lonely.”
I tug on my boxers and shirt, before searching for the rest of my clothes. “You can always call me, you know that.”
Her eyes grow hazy, and shit, there’s the affection that’s nice but troublesome. She shakes it loose and says, “Too bad you’re fifteen years younger and I’m married.”
I work my feet into my shoes and bend over to tie the laces. Margaret’s hand is in my hair and her touch is so gentle, so caring. How her douche of a husband is pushing this aside is beyond me. I stand and pull her into my arms. “Me being younger and you being married is what makes this work,” I tell her. I feel her fingers push into my pocket and she gives me a quick kiss on the lips.
I wait until I’m two blocks away from her house to pull the cash out of my pocket. My standard fee is a hundred but there’s usually an extra twenty. I spread the bills on the front seat and shift the car into gear. I guess that’s what you get for being spectacular.
*
Margaret and I only had missionary sex for the first three months. She felt fat, she told me, insecure. Lying on her back made her stomach flat. I couldn’t tell the difference; but it’s my job to make her feel desirable, so I complied with her wishes for a while until I distracted her and taught her how to enjoy herself.
My mother always said, “Graham Ward, you could charm the rattle off a snake.” That may have been the weed talking. Or the LSD. Either way it was the truth.
I grew up on a farm in West Texas. Well, part farm, part commune. My mother had a mind of her own and left home as a teenager never to go back. For lack of better term, I’d describe her as a free spirit. I was raised, surrounded by flat lands, half-naked men and women, and an endless supply of organic food, weed and hallucinogens. The kids ran wild. I don’t think I wore shoes until I was in the first grade. Our boundaries had fuzzy edges. Nothing gross but with a free spirited environment, sex came naturally, especially to someone with charm and an easy smile. I had both. By thirteen, I’d perfected a grin that made my teachers love me, my friend’s mothers adore me, and the girls chase me.
At fifteen, I coaxed the panties off a seventeen-year-old senior. I’d never felt anything so perfect and sweet. At seventeen, I started fucking my next-door neighbor. She was thirty-two.
That experience turned my life upside down.
Before Aileen, my neighbor, I thought screwing around in the back of pickup trucks and behind the 7-Eleven was sexy. All that changed when I got a taste of a real woman. I learned fast that teenage girls were fun, but their mothers rocked my world. They taught me the secrets of their bodies; the need for foreplay, how to find a clitoris, and what makes a woman feel special.
That knowledge made me different from the others. With a little instruction and a lot of desire, I gained an uncanny knack for reading people, particularly women, and I learned early how to give them what they needed; and in return, I got what I wanted. Back then, it was a hormonally fueled, stream of never ending sex. Later it turned into something else.
By college, I’d worked my ability to read a woman into a profitable business. I learned even more and found a sincere interest in sex and the mind, gaining a degree in psychology with a focus on sex therapy. My current plan is to evolve my experience into a successful future. When Dr. Markson called me early this morning, I knew I was one step closer to making that happen.
“Graham, I’m sorry to keep you waiting. Come in.”
I follow her through the door and into her office. She slips off her sandals and points to the tray of tea. I make myself a cup, adding an extra scoop of sugar, to keep myself awake. Being with Margaret is physically demanding.
“How are you?”
“Good,” I say. “Busy.”
We sit across from one another and the only sound in the room, other than the trickling from the fountain she has near the window, is the stirring of her spoon. The hippie feel of the office is equal parts comforting and stifling. I’d left that part of me back in Texas, with my Birkenstocks and dreadlocks.
“Your course work should be slowing down a little.”
“It has.” School isn’t keeping me busy. My work schedule’s busting my balls. Margret, April, Janelle… “I’m trying to narrow down my final paper.”
“Still leaning toward sex therapy?”
I’d joined the psychology graduate program at Duke, specifically to work with Dr. Markson. She’s a renowned scholar in the field. My success with women has led me to the point of studying them in an effort to assist them with their sex lives. The professor’s groundbreaking studies make her the perfect mentor. “Yes, specifically, the exposure concept we talked about. I’ve been using some of the techniques with my clients. So far, everyone has been very receptive.”
Her eyes take on an excited glint. “What if I told you I have found a perfect study subject?”
“Did you?” I ask, barely able to contain my own excitement. “Who? When?”
“She has been referred to me by a medical colleague. I think she may be the exact candidate we’ve both been looking for. She has no history of abuse, trauma, or physical problems. She has acute anxiety and fear of penetration.”
“No abuse?”
“None that she can recall.”
“Do you believe her?”
“I believe that she does not recall any abuse or trauma. Are her recollections accurate? I don’t know.”
“And she’s willing to use the exposure therapy?”
“She hasn’t committed, but I think she’s very interested. She wants to change her life; but she’s held up by the anxiety. From her descriptions, it’s crippling.”
I lean forward and place my elbows on my knees. “How do we proceed from here?”
“She’s coming back tomorrow to learn more about the program. I need to know, immediately, if you’re prepared to work with her if she agrees.” I nod, happy to do whatever necessary. She takes a sip of tea
and eyes me over the cup. “You’ll have to notify your clients.”
“I’ll tell them right away,” I say, not mentioning this would be easier said than done. Several, including Margaret, are not going to take this well.
“You’ll have to be firm with this, Graham; no sexual contact outside the study for her safety and yours.”
“I understand. I’ve been preparing for this for a while.” I haven’t taken any new clients and have spent the last six months saving money. Dr. Markson said she could secure a small stipend, but I’ll have to live off my savings.
“Just think,” she says with a smile. “In a year, you and I will be published for groundbreaking work in psychology.”
This type of study is a career maker. It will launch mine and solidify hers. As much as I love fucking women and the work I’ve carved out for myself, I’ve always known it would have to end if I wanted to pursue a career in psychology. “As long as my name stays out of the paper as a participant.”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. Finding an appropriate facilitator for an experiment like this is a challenge. I was lucky to find you, despite your questionable work life.” I don’t take her words as a slight. She’s right. Going from an escort to a participant in a reputable sex study is a strange life change. I’m willing to do what it takes.
I give Dr. Markson the smile, the one I perfected fifteen years ago, and say, “I’m the one that’s lucky. I think this experiment will be a great success.”
Chapter 4
(Audrey)
One benefit of student teaching is not having to stay too late at school. Having taken the long route to a teaching degree, I’m finally set to graduate at the end of the semester. Who knew when I was setting up my course work that I would need my afternoons free to figure out how to have sex?
Before I go into the office building, I sit in the car, one last time going over the questionnaire Dr. Markson gave me. The questions aren’t difficult, just a little invasive. One symptom of the anxiety that I don’t enjoy is discussing my personal life with others. I can gossip or easily talk about pop culture, school, or politics. However, digging into my life? I’m afraid I’ll slip up and reveal my own secrets.
