by Queen, Roxy
It doesn’t hurt that he’s handsome and funny.
“How were the magic fingers today?” he asks once the music has ended.
“Fantastic.”
“Good.” He wiggles them in the air. “I aim to please.”
“Are you a trained masseuse? Because really, you’re very good at it. I feel very relaxed. And spoiled.”
“I’ve taken some classes to prepare for working with Dr. Markson.”
“Oh, right,” I say, recalling she’d said he would be trained to work on the experiment. “What other kind of training have you done?”
“Various things. I’m not sure I can go into them all.” He wrinkles his nose and shifts on his feet. It’s obvious I’ve crossed a line.
“Well, what can you tell me about yourself? I feel like you know this huge “thing” about me, but I don’t know anything about you.”
“I don’t know much about you, really.”
“You know the biggest thing.” We stare at one another, in a standoff of sorts and I totally cave first. “Fine. Let’s see…I like pizza with feta cheese and artichoke hearts, scary TV-shows; I work with kids but I don’t always like kids; and my dream is to sleep until 10 AM every day. Is that enough?”
He pulls up a chair, sits across from me and pauses, thinking. “Okay, well, I’m the oldest of five. I have three younger sisters and a baby brother. I, basically, grew up on a commune in a tiny town in West Texas.”
“Are you for real? Like hippies?” No wonder he works with Dr. Markson, kindred spirits.
“I guess.” He laughs at the idea. “Mostly, they just wanted to live off the grid.”
“So you lived there with your mom and dad?”
“My mom. The exact identity of my father is a little harder to pinpoint.”
“Wow,” I say, feeling beyond awkward.
He shrugs and I don’t sense that he’s concerned. “Part of the downfall of living in a free spirit community, I guess. I had a lot of male role models in my life though. It’s cool. That’s where I learned carpentry, plumbing, and stuff. I can fix almost anything.”
“Texas is a long way from here; how did you end up in North Carolina? Did you even have the internet on a commune?” I ask, half-serious.
“Yes, we had the internet,” he laughs. “Life there wasn’t bad; but something about West Texas can be a little stifling. I managed to get a scholarship to a small college out here and that led me to Duke for graduate school.”
I notice he’s left out his college name, but it’s a start. I’m intrigued by the fact he can do such skilled work, carpentry and such. Why not make that a career, I wonder? But then again, something about Graham that makes me think that he’s right. He’s bigger than some small town or menial labor. He looks strong and confident. At ease. Although I have no idea what he looks like under the baggy shirts and jeans he wears every session, I’ve caught a hint of lean arms and broad shoulders.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-five.”
I nod, satisfied with the small amount of information. “So how long do you think we’ll keep up the shoulder massage?”
“Do you think you’re ready to move on?”
“Maybe. I guess it depends on where we go from here, you know?”
“Dr. Markson is taking this one step at a time. It may seem slow but that’s better than too fast. She wants you to feel completely at ease with each step before we move on.”
“I understand.” I want to say something else, but I don’t because the thought I’m having is a little embarrassing. If I’m being honest with myself, I know that I want to go to the next phase. I want to feel Graham’s fingers on my skin. Someone’s fingers. To prove I’m ready.
“See you next week?”
I smile, feeling more confident than I have in a long time. “Yep.”
*
“So he massages your shoulders.”
“Yes.”
Reese gives me a funny look. “And this is helping?”
“Strangely, I think so.”
“Huh, how weird is that.”
“I know. I mean, we’ve just started and it’s nothing complicated, but I feel really good about it.” I fight a smile because, even though I do feel good about it, I also feel dumb. The emotion is exaggerated by the fact we’re celebrating our friend, Jessica’s wedding. To make matters worse, it’s a lingerie shower. Probably my fourth circle of hell. Reese and I have gone to the bar to refill the margarita pitchers for the group of four girls across the bar.
“Well, sure, getting three massages in a week by a guy you think is kind of hot sounds pretty awesome to me.” She takes a sip of her drink. “Maybe I should get a therapist.”
“I know. I thought it would be a lot harder than this.”
“When do you get to see his cock?”
“Reese!” I shout and look around. Luckily, the bar is packed and there’s a band playing in the front corner. No one else can hear how gross my friend is.
“I’m just wondering. I guess it won’t be for a while,” she says. I ignore her smug smile. The bartender pushes the clear, plastic pitchers filled to the brim to us. “Put it on our tab, handsome.”
He gives her a stunning smile and holds up a finger. We wait as he fills up two additional shot glasses. “You guys have fun,” he says, handing those over as well. Free booze? Only with Reese. Married or not, she works it.
“Ready to go back over?” She downs her shot.
“Yes. It’s a wedding shower, not an execution.” It’s a lie. For me, lingerie showers are a battle of emotions. Jealousy. Anger. Embarrassment. I hold my shot glass in the air and mutter, “Bring it on.” Then I down the clear, fiery drink.
We weave through the crowded tables and clumps of people, stopping at the table. Four girls wait for us. We haven’t known them as long as we’ve known each other, but they’re a good group of friends. Reese is probably the glue that keeps us together as we all move in different directions post-college.
I smile at the girls and I’m (or rather, the drinks are) greeted with an excited cheer. Sophie, Bella, Claire, and the guest of honor, Jessica. She’s wearing a tiara with “bride” written across the front and a silly, satin sash. The shower now feels a little premature as the wedding isn’t for several more months, but our busy schedules make it hard to arrange a good time nearer the wedding. Reese pushes the pile of gift-wrapped boxes and bags to the side to make room for the pitchers. I start refilling glasses.
Sophie is the first to raise her glass in a toast. “To the wedding.”
“To the honeymoon,” Claire adds, with a sly grin. Her engagement ring flashes in the tacky bar lights. It’s nestled next to a wide diamond encrusted band. She got married last fall. “Word of advice; don’t drink too much at the wedding if you want a solid fucking, that is.”
Bella’s eyes pop wide. “Is that what happened to you?”
“Steve drank half the keg and his dick was limp all night. Then he was hung over on the plane to Cancun. We had a room mix up at the resort and then we were both exhausted from the entire ordeal. I didn’t get any real action for three days.”
In situations like this, I try to blend in; pretend I understand what it’s like to crave sex; to get a solid fucking from my lover. I nod knowingly at the right times and laugh when everyone else does. However, what I do most is hope no one turns the attention on me. That’s when things get even more awkward.
“But then it was good, right?” Bella asks. She’s the opposite of me and can’t seem to get enough information.
“God, yes; I didn’t marry Steve for his brains. I mean, I love him and he has a good landscaping business; but his real talent comes in the bedroom. He’s very generous.”
Oh, shit. Here come the details, the TMI details. I pick up my drink and sip. Glancing around to make sure no one can hear this. Thank God, the room is dark and they can’t see how red my cheeks must be.
“Do you mean he’ll eat you out?” Jessica asks.
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“Oh, yeah.”
“Alex, too,” Reese chimes in, her voice slurring. “There are days when I just want to sit on his face.”
“Bart won’t do that,” Jessica says, in a defeated voice, “even though he shoves his dick in my face at the first opportunity. Why do they do that?”
“They’re pigs,” Reese says.
Claire shakes her head. “You gotta establish this now. Tit for tat, babe. No BJ if he won’t lick your pussy.”
All the girls nod. I spin my phone on the table. “What about you, Audrey? Was Dylan into oral?” I freeze when Jessica says my name. They all know about the break-up. I thought it would keep me out of the conversation tonight.
“Uh, yeah; he was into it,” I lie. Sort of. He may have been into it. I just didn’t let him go that far, that way. It seemed too intimate; too encouraging.
“Fuck,” the bride-to-be says. “Okay, starting tonight this mouth isn’t touching his cock until he reciprocates.
The girls cheer, holding their glasses out as though that statement was a toast of its own. I join in, wishing we could talk about wedding cake and invitations.
“I have another question,” Bella says. She has a new boyfriend. “Anal? Yes or no?”
All three girls groan and jump into the conversation, but my stomach twists. I can’t do this one. I can’t fake it or pretend. I flick my eyes to Reese and mouth, “Bathroom.”
“Aud, where are you going?” Claire calls. I point to the back of the bar, but even over the crowd, I hear her say, “You know she’s a prude. She never contributes to the conversation. Are you sure she’s not a virgin?”
“Claire, not cool,” Reese says. I walk away with her words ringing in my ears. I wipe the back of my hand under my eye.
There’s nothing wrong with being a virgin.
Unless, you don’t want to be.
Chapter 8
(Graham)
“Dr. Markson has given us the go ahead to move past the shoulder massage,” I explain to Audrey at our next meeting. I offer her my most comforting smile and direct her across the room to a long, suede-covered bench near the bed. “I prepared this for our session today.”
She struggles and fails to hide a frown. “What am I supposed to do there?”
“You’ll lie down and I’ll massage your back and arms.” I’ve already set the music and lit the candles. Everything about the room should feel soothing; but from the way Audrey’s biting her lip, it’s clear she’s not feeling relaxed.
I raise an eyebrow, questioning if she’s ready. She exhales deeply, and says, “I can do this.”
“Of course, you can. Same rules apply. I keep my hands over your clothes. Just your back and arms.”
Audrey kicks off her shoes and mumbles something under her breath. “Good thing I wore pants today,” she says. She stretches onto her stomach and takes a minute to figure out where to put her arms and hands. After a couple tries, she leaves her elbows bent and her palms flat next to her face. Lines of concentration cross her forehead.
The tiny stuff like this draws me to Audrey and the complexities of her battle. The way she struggles but fights hard against her anxiety, proves she’s determined to beat this thing. As I kneel beside her, I can’t help but think about how our personal relationship with the concept of sex is so varied and different. Is it our upbringing? The gynecologist ruled out a biological issue. Dr. Markson is convinced it’s some sort of extreme phobia. At the very least, she struggles with trust.
I’ve worked hard to bridge that gap between us. Trust is clearly one of her major obstacles. However, we’ve come a long way and now, the minute my hands touch her back, she exhales and relaxes. Her eyes flutter closed and the worry lines that mar her forehead disappear.
Small steps like this confirm she feels comfortable with me. I’ve done everything I can to prove it to her. I stick to the parameters of Dr. Markson’s instructions and I follow Audrey’s lead. It’s not that different from my other clients.
Now that Audrey’s relaxed, I take my time, massaging every inch of her back, shoulders, and arms. My mind wanders and I recall how I stumbled into escorting women by accident. Dumb luck really. During my junior year of college, I found myself, along with several other students, invited to a party at the Dean’s house. What college student says no to free food and drinks? The party was lame, but the Dean’s wife, Whitney, was gorgeous. Huge breasts, a fine ass, and a tantalizing tongue that kept darting to the thin, red straw in her drink. I wasn’t surprised when she flirted with me. Flirtation is my currency, but she took it a step further, luring me into a tour of her home. With nothing on my mind but her body and my increasingly hardening dick, I followed her through the house, like a puppy dog after a bone.
We fucked in the laundry room. I lifted her onto the countertop and she spread her legs, revealing her bare pussy, wet and ready. God, she was hot, dirty, too; and when we were finished, she gave me fifty dollars.
I used the money to pay for gas, a loaf of bread, and a jar of peanut butter. One of the drawbacks to my lifestyle growing up was that my mother had a slew of kids and no real income. The only way out of that tiny Texas town was the scholarship I earned. I needed money and working minimum wage sucked. It felt like divine intervention when Whitney tracked down my number; and a week later, I’d been to her house three more times. I was also two hundred dollars richer. She wasn’t quite a desperate housewife; but she was lonely, horny, and tired of waiting on her husband to notice her. I was more than willing to fill his spot. She was more than willing to share my number with some of her friends.
I’d left college with no debt, a satisfied libido, and a glowing reference from the Dean to Duke School of Psychology. Whitney referred me to some friends in Durham; and before long, I had a full schedule of clients.
That’s how Dr. Markson found me in the first place. She’d heard word whispered about me through the grapevine and tracked me down, not for sex, but for the purposes of this study. We had an instant connection over our desire to study sexuality further, particularly, exposure therapy.
“How old were you when you first had sex?” Audrey asks, her voice muffled by the cushioned bench.
“Uh, I was a teenager.”
“How old?”
“Fifteen.” I ran my hands down Audrey’s back, feeling the outline of her shoulder blades and the elastic straps of her bra. I could get that off in a heartbeat and show her real sensuality, but that’s not the point here. Not yet.
“Were you scared?”
“Not really. Excited.”
“What about the girl?”
“She was older. I’m pretty sure I wasn’t her first.”
“From there? Did you just hook up and stuff?”
“Kind of. The way I grew up was a little different, I guess. We spoke pretty openly about sex and stuff.”
“So it wasn’t a big deal to the girl?” she asks.
I think back to that night with Sarah. She was into me, but was it a big deal? I’m not sure I ever thought about it before. “I don’t know. We never talked about it.”
“What else do you remember?”
“Uh, well, the first person I told after I had sex was my mom.”
She lifts her head and opens her eyes. “Seriously?”
I shrug. “Yeah. We’re close and it just wasn’t a big deal.”
“What did she say?” She lies back on her stomach. I press my fingers into the shallow dip of her lower back.
“She handed me a box of condoms and told me to wrap it up, and not to be a dic—jerk to girls.” I spot a flicker of a smile. I consider that talking about myself may help Audrey relax. “The girls in my community were tough as nails though. We all just rolled with it. It’s different but it worked.”
“I bet,” she laughs.
“What?”
“I’m sure you were adorable. They were probably all over you.”
“Hmm…” She had me there.
“Did you like that? Girls p
ursuing you?”
“Sometimes.” I think of my first time with the seventeen-year-old. “It made things easier, but there’s something about the thrill of the chase when it comes to something just out of reach.”
“I wonder if guys think that about me; like seeing my virginity as a challenge, because that would suck. I’d give it away willingly, if I could.”
“I have a feeling guys want to be with you because of you. Didn’t you say your ex wanted to stick around, despite the anxiety?”
Her shoulders tense under my hands. “Yeah, he did.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Audrey. They want you for you, not some game.”
Her eyes flutter closed once again and her lips form a tight line. She’s done talking but that’s okay. This isn’t a race. It’s a marathon.
*
We move forward at the next session; now we’ve added Audrey’s legs into the equation. I maintain my distance running my hands along her arms and legs, but stay away from hot zones like her butt, her sides, and the area where her boobs press against the bench. Yes, I’ve noticed. How could I not notice? With each day that passes, I know her body a little bit better. She’s muscular, but not bulky. Her legs are long and lean, a runner’s legs. She’s ticklish, so I try to avoid those spots as it leads to a different type of tension.
I’m good at my job; it’s why Dr. Markson recruited me. It may sound egotistical, but I have a natural instinct when it comes to what a woman wants and how to cater to her needs.
Audrey breathes through her nose and a small smile lingers on her plump, red lips. My mind wanders at times, considering what her skin feels like. It’s pale and creamy, scattered with freckles. A familiar flare erupts in my balls. It’s been weeks since I’ve had sex. Which, for me, is unheard of. Sex equals money. Previously, I barely let a couple days pass without escorting one of my clients. Audrey has become the singular focus in my life, sexually, and I haven’t even touched her skin yet.
