by Calinda B
“Yes, Grammy. I’m well aware what happened. Besides reading it in the news, you’ve told me.” Over and over and over, I think, tapping my fingers on the couch.
“We’ve got each other, though, right dear?”
“Yes, Grams.” It’s like a ritual we have to go through, each time I see her. Talk about the past, reassure her that I’m here for her…then, we can address the needs of the moment. I kind of understand, though. Grammy, old and clinging to her ways, didn’t do well when our family was wiped off the planet. The instability it evoked in her took a toll.
All the turmoil left our political system in shattered ruination. The left blamed the right and the right blamed the left. Everywhere, politicians bickered while the people pulled up their bootstraps and got to work with restoration. The general public lost itself in debauchery and wild, crazy behavior—like my Headspace affords them. We endured so much tragedy for so long that we all seem to live as if there’s no tomorrow.
My thoughts drift back to Jonas. After the destruction of life as we knew it, Jonas’s work boomed. He’s good at what he does, honest and fair. And he’s always in demand.
“You look upset today, dear. What’s up?”
My Grammy always senses when something is up. “Oh, you know my friend Jonas.”
“Yes,” she says, looking over the top of her reading glasses. “Go on…”
“He came over yesterday and was all, ‘I want to leave my girlfriend,’ and ‘You and I should be together,’ and crap like that. You know how I feel about guys and gals hooking up when they’re already mid-flight.”
“Yes, dear. You have a good strong value about that. It’s admirable.”
“I do, but…” My voice trails off and I stare out the window. The Space Needle stands in the distance, dark and vacant. It’s like a ghost town in that part of the city.
Grammy grins. “But Jonas is one fine piece of ass, isn’t he?”
I nearly fall out of my seat. “Grammy! I can’t believe you said that!”
“What, you think I don’t have eyes? Whenever you bring that boy over, I think to myself, ‘That’s the kind of boy my Vienna needs.’”
A red flush creeps up my face. “What makes you think I need a boy, Grammy?”
“I don’t mean it that way. I know you’re independent. I just meant that you rarely date these days.”
“I just haven’t found anyone date-worthy lately. The good ones are all taken.” Plus, there’s that little issue of mine.
“You think I believe that for a second? Vienna Katrina Venetta, you could have any man you want. You’re gorgeous, you’re barely thirty, you’re fun, funny, creative—you are one catch of a girl.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence. I’m just not in the mood to date.” Not after experiencing all the kink I see at night. Seriously, my various avatars have been flogged, whipped, and gagged. I’ve been made into a dinner plate laden with gourmet delights for my lover to choose from. Fantasy versions of me have been powdered, oiled, hung from chains, tortured, and shackled. I’ve been hoisted onto a pedestal and worshipped, then literally pushed from the pedestal and made to grovel at the guy’s feet.
I’ve done three-ways, two-ways, six-ways. I’ve done it on the virtual beach, in the middle of a crowded fantasy baseball stand, on a train, at a carnival, in the middle of Times Square. People are strange. And when they’re safely behind the virtual wall, the sky’s the limit. And I know this is just fantasy, but since I’m so sensitive—I mean, I wouldn’t be this good if I weren’t—it takes a toll on me.
Sometimes, after a particularly intense session, I have to lie low and sleep for days, only getting up to feed Nigel and relieve myself. Then, it’s back to my sanctuary boudoir to rest up for Headspace time.
“Let’s get you into your walker and scoot, Grammy. We don’t want to be late to your appointment.”
“Oh, my, no, we wouldn’t want that,” she scoffs. “Not that it matters. These parts have had their heyday.” She gestures to her body.
We’re going for her yearly checkup today. It doesn’t really matter when her appointment is. She knows as well as I that with the limited medical care we have in this city these days, it will take an act of God to get in and get out in less than four hours. People line up, try to bribe the staff. Some have even stabbed themselves to get seen for something else—blood-letting always gets to the front of the line. I help her to her feet and she shuffles along in her colorful walker. It’s got bells and all kinds of danglies hanging from it. She likes to make a grand appearance wherever she is.
A half hour later, I pull up to the medical facility, hop out, and race around to open the door for Grammy. “Now you just sit over there—right there, Grammy, on that bench. I’ll park the car and be right back.” After circling the lot for ten minutes, I snag a spot, park, and race back to get my grandmother.
“There she is now,” Grammy’s saying to someone.
I’m looking right and left to find safe passage through the circling. When I make my way past the cars, I look up to see Jonas helping my Grammy to her feet. My heart does a pitter-pat and other parts of me do things they’re not supposed to do—like get all moist and slick and screaming, “In here, get in here now and show me what you mean by ‘I’m going to have an orgasm by my birthday.’”
I dash across the asphalt to Grammy’s side. “What are you doing here?” I ask Jonas.
He gives me a curious look as if he can see my thoughts. A smile flashes across his handsome face. “Wrist sprain.” He holds his right arm aloft. “This isn’t my week.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thanks. It’s part of the job. We’re so short staffed, I have to oversee the projects and work the jobs sometimes. Can I assist you two ladies?”
“Nah, I’ve got this.” I move between Grammy and him possessively. I wish I’d never told him my secret. “Well, I’ll see you around. Good luck with your sprain.” I try to hustle my grandmother through the double doors.
“My legs don’t go that fast, Vienna. Slow down!”
“Sorry, Grammy.”
Jonas chuckles behind me. “You know as well as I do that this always takes time. Let me help.”
“You’ve already done enough,” I call over my shoulder, referring to his offer to help me with achieving an orgasm. “I’ve got this.”
“Really? You know where to find me if you change your mind.” He laughs and strides away.
“Gah! He’s everywhere now. We used to only see each other…oh, never mind, we always see each other. We just don’t usually bump into each other.”
“He’s in your radar, girlie. He’s done something to catch your attention.” She reaches for the elevator button.
The barely functional contraption shudders to a stop. The doors open and more people than should be allowed in there burst from the opening, like freed rats. They speed around my grandmother and me as if we’re boulders in a stream. Once the elevator has emptied, I help my grandmother into the lift, followed by a few other people.
“Hold up!” a male voice calls. Jonas joins us. “I’ve been redirected.”
“Let me guess…third floor?”
“That’s the one.”
“So women’s health has merged with general medical?”
“So it seems.” He stands next to Grammy and punches the elevator button for the third floor. At the second floor the lift stops and oodles of people get on, pushing us against the back wall. Jonas quickly moves ahead of my grandma to keep her from being crushed in the throng of people.
I’ve been pressed into the back corner but I peer over the head of a woman to smile gratefully at Jonas for protecting my grandma. Once the doors open, we all spill out into the waiting area.
“Here, I’ll wait with Evelyn while you check her in. That will be quicker and easier on her. Then, when you’re done, I’ll head up to check myself in.”
“What, so you don’t have anything to do today?” Why is he being so nice to me? Doe
s he feel sorry for me now?
“Sheesh, V, whatever I’ve got to do can wait. Your grandma’s needs are more important than mine. She’s like royalty.” He smiles at her.
“You’d better believe it.” She grins back at him. “Now, fetch my tiara.” They’ve always teased each other.
“Plus, she’s fed me enough dinners that I owe her, big-time.” He winks at Grammy.
“Thanks, Jonas.” I smile gratefully, thinking of all the meals we’ve shared. When Grammy had an actual house, she used to cook for Jonas and me, our friends, her friends, whoever was in the neighborhood, whoever was in need. Jenner even came over a couple of times but her smart, sassy mouth collided with Grammy’s no-nonsense, straightforward sense of manners. Grammy chided her, Jenner bristled, and she never came back.
Once Grammy is checked in, Jonas stands in line. I pick up a pair of well-used SkinScreen displayers and place them on my scalp. This one holds a terabyte of entertainment data, perfect for a medical waiting room. I adjust the volume and twirl a dial on the headpiece to focus the projection onto my forearm. It’s a weird way to read, if you ask me, scanning words and pictures on your arm.
I change the contents by running my fingers over my wrist, making the data scroll. There’s a revised edition of a datapiece called Women’s Sexuality. I glance at my grandmother. Grammy struggles to stay awake. I idly flip through the text and images displayed on my arm. There are clinical drawings of penises and vaginas and black-and-white photos of men on top of women and women on top of men being projected onto my skin. The whole thing looks so clean-cut and sterile, it makes me laugh.
Grammy jerks and glances at my forearm. “What’s so funny?” she asks.
“Oh, this datapiece makes it sound so wholesome. Sex, I mean.”
“Here, let me see.” She reaches for her purse and retrieves her reading glasses, grabbing my arm to see what I see. “Well, that’s how the parts fit together. After you master that, the real fun begins.”
“Oh, and what’s that?” I ask, starting to feel nervous.
“Depends on what kind of partner you have.”
“What do you mean by that?”
She eyes me speculatively. “You have had sex before, right?”
I scoff. “What do you think?”
“You seem pretty savvy to me, Vienna. I’d say yes.” Her eyes drift shut.
I sigh. You have no idea. Grammy and I share a lot about a lot, but my business is my business. Plus, this sex issue I’ve let out of the bag is nobody’s business but mine. Yeah, right. Only now it’s mine and Jonas’s.
I flip another display of the data by stroking my fingers across my tender skin. My eyes land on an article called “Haven’t Doesn’t Mean Can’t: On Women and Orgasm.” I quickly look up to make sure Jonas is nowhere near me. I spy him still standing in line. I turn so Grammy can’t see what I’m looking at, should she awaken from her doze.
I read If a hypothetical woman and her partner only have intercourse for thirty seconds, without any other sexual touching, kissing or buildup—and with no focus on stimulating her in ways that are likely to lead to orgasm—then our hypothetical woman is unlikely to experience orgasm. That doesn’t mean she’s dysfunctional—it just means she and her partner are not doing much to produce orgasm.
“So now I’m a hypothetical,” I mutter.
“What did you say, dear?”
“Nothing, Grammy, resume your doze.” I continue reading: Now we know that virtually any woman can climax–and indeed have multiple climaxes–if the circumstances of her life are right. But the truth is “coming” isn't that easy if you're a woman. Nearly all men can come without difficulty, but women aren't built that way. That doesn’t mean there’s something wrong. It means you need more practice. This one makes me burst out laughing. They have no idea how much “practice” I get, at least when I’m in my Headspace. I lift my gaze. My eyes track Jonas striding over to me, smiling.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” I say, pressing my hand over my forearm.
“What were you reading?”
“Nothing, it was nothing.”
“It looked like something.”
“It wasn’t.”
“It looks like something interesting.” His arm snakes out to grab my wrist.
I slam my hand on top of his. “Let it go, Jonas. It’s just a datapiece. I was reading some entertainment data and I found something that was funny, all right?”
“Okay, all right, you’re sure touchy.”
“I have a right to be. I had an impulsive moment that I regret. Now I’m paying for it.”
He keeps his voice low, trying to be discreet. “Damn, Vienna, telling me a secret shouldn’t tweak you out that much. You’ve told me plenty of secrets over the years.” He rakes his hand through his dark wavy hair.
“You’re right, I’m being stupid.” I remove my hand from the skin display.
“I wouldn’t say stupid, but awfully edgy.” His eyes glance to my arm. “Women’s Sexuality, huh?”
“Yes, now drop it.”
“Consider it dropped,” he says, putting both his palms in the air.
We sit in awkward silence.
“It doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you,” he whispers.
“I said drop it,” I hiss.
“It’s normal.”
“It’s not normal. I’ve had enough sex in my life. It should have happened by now.”
“Not even with Elias?”
Elias used to work for Jonas. He had a hot body, was funny, kind. I dated him for about six months before we broke it off. We had sex a lot but I think he knew I was faking it. He told me one night I was frigid. I told him he was an asshole. Besides, he wasn’t Jonas. “No! Not your business! Now can we drop it?”
“Okay, okay,” he says and once again makes a gesture of surrender. “It’s dropped.”
“Okay,” I say, changing the screen display to something to do with medical advances using howler monkeys. I flip the screens without registering a word.
“But Vienna?”
“What?” I say, slapping my thigh with my hand. The SkinScreen makes a garbled screech in my ear. “Would you please, please, please drop it?”
“I was just going to ask you out to dinner. Jenner has her watercolor class tonight.”
“Oh.” I turn to look at him and am met with his sincere, open gaze. I’ve always liked that about him. He’s an honest man. But the gazes he’s giving me lately are, well…they’re different. “Will she become all pissy about it again, like she did a couple weeks ago?”
“Nah. We had a talk about how we both ‘get’ to have our own friends.” He makes air quotes around the word. “Hell, she meets with her co-worker Brian every day for lunch. I’m the one who should be jealous.”
“Are you?”
“Not really. The guy’s a dick. If she wants him, she can have him.”
I nod my head. “Okay. Where do you want to go?”
“Feel like Italian? Luigi’s has managed to stay the course and they’re pretty much open every night.”
“Italian it is, then.”
A harried-looking nurse pops her head out from behind a swinging door. “Evelyn Peabody?”
“Over here,” I call and I gently shake Grammy’s shoulder.
Her eyes pop open and I help her to her feet and guide her to the back room, giving Jonas a small wave as we depart. “See you later,” I call out to him.
He nods, grins and laughs. “Oh, yeah.”
He’s got schemes in his head, I can tell. I just can’t tell what they are. I feel all squirmy inside, passionate heat and longing colliding with cool trepidation and solid resistance. Do I want Jonas? My body’s giving strong indications in the affirmative. My minds says “Run now, and escape while you can.”
Chapter Six
At Luigi’s later that evening, I scan for signs of Jonas. I find him sitting in a dark, intimate corner booth, shaped like a U. He’s star
ing at his hands as if they’re someone else’s.
“What’s going on?” I say, sliding next to him so we’re side by side, facing the restaurant.
He jerks, as if surprised, and brightens as he regards me. “Nice outfit.”
“Thanks.” I felt like such a girl when I dressed tonight. I put on this outfit and that one, scrutinizing myself in the mirror before discarding garment after garment. I finally deemed my appearance complete, once I was dressed in greenish bronze see-through leggings, a white and black silk tunic with a slash of black leather going from my right hip to my left shoulder, and a sleeveless long black leather jacket. “Why do you look so gloomy?”
“Not gloomy anymore,” he says with a smile.
“You looked like you were contemplating having to choke kittens with your bare hands a second ago.”
He winces. “That bad, huh?”
“Uh huh. That bad.” He’s wearing a black jacket and a gold and black shirt that’s open at the top to reveal his dark chest hair. The man dresses casually during the day but, at night, he knows how to rock a good look. I’ve always appreciated the way he looks. My eyes wander over the face of my friend—the friend that I love. His dark hair is pushed back from his face. I love his dark blue eyes…his chiseled face…his chin…his full lips that usually curve into a smile when he’s around me. My gaze sweeps down his throat to his wide shoulders. I swallow, remembering we’re just friends—good friends. Great friends. The best of friends. He’s the safest of the safe. He’s someone I can count on.
A waiter hustles up to the table. “Can I get you something to drink?”
I eye the man for a second. He’s a study in angles, opposites, and art. His hair has some sort of gel in it that allows him to curve and shape it. It pierces the air in spikes on the right and flows down to his shoulder on the left, like a glam actress from the early nineteen hundreds. His face has been made up Greta-Garbo-Hollywood style on the side with the spiky hair, and modern Nuevo Imagina on the Garbo side. There’s this trend flowing around called Nuevo—it’s Nuevo this and Nuevo that and it seems to mean “whatever the fuck I want it to be.”
