PROFESSOR FEELGOOD

by Rayven, Leisa

  Joanna slumps back into the couch and sighs. “We should make a pact that the next dude who sends us unwanted junk photos receives a bombardment of huge, gargantuan donkey dongs that will make their average dicks seems like cocktail wieners.”

  That makes all of us laugh, and I stifle more giggles as I watch Joanna chase the tip of her straw with her tongue and completely fail to capture it.

  “Oh, goddammit,” she mutters before grabbing it with her fingers and shoving it in between her lips. After sucking down a huge mouthful, she leans over to the table and taps a few keys on my laptop to add the finishing touches to her spreadsheet.

  “There,” she says with a flourish. “Epic professorial profit projection - done.”

  She turns the screen so I can see it. It’s a thing of beauty.

  “Joanna, how on earth can you whip up a crazy-good spreadsheet so fast while totally drunk?”

  She leans back and smiles. “Practice, dear friend. Now we just need the professor to come onboard our bestseller train to Editorville.”

  I take another sip of alcohol and check my phone for the hundredth time.

  Damn. Still no reply.

  Come on, Professor. Put me out of my misery. Either say yes or tell me to go jump in the Hudson. Just let me know.

  I switch back to his timeline and study his latest post again. As I read, my face heats up, and I don’t think the alcohol is helping

  I want to slide my tongue over yours

  until you understand all the reasons I love you

  that I can’t put into words.

  God, what he does to me. I’ve always enjoyed writing, but I can’t come up with anything as visceral as his prose. I wonder what he’s like as a person. His bio says reformed asshole, so I’m guessing he’s no angel, but there are a million different stages of douche. I wonder where he falls.

  I’m also fascinated by the story of what happened with him and his woman. Did she end it? And if so, why? Most of his followers are women, so I know for sure he wouldn’t be short of female company if he so desired, but all his posts suggest he’s single, brokenhearted, and pining. Goddamn, that’s attractive.

  I sip at my drink as I ponder what it must be like to love someone so much that you’re ruined when they leave. Some sick, curious part of me wants to find out. Huge heartbreak means epic love, right? I’ve only had one real heartbreak in my life, and that was back in high school. Even though I still think about that relationship, I doubt my pain is in the same league as the professor’s. I wonder if he’ll ever love again after losing his soulmate, or if all women from now on will play second-fiddle to the one who got away.

  “Ash?” I look up to find Eden returning to her chair and staring at me. “Did he reply yet?”

  I shake my head. “Still waiting.”

  “Then what’s that expression you’re wearing?” Eden sits forward, her eyes bright. “Holy shit. You totally want to sex this guy, don’t you?”

  “Eden — “

  “No, don’t try to deny it. It’s written all over your face. This guy has you under his thrall. Right, Joanna?”

  Joanna doesn’t look at me but nods anyway. “Yep. Very thrall-y.”

  “Not that I blame you,” Eden says, stirring her drink with her straw. “Even I’ll admit that he’s a damn fine specimen. Plus, any guy who rips open his chest to show how damaged he is definitely rates as extra-boneable. You should offer to soothe his poor heartsick soul, with like, your mouth around his cock.”

  I roll my eyes. “I want to publish him. Not screw him.”

  “Can’t you do both? He’s hot. You’re hot. Have good time together.”

  “No, thanks. Not really my thing.”

  Eden flops back in her chair. “Ash, can’t you just put aside your stupid man-checklist for once and allow yourself some pleasure for the sake of it? I mean, I’m not advocating that you take after the pre-Max me and only have meaningless sex, but every now and then, there’s zero shame in enjoying something that’s purely physical. Life’s too damn short.”

  “In case you’ve forgotten, I have a man for sex.”

  “No, you have a man in a different country with whom you’re texting and emailing. There’s zero hot sex happening between you two.”

  Well, that’s true. And also, false.

  “You haven’t heard of something called phone sex?” I say.

  “Heard of it,” Eden says. “Tried it. Hated it. Right now, I can get more action than you by riding the Coney Island carousel, which is just plain sad.”

  “Funny story,” Joanna says, picking up the thread of the conversation. “I had my first orgasm during a riding lesson when I was twelve, so yeah, one of those hard, wooden carousel ponies would definitely do the trick.”

  Eden nods. “That’s what I’m saying. Having a hot man in a different country is like a pencil with no lead.”

  When Joanna frowns, Eden whispers, “Pointless.”

  They both laugh, but I can’t bring myself to join in. As usual when Eden brings up my boyfriend, I try to change the subject. If she found out I’ve been lying to her all this time, she’d pummel me. Avoidance seems the best tactic.

  “Regardless of my relationship status,” I say as their laughter dies down. “I’m just not interested in sleeping with guys I barely know. Removing my clothes in front of a guy is traumatic enough without it involving strangers.”

  “But don’t you ever just meet a guy and want to …” Eden mimes climbing on a horse, then does a pelvic thrust thing accompanied by an arm wave and sexual grunting that makes me cringe and Joanna laugh.

  “Eden, the last time I felt that way about a guy, it turned out to be your soul mate, so clearly I can’t be trusted to follow my hormones.”

  She gives me a dismissive wave and flops back into her chair. “Pfft. Wanting to do Max is a natural female reaction. No straight chick with a functioning vagina is immune to that hot piece of man.”

  I still grimace when I remember the night I first laid eyes on Max. I thought he was the most gorgeous guy I’d ever seen, but it didn’t take long for me to realize I wasn’t the Tate sister in which he was interested.

  “What about you, Joanna?” I ask, desperate to shift the attention away from me. “You hardly ever talk about guys.”

  Joanna smiles, and it’s clear from how long she takes to blink that she’s reached the drowsy portion of her drunkenness.

  “Well, I’ve taken a vow of chastity for the past year to protest the sexualization of women and girls in media, so right now, guys aren’t really on my radar. But honestly, after my divorce from Prince Abdulla, I just needed a break from relationships for a while. He may have been an asshole, but that doesn’t mean I don’t miss him. I can’t even look at a camel anymore without remembering how we made sweet love in the dunes on our honeymoon.”

  When she’s done talking, there’s a moment of silence in which Eden and I share a look. There was a time when we thought Joanna was a compulsive liar, because most of her claims were too crazy-over-the-top to be true. But the more we got to know her, the more we realized her life should be fictionalized and turned into a crazy-hot series for HBO. Some of the things she’s done and seen are extraordinary, and yet she continues to drop these little pearls of knowledge, such as, “I’m voluntarily celibate,” or “I’ve received royal dick pics,” or “I used to be married to a prince,” as if we’ve always known them.

  I’d be lying if I said I didn’t get a kick out of it.

  “A real-life prince?” I ask. “Please tell me he rode a white horse.”

  She nods. “He only rode white horses. Arabians.”

  Eden’s still processing, but eventually she finds her voice. “How the hell are you old enough to be married and divorced already?”

  Joanna takes a sip of her drink. “It’s not a big deal. I went over as part of a youth diplomatic core when I was eighteen, had a fling with a hot guy… and suddenly, boom. Next thing I know I’m getting married in the royal palace.
Could have happened to anyone.”

  “No,” Eden says. “These crazy things only ever happen to you, and I don’t understand how you can be so chill about it. You married a prince.”

  Joanna leans her head back and closes her eyes. “Yeah, but a prince can be a douche as much as any other guy, and Joe Average from Smalltown Nowhere can turn out to be better than any royalty on the planet. It’s all relative.”

  Eden and I share another look. Our lives are definitely more interesting because of Joanna. I’d have a better chance of choosing winning lotto numbers than predicting what’s going to come out of her mouth on any given day.

  “Gotta pee,” Eden says, heading toward the bathroom. “Don’t have fun while I’m gone.”

  As she leaves, my phone buzzes on the coffee table. When I grab it and check the screen, I smile.

  “Well,” Joanna says, “are you going to share?”

  I turn my phone around so she can see it.

 

  Joanna gives me a sappy look. “Awww. Look at these texts.” She scrolls up my messages, and I don’t stop her. “‘Can’t wait to see you again.’ ‘I’ve been thinking about you all day.’ ‘Sitting here remembering how beautiful you are and how it feels to be with you.’” She looks at me. “So swoony.”

  I nod. “He’s sweet, and romantic, and thoughtful, and handsome, and …”

  She frowns. “And … what?

  How do I tell her that personality wise, he’s the most fascinating and wonderful man I’ve ever dated, and while we’re clothed, things are hot and heavy, but as soon as my naked skin hit the air, my usual hang-ups kicked in? Just once I want to be able to let go enough to have amazing sex. I’d hoped that things with him would be different. I mean, we get on so well.

  “Jo, this guy is amazing and hot, and perfect for me, and yet …”

  “He doesn’t rate on the vagina meter?”

  I snort. “Vagina meter?”

  “Yeah. You’ve got the heart meter, which is the gooey romantic stuff. The brain meter measures how much they stimulate you mentally. And then there’s the vagina meter, also known as the how-hard-he-can-make-you-come scale. Most men will get high marks on only one meter, which is why there are so many single girls out there. If you get someone who hits two, then grab them with both hands. That’s pretty rare.”

  “This is my quandary. He does hit two, but that’s not enough for me. I want all three.” And my greatest fear is that I’m so sexually uptight, I’ll never get that.

  “Well, wanting all three is just greedy,” Joanna says, echoing my fear. “Maybe we should settle for two and be done with it.”

  “Yeah,” I say, slumping in my seat. “Maybe that’s the best we can hope for.” I should probably stop dumping perfectly good guys because of something they have no control over.

  Joanna stares off into space, her eyes going soft and unfocused. “All three is the dream, though, right? Three means your soul mate. I’d like a soul mate.”

  “Me, too.”

  Eden plonks back into her chair and sighs. “Do you two know you look totally stoned right now, or …?”

  We’re all startled when my phone buzzes.

  “The Professor?” Eden asks as she sits forward.

  I check the screen. “Nope. Boyfriend.”

  She deflates in disappointment. “Damn.”

  I swipe the message.

 

  I clear my throat and stand. Our real sex may be lackluster, but our cybersex is pure dynamite. Sure, it’s totally backwards, but right now, I don’t have the energy to care. Thanks to the professor, I’m drunk, horny, anxious, and in need of whatever relief I can get.

  “Okay, it’s getting late,” I say, grabbing my drink. “I’m going to turn in.”

  Now, it’s Joanna and Eden’s turn to share a look.

  “Have a good one,” Joanna says with a snort. “See you at work on Monday.”

  After giving her a quick hug, I head into my bedroom. I’ve just shimmied out of my clothes and have crawled into bed when my Facetime rings.

  My handsome man appears on the screen, and as he takes in my appearance, a slow smile spreads across his face.

  “Bonjour,” he says and pulls his own phone back, so I can see him shirtless, sitting up in bed.

  I smile. “Bonjour, yourself.”

  _______________

  I rub a towel over my damp hair and pad into the kitchen in my robe in search of leftover pizza. If I could maintain a sexual relationship with a man on Facetime sessions alone, I’d be set. But I know damn well no man would ever be satisfied with that, and I shouldn’t expect them to be.

  Eden wasn’t wrong when she said I find excuses to break up with guys. I know I do, but the reasons I give everyone else are just diversions from the truth. The real issue is, I could have the most attractive man in the world in my bed and still only get a lukewarm response from my body when naked, and I have no idea why it happens.

  It’s not like I’m not capable of arousal, because I totally am. Porn does it for me. Romance novels, too. Hell, even Sprinkles Cupcakes.

  But as soon as my clothes start being removed, some switch inside me flips and my excitement turns into anxiety. I’ve tried to figure out why it keeps happening, and my working theory is that my high school boyfriend was a terrible lay. At the time, I thought awkward, clumsy encounters that only lasted a few minutes were normal for teenage relationships, but we were together for a few years, and it never got better. It was clear he really wasn’t interested in my pleasure, and when he started subtly saying it was because it was impossible to get me off, I believed him. It didn’t help that on more than one occasion, he reminded me I was too high on the chubby scale to have a truly banging bod. I’d always had insecurities about my too-big boobs and curvy frame, and so his frequent digs made me dread taking off my clothes.

  Having that experience during my sexual awakening must have thrown a spanner in my lady-works, because this hang-up has plagued me ever since. It’s the main reason I’ve never liked casual sex. Or sex with another person at all, if I’m being honest. As hard as I try to enjoy it, I just don’t, and so I just lie there and wait for it to be over.

  These days, my preferred method of sexual satisfaction is masturbation. Not to toot my own horn or anything, but I’m amazing at tooting my own horn. Without a doubt, I’m the most satisfying sexual partner I’ve ever had, which is a sad state of affairs.

  The only bright point in my current situation is that Facetiming with my man offers me an amazing compromise. I’m comfortable being naked, because he only sees what I want him to see, and because I’m touching myself, I can orgasm in record time.

  So, yeah. Even though I’ve come to accept that having sex with a guy and feeling sexually satisfied are two different and somewhat mutually exclusive exercises, with cyber-sex, I get the best of both worlds: A hot man to turn me on and my own experienced hands to get me off. Win/win.

  The big downside is that I know this can’t last. No man is going to want to continue a relationship with a woman he can’t touch. Unless I can work out my issues soon, this relationship will be as doomed as all the others, and the thought of that happening is so odious, I push it to the back of my mind and try to think of other things.

  I snag a piece of cold pizza from the fridge and take a bite as I check my phone again to see if the professor has contacted me.

  Nope.

  I sigh as I chew. I could always submit my book idea without his permission, but that could get messy if Serena and Mr. Whip love it, and then I can’t deliver. Not only would I not get the promotion, I’d also be seen as unreliable.

  When I get back to my room, I’m surprised to see Eden there, nabbing a cardigan from one of my drawers.

  “Hey,” she says. “Is it okay if I borrow this? I’m heading out to Max’s soon, and it’s getting chilly outside.”

  “Sure.” I
sit on my bed and flip through my phone. Yet again, I find myself going back to the professor’s feed. Man, I’m starting to understand how an addict feels. Just a few posts. That’s all I need. Something to reignite the frisson in my blood.

  Being with you was as easy as breathing. Until it wasn’t.

  One day without any warning, I looked at you and all the air went out of the room.

  I hate that my feelings changed.

  And I hate even more that yours didn’t.”

  I sigh in pleasure and flip to the next post.

  I built a house around you inside my heart,

  and then I burnt it to the ground,

  because I’d rather see it crumble to ash

  than live in it alone.

  God, how sad. And amazing.

  Eden pulls on the cardigan and sits in the chair next to my bed to lace up her boots.

  “The Professor message you yet?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, if it doesn’t pan out with him, I know another awesome book idea you could submit.” She shoots a look toward my closet.

  I shake my head. “Don’t start with me. You know that’s just a hobby.”

  “Yeah,” she says as she finishes her laces and sits up. “But it’s a hobby you’re really good at.” She pushes out of the chair and opens my closet. On the top shelf is a pile of banged-up notebooks that she pulls down before turning back to me.

  One by one, she throws them on the bed. “This one is fantastic, but you need to flesh out the characters. This one has huge potential, if you’d just get off your ass and write an actual ending. And this one …” She holds up the notebook labeled, All the Things I Feel But Can’t Say and presses it against her chest with a sigh. “This one is my favorite, and please know I’m going to hassle you about it until your dying day. Or until you finish it. Whichever comes first.”

  I grab the notebooks and place them on my nightstand. “Do you know how much crap I’d get at work if I let anyone know I write? There’s already a misconception that editors are just frustrated authors.”