“Will you feel safe if you’re in control?”
“I don’t know…maybe.” The tangle of emotions inside me doesn’t lead me towards a clear answer. “I don’t know what it means to be in control. Is sex meant to be controlled?”
“That’s something you have to decide,” says Henry. “You wanna try tying me up? That way, I couldn’t touch you if I tried. You might feel safer that way.”
“No…I don’t want you tied up…”
I want you to be able to touch me. I was gonna say that, but I bit it back. It doesn’t make sense. On one hand, I flinch at his touch. On the other hand, I want him to touch me so desperately. The inconsistency in my brain drives me nuts sometimes.
“All right.”
“No…”
Henry ponders over this dilemma, spacing out for a bit.
“Can I do an experiment on you?” Henry draws circles with his fingers on his thigh. He’s clearly itching to touch me, but I appreciate the restraint.
“O-okay…” I sit perfectly still.
“Close your eyes, then.”
My eyelids screw shut. Soon after, I feel his hand on the side of my throat. It doesn’t take a second for me to shoot up from the bed. Tightness crushes my chest. The inside of my head feels like a twister. Oh, no. What did I do?
“S-sorry,” I mumble.
Shit. I overreacted. Again.
Henry pats the bed. “Don’t be. Sit back down.”
Unwillingly, I reoccupy my position. I can sense that this is all going nowhere. He should just accept that I can’t have sex and move on. Why is he trying so hard? Nothing’s gonna come out of this except more awkwardness.
“What did you feel when I touched you, Max? Elaborate.”
I copy the position his hand was in, act it out. “I felt your hand around my throat…near my throat…and I thought you were going to strangle me.”
“Okay.” He takes this in quite bravely.
“I don’t mean to accuse you of being abusive.”
“Don’t worry. My ego’s not that fragile.” He flexes his fingers. “Now I’m going to touch you again on the throat. It’ll be a soft touch, with a pressure of less than ten kilopascals and it’ll last two seconds. Time it mentally. And keep your eyes open.”
I follow the trajectory of his hand with my eyes, so I’m prepared for the moment a soft weight presses into the squishy part of my neck. At first, the tautened cords of my neck muscles protrude reflexively, but once I begin counting, a sense of calm prevails over me.
I relax into his touch. It’s only a touch. It’ll only last two seconds.
One. Two.
Then his hand’s gone.
“You didn’t flinch this time,” he observes, impressed.
Hope flickers weakly inside me. “Because I knew what was going to happen.”
“Exactly. My hypothesis has been proven.”
“Come again?”
“I hypothesized that you’re scared of the unknown. Your sense of security is threatened by unanticipated touches and other unpredictable actions. Therefore, I explained my actions in detail beforehand, taking away the element of surprise. And you were okay.”
“I see…”
That’s clever. I’ve never delved into my own psyche deeply enough to understand the cause of my fear. To me, it was fear, black and white; a wall of emotion without a cause. But every phenomenon has a cause, doesn’t it? And by examining it, the cause can be found. I’m starting to see science in a whole new light.
“Wanna try it again?” His grin is a mile wide.
So is mine. “You bet.”
Angling for the pencil and notepad on the table, Henry scribbles down something. “Let’s do a kiss this time. I will lay my lips on yours, again with a pressure of ten kilopascals, for four seconds. Once this time has passed, part your lips by two inches. I will then suckle on your bottom lip for three seconds. Ready?”
Hearing a kiss broken down like that has already put me at ease. Rather than a kiss, it sounds like I’m doing a scientific experiment. It takes the romance right out of the act, to be sure, but it also takes the fear out of it.
Putting my hands on my thighs, I wait breathlessly for Henry’s lips to brush against mine. Ten kilopascals, did he say? Mmmm…that sort of pressure feels heavenly on the lips. And four seconds, I’ve just realized, is barely a sneeze.
As per the instructions, my bottom lip juts out, allowing Henry’s mouth access to mine. For three seconds, I let him knead my lips into submission. Those three seconds fly by in a blink. I’m not ready to let go, so I press the back of his head to keep him glued to my mouth for thirteen more seconds.
You know, thirteen gets a bad rap for no reason.
Flushing crimson, Henry releases me. “I assume it went well for you.”
“Very well, thank you.”
Handing me a new set of instructions—this time for a French kiss—he lets me read them instead of explaining. The script brings it all together in my head—enacting scripts is the one thing I absolutely excel at.
Then we’re at it again, and again, and again.
The whole thing becomes a hypnotic rhythm—Henry’s clipped, precise instructions followed by the act, followed by counting. The counting actually consumes all my concentration and prevents wavering thoughts. It also keeps me grounded in the moment. With my focus sharpened, I can experience the friction of his rough skin against mine in a much richer way. In the space between the numbers, there’s pure sensation.
At thirty seconds past the first minute, we’re both naked. Forty-five seconds later, I’m sucking at his throat.
Sex unfolds like a well-plotted primetime drama.
Two-thirty—I’ve left a hickey on his neck.
Three-thirty—His thumb caresses my inner thighs, coaxing them to part.
Three-fifty—I moan. First time in a year.
Four minutes—He fondles the swollen lips of my pussy. I moan again. Actually it’s more like a growl.
Four twenty-five—The numbers are starting to blur inside my head, but the sensations are becoming more vivid.
Four fifty-five—I finish feeling up the entire length of Henry’s hard shaft. Conclusion: Rock and I are going to be best friends.
Five minutes—My body temperature has soared two degrees above normal. Pinpricks of heat tickle my groin.
Five-twenty—Foreplay begins in earnest. My pussy is introduced to his tongue. They fall in love at first sight.
Here and there, I spazz out, especially when the intensity of pleasure is beyond my ability to handle, but I get myself back together and soldier on. There are enough wonderful sensations flowing into my body to motivate me to keep at it. My discomfort hasn’t disappeared, but it’s rearing its head less frequently.
Knowledge is power, I suppose.
Twenty minutes after we started this thing, I’m finally wet enough to be penetrated. Kudos to Henry for even bringing me to this stage. Guy has the patience of a saint, if he’s tirelessly performed cunnilingus on me for that long.
Henry rolls on a condom, wiping away sweat from my brow, bending down until his breath blows on my face. “This wasn’t in the script…but I’m going to penetrate you now, with a thrust velocity of five inches a second.”
A furious blush ignites my cheeks. “You don’t have to be that specific.”
“I’m not taking any chances on you.”
I slap his arm. “I can’t make sense of numbers anymore, so don’t explain, just do it.”
Mental math was never my strong suit, and counting twenty-four hundred seconds could just about render anybody brain dead.
“Open for me, baby.”
My pussy opens to him. I’m feeling strangely lighthearted, mostly because my brain’s as empty as a new house. I feel the weight descending inside my vagina, the rhythmic movement, the raw power of Henry’s penis as it pushes and pushes against my walls and past my limits. He pulls in and out, counting the seconds long after I’ve lost count.
Next thing I know, an orgasm is crashing into me. My muscles contract, releasing a flood of pleasure. Fear can’t exist in the presence of such a glorious high, so it crawls back to its dark hole.
In that short interval of time, everything in the room radiates an unearthly light. Love wins. Fear loses. Sex is amazing. The man next to me is smiling. I’m smiling. Heck, even the portrait of a poppy on the wall seems to be grinning from ear-to-ear. It’s a testament to how delirious I am that I don’t question the logical validity of a flower smiling.
Who cares about petty details when the world is filled with so much beauty and joy?
“Thanks,” I say to Henry, who sinks into the bed at my side, as spent as me.
I pray his tongue survives today’s ordeal.
“Glad I could be of service,” he replies, out of breath.
How in the world I managed to loosen up enough to orgasm, I’ll never know. Maybe I should ask Henry later. There might be a scientific explanation for it.
But I won’t stress about that tonight.
Tonight I’ll be happy.
Chapter 13
It’s eleven in the morning when my eyes unglue. Unlike some people, who wake up groggy with only vague memories of the previous day, I wake up mentally alert, instantly recalling the chain of events that transpired before I drifted off into dreamland. I remember going to sleep beside Henry, after extracting a promise from him that he’d visit the hospital and get that checkup.
I can’t see Henry here, though. I wonder where…
Creaking hinges make me turn my head east.
A wedge of light scatters in through the slightly opened bathroom door, framing Henry as he emerges with a bathrobe wrapped around his body, the ends of his hair curled and dripping water. The halo effect created by the light makes him look like a legitimate angel.
I breathe quietly, feigning sleep, just so I can watch him towel his hair dry. My nerves light up like Christmas lights as his fingers flex and straighten. I must be head over heels if I derive so much pleasure from watching him perform such a mundane activity.
However, my voyeurism is cut short when Henry spies me with eyes open.
“Good morning.”
He’s ‘boss’ Henry again, pleasant and formal. This is the Henry I like best.
“Good morning.” I crawl to the edge of the bed, holding the sheets like a shield over my chest. “Last night—”
“It was a mistake. It shouldn’t have happened. We got carried away…is that what you were going to say?”
I blink. It’s official: Henry Stone is a mind reader.
“Yeah. So—”
He hurls the towel onto a spare armchair. “I beg to differ, Max. I don’t think it was a mistake. In fact, I don’t think the first time was a mistake, either. Not for me.”
He positions himself on the bed next to me, wet hair and all. Under the sheets, I’m in my birthday suit (I can’t believe I fell asleep like that), so the prickle of heat needles my skin immediately.
What am I to say now? Henry openly acknowledging our lustful encounters is not what I expected. I somehow expected that everything would be brushed under the rug like the last two times.
“Fine.” Thinning my lips, I jerk my head in a nod. “Last night wasn’t a mistake. But it wasn’t a planned event either. Who knows why I did what I did? Maybe it was the excitement of experimentation, or maybe it was —”
“Maybe,” Henry enunciates, putting a finger against my lip, “it was the attraction you felt for me. How about that?”
Wringing my hands uselessly, I give up. “I won’t deny it. I’m attracted to you. But I can’t see us going anywhere.”
“Why not? What’s the problem with me this time around?”
Does he even need to ask?
“The problem’s not with you, but with me, as you discovered last night. I can’t love anyone. You’re going to tire of me soon enough, or I’m going to tire of being so inadequate, and then my confidence will plummet, I’ll break up with you, you’ll hate me, I’ll have to quit my job. Lucien will be heartbroken and we’ll regret not having nipped this thing in the bud.”
The morning glow he’d been sporting until now melts off his face.
“Someone else might buy this particular line of BS, but I won’t,” he barks out. This is the first time I’ve seen Henry furious. “Quit being so pessimistic. You have no problems, Max. And I love you, so even if you had problems, they’ve become mine now. Net result is, you don’t have problems.”
He loves me…Henry loves me? Did I hear that correctly? Sweet Jesus, how did this happen? How could this have happened? Me falling for him is understandable, but after the super weird sex we had last night (weird from his point of view, at least. It was mind-blowing from my perspective), how could he still think that we could have a romantic relationship? Or any real intimate relationship, for that matter?
“Denial’s not gonna help you,” I warn.
When he still shows no signs of backing down, I take a different route.
“Would you still love me if I could never have sex with you again? If I started recoiling at innocent actions like cuddling or hugging? Can you reconcile yourself to a life like that, where you have to constantly walk on thin ice?”
“That’s not the life you and I will have.” Henry creeps close, even raises his hands, but then puts them down before touching me, thinking better. “Because you will be able to do everything you can’t do now. Including sex.”
“Don’t hold your breath,” I snap. “Or you’ll asphyxiate.”
A sigh streams out of him. “Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed or something? Yesterday, you were a different person, and today you’re back to being defeatist.”
“Yesterday was a one-off.” I lace my fingers with his. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. You can’t count on that happening ever again.”
“Why, though? You could do anything if you put your mind to it.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I do.” His shoulders droop. “You’re defining your identity solely in terms of one variable—your fears. But humans are multivariate systems, built of multiple variables and complex connections between those variables. And multivariate systems are almost impossible to model and predict accurately. Look at you, you’ve already subverted your own expectations thrice—doing something you never predicted you would. What’s to say it won’t happen again in the future?”
“It won’t.”
“C’mon, Max. Don’t be like this.”
My mind’s tangled up in the jargon, so my tongue stays inside my mouth without aiming for more hurtful words. I love Henry’s ability to explain things scientifically, but right now, I don’t want him to pretend to know me. He doesn’t have a clue what I go through every day. He doesn’t know how close I am to turning tail: from him, from this, from here, from everything.
“Henry…I can’t. I just can’t. Okay? You’re asking for too much.”
“I’m only asking you to try, Max. Will you try?”
“This is not a matter of trying!” I fume, breaking away from him. “It’s a matter of who I am—what I am. I’m someone with a lot of intimacy issues. And you’re a man. You need sex. Unscripted sex.”
“Max—”
“Don’t you ‘Max’ me!” I scream, my temper having taken on a life of its own. I’m angry, and that’s all I can think about. Henry sucks in his cheeks, like he’s stung by my words, but I can’t stop now. “This is why I don’t go out with nerds. You don’t understand emotions. They’re not variables you can calculate, or things you can reason away rationally. They’re real and irrational and they’ll never go away—”
“Come here. I’m thinking you need a dose of love.” He spreads his arms wide.
I don’t go anywhere, only pull my bent knees to my chin.
“I don’t want you to go through what I did,” I mumble. “When I was living with Rob, every morning, I had to make sure I didn’t
disturb him as I got up and showered, then I had to eat breakfast without making a sound, because if he woke up in a bad mood, he’d scream and ruin my day early in the morning. It was like walking on thin ice all the time. One small mistake, and I’d be staring a nuclear explosion in the face. It was so draining. Before long, I had disappeared. Only a shell of me was left. Everything I did was to please him, to keep him happy, keep him from getting angry. But I can’t control the world. And when he’d get annoyed by something at work, he’d take it out on me.”
“That bastard.” Henry’s thumb finds the back of my neck and massages it. “You should’ve let me break his jaw, at least.”
The weight of unshed tears burns my throat. “I don’t want to put you in that situation with me. I don’t want to you have to walk on eggshells when it comes to intimacy. To have to gauge my mood before you can even touch me. You’ll tire of that life, Henry. You’ll never be able to enjoy being with me like that.”
I care about him too much to let him live that kind of life.
“Don’t compare yourself to that jerk. You’re not abusive.”
“No, but I’m just as broken as him.”
“Then let me put you back together.” His lips come to rest on my hair and I predictably become skittish. “I’m an engineer, which means I’m good at that sort of thing.”
“No, no, you can’t.” I jerk to my feet, impaling him with angry eyes. As much as it hurts me, I must be firm with Henry on this point. He doesn’t know what he’s getting into. I don’t want him holding onto me. Our future, every time I try to see it, appears dark. “And henceforth, you’re not allowed to touch me and I’m not allowed to touch you. This is the final time we do something stupid like this. I swear that upon my grave.”
He taps his bare foot, making no sound on the carpet. “It’s not wise to make decisions when you’re angry. Think it over when you’re calmer.”
“I’m calm!” Obviously, I’m not, but I’m sick of him telling me what I am and what I’m not.
I’ve just had it with people labeling me—first as a rising star, and then a victim, jobless, going nowhere in life.
Henry & Me Page 18
