What I Did for Love

by Tessa Dane

  XII

  I started my Internet research first thing after waking and having a cup of coffee. To deal with the crazy desire that Rand could make me feel, I chided myself into remembering how wicked he was to demand this unprotected sex. The graphic pictures we had seen in sex education classes in high school brought back the dangers all too clearly. I shivered at the thought that he had given me some sort of disease. Using the Internet to bring up pictures of their effects, could still make me squirm with their close-up details of sores, rashes, and warts. The pain and burning and long-term consequences were elaborated in print beside each set of pictures. Oh, ugh, oh I felt so crazy and disgusted over the whole situation I had agreed to.

  Then I remembered last night, and the relaxed confidence Bredon had shown, the glow between him and Ree that might have been absent if huge financial losses loomed over him. It renewed my resolve to match Rand at his sex games, and enjoy it, the ultimate irony. I tried not to think of other women he had slept with, and what he had been left with.

  I realized that today was one week since first meeting Rand, and so much had happened that the week seemed like a hundred years of days. We had had one night of true passion, which now had disappeared into a sexual bargain that would include being stripped of my adult woman’s furry growths. I wanted to know in detail what was going to happen, clicking avidly through lists of sites and videos. Knowledge is power. Yes, sure.

  There were lots of online reports mostly saying that waxing hurt. Some blogs were arguments with each other about how much pain and how much after-effect resulted from waxing. They said the first time hurts the most. Oh, yay, just what I needed to read.

  A video demonstrated how a woman waxed at home, and how she eased the pain. I sighed as I watched her press each painful area she had just finished waxing, pulling the cloth strips off various parts of her crotch, then waxing inside her buttocks. I found myself clenching my teeth, resigning myself once again to the bargain I had made with Rand, and the whole reason for all of this.

  Next I steeled myself and looked for videos of what I was sure Rand planned to do. The formal term was “sodomy,” which in modern language is anal sex. The first videos were only a bit graphic, more hint than actual visual instruction. There were varied posted comments about “taking it in the rear”: hating it, tolerating it, getting used to it, using it as a trading card, loving it to the point of orgasm.

  At my high school while I boarded, I had only met one girl who admitted having had anal sex, and she said it was enjoyable. But she was a rather ditzy girl who also thought that marijuana was the kindest thing she could do to her body. I was repelled by the cloying smell of marijuana, making other girls think my sense of smell was warped. They dismissively ignored me in their many detailed conversations fueled by the tongue-loosening effects of alcohol, weed, and whatever else was being consumed during post-lights-out gatherings in dank places in the school basement.

  My reserve outweighed peer pressure as I remembered my parents’ warnings about compromising videos that might haunt me forever. It amazed me that lovers posted naked pictures of each other, or sent pictures of their genitals. Exhibitionism was not my thing, and some of the girls at school were starting to send their naked pictures to their boyfriends. I thought it was stupid, and outrageous, I who was steeped in conversations about privacy that had started in early childhood. I was such an outsider to all of this. When I told my parents I preferred living at home to boarding, they transferred me to a private day school in the city. They did not question me closely about my choice, my wise mother seeming to sense that a day school was a happier place for me to be.

  So I was left with no girlfriend to tell me her experience, and the two boys I knew who were gay would probably have been horrified if I questioned them about men’s lovemaking techniques. The great film about two cowboy lovers, and the original story, did not help much either. The thought of wading through gay porn and trying to order it online was daunting. It was the Internet or nothing.

  On the Net I found all sorts of bad videos and skewed explanations, long preachy discussions with no real information, and simply not enough graphic detail without spending hours exploring porn sites. I saw enough to learn that the woman should be on top at first, and I concluded that several tubes of lubricant, at minimum, were the true necessity for successful penetration. Picturing Rand’s beautiful penis made me feel the now-familiar sexual itch between my legs, and the butt plug he had used had not hurt. But that was not a penis thrusting, as the women described it in the videos. Oh, God.

  While I was at it, I did research into an IUD as a possible substitute for another round of Plan B. But I did not plan to have sex with anyone after this next weekend with Rand, and I still had the trusty three-pack of condoms. Although the IUD was the best and safest birth control, it didn’t protect against diseases. And the IUD had strings that came down into the vagina and were supposed to be wrapped around the cervix, out of the way. I was afraid that I would be unlucky and have the possible side-effect of loosened strings that would hang down. I could imagine Rand feeling them and saying I had broken our bargain for raw sex. So I opted to stay with Plan B. I knew there were lots of counterarguments to my decision, but my mind was made up. What I still needed, though, was medical information I could trust, and so I put in a call to Ren’s office and within a minute I was told to come in on Tuesday morning, first thing. I knew the receptionist had recognized my name.

  As I continued to scroll through what seemed to be endless and often useless sites, messages came in from Robin and Dina. I quickly answered, saying I was in the midst of family stuff and that we could start to make plans next week. I was looking forward to resuming something that resembled a normal life, but even as I thought of it, I wondered if we should go out to meet some guys in the hope that we could find interesting male bodies and minds, and maybe even some delicious unvengeful sex. Rand had set the bar very high, and his name alone, as I thought about it, set me itching “down below”, as they say.

  At nine A.M. the next morning I was in Ren Harris’ office. I loved that our doctor was Bredon’s friend and my special godfather. He and Brendon had been friends all through school, teammates and study partners, of one mind about justice, and had stood with Bredon against the bullies, to defend Tomàs. Ren and Bredon were only children until I was born. Then he was so fascinated and taken with this new baby girl in his best friend’s arms, he quickly saw me as his own surrogate baby sister.

  “Dr. Harris will see you now,” his receptionist said with a smile. Her name was Annie, and she was a youngish woman who thought Ren and I and my brother were cousins. We had never corrected that impression. Being family simply made everything easier.

  Inside, I gave his hand a little squeeze, and sat down. He quickly assessed how I looked, my coloring, my demeanor. He was holistic, looking at the total patient, able to assess their state of mind and state of being, partly through his science, partly through the intuitiveness that makes some doctors into geniuses. Rendell Carter Harris was such a doctor, and the many plaques, awards, and citations of excellence bestowed upon him over the years, attested to that. He was a doctor’s doctor, the one whom other doctors called when they were stumped by a case. He had a stunning record of finding causes and suggesting treatments that had eluded even brilliant colleagues.

  As Bredon’s best friend, their relationship always close, Ren knew some of the risks and perils Bredon faced in the financial world. They confided in each other, I knew, and Ren was going to be Bredon’s best man when the wedding finally took place. But I did not mention anything of Bredon’s current deal, for I did not know how many details Bredon had shared, and I certainly would not tell him of the bargain I had made with Rand. I knew, for all the medical confidences he kept, that his outrage at Rand would lead him at least to hint about it to Bredon, and the two men, knowing each other so deeply and for so long, seemed to sense each other’s secrets. If my brother knew any of it, all our worlds wo
uld explode. So I told Ren that I was there to ask him about a new boyfriend, leading him to believe I was asking about a boy my own age.

  At first Ren was pleased that I had a young man in my life, but looked dubious about it after I told him, haltingly, reluctantly, that we were lovers, and that he wanted me to be waxed. The websites I had waded through had not mentioned infection from waxing, but all the science I knew told me that there were risks. Ren nodded yes, there were.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked, perhaps surprised that a young man had initiated the request, and then that I had agreed to it. He knew my rebel self. When I did not answer he said, “It will hurt, for starters.” He could not avoid the shadow of a grimace at the thought of wax pulling hair off those delicate parts. He looked at me. “You have to do this, I take it.” His eyes were warm, a sympathy he could allow to show because of our closeness.

  I just nodded. The bargain with Rand was clear, and I was determined not to give him any excuse to back out of helping my brother. If his fantasy was my body without its downy covering between my legs, to look like a girl before puberty, so be it. Balthus would have been proud.

  Ren must quickly have surmised something about the situation, because he did not try to dissuade me further. He studied me, which I pretended to ignore, and gave very serious instructions. “Make sure they use antiseptic technique. Lots of washing, lots of alcohol, lots of sterile cloths. A person getting waxed can develop a folliculitis, a staph infection, the hair follicles can become infected. Come see me afterward if you suspect the least trouble. And use these wipes when you get home,” he said, quickly filling out a prescription in his neat, un-doctorly hand. “They might burn, but then, as the burning passes, you can use this,” and he wrote another prescription for a numbing gel.

  He could not resist a further question. “You are practicing safe sex, yes?”

  “Of course,” I lied with amoral nonchalance. “And thank you, Ren.” His look softened, my gratitude and relief obvious to him. He gave me a quick hug and peck on the cheek, and then walked out with me. His waiting room was empty. He had scheduled me way off his regular hours.

  How I wished there really was someone in town with whom I had a deep and good friendship. I wished Robin was already back, or that I could be with her as she dealt with difficult family issues. Her situation resonated with me. She might be seeing some much-loved relatives for the last time, and I pictured her, coping with mortality, coping with her parents who would try to put a positive face on the end of a life. I sighed, knowing she too wished I could have been with her. But to her parents, I would have been an intruder. Understandable, but I missed my friend.

  Preoccupied with these thoughts I reached the lobby of Ren’s building, mirrored elevators, cool gleaming marble. The main elevators were programmed to skip the middle tier of floors which included Ren’s office. That middle tier held several luxury medical practices that were only accessible by referral. There were discreet patient entrances for them, a reserved private corridor, and elevators that went straight to those floors.

  Most of the practices were high-end plastic surgeons who treated not only rich private patients, but also media stars and public figures. They did not want their fans or constituencies to know how their faces maintained a kind of perpetual youth. But Ren’s office was for another high-priced clientele: those who concealed all illnesses because it might be interpreted as weakness, an opening to financial enemies or competitors. Foreign officials came here too, to hide their medical conditions from their countrymen and to avoid coups by younger, stronger, healthier aspirants to power.

  To my proud pleasure, Ren also did much pro bono work in the city’s clinics for the poor; but his places of work were ever changing as the poor were chased to ever more marginal or remote areas of the city, as the price of living went up and up. Movie-star handsome, Ren had been married while in medical school, his young wife dying before she was thirty from an aggressive form of breast cancer. He watched helplessly, his medical arts useless to help the woman he had loved since college days. He and Bredon had double-dated with their future wives, another bond that cemented their friendship.

  After a long period of mourning, there had been a succession of women, many of them kind and loving. Ren had introduced me to them over the years, but had never moved to remarry. I wondered if he would find happiness with a wife again, and hoped he would, such a good and fine man.

  I was caught in these reveries as I walked along Fifth Avenue, passing St. Thomas Church, its great flags waving, visitors and tourists entering and leaving, some clustered on its steps. I was tempted to go in, but as I hesitated I saw Rand standing in front of me, watching me, his ever-present black car at the curb. I wondered what he was doing here, what he did that led him to so many places at so many different times of the day. He looked at me with a mixture of anger and desire, and I could feel my heart thumping again, the intractable chemistry of him out of my conscious control. My body wanted him, there was no denying the slight pulse that I imagined I could feel against my panties.

  I had been walking north, but decided to turn around. Would I always be heading downtown when he was in the picture, I wondered. Maybe I would go back toward the theater district, perhaps buy tickets for a show for tonight, anything to get away from him though I also did not want to. His body language had been one of waiting to see whether I would walk toward him, and when I turned away, he came quickly up beside me and matched my pace as I walked along the busy avenue.

  I was frantic that my brother’s many acquaintances and social spies not see us, so I shook my head to shake him away, and he grinned, and fell back. I practically ran to the corner to cross as the light changed, taking a side street and heading west. Few people were on the street. The lunch crowd from the office buildings had not yet emerged, and it was too early for the vendors whose bicycle-driven carts would line the curb, with various ethnic foods to sell to the hungry workers.

  My heart was feeling sad and tired from having seen Rand, from the futility of my feelings, and that he saw me as whoring myself to him for money. I was sure he thought my only motive was money, to protect my brother, yes, but also to protect my own fortune. He had no idea how my brother had insulated my assets against any possible claim from his dealings.

  I reached the Times Square area, its great steps at 46th Street, the wild billboards in their looping creativity. I did not want to call Bredon and interrupt his last hours with Ree, since his plane would be leaving in the late afternoon. Wanting simply to connect with him, I called the private line at his office that only he answered, knowing it would go straight to voice mail. I left an “I love you,” “Hello to Ree,” and “Be safe traveling” set of messages. It calmed me to have spoken aloud even to the digital ether.

  I turned back east on 46th Street to my refuge, St. Mary’s, and arrived in time for the beginning of the midday sung Mass. The clouds of incense and the music soothed my soul. I took my favorite place at a front pew where I could have full view of the altar. As the gorgeous liturgy started, my heart quieted. Losing myself in the rite, my eyes more closed than open, I let the old pattern of prayer and song and reading and prayer and consecration absorb me and replace the ache in my heart with calm and familiar consolations.

  But when the people were summoned to the altar rail for Communion I almost said, “Oh!” out loud, for Rand was sitting at the end of the pew, watching me. I was angry, my heart feeling violated in a way so different from our sexual entanglings. The privacy of my religious life was a steadying foundation for me, and it had been breached by an interloper. I knew anyone was free to worship anywhere, but he had not come into church for the Mass. If he was so taken with me, why not help Bredon, and be my lover without the games and rules he had made?

  He saw my eyes flash as I stood to leave the pew, and he got up and stood back as though to let me go first. But he did not come up to the altar with me, and when I returned to my seat he was gone. My heart, which h
ad been pounding between indignation and desire, finally calmed. I decided to use the 47th Street exit, but as I emerged I saw his black car parked across the street, his window rolled down enough for me to see him. How did he know I would exit this way, I wondered.

  In that minute, an angel sent a cab right down the street, and I hailed it and was inside quick as a wink. The traffic down 47th Street was, for a change, lighter than usual, and I had the cab take me uptown to my apartment, paying quickly with my card, and running inside to the welcoming doorman. I wished I could call Robin and tell her everything, but even if I could call her, I could not tell her much of anything, of this bargain, of the reasons for it. One slip, even by an innocent comment, and all this intrigue and slinking about, the spankings and the raw sex, would have been for naught.

  As I came into my study niche I found my message light on. The data read-out said it was Rand. The agreement was no contact except our weekends, and here he was violating all these rules he had made, while I had no recourse. He still was in control, he had the money to rescue my brother. So I pressed the button and his voice came over, quietly taunting.

  “Are we into Magdalene mode?” he said, referring to the woman who was wrongly considered a prostitute. People think she was the woman caught in adultery, that she was a whore. But in the scriptures it said she was a friend of Herod’s steward’s wife. That’s like being the friend of the CFO’s wife in a corporation, and it is highly doubtful that a woman of such high standing in ancient Israel would consort with a prostitute.

  I used the special text keyboard on my study phone and sent a text reply: “Do read the scriptures again.” The old bigotry, the old misreading, the old assumptions of whoredom. I no longer cared, and pressed “Erase” to send his message into oblivion.