May 10, 2006
Fiction
The Program
You probably first saw the ads on the subway. Grinning guy in a tux, supermodel hotties draped over him. “Get With The Program”; or the other one, “The Program That Made A Man Out of Jerry”. You might have puzzled over it for a moment. Some exercise thing, probably, or a drug like Viagra? Or any bullshit product advertisers claim can get you laid. Still, though, the way the guy in the tux looked: commanding. Rolling in sex. You’d swap lives in a minute.
The poster had some of that fine print at the bottom like they do when they’re pushing something your doctor has to prescribe: “The Program is a course of cognitive-behavioral biofeedback therapy for the treatment of severe interpersonal interrelation adjustment disorders. Use only as directed. Ask your doctor if The Program is appropriate for you . . .”
Then the doors opened, and you shuffled through with the crowd and forgot all about it.
•
The first time you vividly remember hearing about it was at the bar. A real looker was sitting there nursing her drink, blonde hair down to here, slinky white dress, big ripe tits — the kind you’d love to get your dick between. The guys had been watching you eyeing her and you’d had a few, and with them egging you on you went for it. Somewhere between the booth and the bar, though, the rough edge of the bravado faded, and instead of just showing off for the guys you found yourself really asking:
“Hey, pretty lady. Can I buy you a drink?”
She ignored you, but you thought you saw a trace of a smile. You sat down at the stool next to her.
“Hey, come on, I’m a nice guy. Really. You’d like me. Seriously. You want to go out sometime?”
And she burst out laughing.
That stung. The glare or the cold silence or even her throwing a fit and chewing you out, you could take that, went with the territory. But this? She was laughing her ass off, wiping tears from her eyes and gasping for breath. And when she recovered, she looked you right in the eyes and said — almost sweetly — “Oh shit, honey! Give me a break!” She grinned ear to ear. “My boyfriend’s done the Program. Why would I want to go out with you?”
•
And then it seemed like it was all over the place — like if you looked at the magazine covers on a newsstand, it would be:
Elle: ‘The Program’: Why It Works!
Razor: Secrets of The Program
Cosmo: Ten Ways To Get Your Man To Do The Program
Maxim: Don’t Let Her Program You!
Star: Brad to Jenna: ‘I’ll Do The Program For You!’
But, you know, it seemed like something for Hollywood stars and Manhattan glitterati — not part of your world. Not something a guy from Queens would do. Come on!
•
But then the secretaries in the office pool were giggling about a guy over in Sales who supposedly did it. And one of them was like, “Oh my god? Can you believe it? I so am going to ask him!”
And the old biddy leering: “Ask him to do WHAT?”
And they were cackling and the one who said it was blushing beet red going, “No, just ask him what it’s LIKE that’s all, come on you guys!”
And through the laughter the dark-haired Rhonda from HR, the real sophisticated-looking one with the great ass and the steely eyes, said, “These guys should ALL do it. Our health plan covers it!”
•
Then:
You were in bed with Caitlin who was this on-again-off-again piece you had, not a dog, but kind of plain — nice eyes, nice hair, a too-big nose and little tits, and too skinny — and usually if you were feeling hard up you’d come around to her place and after some complaining on her part (about how you never came around), you’d end up on her sofa making out; and about one time out of three you’d end up in her bed, fucking. And when you added it up, she was actually the only girl you’d actually got to the fucking part with for about three years, since that thing with Tanika. And she always made these hints about being boyfriend-girlfriend, and you always laughed them off.
But this time, somehow, you started feeling insecure, like maybe she was slipping through your fingers too. Like the world was changing? So you actually went down on her without being asked. And you were enjoying it, getting your tongue all up in her muff and running it around over what was probably her clit, and her moaning: even though you wanted so bad to bust your nut, you kind of took it slow.
So that when you finally rolled the condom on and slid it into her, oh man, it was like heaven in there. Your dick had been waiting so long it felt swollen up like a balloon. Her pussy was just right, not hard like a hand or soft like a pillow, but warm and firm and giving. You pounded into that sweet strong tube of hers — all the way in! You felt her hands moving on your back, you squeezed her ass, she growled deep in her throat, and soon everything faded into the background, but the feeling of your hungry cock, taking her.
You held your breath, so as not to come too soon, and you must have lasted, what, twenty, maybe thirty strokes before that river burst its dam. The surge went like heat through your whole body, toes to head, that moment of being on top of the world, that wave of molten power, better than any liquor, better than a jackpot — but not unlike a jackpot, not unlike pulling that one-armed bandit’s handle and seeing all cherries come up, and the rush of gold coins going on, on, on, on into the bowl.
But afterwards, when you rolled off her, she sighed this tight little sigh and turned her head away. And when you reached over to put your hand affectionately on her tummy, she stiffened up. She got up and went to the bathroom.
She was usually chatty after sex, but not this time. And you hauled yourself up and got your clothes on and she showed you out, you still a little woozy with the glow and feeling like she ought to be grateful for how you’d made her moan. And as you stood a little unsteady on the step she said:
“Listen, Gary, uh . . . you know . . . I think this was our last fuck.”
“What?” you said, feeling like you couldn’t have heard right. “What?”
“Yeah, you know, I just. I think I want. Something different. Okay?”
And to your silence she said, “Okay. Yeah. Good night.” And closed the door.
•
And one night about three months after that, three months of no booty at all, not even a kiss, you were sitting on the green sofa in your crappy little house, channel-surfing, and on the Entertainment Channel Kevin Costner or Matthew M-something or one of those Hollywood guys was saying sincerely to some interviewer, “Yes, I did it, and I’m quite happy to talk about it. I think it’s made me a better lover and, you know, even a better human being.”
•
So then, the next morning, you were standing on a crowded streetcorner in Manhattan waiting for a green light. And you see this absolute babe standing next to you: miniskirt and gray tit-hugging sweater, breasts like mangoes, perfect ass, looking like a younger, shorter Cindy Crawford — way out of your league. You turned to her, not getting too close though, not wanting to scare her, and said, “Hey, you’re beautiful.” She gave you the kind of brutal stare you expected, like What The Fuck. But not scared. It was a confident, intelligent stare, with a little humor behind it — like she was wondering, what’s he going to say next, and if it’s sufficiently out there I’m looking forward to laughing my ass off about this guy with the girls.
And you said, “Listen — if I did the Program — would you go on a date with me?”
And get this. She blinked. She looked you up and down — she looked you up and down — and a slow smile spread over her face, like a cat looking at a canary whose cage just popped open.
And she said, “Hell yeah.”
Man: you were hard, just like that.
The light turned green and everyone but you two crossed. She took out a pen and a piece of paper out of her purse and handed it to you and said, “If you’re serious, write down your name and number. You do it, I’ll call you.” The light turned red again.
You couldn’t believe it. Your hands were shaking. Your throat was dry. You grinned kind of lopsided, making a show because, shit, of course she was putting you on, as you wrote down your name and number. “Oh yeah? And how are you going to know if I really did it?”
She frowned as she took the paper back. “Don’t be dumb,” she said. “I’m a subscriber.”
The light turned green again. She crossed. You stood watching her ass as it went up Fifth Avenue. She didn’t look back. But you saw her tuck the paper back in her purse.
•
“Gary,” said your doctor, “three months without a relationship doesn’t mean you have a disorder.”
“It’s not just that,” you said. Trying to recall the articles you’d read. “I’ve never really felt comfortable in relationships. And anxiety, I uh, have a lot of anxiety about it. You know, keeps me up at night.”
Dr. Wallace sighed. “Look, there are other alternatives. I could recommend you to a psychiatrist for a more traditional course of therapy. This Program business — it’s really quite radical. It can have a lot of side effects — dysthymia, sexual dysphoria, unwanted personality changes. It can exacerbate adjustment disorders. It’s a major stressor. I was extremely surprised, to tell you the truth, that the FDA even approved it.”
“Are you saying I don’t qualify?”
He scowled. “No, I’m not saying that. I just think you shouldn’t jump into this . . .”
“I really just want to give this a try,” you said — but he was already writing on his little pad.
•
The clinic was a skyscraper in Midtown. There was a small mob of protesters outside. Almost all men. With police standing by to keep the route clear.
“It isn’t worth it!”
They looked like slobs. Unshaven, red-eyed. Middle of the fucking day, why weren’t they at work anyway? They didn’t have time off for a medical appointment.
“Listen, buddy! You don’t know what you’re giving up!”
“Don’t let those bitches in your head!”
Fucking crazies. It was like going to an abortion clinic. “Oh yeah,” you called back over your shoulder as you reached the doorman. “What did they do? Cut your balls off?”
Their faces when you said that. Cut their balls off. That was a good one. You were chuckling all the way up the elevator.
•
Then there was this long intake interview with a white-haired woman doctor in her sixties. Personal information forms, permissions, liabiltiy waivers, detailed questionnaires about how many girls you’d been with and what you liked to do in bed and how many times a week you masturbated and the whole thing. You answered them all good-naturedly, though you couldn’t imagine this old lady reading them.
Under permissions there was a question that read:
While your enrollment in The Program, like all medical information, is strictly private, we have found that many of our clients wish to make their participation known to others. As a service to our clients, Gallman Clinic LLP provides a public registry to which interested parties can subscribe. If wish to you waive your right to privacy and include your name in the registry, Gallman Clinic LLP can verify your successful completion of The Program upon subscriber request. Do you want your name to be included in this public registry?
Which meant, that that hottie could see you’d done the Program.
You checked “yes”, because they didn’t have a “Fuck yeah!”
•
“This is Sophie,” said the old lady. “She’s one of our assessment counselors.”
Sophie was beautiful in kind of a cold, sophisticated, European way. Long white-blond hair thrown over one shoulder, loose grey sweater, piercing blue eyes. Tall, thin, long legs in black slacks. She was in her mid-thirties, probably — maybe ten years older than the hottie at the streetcorner. You wouldn’t say hottie for her. She was just as out of your league, maybe even more beatiful, but not hot. Cold. The kind you couldn’t really even bring yourself to imagine fucking.
“Your schedule is free tonight?” Sophie said. She had some European accent, like a roughness at the back of the throat, the “r” breathy.
“Uh, yes,” you said.
“Good,” she said, and smiled briefly. “We are going on a date. This is mostly to establish a baseline, before the treatments: your relationship competence, your style, inclinations, performance.”
“Performance,” you repeated, your dick giving a little throb.
•
“But this is a fancier restaurant,” Sophie said, “than that to which you normally invite a woman.”
The waiter poured wine. You played with a folded cloth napkin. You felt yourself sitting up straighter. “Well, yeah,” you said. “But, you know, you seem — it seems like it goes with you. You’re, ah . . .”
“I’m fancy?” asked Sophie. You couldn’t tell if she was kidding. She looked calm. She met your eyes, and you looked away.
“You’re beautiful,” you said.
“Thank you,” said Sophie, smiling. “You’re very sweet.”
•
She looked around your crappy little house. Green sofa. TV dinner packages ripped open on the kitchenette counter. You blushed. “It’s a lousy place.”
“I like it,” Sophie said, and sat down on the sofa. She eased off one stack-heeled boot.
You stood there, your dick twinging. Your heart beating. Wanting to make sure you’d got this right.
“You know, usually after the dinner, I conduct the assessment at the clinic,” Sophie said. “And it’s quite perfunctory.”
“So, are you going to get in trouble?”
She eased off the other boot. “I have some, what do you say, leeway? And I feel comfortable with you, Gary.” She patted the couch next to her. You went. “I’m going to ask you to do things,” she said. “You can say no. I’ll first ask you to do them the way you normally do them. Then I may give you instructions. Please don’t be offended if I do. It’s part of the assessment.”
“I’m not gonna be offended . . .”
“Kiss me,” said Sophie.
You leaned in and put your mouth on her dark-lipsticked mouth. She tasted a little like the wine from dinner, a little like mint. You put your hands on her waist. She took them off.
“Just kiss,” she said. “Slow. Gentle. But not limp. You see?” Her lips found yours, delicate, like hummingbirds. “Wait for me to increase the power of the kiss.”
Her mouth on yours. A fucking Class A broad. Unbelievable. Your health care package paying for a top of the line call girl. Except she didn’t really feel like a call girl. More like a doctor, or a teacher?
She pulled away. “Good. You are a little distracted, though. Now take off my sweater.” She held her arms up.
Sweater off, bra off, your shirt off; Sophie lay back on the sofa. She had smallish tits, like apples, with big nipples. “My breasts like to be licked,” she said. “Not every woman’s do. And it is different how. Try. “
You tried.
“No! Much too hard. Lick around from the edges in. Better. Polish them with your tongue. Mmmm. Now try - no! Too hard. Lightly. There. Flick the tongue over them. Yes, yes. Keep going. More. Now the other one.”
On the one hand, you could hardly believe you were allowed to put your tongue onto those perfectly round, creamy tits, those hard pink nipples straining for the ceiling.
On the other hand, she was bossy as hell, and it was beginning to feel like work. You slid your hand into her panties. She grabbed your wrist.
“Not yet,” she said. Her voice was gentle. You went back to work on the breasts. She made deep humming noises.
Your dick was hard, swollen up. It wanted out of the pants. You reached for her panties again.
“Gary, not yet,” she said.
“I thought you wanted me to do things the way I do them.”
“After I ask you to. Shall we stop now and try this again tomorrow?”
You swallowed, and a flash of anger shot through you — she’d leave you high and dry now? But then you said to yourself: Gary, you’re being an asshole. This his her job. Let her do it.
You pulled away, sat up on the couch. “Hey, um. I’m sorry about that. I . . .”
She smiled a brilliant smile. “More kissing.”
Then, while you were kissing, she put your hand in her panties. She broke the kiss. “Gentler. See? I am moist. That is what we waited for. Yes? Wait — stop. It’s all right. You will learn this later. Sit back a moment.”
She slid her panties off her hips and ran her fingers over her cunt. “Watch,” she whispered. “Just watch.” She licked her fingers, slid them between the folds. They slipped in and out like dancers. “Take off your pants. Put a condom on.”
You were covered with sweat, and your breathing was tight. Sophie fucking herself with her fingers like something out of a porn movie, except slower, quieter, softer. Just breathing, instead of moans and cries. Porn girls pouted and smoldered, or yelled and bucked: Sophie closed her eyes and frowned in concentration, her brow wrinkling. Her bush was small, neatly trimmed, as white-blonde as her head. There was a fine golden down on her thighs, almost invisible.
“Watch closely,” she whispered, licking her fingers again. “See this here? The clitoris. Look: very soft touches, not directly on, around. The hood — you see? And. Then. Hmmm.”
Her eyes stayed closed. Now you could almost think she was asleep, looking at her face, except when tremors would run over it. Your dick had never been this hard. You needed to get it wet.
“All right,” she said. “Now. Enter me.”
You pushed your cock into her. She was tight and her muscles rippled and you were coming, coming, coming.
You groaned, and then you rested your head on her shoulder.
She chuckled in your ear and whispered, “Not very good, Gary. I did not get to enjoy it very long. Or to come.” She stroked your back, long smooth strokes. “But you are lovely. And you will get better. Much better.”
•
The Program was three weeks — four days a week, mornings and evenings, at the clinic before and after work, plus three weekend training seminars. Waking up alone that first morning, you let yourself hope it would involve a lot of screwing Sophie. Maybe even Sophie hanging around afterwards, sleeping over, making you breakfast. It wasn’t like that, though.
In fact, you had to be celibate for the three weeks.
The hours you spent in the lab were strange. At first there were CAT scans, blood tests, running on a treadmill with wires taped to your head and this metal cap. Then, after the first few days, there was the chair.
The chair was like a cross between a dentist chair and Captain Kirk’s chair on Star Trek. Your head wired up, and earphones and goggles on, and an IV in your arm. They’d leave you there for an hour or three, the chair tipped back, in a room with one wall that was a mirror they could see through from the other side.
Sometimes the goggles and headphones played movies — porn movies, or scenes from romantic chick flicks, or detailed instructional movies about sex. Sometimes there were just flickering cascades of images, too quick for you to make them out. Sometimes there were recorded instructions.
They set out vaseline and warm, wet towels when they wanted you to masturbate. The recorded voice told you what to do. That was weird at first. You didn’t know who might be watching. But you got used to it.
Once you asked one of the docs, a bald old guy, what the gear all did. The IV drip had something to do with enhanced memory formation, and the metal cap was actually sending electrical impulses into your brain for “subexperiential behavioral reinforcement”. Whatever that was.
•
You stopped masturbating at home: you didn’t feel like it. Even though you’d sometimes come home from the clinic and sit, channel-surfing and not really seeing the TV, too wired to sleep, imagining sex. Fucking Sophie up the ass. Fucking the girl from the street corner between her mango-shaped tits. Caitlin begging to suck you off and you coming down her throat. Sex saturated your head, burned your body from your ears to the soles of your feet, but it was all distant, muddy, like under a layer of thick gauze. The images would swarm like fevered dreams, and then they’d be gone and you’d be alone in your crap house, feeling lonely and confused and desperate, and somehow guilty. Sometimes you’d run your head under the cold water from the kitchen sink, to make it go away.
•
The seminars were mostly bullshit: Mars-Venus stuff, how to listen, how you should wash the dishes and talk about your fear. All the guys avoided each other in the hallways. A few of the exercises were kind of interesting.
One time you were talking about your dad, the time he’d built this boat with you and then smashed it when he was mad, and you actually started to cry. Bullshit like that. The other guys all looked away, embarrassed. You got it together after a moment.
•
One time Sophie walked out of the observation room into the hallway, just as you were coming out of the room with the chair. She was with three other women, all good-looking, though none of them in her league. Probably all assessment counselors. They’d clearly been watching you jack off, and you flushed beet red.
“Looking forward to our exit session,” Sophie called, and the other women laughed.
You couldn’t think of anything to say and you got out of there. On the subway, your dick was throbbing. It felt sore. It occurred to you that you’d been masturbating that session for about three hours, and you never did come.
•
The phone rang one night. “Hey, this is Jill. You remember me?”
It was the hottie from the streetcorner. “Holy shit. Yeah, I mean, definitely. How, how are you doing?”
“Hey,” she purred, “you’re really doing it! I just looked you up on the list. I thought you were just full of shit.”
“No, I’m really doing it.”
“For me?”
You didn’t know what to say. She cackled. “Don’t answer that. Woo! It’s a little hot in here right now.” She laughed again. “So listen, what do you do?”
You talked about work. She was a graduate student in political science at NYU. A real egghead. She wasn’t stuck up, though. Then you talked about music. You both liked The Clash.
“So, um, listen,” Jill said. “Can I pop your cherry?”
“What?” you asked.
“I mean I’m going to put in a request to be the first person to have sex with you, when you get out. You know. Ask them to go easy on the exit session. They’ll do that, if you want them to.”
Your throat was dry. “Yeah, sure. Sure.”
“Okay,” Jill said. “Shall we make a date, for when you get out?”
“Okay,” you whispered.
•
You were so tired at work that last week, you could barely keep it together. You got back from the warehouse inspection and slumped into your cube and just stared at the computer for a while. You could feel every inch of your skin. You felt the seams of your jeans, running down the outside and up the inside of your thighs. The seams of your shirt, stroking your sides. If you closed your eyes, your watchband felt like a woman’s thumb and fingers locked around around your wrist, pulling you downward. You could feel your toes nudging into your socks, parting the folds of cotton, pushing them back against the hard walls of leather. Somehow you’d lost weight over the past couple of weeks; your potbelly had vanished. You could feel all your muscles, biceps and quads and abs, dwelling inside your clothes; like animals waiting, breathing, ready to go.
Friday, you were so zoned out, you were late to the cafeteria for lunch. As you passed the secretaries’ table there was a sudden pause in their conversation, and then a burst of laughter. You turned around and they hushed up again. A couple of them darted you glances and looked away; the old biddy glowered disapprovingly into her soup. Rhonda from HR, though, looked up and right into your eyes, with a steady look just this side of a smile, and you felt blood shooting through your body, up through your face, up to the roots of your hair.
You made it to your table somehow. The guys weren’t talking much; Harry was still on vacation and Bharat and Alex were in a shared sour mood due to recent fuck-ups by their boss. You looked back: Rhonda was eating. But it was like she could feel you looking at the back of her head, because she turned to you. She was eating a shrimp and it was hanging out of the side of her mouth, and she sucked it in like a satisfied cat.
And this was bullshit. Shouldn’t you be going over them, talking it up? “Oh so you’re subscribers, eh, ladies? Oh, no, I sure can’t tell you what goes on in there . . . no, I reckon you’d have to experience the difference . . .”
You applied yourself to the meatloaf.
•
But what did you need fucking Rhonda and those harpies for anyway? No wonder you don’t want to go over there and be made fun of, shit, groups of women like that are merciless, especially when they’re single and hard up. Wait until you came to the Christmas party with Jill on your arm. She’d be dressed like a starlet at the Oscars and you’d whisper in her ear and she’d be the one turning red, and Rhonda would be turning green.
That evening, there was no time in the chair, just the physical with the treadmill again, and this exit interview with the old lady doctor, and then it was time for your date with Sophie. You waited in this real doctor’s-office type room, with a kind of double-wide hospital bed in it, and flourescent lights. You were nervous as hell. First you sat on the bed, but that was kind of lame, so then you stood over in the corner by the coatrack.
How would Sophie take this whole thing about Jill’s request? And shit, why the hell did you agree to that? Oh, sure, you knew why: you’re no idiot. Sophie was a pro, she was just doing her job, whereas Jill was for real, Jill was a keeper. One fuck, versus as many fucks as you wanted. But still — Sophie was such a fucking beautiful piece of work. How could you pass up another shot at that svelte, golden European cunt? Could you talk Sophie into going ahead and fucking anyway, and not telling Jill?
But while you were thinking this, underneath the chatter in your head, what you felt didn’t really match. You felt kind of sad and alone. You wished you could be back on the phone with Jill, hearing her laugh.
But holy shit, come on, man, you told yourself, nice problem to have, right? When before did I have grade A babes fighting over me?
The door opened and you jumped up, because apparently you’d managed to sit down on the bed again.
Sophie, in her clean, severe Germanic glory, smiled at you.
“Gary,” she said. “Are you ready?”
“Sure, of course, hey. Hello. Where are we going?”
“Indeed hello,” she said, closing the door. “Here is fine. Especially since we have a subscriber request, from a —” she looked at her clipboard “ — Jill Sivens, to do a short exit session with you. I assume you agree to that?”
“About that,” you said, “uh, Sophie, I hope it’s okay that —”
She looked up and smiles brightly. “Oh, Gary, it’s great! It’s a great sign when our clients are so quick to start building relationships with their new skills. “ She put the clipboard down on a table. “Can you take off your clothes? How have you been feeling?”
The flutter in your stomach sank a little, but you started shrugging out of your clothes. “Um. Okay. Weird, really.”
“Weird how?” said Sophie.
“Tired, I guess. Just kind of — worn out, from the chair.” You were groping for some way of talking about it. She must know.
“Any hallucinations? Paranoid thoughts?”
“No, no. I mean — sometimes it feels like I can feel things better, you know? Like, I mean with my skin. But nothing too weird.”
She smiled broadly. “Heightened sensitivity. That’s not a problem.” The way she said “not a problem” made your spine tingle. You had your shoes and shirt off and you pulled your pants down and were surprised to find your dick was hard as a rock. Like, not surprised surprised, because here you were stripping for Sophie; but surprised you hadn’t noticed.
“Any aversive thoughts about sex or sexual partners? As in, you are worried about sex or don’t like the idea of sex?”
“Jesus, no,” you said, pulling off your shorts. “Quite the opposite.”
“Oh good,” Sophie said, grinning again. “Very good.” She came across the room and took your penis in her hands, as casually as if she was testing your knee for reflexes. “So this feels good?” she asked, gingerly stroking from the base of the shaft to the head.
You could hardly talk from surprise. Actually the feeling was like a burning, buzzing throb. Sophie’s taut little breasts danced inside her blouse, and you could smell her smell — like apples and mint. “Yes,” you said.
“Good,” she said, and let go of you. “I won’t do any more of that, because I want to honor the subscriber request.” She crossed to her clipboard and made a few notes. Then she looked up at your face. “Oh, Gary, don’t worry. I still have to do a little concrete measurement to see if your competence has improved. And in fact, I like this way, I tell you why. Remember how our first date was, well, a little bit all about you?” She grinned impishly. “This one will be all about me. Come take off my clothes very gently.”
Cotton. Wool. Satin. Metal, the snick of the bra snap coming open. Skin, the panties moving down the legs, your thumbs brushing her thighs.
“Good.” She lay face down on the big hospital bed. “Backrub.”
Skin. Warm and breathing. Your fingers could feel the little knots of wrongness. When you pushed too hard, she raised her shoulders a quarter-inch, and you backed off. When it was too light, her breathing became irregular, and you pushed in. At one point you almost lost her to sleep, and your fingers started to stroke lightly, like ships dancing. Your fingertips, her pores. Her breathing quickened.
She rolled over. “Look at the clock, Gary,” she said.
“Shit,” you said. “It’s ten o’ clock.” An hour backrub?
“Having fun?”
“Yeah.”
“Good,” she said. “Breasts.”
And then: “Good. Now with your tongue.”
Swollen flesh of her breast, the salty taste of her skin. Apples and mint. The nipple rolling under your tongue like a mountain. Her breathing roughening. Her stomach quivering.
She spread her legs, pushed your head down. “Tongue. Down here.”
She tasted delicious. Tangy and salty. Which was weird. Sherry and Nora and Tarika and Caitlin had tasted, you know, fine, but not like this. She was wet and hot and, like, pure around your tongue. It wasn’t even like you were doing something — you couldn’t tell where your tongue stopped and her cunt started, and the rest of your own body seemed very far away. But her body — her trunk that squirmed, her feet that came up off the table and stroked the back of your head and then kicked out, her lungs that sucked in air and held it and pushed it out, her hands that ran through her hair and then yours and then grabbed the table behind her head, her ass that lifted up to your mouth and fell again — her body was all that was real.
“Tongue and fingers, now,” she whispered. “Please, Gary. Please let me come.”
The first time her breath caught and her cunt throbbed and her thighs gripped your head, you still weren’t sure, because she didn’t make any noise, and because when you started to back off, her hand snaked around the back of your head and pushed you back in. You’d been doing all these fine, whispery things with your tongue but now you could tell she needed more, and then you were licking like crazy, your tongue like an eel, a wet slab coming down and in and over again and again, and you were drinking her up. Three fingers pushing in and just holding, firm against the wall of her vagina. And the second time, she let out a sob and her cunt squeezed your knuckles together hard enough to hurt, and then you could feel it, white light flooding in from all sides, filling her up, filling you up. You didn’t even have a body at all any more, there was just her, the light filling her, and you’d never felt that good. As if something that had been sleeping inside you since you were born woke up and said: I want that.
“Okay,” Sophie said a little later. “Stop. It’s midnight. We have to go.” She pushed herself up off the bed and flung her arms around your shoulders and kissed your cheek, her hard nipples pushing into your chest. “Thanks,” she breathed into your ear.
You both got dressed. Your whole body was buzzing, awake. You heard every rustle of cloth like a whisper telling you a secret. How weird to be after sex and not want to fall asleep. You wanted to go play football in the park or some shit. You noticed your dick — still rock hard — when you pushed it back into your underpants. Snapped your jeans shut over it. Kind of uncomfortable.
Sophie opened the door and slapped your ass. “Go get them,” she said, and giggled, deep in her throat.
You almost danced down the hall.
•
You had a bunch of flowers for Jill. Not roses, that might be too corny. Or, like, trying too hard. Just a bunch of yellow and orange flowers. You didn’t know what kind they were. You would think that would have been covered on the Program weekend sessions, what flowers to get a girl. Instead of all the crap about listening skills.
She was a little late to the restaurant. She’d picked it; it wasn’t a fancy place but it wasn’t a dive either. It was all raw wood panels and big wooden tables and the waiters had white smocks on, and practically all they served was like coffee, bread, and salad. But really good bread, deep brown and full of seeds and shit, the kind that steams when you break it open. You sat there at the end of one table with your glass of water, waiting for Jill to show, and you could smell the bread, a powerful thick wave of bread, coming from the ovens.
She was in a tank top and khaki shorts and army boots. Belly button showing, no bra, her mango breasts jiggling, the fabric snug around them. Petite. Her stomach wasn’t flat and severe like Sophie’s; she had a little low roundish hill of a tummy that suggested the hill of her cunt inside those baggy pants. She looked a little wary, like she was wondering if this was a good idea, but her face relaxed into confidence when she saw you, and she grinned. Her face — yeah, like Cindy Crawford, without the mole. Holy shit, what were you doing here? It was hard to believe that she smiled when she saw you. Hard to believe she was heading over to sit next to you.
She slid in next to you and waved the waiter over.
“Hi,” you said, “hey, uh, thanks for . . .”
“Oh, shut up,” she said, “don’t thank me. What are you thanking me for? Don’t thank me for being late to a date with you, that’s lame.”
You were going to say sorry, but you thought better of it.
She reached over and wrapped her hand around your bicep, and squeezed. “You’re looking good,” she said. “You lost weight in there.”
“Yeah, it’s weird, it’s not like I had any time to exercise or —”
She gave a grin of pure evil. You remembered the chair and you flushed red.
The waiter came and Jill said, “Just get us bread and salad, we’ll share. And a carafe of Merlot. We’re celebrating.”
“Eat quick,” she said to you when the food came.
She talked a lot, about school and politics. She had strong opinions about everything. She hated Bush and you could see her point. She’d liked Clinton and you’d thought he was full of shit. But you didn’t need weekend seminars to know to shut up about that on a first date. You listened and you watched her beautiful face move.
•
You held hands on the way back to Jill’s. It was just around the corner. Your whole body was humming. She pushed you into an alley and you kissed. Blood buzzing in your ears, the taste of bread and wine on her lips and tongue. Her breasts pushing against your chest. You grabbed her ass and she laughed and slipped away, pulling you out of the alley.
Jill winked at the doorman, a big black guy who looked like a linebacker and rolled his eyes like a drag queen. There was this old couple arguing in the elevator, so you didn’t kiss there.
Her apartment was a bedroom with a teddy bear on it and poster-sized black-and-white photos on the walls, a living room nook with a couch and a big window, and a kitchenette.
She shucked her tank top and her breasts bounced out. You wanted to touch them, but you just looked. It was like you could feel Sophie’s ghost holding you back, slowing you down. She ran her fingers over her breasts, lifted them up. She bent down and licked her own nipple, and looked at your reaction. She grinned.
You pulled off your shirt. You dropped your pants. You yanked your boxers from around your cock, which was standing at attention.
She grinned more.
She slid her pants and panties off together, and tossed them over the couch. Now all of the Upper West could see her bare ass if they looked in the window, but you guessed nobody who lives on the 20th floor worries about shit like that.
Her cunt was just as you imagined it, a low hill, thick black curly hair.
You kissed some more, your cock pushing against her stomach. It felt numb. But the warmth of your belly on hers felt good.
“Eat me,” she said, and she sat back on the couch. She was still wearing the army boots. You knelt down to it.
Your body faded away again into the background. Your moving tongue was the bridge between your mind and the body that was real: her sweat, her shudders, her hand knotted in your hair, pushing you in. She was louder than Sophie, rougher, her breath coming in jerks and grunts and hisses, her fist pulling at your hair. Like she was fighting, hips moving like a boxer’s. You slid your hands over her flanks, her thighs, and then you slid your thumbs in to stroke her pussy lips, and then to nudge her clit in slow circles.
“Oh!” she cried. “Oh!”
You wanted her to come. You wanted that flooding of white light, that delicious wave.
She pulled you back out of her cunt, by the hair.
“Um, hey. Please come,” you said. “I want to make you come.”
“No,” she said, and her eyes were wild, her chest heaving. “Not yet.”
She pushed you down onto the couch and pulled open a drawer on a side table. She rummaged around, fished out a condom, opened it with her teeth and slid it onto your cock. You gasped when she touched you — something was strange. Your cock felt too swollen, almost like you had to piss bad. But different. The condom felt like sandpaper going on, and you jerked away, but she followed with her hands and body, pushing it down, rolling it down until it touched your balls.
She took you by the balls and pulled you down onto the sofa again. “Ssh,” she said. “It’s okay. Ssh.”
She climbed up onto the sofa, onto you. Her goddamn amazing breasts brushed your nose. She put one knee on either side of you, straddling over you, her cunt hair brushing the tip of your penis. She took the shaft in her hand.
It was like your cock was sore, but sore from the inside out.
She slipped the head inside, pushing it into the dense warmth of her, squeezing it past the bands of muscle. It hurt.
“Hold on,” you gasped. “Jill — wait —”
“Ssh,” she said. She looked excited, like a kid opening birthday presents. “Gary. I know what I’m doing. Okay? I’ve popped cherries of Program guys before. It’s supposed to be like this.”
She plunged down onto you. Her cunt was like a hot fist. You bit off a scream.
“Yeah,” she breathed. “Don’t come. Focus on me, Gary. What am I feeling?” She put your hands on her breasts.
She rode you. It hurt. But beyond you, in her, pleasure was building. Her nipples ground against your palms and she groaned. Your cock felt like a throat, and her cunt was like hands crushing it, but at every stroke you could feel the waves of pleasure in her. You heard yourself moaning, but it was far away. She licked your neck and that felt good, suddenly warm and wet. Each time she plunged down on you, crushing your cock in that incredible grip, you squeezed her breasts and the nipples in your palms were like wires connecting you to the bliss in her head, the blood and power flooding through her.
You don’t know how long it was. A long time. “Oh YEAH,” she said, “oh YEAH, Gary, oh YEAH —”
She kissed you. That felt good.
“Wait,” you said when she broke the kiss, “stop —”
“How does it feel, honey?” she said, thrusting onto you again. “Does it hurt?”
The question pierced the numbness and you felt your cock again. Her cunt pulled back and it was like she was ripping it off your body. You screamed, and you felt the muscles of her pussy start to squeeze, squeeze, squeeze, felt her whole trunk shudder.
She threw her head back. “Oh!” she said. “Oh shit! Gary — gary —” she looked down at you. Like hungry woman at a slice of devil’s food cake. “Gary, come on three! One — two — three —”
You came on three and it was like fire, like blood spurting out of you. An agony so sudden and total you couldn’t breathe.
And then she was coming too, and the white light was there, flooding you, flooding you with peace, washing everything away. It was her body that was the center, her singing nerves, her roaring heart, her body hugging you close, and her cry. She bit your shoulder where it met your neck and you could feel it from her side, the pressure on her teeth, the taste of the lump of meat in her mouth. it felt good.
You slumped back on the couch and she lay on top of you.
“Ohhh . . .” she said.
You breathed. The soreness was gone. The white light was moving in you. You were dizzy.
“Now I get to say thank you,” she said, and giggled.
“Uhh . . .” you said. Then you laughed too. You didn’t know what else to do. You didn’t know what to think.
She swung off you and stood up, swaying a little, dizzy too. “I’ve got ice cream!” she announced, and went into the kitchenette.
You couldn’t move. She came in with Rocky Road and two spoons.
“Jill,” you said. “What was — I mean —?”
She dug out a scoop with one spoon. Her hair was kind of wild, a strand wiggling down over her nose. She was beautiful. She raised an eyebrow, questioning.
“I, uh, that hurt.”
She nodded, looking serious, ice cream sitting on her spoon. Her nipples were hard.
You started to laugh again.
“It gets better,” she said. “Trust me.” She climbed up on you, straddling your chest. Her scratchy pubic hair tickled you. Her cunt was still wet, sticky against your breastbone. Her breasts swung above you. An incredible hottie. Way out of your league. She put the spoon against your lips. “Are you sorry?”
You ate ice cream. You swallowed. “Uh . . . no. No.”
She took the next scoop in her mouth, and then she bent down onto you and kissed you, sliding the ice cream into your mouth. She reached up and put the ice cream carton on the side table.
“Can I eat you out again?” you said. “Until you come?”
She licked the spoon. “Oh yeah. Let’s move to the bed.”
•
The guys couldn’t stop talking about her — how the hell had you ended up with this piece of ass? They even asked right in front of her, over cans of Coors at the bar, the usual place, that place that girl had laughed at you, the second time you took her there. “No offense meant, but how the fuck does a guy like Gary —?”
She didn’t let on about the Program, she was a total sport. “Hey, he looks like a slob, but you know, Gary has certain talents . . .”
Hoots and slaps on the back, and the guys made some remarks, but she wasn’t offended, she just kidded them back. She could hold her own.
And you’d been afraid she’d look down her nose at the place, at your life — being an egghead and a Upper West Side rich girl and all — think it was scummy and blue collar. But she ate it up, played foozeball and drank Coors and watched the game on TV and laughed as loud as a guy. And god she looked good. Every other broad in the place was giving her the evil eye, and she liked that too, you could tell.
•
But she liked sleeping at her place better. Understandably. So you hustled down there on the train after work, and got up early to hustle out of there. Every place to eat around there was fucking expensive, and you sure as hell were not letting her pay for you — you didn’t even like to go dutch, really, because fuck, what the hell were you bringing to the relationship, certainly not the looks or the smarts. But it was only the second week, and maybe her paying half was her way of showing independence or whatever. There was something about that in the seminars. Anyway.
It still hurt to fuck, and she liked that it hurt.
You got to the uptown bar after work. She was dressed in a short dress, bright blue, all dolled up. It barely reached mid-thigh. She was talking to a couple of guys, and you hustled over. Feeling out of place in jeans and a sweater, even a nice sweater. She curled right around you and the yuppie guys with their expensive watches and bannker haircuts got the picture and wandered off.
You were sipping your first beer (somehow you weren’t drinking so fast or so much any more) and she nestled up against you and pulled your hand under her skirt and you felt bush. No panties, in that fucking miniskirt. You got hard. She put your hand back on the counter and she talked to the bartender and finished her drink.
Then she took you into the alley out back and fished your cock out.
“Jill —” you said.
“Ssh,” she said and straddled you. She was already wet. You went into her and it hurt, it hurt.
She took you. She rode you as long as she needed.
She came and the white light was there.
•
“So you said you’ve popped other guy’s cherries.”
She slurped up a noodle. Chinese takeout. Her living room nook. Her breasts bare in the moonlight. “Mmm-hmm . . .”
“So what, uh —”
“Hey!” she said sharply. “I don’t want to talk about past relationships. What a fucking buzz-killer that is.”
“All right,” you said.
She put down her noodles. “Come over here.”
•
You had to work late one night, fuckup with a delivery, not your fault but you were the one who had to dig up the archival paperwork and go figure it out. You called Jill and she went out with the girls from her study group. Some nights she wanted to go out with them alone, dish about guys. Maybe compare notes, which made your blood run a little cold. But, you know, fourth week of the relationship, that was alright, loosen up a little. Don’t be so fucking clingy.
You missed her.
Eleven o’ clock and the place was empty, you still weren’t done, and your email dinged. It was from Rhonda the HR lady saying to come to her office. She had an office at the edge of the cube farm, not a cube. The blinds were down.
You felt like maybe you shouldn’t go in, but that was kind of silly.
Rhonda got up from her chair. You’d always thought she was good-looking — she had these perfect put-together outfits, and her face was smooth and young desipte a streak of gray in her hair. But shit, she didn’t compare to Jill. Maybe she was going to come on to you and you could turn her down, serve her right for laughing at you behind your back. Subscribe to this, baby. On the other hand maybe you’d somehow gotten in shit with HR. Though you couldn’t imagine how.
“Close the door,” she said, so you did.
She looked uncomfortable. “So you did the Program, right?”
“Yeah,” you said sarcastically. What the fuck was this about? Did she think you were so hard up after the Program? Maybe she just wanted to hear about it.
“I’ve been, ah, reading up on it,” she said. She was blushing. She was always so cocky, it was weird to see her blush. “Guys react differently. Some . . .”
“Yeah?”
“Take off your shirt,” she said in a strained voice.
“Oh, this is bullshit,” you said, and you turned away to the door.
Rhonda sucked in her breath and there was a little tremor in it, like she’d been hit and she was going to cry. And that stopped you for a moment. And then you were thinking about that sound and what it would sound like, Rhonda coming. She had a lean, prim face, and you thought of all the looks you’d seen on it — irritated, bored, skeptical and vaguely amused, laughing with the other women. But what would it be like out of control — eyes squeezed shut and mouth open in an O, begging for more?
What the fuck were you thinking? You had Jill.
But, under the flourescent lights on the blank maroon carpet with your hand on the thin aluminum door handle, Jill seemed like a dream. Manhattan and Cindy Crawford. She’s just playing with you, man — and any minute now the joke will be up and ice cream on the 20th floor on the Upper West Side will vanish like smoke.
And Rhonda was here now, clearing her throat to call it all a joke or throw you out of her office, and there was still that tremor in it, like Rhonda was scared and uncertain, and that shouldn’t be — a woman shouldn’t be scared and uncertain around you, she should be happy, she should be on fire with joy. Rhonda was a vessel bearing her own portion of white light.
You turned around and started unbuttoning your shirt.
“Oh my god,” Rhonda said. #
“I can’t believe it,” Rhonda said. She raised herself up onto her elbows. She was on the desk, one foot on the swivelling chair, the other hooked over your back. She’d knocked a pile of papers off the desk. You leaned back, your face hot and wet from her cunt. You were kneeling on the floor and your knees hurt. “I can’t believe I did this.”
You said nothing. Your body was still tingling from the flood of white light. But your stomach felt sour. A scene was stuck in your mind like a video stuck in a loop — you show up at JIll’s. The doorman smiles and waves you in. JIll meets you at her apartment door with a grin. And you — what? Tell her and watch that smile disappear. Or don’t tell her and then what? Sitting around her place trying to grin back at her, nervous energy gripping you like a fist, your heart racing. Shit, shit, what had they done to you? You’d dogged girls and lied before, smooth as milk. But you couldn’t now. You were sure of that. Why not? Was it the Program or was it Jill? Was it love?
“And you don’t — you don’t need anything, right?” Rhonda said. “I don’t have to do anything for you?”
“Nope,” you said.
“And you won’t tell anyone about this?” Rhonda said. “Don’t tell anyone about this.”
“Nope.”
“Ohh, it felt so good.” Rhonda said. “How the hell did they teach you that? Guys can never do it like that.”
You said nothing.
“One more time,” Rhonda said. “One more time and I’ll let you go.”
•
“What. The. Hell.” Jill said.
“I’m telling you,” you said. “It’s something to do with the Program. I’m serious. Jill, I wouldn’t — Jill, I’m serious about you. I —”
“Oh shut the fuck up,” Jill said. Her hazel eyes blazing. “Stop whining. Don’t you dare blame it on the Program. All the Program did was make you tell me. Don’t even claim you wouldn’t have dogged me without the Program. I mean, under an absurdly hypothetical scenario where I’d be with you without the Program. Don’t even front.”
“Okay. Okay. But give me another chance — “
“Shit, why are you even begging? Do you think I care?”
“Jill, it won’t —”
“Shut up.” She opened a cabinet in the kitchenette and pulled out one shot glass and a bottle of Absolut. She poured, put down the bottle, and gulped the shot down. Then she screwed the cap on and put the bottle away. Then she paced, slowly, tracing the rim of the empty glass with her thumb.
You sat down on the couch, setting your coat down on the coffee table.
“I’m keeping you,” Jill said. “I’m fucking keeping you, all right? Because you’re too good. But, god damn it, I won’t be dogged. So this is an open relationship, as of now. I’m going to have other guys up here. Ones that haven’t done the Program, who still want it. You know?”
You looked at your feet, a slow burn of red spreading across your cheeks. It felt like the apartment had come loose from the building and was wobbling.
“Because I like that sometimes. Don’t get me wrong — I like you more. What I am really going to like is telling you about them.” She set the glass down on the counter. “Maybe more than that. We’ll see.” You looked up and she was looking at you, intensely, like trying to read something. Trying to see if something was enough. And it must not have been enough, because she still looked mad.
You were sick of yourself, of this fucking wimpiness. Maybe you should yell back at her. Or walk. But what were you going to head to? Channel-surfing on the threadbare green couch in your crappy house? Christ, you couldn’t even jack off. Hearing the guys say sympathetically, “fuck, we knew it couldn’t last, you and a chick like that.” Rhonda? Pretty clear what Rhonda wanted, and it didn’t include waking up for breakfast together.
Then she smiled, ferally. “Come in here,” she said.
You stood in front of her bathroom mirror and she opened your pants and fished your dick out. “Get hard,” she said, and blood flooded it, pushing it up like a searching finger into a straining, swollen erection. She opened the cabinet and took out a big scoop of Vaseline and smothered your cock with it, and you tried not to flinch back from her hand.
“Now jack off,” she said. “But don’t come.”
“Jill —” you said.
“I want to watch,” she said, and she sounded more eager, now, than mad.
You started stroking, gingerly, ribbons of discomfort slithering along your skin.
“Harder,” she said. “Like a man.”
And that fucking did it: the unease and regret in you was washed away in a tide of rage, and you yanked your hand down and up, down and up over your traitor cock, squeezing and mauling. Choking the chicken. Gritting your teeth against the fireworks of pain.
It was like mauling a broken bone. Little grunts and sobs of pain were coming out of you. And your cheeks were wet, but you weren’t crying. No. Fuck that. Just tearing up with agony and anger. You weren’t feeling sorry for anything. Maybe you felt safe. Maybe you just were Jill’s, and that was that.
She pulled a clear, pliant plastic dildo out of a drawer and slathered it with Vaseline. “I’ll give you something to make you feel better,” she said, and you thought, oh, thank god, she’s going to make herself come.
It was hard to look at yourself in the mirror, your red wet face, your clenched teeth. You closed your eyes.
“Even harder,” she whispered in your ear, and you hurt yourself.
You felt her cool hand on your throat. It felt good. “Now relax,” she said, and she was sliding her slippery finger over your anus. You clenched, and she paused, leaving it there. You forced yourself to relax, and then you lost yourself in the pain.
Then you felt the dildo pushing against your asshole, and you opened your eyes and cried out — a wordless shout. The tip was in, and though you clenched down, trying to drive it back, Jill braced herself with her hand against your throat and drove it in. It opened you up and was in you.
“Ahhhhh —” you cried.
“Keep your hand moving,” said Jill, and it moved.
She fucked you with the dildo and it felt good, and now you were crying. Christ. You were a faggot. This meant you were a faggot.
“Open your eyes,” said Jill. “And now come.”
Hot white liquid, and a sound like thunder, and darkness swept in from the edges of your vision and you felt Jill, far away, catching you, her arms around your chest, as your body left its footing.
•
You got out of there the next morning, when Jill was still asleep.
There was a little snow on the ground outside the clinic. You stood under a tree a little way from the guys with the signs, listening to them shout. They kept looking at you like they knew why you were there, like they were just waiting for you to come over and shout with them, but they knew you weren’t ready yet. A guy pulled up in a taxi, dressed in a suit, and sauntered by the protesters.
It was cold. You scuffed your boots, and rubbed your hands together.
You were late to work. What the hell were you going to say to Rhonda? Just not go near her.
You couldn’t seem to make yourself move to the subway.
“Hey! Hey you!”
It was three girls in a car at the curb. Not cute girls — kind of punk girls, angry clothes, blaring loud music. Cars were nosing around them.
“You in the blue jacket! Over here!”
You walked over to them. The driver and the one in the back were giggling. The other one leaned out of her window. A fat girl, maybe twenty, with a mohawk and square glasses. “Get in,” she said, daring you.
You reached for the door.
A woman’s thumb and fingers closed around your wrist, pulling you back.
Sophie.
“Gary? What are you doing?” Sophie said.
•
“Oh Gary,” Sophie said. “But why didn’t you come in for your one-week evaluation?”
“I didn’t know there was one,” you said.
“But didn’t you read the brochure? Didn’t — “ she sighed.
You put your face in your hands.
“It’s not supposed to be like that,” Sophie said. “Your sexual transference acclimation is overdetermining your sense of self-agency. I’m booking you today for an emergency readjustment. Stay, Gary. Just wait an hour or so in this room, okay? Until the lab techs are set up. We’ll fix this. We’ll make this better.”
“Okay,” you say.
She breathes a sigh of relief. “It’s my fault,” she says. “They told me never to say that, for liability reasons. But I let you slide through the exit exam. You just seemed so happy.” She shakes her head.
“Sophie,” you say. “Can we, uh — can we um — ?”
She grins shyly. “What?”
“Can we, just one last time, before they fix me, have sex?”
She frowns. “Gary. You don’t need to do that. We’ll do it afterwards. In a week. We’ll do a proper exit exam with all the trimmings.”
“No, this, this is for me. Just — you know.”
“Gary.” She swallowed. “I think that’s a bad idea.”
“I just want to say goodbye to it. To this way. With you.”
She pursed her lips, and there was a hint of a blush on her pale cheeks. “You’d have to sign a release form . . .”
You nodded.
She got up and took a clipboard and clipped a form and a pen to it. She turned around too fast, coming back, and knocked the doctor stool so that rolled over and slammed into the desk.
She handed you the clipboard. Then she shrugged off her lab coat.
• • •
appreciates all the peonies you have sent.
