My Freudian Nightmare
My First Love
His name was Billy and he was twelve years old. I was ten. Twelve was mature, practically adult. He had blue eyes, dark hair and freckles, or maybe he didn't. The memory is a blur.
Actually, his name probably wasn't Billy. Maybe it was Tom? I can't remember the name of my personal trainer or the lawyer who administered my father's estate so Billy will have to do. Weren't they all called Billy?
Billy wanted to see what was under my t-shirt. I thought he was cute so I said I'd show him. He followed me behind the outside toilet block, hidden from the view of the playground. I made Trixi and Michelle stand guard but in truth they were probably watching. I lifted the front of my t-shirt and showed him my chest. I didn't really get it. I had a nothing to see except skin and a couple of sticky-out pink bits. There were girls my age with actual boobs and I couldn't figure out why Billy was looking at my chest and not theirs.
He took a long look, eyes wide. I counted to five and then covered myself up. "You wanna see more, it'll cost you," I told him.
"How much?" he said.
"A dollar."
"Aw, Jordan, I ain't got a dollar." He put his hands in his pockets and looked down at the holes in his Chuck Taylors.
I felt sorry for him. "How much have you got?"
He showed me a quarter. I took it and gave him another brief look at my chest.
He said, "Hey! I didn't see anything!" and grabbed my t-shirt, stretching it out in front of me like a tent. I balled my hands into fists and punched him in the cheekbone. I screamed and ran back to the playground.
It didn't get any better after that.
My First Time
My first time was in college. I had opportunities in high school. I had a date for the prom and a boyfriend with a car. My mother was strict but she focused her attention on my brother, who was quickly turning into a motorcycle riding, drinking and smoking loser with a Polaroid camera. What's the fun in doing something your parents won't approve of if they don't notice?
So it happened it like this: a boyfriend, his dorm room, the vague smell of dirty laundry and gym shoes in the air.
"Okay," I said. "Let's get it over with." He was either too horny or too dumb to be insulted.
It hurt like hell and involved more body fluids than could possibly be hygienic. I felt cheated. I ditched the boyfriend the next day, only I forgot to tell him about it so he kept calling and coming by my room. "Tell him I'm out," I told my roommate.
"What did he do to you?" she said.
"He fucked my sister."
"You don't have a sister."
"You got me - he fucked my brother. It's a family shame. We don't like to talk about it."
She didn't believe me. "You're weird, Jordan."
Yeah. No shit.
The boyfriend cornered me outside class. He said, "This is not how it's supposed to go, Jordan. You're not supposed to be the one that doesn't call."
I wondered how someone that stupid made it to college. I think he even graduated.
My Sex Life
There was the one with the Ferrari, the one with the PhD in Biotechnology, the one with the house in Provence and the one in Turkey who pretended to be my husband. There was my father's PA, two of my brother's friends, the pest-inspector who checked our foundations for termites and the counter boy at the hospital café who called himself a 'barista.'
There was one who told me perverted stories while we screwed, which was kind of a turn-on but mostly creepy. There was another one who hid a camera in his room. I caught sight of a blinking, red light in his laundry basket as he was manoeuvring me toward the bed. The camera ended up in pieces on the floor.
There was the one who put so much cocaine up his nose we only did it twice in the entire six months we were together. I think I liked him best.
There was the girl sitting on the fountain outside Buckingham Palace who asked if I could take her picture while she posed all model-like. She was Dutch; from the town where they make Heineken so she claimed to know a lot about beer. We had several in a bar across the street from the British Museum.
Later we went to my hotel room and she put her hands on my thighs and her tongue between my legs. She knew exactly when to push and when to tease and she knew how to draw my climax out until I was swearing at her in English and Dutch and a few languages neither of us spoke.
Afterwards she smoked in bed. She looked like a forties film star so I put up with the stink. "Women are better," she said. "They know what you want."
I told her that might be true but no one chooses what's best for them. Isn't love all about fucking up and regretting it afterwards?
"I like you, Jordan," she said. "You have - balls."
And that made a whole world of sense.
My Proposal
"So what do you think?"
"About what?"
"The greenback. It's taking a heck of a beating against the yen, but then those Japanese pulled off Pearl Harbor without anyone catching a whiff. Who's to say they're not buying out the Dow Jones as we speak? Have we learned nothing from history?"
We're making out in the residents' locker room of dad's hospital. Perry only monologues when he's stressing about something so I guess I should ask him what's on his mind. "Get to the point, Perry, I have a meeting and if I have to listen to Dr Kelso kiss my ass for the next thirty minutes I'm going to need an orgasm."
"Jesus Horatio Christ, Jordan, I'm trying to propose.
I step back and adjust my shirt. "How romantic."
"I - I have a ring..." He searches his pockets and pulls out a box. He really does have a ring. He gives me the box without opening it. "It's - uh - family heirloom."
I open the box. It's beautiful. Handcrafted, of course, single diamond. Decent size. I close the box. "It's nice."
He actually looks relieved. "So what do you think?"
I think only an idiot would marry Perry Cox. He's all talent and no ambition. He makes enemies of people he's yet to meet. The Board hates him. My mother hates him. On the upside, my brother loves him and my mother thinks my brother is Jesus. It could be worse. "Sure, okay." He gets all excited and kisses me. I put his hand under my skirt. "Orgasm. Now."
"Yes, ma'am," he says.
My Lesbian Affair
She's wearing a white pants suit. The light in the bar is low but I'd wager to say there's not a mark on it. It's unnatural.
I'm trying to enjoy a cosmopolitan in peace. "I'm sorry," I say. "Did you say something?"
"I said, 'hello again.' We met earlier - at the hospital."
She's right. We met at the conference. Her partner was a speaker. His name is 'House' which I remember because it was pinned to his jacket. She wasn't attending the conference so her name wasn't displayed anywhere. She has her hair down today.
"I don't remember your name," I say. "Don't take it personally. I probably didn't find you interesting enough to commit to memory."
"Stacy," she says. "No offence taken."
House is Perry's new boyfriend. I caught them exchanging endearments at the mixer. At first I thought he was some sucker caught in one of Perry's rants, but then I saw the cane, and the smug indifference and the way he stuck around for Perry's insults when any sane person would have left him for the crab puffs. Perry had found a soul mate.
House said giving a paper at the conference didn't mean he had an obligation to care what other doctors thought and Perry's ears went from red to purple. I figured I should step in before Perry got into a fight with a cripple. Ms White Pants Suit showed up at the same time. There were vague introductions and hasty retreats. I recall thinking House knew how to make a cane look threatening.
"Your boyfriend's an ass."
"So is your husband," she says.
"We're divorced."
"He called you his 'wife.'"
"He likes to insult me in public. It makes him feel better about the settlement."
"Jordan Sullivan, right?"
I hate people who remember names. "Like it matters." I go back to my cosmopolitan. Ms White Pants Suit is unfazed. She takes the seat next to me, orders scotch on ice.
"What are you doing here?"
I met my mother for dinner. My mother drives me to drink. "Researching my family tree. I think I'm adopted."
"Uh huh," she says warily. There's an awkward silence. "We're staying at the hotel next door."
"You and Dr Cane?"
She nods. "He's watching porn in his room."
He really should hook up with Perry. Ms White Pants Suit looks like she goes out on her own a lot. I look at my empty glass. "I'll have a cosmopolitan."
"Excuse me?"
"If I'm going to listen to your relationship problems the least you can do is buy me a drink."
She waves the bartender over. "I'll buy you a drink," she says. "And who said I had relationship problems?"
"Nobody." The bartender places my cosmopolitan on the bar in front of me. "Not yet anyway."
She sighs loudly, swirls the ice in her drink. "We're supposed to be working it out." She smiles wryly. "We're not so good at working things out."
"Really?"
"You think I'm naïve."
"You're wearing a white suit."
"I know a good dry-cleaner."
I turn my seat toward her. "You know, I'm sure Dr Cane really loves you, and if you hang on and show him how much you care despite the disaster he's made of your relationship, he'll realise what you mean to him and everything will be just like it was in those first six months you were together when you wore his t-shirts and he called you 'sex-kitten.'"
She sips her scotch thoughtfully. "You don't like to bond, do you?"
She looks me in the eye and I suddenly realise she's after more than girl-talk. She licks the scotch from her lips and raises her eyebrows in an unvoiced question. Ms White Pants Suit wants a walk on the wild side. You want to bond?" I lean into her personal space, lower my voice to a whisper. "I can make a phone call and get us a room upstairs. My card. No questions asked." I finish my cosmopolitan, put it down intently on the bar.
She doesn't think twice. She stands, tucks her purse under her arm. "Let's go."
Stacy isn't patient. We're barely inside the door and she has me up against the wall, kissing, grabbing at my clothes, knee between my legs. Up close she smells like Shalimar and scotch.
I don't like being lead around so I push her away. "Bed," I tell her.
She doesn't mind following instructions so she nods and backs toward the bed, sits down. She takes off her white suit jacket. "Jordan Sullivan likes to be in charge," she says. She undoes her pants and slides them off. "Who would have guessed?"
"If I wanted to do it with a shrink I'd still be in therapy." I unbutton my blouse. Stacy strips down to her underwear. Light blue. Pretty. I'm wearing black. She gives me a look that says she isn't surprised.
I like lingerie so I tell her to leave it on. It looks expensive so I think it's only fair that I appreciate it.
I slip her straps over her shoulders and down her arms so her breasts are exposed. They're pretty too. No augmentations, no tan lines, no stretch marks or stray hair. Naturally beautiful. She probably wakes up like this. She probably has birds fetch her clothing and dwarves waving goodbye at the gate
I push the panties aside and fuck her with my fingers. I slide my tongue from her breast to her navel, down the curve of her hip and between her legs. She says my name when she comes.
Later she pins me up against the headboard, wrests me free of my underwear and pushes my legs wide apart. She pushes fingers inside me, bends them and twists so it hurts just enough to make me grip the bed covers in my fists.
She says, "They don't ever do it right, do they?" and she twists another finger in. I spread my legs wider, like that helps. Stacy gets in my face. "They don't do it the way you want, do they Jordan?"
I like my sex less profound. "You talk too much," I say. I reach for my clit. It's time I came already.
She grabs my wrist. "Not yet."
She twists her hand a little and works her thumb in. Her grip on my wrist loosens and I slide my hand into hers and squeeze. "Fuck," I say, letting my breath out. She's tearing me apart.
She manoeuvres her hand further inside and my muscles clench around her. It hurts and it burns and it feels like screaming, loud and long and breathless. Stacy moves down the bed and puts her tongue between my legs. I'm gone in seconds.
Afterwards, she uses the shower to wash me away. She wraps herself in a white towel, hair wet on the ends. I open the mini-bar and pour myself tequila neat. I don't bother getting dressed.
"Are you staying?" she says.
"Don't be ridiculous," I say. "This place is a dump."
She gets dressed, white pants, while camisole, navy blue blouse. "It looks better than my place."
"Looks can be deceiving." She raises her eyebrows at me. I roll my eyes. "Oh please."
She shrugs. "You're more complicated than you think you are."
"Well, you've known me for at least two hours so you would know."
"It's been fun, Jordan," she says. "We should do this again."
I think, never in a million years, but I see her at the conference the next day and she slips me the number of her cell. I call her because I can't think of a good reason not to. We meet at a different hotel this time. Her choice.
"This one's nicer," she says, as the elevator doors close.
"Sure it is," I say.
She fucks me the same way, inserting one finger at a time until she's all the way inside. I get more confident the second time and I ride her hand, pushing back as she pushes inside.
The day after I book a room at a sleazy motel on the outskirts of town. The room overlooks an empty swimming pool, and a weed stricken lawn.
"This more your style?" she says, clearly amused.
"I like it dirty," I say.
She undresses quickly. No white suit this time. "Would it help if I left a hundred on the dresser?"
"Let's find out," I say. I pull her down onto the mattress and pin her face down beneath me. I leave her in her underwear again; push the panties into the crease of her ass so that I can slide my fingers inside her. She stops me at four. "You can't take what you give out," I say to her afterwards.
"I come just fine without it."
"So do I."
"I don't hear you telling me to stop."
I don't want her to stop. We're nothing alike, her and I.
On the last night of the conference there's a dinner. Perry gets drunk and accuses Dr Soon To Be Stacy's Ex of over-compensating for his injury by being purposely obtuse.
"Do you think they're fucking?" Stacy says. She and Dr House are seated at my table. She slides into the seat next to me.
"Perry's not that interesting," I say.
I call Perry a cab. Stacy calls an hour later from the lobby of her hotel. "One last time?" she says. Why the fuck not?
It's a hotel. Nothing more. It has modest furniture and clean bathrooms. No porn channel and no fine dining; mints on the towels and white linen.
"We stayed here last year," Stacy says. "Greg's choice."
"I understand," I say. "Happy memories."
"Not particularly," she says. "I chose it for the frame." She nods toward the bed head. It's a metal frame, coated in white enamel, two bars across the head. Stacy pulls hosiery from her purse. "Believe me," she says. "You'll like this one."
It occurs to me that Ms White Pants Suit wants to tie me to the bed.
"No handcuffs?" I say. "Let me guess, Dr Cane keeps them under his pillow. They remind him of happier times."
She steps toward me, unfastens the buttons on my blouse. "You're taking too long," she says.
I let her. "Frankly, I'm surprised," I say. "I mean, why restrain him? He can't go far with that leg." I shrug. "But what do I know. Maybe Dr Cane likes being told what to do. Maybe he calls you 'mommy?'"
"Shut up," she says, and she kisses me.
I let her tie me to the bed frame. She leaves her underwear on again. It's pale pink this time, hardly dominatrix style, but it's not like she's role-playing. She fucks me the way she has for the last three days: same slow twisting and turning until she gets a hand inside me, same unreadable look on her face.
The hose is different. My wrists pull on the nylon, cutting my blood supply and making my hands tingle. I struggle against the bonds, try to free myself without knowing why. It's probably instinctual, or that's what I tell myself. My legs are spread from one side of the bed to the other and I've never been so uncomfortable during sex in my life. Naturally, I explode when I come, spots prickling my vision, words I've never said spilling from my mouth like a waterfall.
Stacy looks proud of herself. "Congratulations," I tell her. "You've proved my power exterior is a façade and I'm just like every other Barbie doll who wants her limbs arranged so she doesn't have to think."
"In that case, my work here is done," she says. I scowl. She rolls her eyes. "Oh please, Jordan, I don't care why you want what you want. Although in my experience no one likes being in control all the time. It's doesn't make you disturbed, it makes you human."
"Now can you tell me why mommy never loved me and why my ex-husband reminds me of my father?"
She swings her legs over the side of the bed, takes a towel into the bathroom. I mix the vodka with tequila; add a little club soda.
She gets out of the shower and pats herself dry in front of me, like she thinks I'll appreciate it. Sadly, I do.
"It's been fun, " she says. "If you're ever in New Jersey..."
"I'll check the local S & M chapter," I say.
"Or you could call me." She leans forward and kisses me on the cheek, just to the side of my mouth. "You're beautiful, Jordan. I'd like to see you again."
I'd like to see her again too. I scowl into my drink.
My Second Time Around
"I've had women," I tell him.
He leaps off the couch and does something resembling a rain dance around the living room.
"For the love of Martina Navaratilova, Jordan, tell me you're not joking?"
I shrug. "It's no big deal."
He puts his fist in his mouth and bites.
I roll my eyes. "Oh come on, Perry - everyone experiments. You mean to tell me you and your little protégé haven't eyed each other's private bits in the locker room?"
He goes all red in the face. "Jordan, that's not funny."
"Sure it is." I hold out my glass for a refill. He pours scotch for him, cranberry juice for me. "Men, women - it's all the same. Oh, there's a lot more underwear involved. Lace, usually."
His eyes go wide. "Lace?" He plants himself back on the couch. Listens like a six year old getting the 'where do I come from' story.
"Matching underwear, breasts, manicures. Make-up sometimes. But other than that, exactly the same."
"B - breasts?"
"Perry, drooling is not a good look for you."
"Come on, Jordan. You tell me you and Melissa Etheridge have more in common that a penchant for Brad Pitt and you expect me to leave it alone?"
"Ugh." I sigh. "Fine. Remember Dr House? The diagnostics specialist with the cane? The one you had a big crush on? I had sex with his partner."
He bites down on his lip and makes an "mmph" noise. "Okay," he says when he regains speech. "First of all, I did not have a crush on him, and second - mmmph!"
"I knew I could trust you to be mature about this."
He puts on his serious face. "Honey, if you ever feel you're not satisfied with our relationship and you want to explore your horizons again, I will support you. In fact, I'll be right there for you."
"Gee, Perry, that's not what you told me when I said Dr Norris had buns that could crack a walnut."
"That's different."
"It's really not. And if I ever catch you in bed with your little fan-boy I'll be curious for a whole ten seconds before I break your face. Don't think having a lesbian lover makes me open minded." He presses his lips together like he's holding something in. "Oh for god's sake, say it before you burst a blood vessel."
"Lace, Jordan. Lace!" He throws his hands up in frustration. "Can't you at least tell me the colour?"
Somewhere in New Jersey Stacy is putting on pale blue panties under her white suit. She'd laugh at me right now: all knocked up and domestic. I wonder if she ever told House but mostly I wonder why someone that smart and attractive still can't get what she wants. They say it all goes back to our parents but that means Perry and I are destined to have a child even more fucked up than we are. How is that fair?
"If I tell you will you go to the store for ice-cream?"
Perry bounces. "Anything you want, baby."
I sigh and lean into my hand. "I just want ice-cream," I say.