“I don’t know what to do,” she’d told Tricia, staring at the red cylinder in her hand. Three shiny metal bumps adorned one end, the other was a twist cap with ON and OFF in white print. In the middle, in exaggerated comic-booky text, the words Pocket Rocket, a zigzag below was probably meant to resemble lightning.
Tricia had pursed her lips. “When you get home, light a candle, lock your door, lie down on your bed.” She’d twisted the bottom of the rocket.
The intensity of the vibrations had surprised Jennifer and she’d almost dropped it. The buzz it emitted echoed off the walls. She’d reflexively glanced at the bottom of the stalls next to them, but it seemed they were alone.
“Turn it on like that, then press it here.” Tricia poked at the fly of Jennifer’s jeans, about two thirds of the way up. The poke was only for a second, but tingles had shuddered up Jennifer’s spine.
Sitting in front of the closet, Jennifer held up her prize, the words Pocket Rocket long since worn away to just a pair of CKs and some faux lightning, but the red translucent plastic was still bright. She twisted it. Nothing. She replaced the battery with one from the Crown Royal bag and tried again. This time, the vibrator snapped to life.
In her hand, this device felt so powerful, like it could make her entire body vibrate. She watched the metal balls on the top go from well-defined bumps to shuddering haziness. She felt the familiar throb, pulled the turquoise waistband of her yoga pants down, pulled her panties aside, and pressed her old and neglected friend, the Pocket Rocket, against her clitoris.
She came moments later, barely having had time to fantasize about Bruce Shepard offering her another glass of wine.
The second orgasm took longer, and this time the fantasy surprised Jennifer by involving her old friend Tricia in a supporting role.
14
As the garage door slid closed behind him, Ryan stood at the door to the house, immobile, hand on the knob, not turning. She wouldn’t understand. She’d blame herself. She’d blame him, too. He gulped. His meeting in the city had passed as though it were happening to someone else. He’d said nothing unless spoken to. He’d met no eyes, his own focused on the table, somewhere just below eye line.
To his coworkers, and surely to Brent giving the presentation, he must have looked completely checked out. Ryan’s mind had been racing, however, turning over scenarios, examining and reexamining his sexual history. He had opportunity to reexamine it many times, since it only encompassed a single other person. Only a single act, in fact.
Should he feel it’d been enough, a summer of hand jobs from a sweet girl who was unwilling to let him reciprocate?
During the meeting, while everybody else had been trying to wrap their heads around, first, why it was so important that they all be there on a Saturday, and second, who they could blame for the fact they were about to miss their prototyping deadline, Ryan had taken a tour through his adult sexual life. From his first discoveries that rubbing himself against a pillow felt really good, to stopping after “felt really good” also included an explosive finish on the pillow cases, to those furtive hand jobs from Lauren Castelletti behind the barn on their lake house property, through the first experiences with Jennifer, the first penetrative act, the first time they explored anal, to… well, that really was the end of firsts, wasn’t it?
Firsts. Ryan signed. I miss enthusiastic exploration.
They’d explored BDSM at one point, after Jennifer had been recommended the movie Secretary. The movie was hot, but their attempts in both roles dissolved into laughter, apologies, and accidental rather than purposeful bruises. He’d figured out in his meeting, while others were also problem solving, that he needed the exploration, the firsts. But experiencing firsts again really meant involving others, didn’t it?
Sure, firsts could include roleplaying and varying their sexual repertoire, but no matter how much they did that, it was unlikely to quench the deep-down desire, the deep-down need, and it couldn’t change the fact that, “I’ve only ever had sex with one person,” Ryan whispered to the door, “I don’t know what I’m missing.”
Telling the door wouldn’t do any good. Telling himself wouldn’t do any good. The entire conversations he’d held with his passenger seat on the way back from the city had been nothing but preparation. Jennifer’s car was in the driveway, it followed he’d find Jennifer in the house. Jennifer who needed to know, needed to be told these things.
On a rare occasion when he’d actually offered Ryan and Jennifer insight instead of just receiving and processing, Dr. Petrillo had told them, “One of the greatest temptations and greatest dangers, simultaneously, is not telling our partner something because we’re worried about hurting them. We’re protecting them, shielding them from pain. Pain that we’re accepting on their behalf. Pain that can become a cancer.”
“’We must learn to communicate, to reveal ourselves,’” Ryan finished, turning the doorknob and stepping into their laundry room. He took a long slow breath, closed his eyes, and walked up to the second floor. The scent of their fireplace filled his nose. He heard the crackling as he neared. She’ll be devastated. He held for a moment before walking in, hands in pocket.
“So, I was, um—” he began, not looking up from his feet.
“I want to see what it’d be like to have sex with other people,” she said, interrupting.
Ryan paused. He heard the statement replay in his head. He felt it bouncing around in his chest. Feelings of jealousy and failure, he wasn’t worthy, he wasn’t enough. He frowned. The bouncing slowed as he calibrated his mind to this new information. Hadn’t he been about to walk in and say this very same thing? Wasn’t this what his entire day had been about? How often, he wondered, did a couple come to this realization at the same moment?
He finally did look up at her. She stared down into her lap, hands folded, sitting on the center cushion of their hunter green couch. He saw the anguish and immediately empathized. The same anguish had kept him in the garage for almost ten minutes.
He opened his mouth to share, but without looking up, she continued. “I don’t want to get divorced.”
“I don’t either,” he said.
“So I figured, well, there’s always swinging.”
Now she did meet his eyes, hers watery.
“So, drinks?” he offered after a moment.
She pointed to the sidebar, where she’d already opened a bottle of Malbec and overfilled their two largest wine glasses.
“Perfect.”
They sat side by side on the couch for a while, the fireplace crackling next to them. The blue glow of the fading day cast the only other light. Ryan’s arm lay across the back of the couch, Jennifer nestled beneath it. They’d each finished their first glass of wine, and Ryan refilled their glasses with his unoccupied hand before the discussion resumed.
“I’m happy,” said Jennifer.
“Me too,” said Ryan.
Neither sounded defensive on that subject. In the past they had, so this felt like at least the bare minimum of progress.
“We’re just not quite right,” she said. “In that department.”
“The sex.”
“The sex.”
“It should be fun,” he suggested. “We should want to do—”
“But we don’t.”
Ryan sipped his wine, letting the rich flavor swirl around his mouth before swallowing. “We haven’t tried things.”
“We’ve had such limited experience. Together and separately.” She looked up at him. “And Dr. Petrillo’s wisdom didn’t really help because we’re inexperienced. I mean how are we supposed to really know what we like, if we’ve only had sex with each other?”