“Hi!” God hates me. At least, more than usual.
“First off, I don’t pay a cell phone bill for you to turn the thing off.” Her folding grows more and more frantic. Socks are being balled at sound-barrier speeds. “And second, with how you’ve been acting the last couple of months, I would hope you understand that I’m a little concerned about you.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, putting my hands up in defense. “That was totally my bad.”
She finally stops folding and looks at me. “I know you have new friends, and I’m really happy for you, but you can’t leave me in the dark like this, okay? I spent most of the night thinking you were dead in a ditch. I almost called the cops.”
The venom shivers, but I ignore it. She’s right. “Again, sorry. I’ll call next time.”
“Okay,” she says, even though it’s obviously not. “So how was the party?”
“It was great. We danced and partied, and I got a tarot card from the group, which, like, makes me one of them now.”
“Sounds sort of like Lord of the Flies.”
The venom flickers out into my speech. “Yeah, we chased some fat kid around and chanted for his blood. It was killer.”
“Well, I’m glad you had a good time. So whose house did you sleep at?”
I’ve had this answer primed on my lips from the moment I walked into this apartment. “Randall’s.”
“Oh, did he meet up with you? He called here pretty late, looking for you.”
GodDAMMIT. Come on, Locke, recovery. “Yeah, we found each other.”
“Good. Don’t forget you have Dr. Yeski later today.”
“I had sex last night.”
FUCK. How’d that come out? All during my way here, I’d told myself that I wouldn’t bring this up in my session, that this was for Renée and me, no one else. And then it’s the first thing I say after I sit down. It’s been hard-I’ve wanted to scream it from the rooftops and sing it into the breeze.
Dr. Yeski nods thoughtfully, as if analyzing the concept of the idea of the notion of me getting busy. It’s like talking carnal pleasures with Professor X. “With whom?”
“With my girlfriend. Who else?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t have to be your girlfriend who you slept with.”
“But then I’d just be a scumbag.”
“No, you wouldn’t, you’d be imperfect. There’s a big difference, Locke.”
“I’d like to think that sleeping with someone else when you have a girlfriend makes you a scumbag as well as imperfect.”
“Well, that’s your opinion.”
“Yeah, it really is.” I start to pick at the arm of the couch, not quite sure what to say to that. Is this supposed to be a form of progressive new therapy, being okay with asshole behavior? It’s like a lack of warmth is a job requirement.
“Well. Anyway. There. I had sex with my girlfriend.”
“Was this your first time having sex?”
“Oh. Yeah. That’s sort of the point.”
“Uh-huh. How’d it make you feel?”
“Amazing.”
“What does that mean?”
How else is sex supposed to make you feel? “It means that orgasms create a pleasurable feeling that I’m sure is biological encouragement for reproduction-”
She laughs out loud, and I feel victorious. “Emotionally. Are you glad it happened? Was it what you had envisioned?”
This question I actually threw around in my head a few times. I mean, I love Renée and last night was incredible, but did it live up to my expectations? Sex had always been this looming, crucial thing in the background. Now that it was over, where do I stand?
Finally I look at her and smile. “Y’know what? I regret nothing about last night. It was perfect. It wasn’t at all how I envisioned it, but it was even better because of that. I feel like a million bucks.”
She smiles. “Good for you. But back to what you just said-how had you envisioned it?”
Tender area, that. “I mean…honestly? I had sort of envisioned it being really awkward and bad,” I say softly, throwing a little laugh in there to try and prove that this didn’t make me really fucking uncomfortable. “I thought that I’d be too nervous, and she’d get tired of me, and I wouldn’t be able to find…it, and-”
“The clitoris.”
GYAH. Come on, lady. “…yeah. And also, I always was afraid…” The tension builds, and it’s as though my jaw won’t work.
“I’m listening.”
I squeeze and shove until it pops like a mental zit. “I was afraid something would happen with the venom. That things wouldn’t work, and I’d get frustrated, and maybe even violent. I think it’s why I’ve always been kind of freaked out by sex, because I was scared it would open up some sort of gateway into the worst part of the venom, and someone would get hurt, and my pride would…well, you get the picture.”
“And what happened to it?”
“It disappeared the minute she touched me.” As I say it, it registers as real, true. “And when we were alone, it ceased to exist. Not just the feeling of it, but any memory of it. The venom didn’t matter.”
“Very good. I think we’re making progress,” she says softly.
“What, because the venom doesn’t show up during sex?”
“Well, sure.”
“What if it does?”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” She scribbles something on her notepad. “And how’s the venom now? How has it been lately?”
“I’m…it’s changing,” I say, trying to assign words to the whirlwind of emotions I’ve dealt with the past couple of weeks. “Recently, it’s been there constantly, this pestering voice in the back of my head, at all times. Like it’s becoming less and less localized. I don’t feel like I’m having as many attacks, but the poisonous side, the hurtful side, seems to have come up to the surface.”
“Mmm-hmm. How has that affected you?”
“Actually, it’s been sort of helpful. At times. It’s as though, when I get a little angry, instead of blowing up or just taking it and swallowing the anger, the venom takes over and makes me sort of…dangerous, you know? I feel risky and tough, but confident. Sharp. Does that make sense?”
She nods, cradling her chin. “The venom is, if I may, your Mr. Hyde. It can do things you can’t, go places you’re too scared to.”
“Not the analogy I’d use, but sure. Just, now it’s less of an explosion. Like it’s in my hands.”
“You sure about that?”
I eye her nervously. “Wow, what does that mean?”
“From what I’ve seen, you’re coming to terms with your anger,” she says, scribbling another note. “Whether or not you’re in control of it is an entirely different issue all together.”
“You make it sound really terrifying.”
“No,” she says in her stupid fucking shrink voice. “I’m expressing my opinion. If it’s terrifying, then you’re the one who’s making it so.”
Dr. Yeski’s full of shit. The next couple of weeks are a blur of happiness.
School is wonderful. Andrew leaves me alone and Randall seems like an even better friend than before, now that I’m part of the tarot (which is a little fucked-up, but I’m too ecstatic to care). Occasionally, when we go walking or go downtown, someone recognizes me as the new member and talks to me, makes me feel magical and important. Randall just acts as if it’s all old, if pleasant, news. He’s used to this kind of reception almost wherever he goes. For me, this is Shangri-la and Hollywood rolled into one. I feel like Madonna.
I am, as it turns out, a love machine. Renée and I spend more time having sex than we do eating. Whenever I see her for the first time that day and kiss, we both get a look in our eyes of pure hunger. She starts wearing clothes when I come over that I know are put on for the sole purpose of making me hot under the boxers-fishnet shirts, bondage skirts, low-cut pants, bras with studded straps. New concepts and practices enter my mental library, positions and sweet spots and condom brands. The best part is the reciprocation: I don’t just want her, we want each other. There’s energy in the air when we’re together-fiery, passionate, horny energy. It’s incredible to be in love with this girl, but it’s even more incredible to know that she wants me, wants my smell and my skin, wants my sweat and my hair and my butt. That’s a weird concept: a girl liking my butt. How the fuck does this happen?