I nod, but that doesn’t really mean agreement. I’m still processing. My head is in a haze as we wrap up the session, and I’m not entirely aware of my surroundings until later, when I find myself outside, walking back home.
My phone is vibrating insistently from my purse, and I dig it out to see three missed calls from my boyfriend, Julian—no voice messages, he hates leaving voice messages. I sigh. He only calls like this on those rare occasions when he’s not traveling for work and wants to meet for a night out. I’m exhausted from therapy. All I want to do right now is curl up on my couch in my ugly fluffy bathrobe, get delivery, and watch BBC documentaries narrated by David Attenborough.
I don’t want to call him back.
But I do.
“Hey, babe,” Julian answers.
I’m walking down the sidewalk alone, but I force a smile onto my face and enthusiasm into my voice. “Hi, Jules.”
“I heard good things about that new burger place by Market Square, so I made us a reservation at seven. Gonna try to make it to the gym, so I gotta go. Miss you. See you there,” he says quickly.
“What new burger pla—” I begin to ask, but then I realize that he’s already hung up. I’m talking to myself.
I guess I’m going out tonight.
TWO
Anna
Confession: I don’t like giving blow jobs.
That’s probably not a good thing to be thinking while I have my boyfriend’s dick in my mouth, but here we are.
Some women enjoy this act, and I figure their enjoyment drives them to excel at their craft. For me, however, it’s tiring, monotonous work, and I doubt I’m great at it. My mind often wanders while I’m down here.
For example, right now, I’m going over what Jennifer said in therapy earlier today. I’d like you to watch what you’re doing and saying, and if it’s something that doesn’t feel right and true to who you are, if it’s something that exhausts you or makes you unhappy, take a look at why you’re doing it. And if there isn’t a good reason . . . try not doing it.
As Julian guides my head up and down, I think about how my jaw aches and I’m tired of sucking—is he even concentrating? It’s been a long day, and after smiling and being bubbly for him throughout dinner, my endurance is shot. But I keep going. His pleasure is supposed to be my pleasure. It shouldn’t matter if it takes forever.
Please don’t take forever.
Naturally, this train of thought leads me to remember that line everyone’s mom tells them at some time during their youth: If you keep making that face, you’ll look like that forever. Ladies and gentlemen, if I’m going to be stuck with this sucking face for the rest of my life, you might as well kill me now.
He finally finishes, and I sit back, rubbing at the blower’s wrinkles around my
mouth. They’re set deep into my skin, and I know from experience that it’ll take several minutes for them to go away. My mouth is full, and I force myself to swallow, even though it makes me shudder. When we first started dating, Julian told me that it hurt his feelings when women didn’t swallow, that it made him feel rejected. As a result, I’ve probably swallowed gallons of his semen to safeguard his emotional well-being.
He kisses my temple—not my mouth. He refuses to kiss me on the mouth after I’ve gone down on him, and tonight I don’t mind. When he kissed me earlier, he tasted like a hamburger. Tucking himself back into his pants and zipping up, he flashes a smile at me, grabs the remote to turn the TV on, and rests against the headboard. He is the picture of relaxation and contentment.
I go to the bathroom and brush my teeth, making sure to thoroughly floss and use mouthwash. I don’t like the idea of having sperm stuck in between my teeth or wriggling on my tongue.
As I’m crawling back onto the bed to take up my regular spot next to him where I usually surf social media on my phone while he watches sitcoms, he pauses the TV and gives me a thoughtful look.
“I think we need to talk about the future,” he says. “About how we want to move forward.”
My heart jumps, and the fine hairs on my skin stand up. Is this . . . a proposal? Whatever excitement I feel at the prospect is outweighed by sheer terror. I’m not ready for marriage. I’m not ready for the changes that would bring. I’m barely handling the status quo.
“What do you mean?” I ask, making sure to keep my voice neutral so I don’t give away my ambivalence.
He reaches over and squeezes my hand affectionately. “You know how I feel about you, babe. We’re great together.”
I put on my best smile. “I think so, too.” My parents love him. His parents love me. We fit.
He caresses the back of my hand before sighting a bit of lint on my T-shirt, picking it off, and tossing it to the carpet. “I think you’re the one for me, the one I’m going to marry and have kids and a house with, all of that. But before we take that final step and settle down, I want to be sure.”
I don’t know where he’s going with this, but still, I smile and say, “Of course.”