The Big "O": A Romantic Comedy (18 page)

He stuck his tongue out and tried to force himself to tongue the thing but the smell, colors, and texture of the stretchy thing totally turned him off. The more he looked at the thing, the more it resembled a mutant stretch doll and he felt that if he got too close to it he might enter an episode of
The Twilight Zone
. He told himself that he didn't know where the thing had been. Maybe the thing was toxic. It wasn't fucking organic, that was for sure.

Two days later, Emily sat at her home office desk cold-calling book clubs in the Midwest. Historically they had done very, very well with that demographic. She was ecstatic to be able to book several Skype interviews with groups, each of whom wanted to preorder books for their club.

Things had been quiet between Max and herself, so she'd been able to get into a groove and make terrific work progress.

She spent hours calendaring meetings, emailing .PDF book order forms and links to buy the books online at a discount, if the clubs could meet the minimum bulk order established by the publisher, and handling other details.

In between, she had cups of tea, paused to re-energize by doing sit-ups, and did her social networking, including checking in on a free book giveaway that was in-progress, uploading pictures and interesting financial quotes, and so forth.

By the time she needed to leave to pick up her child from his preschool, she felt like she'd accomplished tons. Emily noticed that they now had more than a hundred thousand followers on most of their social networks. She updated her spreadsheets.

Their fresh take on personal finance was paying off. Every so often she made a video, often holding their child or going about a household task, and live streamed it or captured and edited it later and then posted it. She almost couldn't believe the difference that social networking was having.

Every day she fielded calls from people who wanted one-off personal finance consults. She and Max were doing coaching sessions and consulting two full days each week now. He had to have noticed that they were more and more booked up.

He did the consults with her but didn't mention anything about their increasing fans, clients, and income. No matter, she decided, though it did hurt her feelings a bit that he seemed oblivious to her efforts and the resultant payoffs.

She had also put a .PDF of the first chapter of 'Ka-Ching!', their first book online, and noticed that had significantly bumped print sales. Apparently, not everyone was into using an eReader or related app.

She made a quick call to Isis as she drove to get little Max. They were both bubbling over with excitement about all of their accomplishments. They agreed to meet in a few days for a power walk. Emily felt her old self-confidence and joy in life and it felt great.

Emily picked up her little guy. She let his teacher know that, even though she was aware that she was holding up the pick-up line and other parents were sending evil thoughts toward her, hating her for delaying their schedules, little Max was having his IQ tested.

The teacher was thrilled. She had expressed concerns that the preschool might not be the perfect place for their son.

At first Emily misunderstood.

She thought that her child was doing something that he shouldn't at school. It only took her a moment to realize that the woman felt that the preschool was inadequate for his intelligence and wouldn't stimulate him appropriately.

Emily had agreed to meet Juliette at the university psychology lab.

She dreaded seeing her husband, was irritated by how he'd take this all personally, and would likely turn whatever they discovered about their son into a negative, but she knew that she had to include him.

He knew about the appointment but she was grateful that he was actually standing outside of their home, dressed appropriately, and ready to go when she got there. She got into the passenger seat and let him drive.

Closing her eyes, she tried to meditate on the way over, not that she knew how. Focus on your breath, she told herself. Think happy thoughts.

My husband is not a lying, cheating asshole, she told herself. He wouldn't do that to me. That's not a happy thought, some other part of her mind offered up. Emily opened her eyes and gave up on meditating.

His money made for the day, Victor mentally geared himself up to go back down into his mancave. It was time to get to work.

He went downstairs into the basement and opened an old storage closet. He rummaged around inside and found an old TV/VCR combo and plugged it in. He carefully pumped up the sex doll and wiped her off, repeatedly, totally phobic about germs, with multiple antiseptic wipes. Sure, it was new, but you couldn't be too careful. What if quality control touched this thing?

The thing was brand new but somebody had to have touched it to pack it for mailing.

The thought of somebody's germs on the sex doll gave him the fucking heebie-jeebies. Then he attempted to practice cunnilingus on the voice-emitting sex doll as he watched a how-to perform cunnilingus video.

At first he barely got his lips and tongue near the doll. Then, feeling more secure, he went in for the kill. He licked like he was attempting to redeem his soul.

Right when the felt like he was making progress, the doll moaned loudly in a bizarro mechanical way and then rapidly began to deflate. Fuck! Victor screamed.

Victor immediately silenced the TV/VCR combo but apparently Juliette hadn't heard a thing.

He looked at his watch and realized that his wife had probably already left for the lab.

Irritated, what an expensive piece of crap the stupid anatomically correct voice emitting sex doll had turned out to be, Victor grabbed the thing up and shoved it into a box.

He looked down at the doll. Her red gash of painted-on lipstick mouth was frightening.

It wasn't good for you?” he said and tilted his head as if he were listening.

“For your information, we've hit a little rough patch, because I just figured out what a fake bitch you are,” he replied as if responding to some comment which the doll had just made. He looked down at the ugly thing.

He narrowed his eyes. He felt like the doll was mocking him, telling him that he was shit in the sack and that, inevitably, his intelligent, truly beautiful, interesting wife, would definitely leave him for some dude who could perform.

“Oh, really? Well, you're a fucking rubber sex doll, anyway... and your cunt is dry plastic,” he added meanly, and with finality, as if trying to hurt the doll's feelings.

Jaysus, I'm fucking losing it he realized. Talking to a sex toy. He flopped back on the couch, exhausted. It's crazy, he thought. How can practicing sex, something pleasurable, ideally an awesome experience, be so damned tiring?

But it was, his shoulders felt tight, his neck and back ached; even his tongue felt bruised and tired.

But maybe it was the stress of all the fake sex with stuff.

The obnoxious and unappetizing intimacy with rubber or plastic, synthetic, inorganic, imported sex toy crap.

It wasn't like real sex, with his warm, soft, sweet-smelling, wonderful wife.

Plus, he decided, nobody could perform well for that doll; she was a real bitch.

He laughed. Okay, he decided. Enough practice already. Back to theory.

Then, Victor, recovered from the trauma of the ruptured bitch of a doll, went upstairs and grabbed a pitcher of iced green tea, a bag of his favorite flavor of chips, sourcream and onion, and took them down to the basement. After a quick snack break, he studied the text and images from the
The Illustrated Kama Sutra
and
a History of Sex
until he was overwhelmed.

Then, forcing himself to continue onward, he sketched a vagina. When he decided that his rendition looked more like a pink elephant's ear than a woman's genitalia he gave up and crumpled up his art. Calling it a day, he headed upstairs to watch cartoons and play games on the computer until his wife came home. But first, he decided, a giant bowl of cereal.

F
ROM INSIDE OF A university psychology lab observation and study room, Dr. Smith watched through the one-way glass as Juliette tested baby Max on the Cattell Infant IQ Scale.

First, Juliette observed baby Max's ability to manipulate objects and then his attention to stimulus objects. After that, Juliette tested baby Max with word and picture flash cards and finally she listened as baby Max vocalized. As disturbing as she knew this would be for the child's father, she grew terribly excited by the test results.

God, what wouldn't she give to have a child of her own with such abilities? It was purely energizing.

She knew that Victor was ready to start their family, he'd been dropping fairly obvious hints.

For the first time, she realized that she was about mentally ready to have their child. It would be amazing, she realized, to have a brilliant little boy or girl. She hated to admit it to herself, but having ones own child was like having a perpetual guinea pig. The idea thrilled her. Plus, Vic was such a big kid himself that the child was certain to have a good time growing up. She grinned, thinking of Vic playing with their child.

She returned Max Jr. to his parents and hurried, with the folder of test results tucked under her arm, to meet up with her professor. He was ecstatic to realize that she hadn't exaggerated the intelligence of the child. The reviewed and discussed the test results and formulated a recommendation for the parents.

It was so entirely exciting, this kid was the kind of little genius that people wrote papers about and made their careers on. The department star was definitely going to rise, if Juliette could convince Emily and Max to let Max Jr. participate in ongoing studies and related stimulation and mental activities. It could be a win-win for everyone.

Inside of his university psychology lab office, Dr. Smith faced Max and Emily.

He smiled toothily at them and Emily couldn't help but notice how much this birdlike elderly man resembled a tiny, aged, toothsome, velociraptor. In looking at the professor, she could immediately see the purported relationship between birds and dinosaurs, even though she'd never understood that before.

“It was a privilege to observe your son,” Dr. Smith said, “Thank you for allowing it.”

“Thank you, so much for evaluating him. How'd he do?” Emily said softly. She felt trepidation at the thought of what they might discover about their child.

“Is he as smart as we think?” Max asked and Emily hoped that Dr. Smith didn't hear the sullen tone of his words. Dr. Smith obviously missed that as he smiled and showed more teeth.

“Probably a lot, lot smarter,” Dr. Smith said happily and then, after a long pause, said, “In addition to his off-the-charts intellect, he has a highly unusual capacity for neural connectivity.”

Emily thought through what Juliette's mentor had said, carefully attempting to process his words. Max felt like his worst fears were being confirmed and he didn't like it one bit.

“That's probably from the baby French DVDs, baby Nobel Prize Laureate subliminal shit, baby Pulitzer stimulation, and baby Mozart music and the like. The whole friggin' baby genius palooza is all going on for him… all day, every day. Even the baby sitter, when we have one, is in on this gig,” Max said bitterly.

“Frankly, Mr. Roman, most of those types of stimulation couldn't be responsible for the type of neuronal development and intelligence that we're seeing with your child. Current research is entirely unclear about whether or not those types of stimulation even have the desired effect or any effect at all, for that matter. What I can say, with some certainty, is that those things have probably just kept him from being bored out of his mind,” Dr. Smith said politely.

Max was shocked into silence. They didn't make their baby smarter? He was just born this way. His kid could get bored? At his age? Was their kid a mutant?

“How fast is… how smart… I mean, what's happening with him?” Emily asked.

“It's impossible to deduce accurately, without a much more extensive observation period, so this is my personal professional opinion. At his current rate of development, he'll exceed the average adult intelligence range within 18 months… if not sooner. He won't have the vocabulary or life experience of an adult, but his potential to think and learn will exceed that of most adults,” Dr. Smith said and smiled calmly.

Emily was positively astounded. Max was horrified.

“But he won't even be four in 18 months, how can… I mean, I'm still trying to cultivate my potential to think and exceed my intelligence…” Emily finally managed to sputter out.

Max, stunned, looked back and forth from Dr. Smith to Emily.

“I understand that this is a big shock, for you,” Dr. Smith said, “and we at the learning center hope to be able to support you in any way that we can. Baby genius is a relatively young area of research. It's lucky that you are such close friends with Juliette; she's an up-and-coming theorist in this terribly exciting field.”

Max was horrified to realize that Dr. Smith was intellectually titillated by his son's brilliance. The man acted like a rube viewing a spectacular freak at a circus side-show.

Emily smiled at Dr. Smith and then stared at Max silently. She could see that her husband was quite distraught. Max's upset overwhelmed her. It really was like she had two children to take care of, instead of one.

Victor waited for a Modern Adult Learners class on cunnilingus to start. He'd seen the slick little brochures and pamphlets with their enticing course titles: Become Enlightened in 4 Hours this Weekend (for $27), or Gourmet Chef of Aphrodisiacal Picnics for Two in an Afternoon (for $33), and Transcend Your Career and Life in a Day (for $79).

Previously, he'd always laughed and avoided the courses.

Until now, Victor had never succumbed to the cheesy adverts promising to radically up-level his life, his career, his spirituality, his relationship, or whatever, in a few short hours for what was a fantastic, minuscule price.

But, he thought, with irritation, he was just so goddamned sick of the moldy, dark nasty-ass basement.

He needed a new approach. Maybe there really were sexual and other experts out there who could dispense their knowledge quickly and efficiently.

People had expertise in all kinds of subjects. Surely somebody or other was a legitimate expert in orally pleasuring women. For the love of fuck, he hoped to hell it was the dude who was scheduled to teach this damned class.

He did his best to avoid looking at all of the other attendees.

Being in the room was rather like standing up and saying, I suck at oral sex.

Then again he thought, maybe being in the room was like standing up and saying, I don't suck at oral sex well enough. Can't find the clitoris really, not sure about the taste and texture, or how much of it to lick, suck into my mouth or bite.

He shuddered for a moment and made prayer to the gods of personal and professional connections that he would not see a single soul that he knew.

That would be a goddamn fiasco. Then again, he realized, if someone that he knew were in the class then they'd be in the same boat. It would be like a solidarity brotherhood or sisterhood (if a lesbian that he knew showed up).

Victor wished that he'd eaten more. He was feeling decidedly shaky.

He couldn't stop his obsessive thoughts, about what a fuckup he was at sex, wondering about consulting a sexologist or other expert privately. Thinking maybe there had to be an easy solution, all the while he wondered just what this fucking class would entail.

He hoped to god they wouldn't have to practice and demonstrate.

With a clatter and a thump the self-described Modern Adult Learners sexual guru entered the room.

The dude was clad in some kind of skinny jeans, a lamé tank top, finely cut strangely-patterned sport coat, and obviously terribly expensive Italian loafers.

He dropped a bunch of sexual paraphernalia on top of the desk at the front of the room, and stood facing and smiling at the roomful of attendees.

Guru man bowed. Judging by the rustling and movement of the crowd, about thirty-five people, the course leader had everyone's attention. Victor looked around and noticed that they were all sitting up straight, the lot of them, like good little students.

Victor looked down and took a deep breath and told himself to focus, keep his ass in the goddamn chair, and use the class as an opportunity to become a better husband.

He heard the sexual guru moving something and realized that the guy was moving something to the display table in front of the teacher's desk. He looked up.

With a wave of his elegant thin hand the sexual guru indicated a ginormous model of a vagina. Victor thought he might throw up when he saw a lone, huge pubic hair, curly at that, sticking out of the pussy model.

“De female gavina, de gavayvay, is to be vorshipped,” the sexual guru said intently.

Victor nodded to himself. Okay, yes. He would worship Juliette's gavina, er, uh vagina. He could do this. He loved her, He really did. She would be, hell, she was, his personal goddess. In that moment, he committed to make certain that she knew it, too.

Victor found, to his shock and surprise, he liked the sexpert. The guy exuded authority. He wasn't creepy or weird. Sure, he had an accent but this fucking country was built on millions of amazing people with accents. And the guy knew his stuff.

He kept throwing in little anecdotes about men who'd had lots of sex... successful sex.

The references were not to Lotharios; they were for normal, everyday men renowned for their ability to please women. Quality over quantity. Hell, Victor realized, it was quality and quantity. He was a one-woman man himself but the concepts still applied.

The class took a break and Victor grabbed a soda. He felt enormous relief.

The class attendees milling about were a mixed bag, all shapes and sizes, all colors and ages, all genders and orientations, it made him feel like he was just fine. He belonged there. He could do this. Happily he recognized no one that he knew and the anonymity made him feel even more secure. Then the break was over.

When they went back to the room Victor saw that the class attendees were picking up their fruit. He'd struggled with the fruit directive.

He opened his old school lunch box. It had a faded Superman decal on the cover. Victor removed a plastic baggie with a piece of fruit inside. He'd had a hard time picking out fruit for the course; the one item that attendees were required to bring from home.

When it came to the right fruit, an apple didn't seem right at all. It was too hard and the skin was too slick and shiny. He had discarded plums as being too small, wrong texture, not vagina-like at all; said no to nectarines, better shape, but entirely wrong texture.

“Take de fruit, imagining it is de gavina of your dreams,” the sexual guru said firmly.

The class attendees licked their fruit with determination. Victor looked around with horror. For some reason the classroom full of students licking their fruit made him feel queasy. He picked up his own fruit, removing it from the baggie.

He'd gone with a peach. With slightly fuzzy skin, it also had the perfect shape.

It had gotten a bit banged up, on the way over, and his peach had become a dripping peach with a split. It was certainly more realistic that way. Still, it made him a bit queasy.

“Lick de gavayvay fruit, yes, yes,” the sexual guru said with excitement.

Victor awkwardly tongued his peach, which was much nicer that he thought it would be, except that the skin was a bit too fuzzy. He was licking, to the best of his ability, but rapidly got distracted by the weird noises that several people were making.

Rather suddenly, the people who had looked so normal at the break appeared to morph into weirdos, who were possibly contagious, seemed decrepit and even gross. He felt a bit ill.

“Caress de gavayvay vit your tongue,” the instructor chanted happily.

Victor started to feel a little dizzy. He should have eaten a proper lunch, he realized.

The texture of the fuzzy peach skin, and the weird split up the length of it, only made him feel funnier.

It appeared that the other class attendees were all doing fine though. Some of them were moving as they licked, as if performing cunnilingus on a fruit, or maybe in general, was like a strange, erotic dance.

Victor tried to enjoy the taste of the peachy syrup but found that he couldn't.

He didn't really eat fruit. Ever.

Sure, he had the occasional very thinly sliced banana slices in his cereal, if they were so low on fucking cereal that he needed to fill out the bowl, but that was it.

He was on the edge, still attempting to valiantly caress his peach vajayjay, gavayvay, whatever the fuck it was, with his tongue, when he noticed this big guy next to him.

The dude was dressed in red pleather/studs, really having at it with his fruit, which, to Victor's shock, appeared to be a banana. What the absolute fuck?

Was that guy going down on a banana? Victor's eyes narrowed.

There was no way that the big guy was using the banana as a gavayvay. He was using it as a dick. Victor almost threw up in his mouth.

Victor first felt outrage, this was a cunnilingus class not a blow job course, and then purely ill as the big guy went all psycho on the banana, and over-consumed his fruit… all saliva, tongue and teeth.

Holy shit. The guy was giving head to the banana and eating it alive. Fucking cannibal.

Victor panicked and looked around wildly; the sexual guru didn't seem to notice.

Eyes wide with horror, feeling certain that he might pass out midst these miscreants, at any moment, fuck goddamned low blood sugar, he thrust his peach in his lunch box, then dashed from the class.

He ran from the building as if pursued by savages.

Outside, walking in the cool evening air, Victor began to feel better.

Victor walked for hours. He felt stupid for running out of the class.

Was he grownup or not? Was he committed to pleasing his wife or not? His head was filled with thoughts like buzzing bees. He found himself obsessing about whether or not Juliette was unhappy. If the sex was no good, did that mean their marriage was no good? She'd never said anything. She seemed happy enough to be married to him.