5. Chapter 5 Staley
Chapter 5 Staley
“ U m, I mean—You’re a virgin . . . to cuddling. You’re a virgin cuddler.”
As if I’m raking him over hot coals, he nods, still a noiseless wall. A wall I’d lean against even if it were made of fiery coals. It’s clear to me now, being within arm’s reach of him, why there was a collective hush when he was introduced to the class. He’s stunning.
Theo—Theodore Sullivan, of course, he has a swoony name to match his swoony face. I often cuddle good-looking people, so there’s no reason for me to make this weird. This will be no different than any other client, even though tiny butterflies collide with my belly’s insides.
An outdated, none-of-my-business inquiry about his cuddling virginity erases all semblance of color in Theo’s once warm, morning-kissed cheeks. Left in its place is a paltry state of embarrassment. If there’s one thing I wish to have inherited from my father, it would be his way with words; instead, I only know how to deliver a poorly timed question in which the entire male species will run far away before they dare answer it. Realizing the error in my words, I attempt to recover from the situation.
“I’m sorry, Theo. I think we started on the wrong foot, and this must be weird because technically, I’m your student—if I get a spot, of course—and you’re my professor’s assistant. I’m not assuming I have it even though I’m manifesting I will—and perhaps this blurs some line of ethics. I assure you I’m a professional and can separate the interests of my class work from my job.”
Rambling isn’t scientifically proven to stop feelings of edginess, but I like to buck the system and do field research. Quiet looks good on Theo, even if it turns up my urge to fidget and sweat. I mirror his body language and wait for a sign he might interject. Meanwhile, the concrete truck backs up to my brain and pours a foundation of doubt into the grooves.
Relax, Staley. You’ve cuddled strangers for three years now. You can cuddle this one even if he is a bit of a clammed-up jerk who holds your entire future in the palms of his hands.
Theo abandons our conversation and walks to the kitchen, leaving me in the swivel chair to check my watch. It’s nearly twenty past eight. We have forty minutes to review his form and complete this intake session.
Gas flames lick the sides of a blue kettle he’s filled up, and then I admire him as he arranges two mugs on the counter. His clothes are disheveled, slept-in perhaps, and his chaotic hair is in opposition to the way he moves through the open-concept kitchen, which is precise and measured. Fresh citrus hits my nose, all bright and clear.
Is he cutting up fresh lemons?
Aside from his impeccable home and mature decor, I consider the details missing here. Where’s the instant coffee and the dirty floors covered in days-old laundry? He’s a teaching assistant, but we’re both students, which means we should be hot-ass-mess equals in our living quarters. The near-empty bottle of bourbon sitting by the sink is the only “mess” I see.
Minutes ago, at the door, Theo was all chaos and nerves. His hair was wilder than when I met him a few days back, but now I see he’s quite possibly hungover. It’s impossible to assess if he’s always this tongue-tied, as he’s muttered less than an introductory paragraph since I arrived.
The kettle skirls and warbles. Despite his mussiness, I can’t help but marvel at his backside. The thicker the thighs equals my inevitable demise, so the saying goes. As a professional cuddler, I do most of the holding of others. Yet, I manage not to daydream about being locked between his thighs.
Staley Monroe, give your lower half an ice bath and be professional.
The need for money amplifies my regular state of anxiousness. What would I do if money were no object? I’d spend a hell of a lot more time with my dad. My stomach whorls at the notion that my dad has surpassed the early end-of-life expectancy. I’m hopeful for many more years for him, but I’m also a realist.
Theo carries the steaming concoctions to where I sit mesmerized, taking in his floor-to-ceiling wall of books, old and new. There’s something antiquated mixed with clean and modern about his home. I’m nosy and wonder if he was born rich because how else would he, at his age, have this place on a TA’s salary?
He hands me a white mug with the words Prose Before Bros printed on it, beneath which is a picture of Edgar Allen Poe—sans poofy blouse. Poe is covered in tattoos. A heart with MOM written in it dons his bicep and a topless mermaid sprawls across his belly. The whole thing causes me to erupt in a fit of laughter when I discover Theo is holding a mug with Shakespeare’s image on it and one word printed in Old English below him—Lit.
It’s not the lowbrow humor that causes me to snort through the steam; it’s the neon-yellow shutter shades Shakespeare is sporting that send me over the edge.
Theo slurps his beverage, bringing me to a halt.
“I’m so sorry. Does William enjoy his night gig spinning mixed tracks of Coldplay and Eminem?”
Come to think of it, the Real Slim Shady rapping about his life being Yellow might be a chart-topper.
Theo’s dimples deepen as a smile breeches his face. He thinks I don’t notice as he tries to cover it with another sip. The strong, silent, mystery man in front of me has a sense of humor. Surprise, surprise.
My watch taunts me—8:30 a.m. If we go over our allotted time today, we will both be late for class.
“Alright, so back to your intake form. Ten cuddle sessions, correct?”
His body tenses against the counter at the question. He nods and sips as he slides his hand into his pocket. Who knew a poetry student could be so damn hunky? He’s not chiseled, but I love a good teddy bear. The definition in his forearms suggests he’s a man who writes with pen and paper.
This time, I take a drink. Notes of lemon wake my senses, and clean, floral, honey-flavored hot water coats my throat. It’s not my usual coffee, but it’s a nice change from my usual drink.
“And you’re new to cuddling?”
“Yes.”
So he does speak.
I wasn’t expecting a reply, and the math hits me like a brick in the face—he wants ten hours of cuddling, and then there’s the twelve weeks of classes and the occasional after-lecture office hours where I will need guidance on sonnets and quatrains invariably adds up to—too much time with a hot teacher who only gives one-word answers.
Frank is going to lose her shit when I tell her I’m switching majors to astronomy because this much time with a man this handsome is bound to get me in trouble. I might as well get ahead of it.
“When you think about these sessions, are there any hard noes for you? Things you’d prefer to avoid?”
He has to answer me at some point, right? The alternative is I show up here for the next ten weeks and indulge in artisanal honey and hot water while we square up in a good old-fashioned staring contest. My need for money and tips supersedes me, and I wait him out. He gives me a questioning, half head tilt like he’s unsure how to answer me.
“It’s okay if you’re not sure. Sometimes, this process is about discovery. Each of my clients has individual needs regarding our time together. You won’t be any different. Don’t feel pressured. Cuddling is supposed to lower cortisol, not raise it. This is about you feeling safe.”
After my little speech, I hope Theo will release the world’s biggest sigh of relief and fist pump the air. Perhaps he’s more than a poet? A mime too.
“Does that sound okay, Theo?”
There is more silence and more heavy eye contact.
If I wanted to sit in a room with another man unwilling to speak to me as if I were a stranger, I’d catch the bus back to my house.
I retrieve a printout with images from my bag—each representing nine cuddle positions.
“Since you’re a vir—new to this, I think it’s best to start with the basics. We can practice one cuddle a week. Build up your tolerance and get to know one another.”
We’re at an arm’s length from one another, but there’s enough room for me to observe him from a different angle. Theo scans the handout, and out of habit, I recheck my watch—8:40 a.m.
We still have time to sort out the rest. It’s okay, I guess, as long as he doesn’t ask for a refund.
“Do any of these interest you?”
A groan escapes his lips as if he’s hurt or desperate to get me to leave. He points to the Leg Lock. After he’s selected his cuddle of choice, he hurries to clear both of our mugs and before I know it, he’s back at the kitchen sink washing up. I wait for the hurry-it-up award-speech music to signal that I need to see my way out.
“Next week, Monday at eight works for you? I mean, we can do more than this ...”
I point back and forth like a total dork to emphasize that our next appointment will involve touching him rather than me reading all the rules.
“No.”
Without further warning, he picks up my bag, hands it to me, and leads us to the front door, opening it for me to leave. The sun catches the glints of chestnut in his hair, and I can’t recall if I’ve ever been attracted to a man who is so scholarly in every sense of the word.
Thick thighs— yes.
Kicks me out of his house unannounced—for no good reason, yes, still attracted.
Uninterested in me— yes.
Coppery-brown hair— never ever.
He has me flustered. Mad even. Not even my worst cuddle clients get away with such priggish behavior.
“To be clear, I’m damn good at my job. I’m the best, most sought-after cuddler at the agency; you can check how many cuddle stars I average. My score is impeccable—”
I’m defensive and perhaps jumping to conclusions, but I’ll be damned if this is a situation where a man gets to look down his nose at me for what I do for work. The sound of paper crumpling hits my ears when I see the handout with cuddle positions on it tossed into the waste bin. Message received.
“I’m smart, I work hard, and dammit, I’ll make your poetry class my bitch even if you have the nerve to sit here all mysterious and smug. Thou hath pissed me off.”
I can’t stand to stare at him biting his lower lip with his hand tucked into his front pocket. He must know how good looking he is. There’s no way I’m falling for it.
“You intellectual types judge women for doing intimate work where money is exchanged, and I have to say it’s yet another offense of the patriarchy. You put in the cuddle request, not me.”
In all my years of cuddling, I’ve been felt up, puked on, and had erections pressed into my back, but I’ve never been asked to leave in so few words. I won’t count the moment our fingers touched earlier, lighting up every circuit board in my body.
Staley, focus. You want to feel some electricity, stick a fork in a socket.
The visual of the Shakespeare mug is still on my mind, causing me to recite the only William insult I have in my brain.
“I desire that we be better strangers.”
I hurry down the brick steps. With my back to him, I throw my middle fingers in the air and hoof it to the bus stop, hoping I have enough time to get an iced coffee to wash down the non-caffeinated beverage he dared to serve me.