The Plus One Pact

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Ivy

Outside, the sun is shining. The sky is blue. The sort of blue that makes you feel at peace with the universe. Spring in the Mediterranean. Rebirth. Beauty in the world. Whatever.

But I'm not outside.

I'm inside, in a beautiful apartment in Barcelona. The sun shines through the big windows here. And it's so bright in my heart I can practically see the blue skies.

Because I'm here with a Spanish bullfighter. Naturally. It turns out Barcelona is full of Spanish men. Who would have guessed?

His apartment is in an old building, without an elevator, and the walk up the stairs is torture. We're that desperate to tear each other's clothes off.

It feels as if it takes him a million years to open the door. How can a door open this slowly. It must be the old architecture. Maybe Gaudi designed this building too. Maybe that was the only unique touch. Doors created solely to test the physical body.

Finally, he pushes the door open and whisks me inside—and against it all at once. And he whispers te quiero in my ear.

Te quiero.

Te necisisto.

Te—

I'm running out of Spanish dirty talk.

Which speaks to my own lack of learning. I've lived in Southern California for my entire life. How is it I don't speak this language? How is it I haven't at least had sex with a guy who whispered sweet nothings in Spanish in my ears?

I took three years of Spanish in high school. Surely, I can come up with something.

Dolce—

No, that's Italian. Or is it Latin? Or are they the same? Beso is kiss. Dammit. Meredith didn't write the rest of these lines.

Because that's the thing. I'm not really in Barcelona. And I'm certainly not alone with a bullfighter. I've never even been to Spain.

This story, like all my dirty stories, belongs solely to my producer Meredith.

Because I, Dr. O, host of the county-famous podcast Sex and the OC, am a liar.

Thankfully, podcasts aren't radio. We're not live. Meredith and I pause to go over the details, then we record the way we always do.

I finish the spicy story, in gritty detail. The way my body hummed when the bullfighter touched me. The feeling of my hands against his skin. The sound of his voice in my ear.

The thrill of sex with a stranger.

The silly role-play games we played. We took turns as the bull and the rider.

I'm not sure how that works, actually. The riding itself, I see that. Obviously. I can ride him. He can ride me.

But what about the flag? Did she really chase him around the room waving his t-shirt?

She must feel silly doing something like that.

Or maybe not. That's Meredith. She's an uninhibited freak (her words). I'm… a PhD. I know everything there is to know about sex and nothing about how to apply that knowledge.

But, hey, that's why I'm here, hosting a podcast, not there, in Barcelona, fucking bullfighters.

I'm good here. I'm really good here.

Finally, after we pull a few "tips and tricks" from the story, we move to my favorite part of the show. Caller questions.

I take a quick break to use the bathroom and fix a cup of tea—I need to keep my throat warm, so I don't wear out my vocal cords—then I settle into the studio.

The studio is a small space, one we rent by the day (a big upgrade from my closet), but, at this point, it feels like home. Blue walls, black egronomic chairs, fat microphones, glass walls.

Outside the "recording space," there's a big mixing board (that's where Meredith is, on a chair of her own), with a big couch, and a bunch of posters.

I feel like a rock star here. Like all my middle school dreams of singer-songwriter stardom came true. Only I'm sharing my best friend's secrets.

But that's a problem for another day. Now, it's my favorite part of the show:

Other people's problems.

I nod to Meredith, and she puts on the caller.

"Welcome to Sex and the OC. Tell me about your problem, Jane," I say.

It's a little unusual, in this day and age, to actually line up callers.

Most people use emails or Instagram messages or prerecorded emails.

That's a lot easier, logistically speaking.

But this is why we're the fastest growing sex and relationship podcast amongst women in their 20s.

This is why we're on the cusp of breaking into the mainstream.

Well, that and Meredith's special contribution.

That's the problem.

But a future problem.

"Well, uh," The caller speaks with a timid voice. One laced with a mix of shame and embarrassment. "The thing is. I can't come."

This is where I shine.

Shedding light on something most people would rather ignore.

Really, at this point, I've spouted the statistics so many times, my listeners should know them by heart. If Jane Doe (really, she gave the name Jane Doe), is a long-time listener, she should know most women struggle to come from penetration alone.

Many women struggle to come, period.

Physically, it's a little trickier for us.

But that's easy to solve with a vibrator or a little CBD lube. The mental blocks are the tough stuff. The years of hearing “good girls don’t want sex” or seeing women portrayed solely as sexual objects in film, TV, and advertising are hard to overcome.

So many of us still see our partner’s desire as more important than our own. We see visions of someone fucking us, but not of ourselves fucking someone.

That's why I'm here.

"On your own or with a partner?" I close my eyes and try to envision the caller.

She told Meredith she's in her 20s. Young.

Inexperienced. If she's lucky, she learned about sex from romance novels.

They're not the most realistic, but they tend to put female pleasure first, and the gentlemen in them are often quite, orally and digitally, gifted.

If she's the average woman, she learned from some combo of friends, movies, and TV. Sex scenes where two people went straight from kissing to rolling around in bed, wrapped in the sheets, groaning as they orgasm simultaneously.

The suggestion—women are ready quickly, come fast, need nothing special. (And no one talks about what they like or condoms or anything like that).

If she's unlucky, she learned about sex from mainstream porn, where actresses fake orgasms from all sorts of acts most women don't find all that stimulating.

"On my own?" Surprise slips into her voice. "You mean… masturbation?"

A laugh spills from my lips. Really, it's not funny this twenty-something woman is aghast at the idea of touching herself, but sometimes you have to laugh so you don't cry.

The state of women's sex lives—

Especially here in Orange County—

It's not great.

But that does narrow my image of her. The sort of good girl who always came home with straight As, never asked inappropriate questions, didn't even think about having sex until college, and assumed she'd figure it all out once she fell in love.

Only the pieces didn't come together, the way they did in the movies.

The kisses felt good, even if they weren't quite fireworks. The flirting too. All that stuff she'd done in high school, as a good high school girl, the making out you do at parties—

She probably had that down.

Once the clothes came off, and issues like condoms and pelvic floor muscles and lubrication came up—

That's when it got complicated.

But first things first.

"Masturbation." That always comes first, no pun intended.

"Do you prefer to call it something else, Jane?

" I smooth my blue blouse. Then my charcoal slacks.

When people learn I'm a sex therapist, they expect me to show up in sheer mesh, not a neutral pantsuit.

You'd think the show Sex Education would have given them a mental image. Not that I can compete with the icy-cool beauty of Gillian Anderson. I'm a little more, well, Southern California. My skin is tanner, my hair is a sandy shade of light brown, my skin is freckled. I’m pretty enough, but I’m certainly not drop dead gorgeous.

"Well, I don't even… where would I even start?" Jane sucks in a shallow breath. "With my hands or a toy or what?

Maybe she does listen. She has some idea of what I'm going to recommend. At the end of the day, most people need the same thing:

They need someone to listen to their problem, to hear their feelings, to reassure them they're normal. They need someone to say you can do this; it's going to be okay.

That's the easy part.

The hard work is on them.

They have to get in touch with their desires, overcome their inhibitions enough to share those desires with a partner, try to connect with another human being.

"Have you ever touched yourself?" I try a different term. A softer one.

"A few times," she admits.

"How did it feel?"

"Good. But weird. My mom always said it was a sin, you know?"

Yes. It's a common issue. Thankfully, my parents spared me that one. They were more apt to just Not Talk About Sex. It was another think I assumed I'd be good at, because, of course, I'd be good at everything I did. That's common for all of us Orange County girls.

We're good at school, sports, and whatever musical instrument we decided to play in elementary school (a mandatory part of the curriculum). We'll be good at this too.

"Do you believe that?" I ask her.

"No. But it still comes into my head, you know?" she asks.

I do. "Tell me about the good part," I say. "What about it was good?"

"Well, I felt, you know…" She lets out a shallow breath. "Turned on."

"How did you touch yourself?"

"Can we say that on the air?" she asks.

This time, my laugh is big and hearty. We're not "on air" in the traditional sense. This isn't radio. Sex and the OC is one of the biggest human sexuality podcasts in the country.

And since it's entirety within my control, I get to stay anonymous.

"Yes, we can say whatever we want," I say. "You don't have to share details, Jane. It's not about which finger you used, or where. It's about how it felt to put your hands on your skin."

"Weird," she said. "But then good. For a little while, it felt really good."

"Then what happened?"

"I started thinking about my mom. It totally threw me off."

That's what usually happens. Especially for women. Especially for high achieving women. We're so used to ignoring our bodies to get to the finish line. We have to train ourselves to live in them again. "And when you had that thought, how did you react to it?" I ask.

"Huh?"

I can see the question marks in her eyes. She doesn't understand the concept. Most people don't. It's a new way of thinking about sex.

"Did you judge yourself for getting distracted?" I ask.

The epiphany fills the space—even through the digital connection. "Huh, yeah, I guess so," she says.

"I want you to try again this week. At least two more times," I say. "You might get distracted by thoughts of your mom. Or by what you want for dinner. Or some TV show you're watching. That's okay. Let the thoughts come. Notice you're having them. And release them."

"Like… meditation?" she asks.

"Exactly."

"Meditative masturbation?" Doubt creeps into her voice.

It sounds weird, but it works. "It will feel awkward. That's okay. You don't have to like the experience. You only need to try it."

"But it's not about coming on my own," she says. "My boyfriend… he gets frustrated. And then I get frustrated. We're not connecting."

And there it is. Few people call because they're not satisfied with their solo sex. Most people want to improve things with a partner.

But if we don't know what we like when we're alone, we can't share that information with someone else.

"And that frustration," I say. "Does that make you feel sexy?"

"Of course not."

"So, when you think about being intimate with him, what do you feel?"

"Dread." She gasps, like she can't believe she admitted this deep, dark feeling. "Ohmygod, I can't believe I said that. He's a really sweet guy. I love him a lot."

"I'm glad," I say. "Sex is better with someone you like. But you need to do this solo first, before you take it to him."

"Okay."

I give her a specific assignment and go through my standard disclaimer. I'm a therapist, but I'm not her therapist. It's not my place to tell her to switch medications because of their libido killing effects or to tell her how to treat any medical conditions.

But I doubt this is a case of SSRI induced orgasmic dysfunction. Those women suffer from a different sort of longing. They remember the bliss they need. They just can't get there anymore.

This woman finds bliss sometimes. She just needs exactly the right circumstances.

Which means she needs to tune into her surroundings and into herself.

"And, then I'll be able to have great sex with my boyfriend?" she asks.

"That's how it starts," I say.

"Really? And I'll be like you? Free and totally uninhibited?"

Right. That's me. Doctor O, the freakiest Sex Therapist in all the land.

We go to the next call. Then the next. For three hours, we record calls. Tomorrow, we'll come back to edit the episodes, to shape the calls into the seventy-minute podcast we put out once a week.

Right now, Meredith and I celebrate another job well done with a post-show drink.

At least, that's what we're supposed to do.

But we can't today.

Because, today, we have a problem.

The email sitting there in our inbox. All matter of fact, from our number-one-advertiser.

Hey Sex and the OC,

We still love the show and love the vibes, but we need to reach a broader audience. We want to go on the journey with you, but we need to hit our targets or we need to go with a different podcast.

Sincerely,

Good Vibes Only

All good vibes from our top advertiser as they threaten to abandon ship.

There are other podcasts, with cheaper ads. Therapists who run this thing as a hobby. For us, this is a full-time gig.

The math is… tough. We’re still a million streams a month short. And we’re not increasing our numbers. Quite the contrary. Since we started repeating stories, we've been losing subscribers.

That's the other thing. We're running out of material.

Meredith took a vow of celibacy. Great for her personal and spiritual growth. Terrible for our business.

We're out of dirty stories. And I've completely failed every attempt to create my own.

We need some hot sex, now, or we're both out of work.