Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Ivy
Orange County isn't exactly known for its nightlife. We've got a few dives in cities that used to be cool, like Huntington Beach. The rest is all strip malls and hotel lounges.
Since neither one of us wants to shell out fifteen-dollars for a so-so cocktail, we drink at the office, like proper grownups. Or at least like Mad Men characters.
No, the characters on Mad Men would never fix gin and tonics, with fresh lime (I insist), but I do.
Meredith throws herself onto the couch theatrically. She lives with gusto. I'll give her that much. Or maybe it's the mix of sexual frustration and how the fuck are we going to double our listenership?
She doesn't refer to the email.
I don't ask.
We sip in silence, trying to find something else to talk about.
And it really is silent. These rooms are soundproof.
"Long week, huh?" She runs her fingers through her sleek black hair. "But we're set now. We've got everything planned for my trip."
Almost everything, yes. We've done the calls. We've recorded the TikToks and Reels and written the blog posts. She's even taken pictures for Instagram.
But it's all listener based.
No stories.
Absolutely nothing.
For two weeks, she's been racking her memory, and I've been attempting my skills as an erotica author. It turns out, I have none. And when I tried repackaging something I read in a book, fifteen listeners noticed.
Which doesn't even make sense. There was nothing unique about the scene. There are a million like it, in a million similar books. A billionaire ties up an innocent virgin (I left that part out) who's new to the world of sex, and BDSM, and asking for what she wants.
He introduces her to everything, including his massive dick.
I get the appeal. If a man has you tied up, and he can do anything to you, and he still chooses to make you come—
Well, there's really no denying it's what he wants, now is it?
I'm not sure how readers could tell I borrowed it. Or that it wasn't mine.
But they could.
They can't with Meredith's.
They could with that.
"How's the Wi-Fi at the retreat?" I ask, because I don't want to ask the other question. Better to talk about the cozy meditation center in upstate New York. She’ll be there for a solid two months. That’s a lot of material to fill
"Good enough we could video chat the entire time."
"Are you coming onto me?" I try to make my voice teasing, but my heart isn't in it. If only a) Meredith and I were both into girls and b) Mer was into sex, right now. That would solve so many of our problems.
"I think you've been listening to too many of Doctor O's stories, honey. Life doesn't work that way," she says.
That makes me laugh, at least. "Do you think we're giving listeners unrealistic expectations?"
She looks at me funny. She doesn't understand the question. Nothing about the stories feels unrealistic to her. They're her real stories. Her honest experiences. And her actual reflections.
She felt magic and fireworks with the bullfighter.
That's just how she is.
But she felt other stuff too. That's why she's taken this vow of celibacy. And we don’t include those details in our tales. "There's a reason you're on a break."
"We agreed we're not talking about that," she says.
Not again, that is. We did a week on celibacy. It was not popular. The week on masturbation wasn't much better. It turns out people are more excited by stories about partnered sex. Threesomes especially. Four sometimes, too. At orgy, you start to lose people. Not relatable.
Not that we have any orgy stories.
That I know about.
I take a long sip and peek out the window. We're across the street from the famous South Coast Plaza mall. Once upon a time, it was the highest grossing mall in the country.
Now, some place in New Jersey wins that contest. Still, it's the perfect microcosm of the county.
All day, it's filled with a mix of diverse families, couples, and friends.
People of all races and ages all brought together by the same desire to buy the right things, look the right way, fall right into line.
This isn't a place where people talk about things that go unsaid.
We certainly don't talk about sex.
Growing up here, I felt like I wanted to scream most days.
The perfectly planned streets, the rows of symmetrical houses in just the right colors, the families dressed in matching athleisure—everyone looks perfect, all the time, and no one ever admits to fear, exhaustion, sadness, or a single original thought.
This is what makes the podcast work, the contrast between the uptight, rule-following county (where HOAs regularly send letters chiding residents for using the wrong shade of beige) and the free-spirit whimsy of the host keeps people listening.
Too bad it's all a lie.
"Have you thought about trying Tinder again, Ives?" Meredith asks.
I went on three Tinder dates. I chickened out of two of them. The third was the worst sex I've ever had. Awkward, cold, uncomfortable. I didn't follow any of my own advice. I pressured myself to have sex, because after all, I'm a single woman now, and isn't that the best way to get over someone?
So, I went to the guy's apartment, and I kissed him and he took his dick out—
Really, just like that—
And I went with it. Why not? It could be fun.
Maybe Meredith would have had fun.
I didn't.
I practically ran out of the guy's apartment after.
He had no idea I had a bad time. He invited me on a second date. He wanted to see me again. He thought I’d want to see him again.
Are all men that oblivious or am I that bad at picking a good one?
"What if we just message someone on an app?
" she asks. "We could flirt. Send pictures even.
That could be fun. We could even do an episode on early dating flirting.
How do you keep it spicy without going into full on sexting?
" She stretches her arms over her head, pulling her short dress up her legs.
She's dressed the way she always is—like a cool chick on an indefinite vacation.
Her pale blue dress and white sneakers look just right against her tan skin too.
She always knows exactly what to wear.
She always knows, well, everything.
Like me, Meredith doesn't fit into the sterile suburbs. Unlike me, she doesn't even let it hinder her. She flies her freak flag proudly.
She'd happily share her dirty stories as hers. In fact, that was the original version of the podcast. The sex therapist and her freaky friend. One professional. One highly experienced amateur.
We started the podcast as a lark. Because we got so many comments on our dynamic. Because we both needed a way to look at sex more objectively.
And we both fell in love, right away.
We didn’t take off immediately, but we did well enough.
Then, one week, she was out sick, and I shared a story on her behalf, and we took off. People loved the idea of the sultry sex therapist. A woman who gives professional advice and knows from experience.
She lent me her stories, and I shared them as my own.
It was supposed to be a short-term thing. I had a husband. He was available as a test subject for any experimentation. In theory.
Only he wasn’t. If I’m honest with myself, that’s why I started the podcast. That’s why I went into this field.
Like so many therapists before me, I decided to solve everyone else’s problems because I couldn’t solve my own. And people had problems.
I knew far before I married him too. I chose this program a year before we got engaged. We got married a year after that. Things worked pretty well when I poured my sexuality into my work and expected nothing from him. Only that wasn’t enough, so I started the show.
And then when that wasn’t enough, and I tried using my sex therapy skills on my relationship, well—
At least I saw the light quickly, when I finally paid attention. After three months of trying, and failing, to connect, I served him papers. The divorce was quick. And painful. And now I have no idea how I ever loved the man, much less stayed for the better part of a decade.
Which was fine. All the better to experiment, right? The divorced sex therapist getting her groove back. It was a perfect pitch…
But I couldn't do it.
I didn't set out to lie.
I just didn't catch up to the truth as quickly as I thought I would.
"Right now?" I ask.
"Do you need me to babysit?" she asks.
I nod.
She laughs and pats the spot next to her.
I take a long sip of gin and sit on the couch next to her. This close, I feel the warmth of my best friend's presence. And the anxiety of my producer. And the contrast between us.
She's effortlessly cool and sexy.
I'm hopelessly not either of those things.
I download a dating app and resurrect my long-lost profile.
Meredith takes the phone and takes to swiping for me. She ignores a tall guy in a suit. "Too uptight for you." She likes a Brad Pitt lookalike with a surfboard. "A surfer could be good. Laid back." But he's not a match.
She falls into the flow pretty fast, smiling as she deems men worthy or unworthy of me.
I'm not sure this is what the show needs, but, hey, it's something. That's more than I've got. And it feels good falling into Meredith's care. She's the older sister I never had.
Meredith and I met at UCI. She was from Garden Grove.
Even though she grew up in the Vietnamese part of the county, she always felt out of place.
Maybe because her parents where strict Buddhists, and most of her neighbors were Catholic.
Or maybe because her parents pushed her to study medicine, and she rebelled with a degree in communications.
Whereas my parents told me to follow my dreams, to go into the arts, and I decided to study psychology instead.
Not that Mom and Pop would be proud of my current venture. Hey, it's the arts, isn't it?
It bothers me.
It doesn't bother her.
Despite Meredith’s deep and undying atheism, she is very, well, Zen.