Chapter 2 #2
"Maybe the show has run its course," she says. "We didn't expect it to go this long. And it's not like you lack skills."
It's true. I'm still a licensed therapist, but I haven't seen a patient in a year and a half, thanks to Sex and the OC’s success.
If I start over, I start from zero. And I'm not exactly rolling in cash over here.
I walked away from my divorce the way a lot of women do—surprised how little of the community property was mine.
It's not that my ex screwed me over, exactly. It's more we had less than I thought. More debt, less money. And then there was the crippling lack of self-worth that came from years of being emotionally and sexually neglected.
But the state of California hasn't figured out how to quantify that.
"Oh, here we go—a match,” she says. “Let’s try a little flirting.” She taps a reply. Almost instantly, my phone responds with a ding. Her nose scrunches. “Oh. You’re not going to like this.”
“Do you like it?”
“I don’t know that any woman would like it?” She turns the phone to me to show off the text. Hey babe, you got those big ol’ titties. I want to suck 'em. Why don't you show me a betta pic.
"What a charmer," I say.
"Let me screen for grammar this time," she says. "Give me ten minutes. I'll get you something. I swear."
Somehow, I doubt it, given the sort of questions we get, but sure, why not? Maybe, I'll think of a better option.
One of the NPR podcasts did an episode on AI boyfriends. That's something.
Or I can go all the way back to high school.
There are stories I could tell from my marriage, but I'd rather meet with The Guy Who Can't Spell, Who Wants to Suck on My Titties.
Gross.
There are a few women who like the word tits, but titties? This guy needs to stop doing his research with one hand.
"Okay, here we go." Meredith drops my phone in her lap and presses her hands together. She bends to grab her gin and tonic from the floor and takes a sip. She lets out a long, slow exhale, experiencing every note of flavor, enjoying every bit of pleasure.
She lives in the moment.
"How about this." She turns the phone to me to show off the image of a man in a pilot's uniform. "'I've always wanted a tour of the cockpit.'"
"Is that hot?" I ask.
"It's got the word cock in it. He'll go wild," she says.
That seems right.
I nod okay.
She types.
He replies immediately. With a picture. A message. She cringes, no doubt expecting an unsolicited dick pick, but he actually sends an image of the cockpit.
He goes into great detail on each different apparatus.
She looks at the phone sideways, shakes her head, tosses it on the couch.
“You don’t like the pilot now?”
“Do you? I can try another angle. Something about wanting a ride, maybe…”
My stomach flips. I don’t hate the fantasy on a one-night-stand with a pilot, but I’m not interested in the reality. I see an airport hotel, clothes that smell like an airplane bathroom, and way too many puns about seeing stars. “No thanks.”
"Maybe we need a different angle. When's the last time you masturbated?"
My cheeks flush. Which is silly. This is my job. I talk about all of this, all the time. "Last night." I take a long sip and try to copy her mindfulness. What are flavors? Gin. Tonic. No, those are the ingredients. What does the gin actually taste like?
"What are you using?" she asks. "Maybe that's something. Oh. Remember that silicone monstrosity from the start-up in the bay? We can work with that."
"Big Dick Week?" I want to say pass, but the truth is, we've done a week on the ‘Myth of the Big Dick’, where we talked to men with sizable units, and people who prefer bigger or smaller.
It was popular and brought in some rare male listeners, but there wasn't much to say in the story department.
Though… maybe we can recycle a few stories and add "and he had a huge dick" as a detail.
Ideologically, I'm against it. Dick size is not in any way correlated to female satisfaction. Especially not the length that men tend to put on their profiles. The nerves are all in the first few inches of the vagina. And most of our callers who want to discuss larger units have issues with pain. Or even the fella not fitting, period. It’s not realistic at all.
But I'm a woman with a show.
I need content.
She grabs her phone and taps the screen a few times. "The first Big Dick episode played well. The second, not so much."
Right. We tried to find more content for episode two, but there wasn’t a lot more to say. Once we dispelled a few myths, we mostly had callers repeating “I love it huge” or “I prefer small” and it wasn’t too interesting for round two.
"Did you use it?"
"It wouldn't fit," I say.
She laughs. "It's easier if you put a condom on it. Lubes up better. You were using lube, right?"
"Yes, Mom."
"Don't even. You lecture me all the time." She play-swats in my general direction.
Then it falls. The awkward silence.
We still don't have an answer.
She's still off the market.
I'm still unable to get laid.
"What is it… that stops you?" she asks.
"You saw that guy," I say. "He didn't even pretend he's interested in me. He went straight to 'I like your tits.' If it's not that, it's, 'do you like it in the ass' or 'I want to bend you over the sink.'"
"That can be hot."
"From a stranger on an app?" I ask.
She nods okay, yeah, fair point. "Oh, what about porn? We could do a week on 'porn for women.'"
"We've done it." Twice. We already get a lot of calls about porn. I'm not as big a fan as most sex-therapists. I've seen the downsides too close.
"You could make a porno," she says.
"On the air?"
"Well…"
I shake my head no way and take a long sip.
She lets the silence fall. Studies me carefully. "Do you really want a good time, Ives?"
"Are you asking if I want to have good sex?"
"I am."
Damn. That's harsh. But possibly fair. "I do, but I'm not like you. I can't do the casual thing the same way. I need a little more of a connection. Or at least a guy who treats me like a princess."
"What about a guy who pretends you have a connection?"
Huh?
"He'll treat you like a queen. Like an empress, actually. And you’ll have plenty of material to report back."
"You've slept with him?" I ask.
"No. A friend of mine did. She said he was great. The perfect lay."
This time, I raise a brow.
"Great conversation. Plenty of foreplay. You don't have to ask him to grab a condom. And he'll do any position you like, however you like, for as long as you like."
"Oral?" I ask.
"As much as you like."
"And he's reasonable looking?"
She shakes her head. "He's gorgeous."
Something doesn't add up. "What's the catch?"
"He's a professional."
"Like me?"
"No, Ivy. Not like you. He's not a sex therapist. He's a gigolo."