I Love You, Luke Piewalker

1 “s*x smells funny.” Dr. McCoy chokes on her coffee. “I’d say ‘come again,’ but I’m afraid to.” She dabs at sputtered drops before they soak into her blouse. “How would you know, Jayne?” “I’m not a complete newb. And my roommate—I know when she’s had a carnal sleepover. She lights scented candles. To mask the smell.” “Ever thought that maybe your intimacy issues are heightening your sense of smell?” “I can smell garlic from the next block. Just like when I was a kid and could walk by a house and tell you if the TV was on inside.” “Maybe you were a bat in your last life.” “That would explain a lot. Wait—do you believe in past lives?” I stare cockeyed at my therapist, attempting a read on her face. Sometimes it’s hard to tell when she’s kidding. She shakes her head and fumbles with the diamond ring hanging from the thick chain around her neck. I’ve tried to ask her about it; she defers, says that’s fodder for her own therapy visits. “Are you jealous when your roommate has ‘carnal sleepovers’?” “No.” “Are you confused? Sexually, I mean?” “I’m not a lesbian, if that’s what you’re asking.” “Do you have unusual fantasies?” “What, like, s*x with clowns or in front of an audience?” “Would those be situations you’d like to find yourself in?” I laugh. “No. No audience.” “Jayne, what I’m trying to help you find is what it is you do want. Once you’re able to address that, we can dig deeper for what’s keeping you from finding it.” We’ve been digging for almost seven months. We’ve ruled out a good portion of the psychiatric diagnostic compendium—while I’m not great with bodily fluids, I’m not OCD. I don’t have to bathe in bleach after changing a tampon. I’ve seen semen a time or two, including when my poor prom date danced too close for just a moment too long and soiled his rented tux. Awkward. And that one other time. Shudder. Dr. McCoy has it narrowed down to psychological traumas of childhood: a tag team of cheap-perfumed church ladies who sat a group of eight- to twelve-year-olds in the sweating basement of an old stone building while our parents prayed away the week’s sins upstairs. My folks only joined the congregation because the family court judge felt we lacked a spiritual cohesion; once Mr. and Mrs. Dandy decided not to divorce (again), we stopped going to church. Sorry, God. The Dandys apparently don’t need you anymore. But the damage had already been done: the Satan Squad—what the older kids called these spinster sisters—told us God would be watching, and would be very unhappy, if we were to touch ourselves “down there” or if we considered any sort of unclean thoughts, especially those with members of the opposite s*x. They called it petting and told us how sinful touching tongues was in the eyes of the Big Man. From eight years old, I was pretty much convinced God would strike me down if I touched a boy. And please don’t say m**********n. I will not admit anything here. Not even to Dr. McCoy. God could be listening. That is, if he’s not busy with famines and plagues and the stock market. Whatever. This isn’t about religion or my lack thereof. This is about me paying $150 an hour to figure out why I can’t get laid. “Have you considered the online dating sites we talked about?” “Not yet. I don’t want to find some perfect guy and then scare him away when he wants to see my boobs.” “Hey, progress! You’re imagining a man seeing you naked. This is very good, Jayne.” Awesome. I can now say “boobs” out loud without begging forgiveness from a bearded, robed man living in a posh, pillowy cloud house. Money well spent. “Are you still writing stories?” “Absolutely. Mucking about with people’s lives on distant planets keeps me steady.” She hasn’t read any of my fiction but is supportive nonetheless—a refreshing contrast. “Have you diverged from your regular fare to incorporate what we talked about? The role-play situation?” This exercise she gave me when we first started therapy: think about my ideal man and imagine everything from initial meeting to inviting him into my bed. If I can’t do this for myself, play make-believe. Write about other people doing these things as a means to finding myself in such a situation. My cheeks sizzle. No eye contact. “Ahhh, so you did write something down.” “Maybe.” “May I see it?” “No!” I sip from my water. “I burned it.” She stares at me. “When you’re ready, you’ll share.” I didn’t really burn it. I write and self-publish science fiction and fantasy stories for fun. Under a pen name. No one knows, not even Gretchen, my roommate and best friend since grade school. I make a few bucks here and there for the rainy-day fund. And I live in Portland, so we have a lot of rainy days. But writing erotica? I only did it because Dr. McCoy, my therapist, recommended it. I did it in the name of medicine. My progress in this field could make me eligible for a Nobel someday. One finished journal sits locked in my closet, in a fireproof safe to which only I know the combination. The latest journal, containing the unfinished sequel to the first novel, I carry with me everywhere. In case someone breaks into my apartment to smother himself in my underwear and steal my Star Wars collectibles. I repurposed the cover from one of my many copies of Pride and Prejudice and wrapped it around the journal so no one will pay attention if my bag spills. Also, if I leave paper out, our psychotic one-eyed alley-rescue cat, aptly named Quack, will eat it. She eats everything. I mean, GOD, what if someone found it? What if I died in my sleep from a hemorrhagic fever picked up by touching the doorknob at the coffee shop, and once the hazmat team extracted my soupy corpse from my apartment, Sheila Dandy, face obscured by a thick biohazard mask, went through my stuff and FOUND that her daughter had written something naughty? That her underachieving daughter had written s*x? I’m still not sure I wasn’t the product of an immaculate conception. My parents haven’t shared a bedroom, or even a friendly smile, since Love Boat was in reruns. What the hell is Love Boat? Google it. Yeah. That long ago. Don’t misunderstand: neither of my parents (this is really weird talking about my parents’ s*x lives) seems frigid. My issues do not appear to be an inherited condition but rather the result of an unfortunate series of circumstances. My parents simply don’t like each other. And if they’re not gloating about their own lives or those of my golden siblings, words are few. Like the last four sheets of toilet paper in a treeless world. “I don’t want to be a virgin forever.” “Technically, you’re not a virgin.” “Doesn’t your ‘gentle blossom’ stitch itself closed after so many years of inactivity?” “Some people term it a born-again virgin, but that is a label only you can give yourself.” Dr. McCoy leans forward, pats my hand. She must buy the expensive hand cream. Her skin looks younger than mine. “This is fixable. I promise. We’re going to get through this. Together.” Unless Dr. McCoy sprouts a p***s, I’m on my own here. Time’s up.