Night Terrors

by Ashley Cardiff

  In the grandest tradition of sex stories, this one is about “a friend of a friend,” specifically my friend Raymond. Not even, really—more like an acquaintance of Raymond’s, which I think is more often subsequently passed off as a friend of a friend story because brevity is the soul of bar jokes. Most of these stories, these testaments to darkness and humiliation wreaking havoc on people we don’t know that well, are almost invariably about anal sex going horribly wrong. This one is just about a man and his wife trying to have a baby.

  They had a child but wanted another, and after many months of no luck eventually decided to pursue fertility treatments. Raymond’s Friend was the overanalytical neurotic type with whom you are abundantly familiar, thanks to the many others that dot the landscape of this book. Raymond’s Friend was suffering no small amount of performance anxiety, augmented, it would seem, by the whole giant unfeeling medical apparatus into which he’d entered.

  When originally told he would be expected to masturbate into a cup, he was put off by the strange iciness of the vocabulary: his semen in a cup, for one, lost all vestige of intimacy and animalism with the moniker “a sample,” which makes sense as a medical euphemism but is no less off-putting for the person to whom it represents progeny, legacy and immortality. Worse still, in one sweeping act to eliminate the human drama from the situation, Raymond’s Friend would also be referred to as simply “the person submitting a sample,” as opposed to “wisher,” “dreamer,” “nerve-racked hopeful father” or “masturbator.”

  Raymond’s Friend was beginning to really suffer under the anxiety of “the act of producing a sample” until he learned that, since he lived within thirty minutes of the fertility clinic, he would actually be able to produce the sample in the comfort of his own home. Raymond’s Friend would escape the stark, antiseptic brutality of the fertility clinic’s masturbatorium and its folded brittle dirty magazines and shiny rubber tree. He would be free to choose any pornography he wanted.

  This unchecked, boundless freedom, of course, is the space where neurotics go to die. A place without limitations, without direction, without guidance, is the place where anxious people like Raymond’s Friend and myself and so many others find the metaphorical fetid standing water where nervous breakdowns spawn. This is exactly what happened.

  For starters, there were a few small problems. Raymond’s Friend was, as mentioned, put off by the clinical speak surrounding the ordeal. Second, apparently, you can’t use lubricant because it kills sperm. Third, his wife was upstairs the whole time, contributing to the pressure of producing his sample on demand.

  Before we continue, I must pause and say the reason I know this story is because my friend Raymond knew about my book and cheerfully offered the account. I told him I would need a few more details, but Raymond knew the guy only so well. Raymond, heroically, called this man he barely knew and, after chatting with him about the weather, initiated this very intimate conversation. Sadly, our information lacks one glaring detail: why couldn’t his wife help? Neither Raymond nor I know, but Raymond’s Friend was alone in this struggle to produce a sample. Raymond wasn’t about to push and go asking for anything more than was volunteered. We must assume that his wife, too, was put off by the clinical aspects. All we know is that she sat upstairs, waiting.

  The real problem was porn. Because you can’t just jerk off to any old schoolgirl fantasy or DP scenario. This is the porn that will produce your offspring. These tawdry images will forever be linked to the children you raise and love. If anything, the porn you choose plays as much a role in conceiving your child as you do. The porn has to be special. The porn has to mean something. This is where Raymond’s Friend lost his mind.

  He tried. With each video or set of images, he couldn’t shake the feeling that these globe-breasted, orange-skinned caricatures of femininity, these joyless tattooed mountains of meat and sinew, were participating in the creation of his child. He couldn’t handle it. A few failed attempts at masturbating later, Raymond’s Friend put down his penis and got to thinking.

  After much soul searching, Raymond’s Friend produced a list of qualifications he would require of the porn he’d use to masturbate his future child into existence. These are they.

  First, the woman depicted must be anonymous. The woman should have a vague, regular face, an unmemorable canvas. He could not use a famous porn star because every time he would come across said porn star in the future, he would be reminded of gazing into her eyes and not his wife’s while firing off his semen into a receptacle, again not inside of his wife but instead into the hollow of the cup’s cold plastic as it scraped against his glans.

  Second, it must be free of perversion, his reasoning being that the father’s illicit thoughts at the time of ejaculation might somehow affect the character of his children. He figured he better not chance it. Moreover, when his child is old enough to ask questions about the circumstances of his or her conception, he’d rather not discuss the plot of Homey in the Haystack, wherein a city slicker witnesses a crime and enters the witness protection program and is sent off to live with the Amish, which is uneventful until one of the wholesome Amish daughters spies him pissing in a field and is impressed by the enormity of his cock, such that, one by one, they all remove their clothes (and reveal their clit piercings and pubic tats) and he systematically nails the many Amish daughters. That wouldn’t do at all. He’s got to select something with at least a vague moral quality.

  Third: timelessness. In our memory of events, we recall mostly our feelings, while our more regrettable hairstyles go largely unrecorded, our chokers and stirrup pants and boot cut jeans go unobserved. Until, of course, we see pictures of our past and this is all that stands out. Because Raymond’s Friend found himself in the unique, if not extraordinary, position to have a photographic record of perhaps the most monumental act of his life . . . he’d prefer it to be high quality and not dated. Obviously he had no intention of ever memorializing this image, but if or when he ever crossed it again, he’d prefer it not to scream “early 2010s” or “even the porn stars were wearing those stupid high-waisted pants” or “your fixation on the search term ‘embarrassed Latina’ is now, in turn, deeply embarrassing to you.”

  Fourth, and this is the surprise: a maternal aspect. Some part of the stimuli should include a visual prompt or reminder that he is procreating. Ninety-nine-point-nine percent of all the ejaculations in his life are for his own pleasure and this time his ejaculation will count, will actually achieve its biological aim, so the pornography should include some recognition of that.

  So what did Raymond’s Friend eventually settle upon to produce his future child? What image or footage included anonymity, some discernible purity, timelessness and a respectful nod to the role of motherhood?

  It was simple: a naked woman in a bathtub full of milk. The milk was deep and opaque (as bathtubs full of it are wont) such that the only visible nudity was her breasts, rising from the surface, dairy beading across her abdomen. It was a PG-13 image that objectified the anonymous woman into nothing more than a free-floating head and bobbing breasts. She looked into the camera and licked her lips coquettishly. She had a timeless, pinup-quality face that was at once feminine and ordinary, a face that says, “This is what you want, isn’t it? Now, hurry up.”

  Sure enough, Raymond’s Friend’s child and his or her many unborn brethren splattered into that little plastic cup. When he finished, he figured he must conceal the sample somehow, for civility’s sake, and set about looking for a brown paper bag. Unfortunately, once his seed had spilled, the unseen timer began and he had only thirty minutes to get to the clinic, a fifteen-minute drive away. His search for the brown paper bag became frantic until he was left with no choice but to unsheath a half-eaten cheeseburger and use a day-old McDonald’s Happy Meal container. Raymond’s Friend, having lost no small amount of valuable travel time to searching for a brown paper bag, was forced to carry “the sample” in a heavi
ly branded and already dehumanizing reminder of his own feebleness. With it, he dove into his car and started for the clinic.

  Raymond’s Friend had also been instructed to keep the sample warm. Inevitably, there was traffic. While sitting on the highway, he glanced over at the Happy Meal box full of his own semen and, worried, turned on the chair’s electric heater. Unsatisfied still with the sample (with his progeny!) alone and far away on that slowly warming chair, Raymond’s Friend did what any man would do: he reached over, picked it up and nestled it between his legs like a mother hen. For good measure, he then turned on the heat of the driver’s seat.

  Finally, Raymond’s Friend arrived at the fertility clinic toting his McDonald’s bag full of semen and walked through the waiting room full of grinning idiots who knew full well what was in his hands. Raymond’s Friend and his wife eventually had a beautiful daughter.

  You might think this story is about how neurotic types need structure or else their crazy brains will eat themselves. That’s true. You might also think this story is a testament to the neurotic’s ability to solve problems with nuance and thoughtfulness. That’s true, too. Further, you might think this story is about how a Happy Meal box has more uses than carrying fast food. Obviously true, but this story is mostly about how every birth is a miracle.

  ONE TIME, I HAD SEX

  A lot of popular writing about sex can be boiled down to “I fucked some people. I didn’t learn anything. Thanks to my casual use of the f-word, you know I’m being candid.” And what’s fucked up about that is a lot of purveyors of this material think that, by virtue of announcing their flaws and insecurities and hang-ups and unchecked selfishness, they’re completely absolved of doing anything about it. Not that one should look to sex writing for a moral compass, but if you’re a shitty person, the most likely reason you’re shitty is you don’t care about being better.

  This is a roundabout way of saying that I could justify writing this insofar as it’s not actually about me having sex—it’s more about anxiety and morality and alienation and absurdity and the whole mental morass of sex and some people I have known. There’s no way I could write about myself actually having sex, because that shit is cheap like casual swears. Unless you can actually bring new insight to the act itself (like you’re a contortionist or something), your own sex life is best left in fiction. This paragraph is another way of saying I’m special.

  So, why write about sex and never talk about actually having it?

  For one, I’m a coward. If women talk about actually having sex, it makes them sluts. If women accept or own people calling them sluts, it confirms they’re sluts. If they complain about being called sluts, they’re antifeminist. If they complain about being called sluts because they object to the loaded, antifemale sentiment of that term, they’re militant feminists (the least fuckable kind). If you’ve suddenly embroiled yourself in a conversation about how being a woman affects why people are criticizing you, you have lost. And you’ve lost half your audience.

  Books about men having sex are about not just sex but also life, mortality and humanity. Books about women having sex are for women. If this book were just for women, you’d know because there would be a lipstick kiss, cupcake or champagne bottle in the foreground of the cover and a Manhattan skyline in the back. The typeface would be cursive in order to appear as though I’d scrawled it myself in a hurry while dashing off to some aspirational department store for an afternoon of conspicuous consumption. Nope. Cats tossing salad.

  Another huge objection I have to writing about the sex I’ve had is selling out the people I’ve had it with. I see these books sometimes, written by people my age, who thinly veil their subjects (or don’t even bother) and then ruthlessly parse their sexual dysfunctions. Although everything you’ve read here actually happened (especially the bird guy), I’ve done a pretty meticulous job of obscuring the identities of those who would object. To their credit, the people in question accepted being written about with compassion, encouragement and dignity.

  I never made much of a traditional sex writer because (1) I don’t want to talk about my own sex life and (2) I don’t have that much material. I’ve never even had a one-night stand or anything that might be considered casual. I can assure you that it’s not because of anyone oppressing me. Another reason I don’t write about my sex life is I’m just not very good in bed. Honestly. I’m not anywhere near thin enough to be that unremarkable at something and still get away with doing it.

  But, in order to avoid sounding like I’m just congratulating myself for being special, I’ll tell you why this book isn’t about my sex life. And that story happens to be about one time I had sex.

  —

  One night, during my freshman year of college, there was a big party in an outdoor common area. Everyone was congregating and drinking and I was with my friends Matt and Dave. I was dating the Mormon at the time. The reason I don’t have a problem with talking frankly about the Mormon in this book is because he was fundamentally a decent guy and absolutely fantastic in bed, so even though we were comically ill-suited to each other, I can still say nice things about him. He could even use this book like a sexual résumé—maybe after he blocks out the part where he took me to see the bishop? Maybe he’ll meet a girl who’s into that.

  Anyway, the Mormon and I left the party early. Our friends Matt and Dave made a crack about how we were probably going to go have sex. We laughed it off and then confirmed their suspicions by going back to his room—the window of which overlooked this outdoor area—and not turning on the lights.

  The Mormon’s room was what we called a “dumbbell double,” two rooms with one door, and about three-quarters of a wall between them. There wasn’t much privacy in the dorm, but we should have been studying anyway, so this was our own fault. What’s more, the Mormon’s roommate was an unhinged celibate Christian Scientist libertarian and wasn’t in the room that night, probably off in space not giving medicine to children. For a couple reasons.

  This meant, of course, that the Mormon and I were free to fool around. Which was great because he was so good at it. If you’re reading this right now, Mormon Parents, you should be proud. Sex with him was the kind that can make a person believe in God. He was practically a missionary.

  So we were having sex but we had to leave the door unlocked for his insane celibate Christian Scientist libertarian roommate, who I guess never remembered his keys because of Milton Friedman or something, and so the Mormon almost always left the door unlocked. You’d think his roommate would reject that kind of thing as charity. But that would be an inconvenience.

  The Mormon and I hadn’t really started things yet and we were covered with blankets, so when the door opened, we weren’t even terribly startled. Matt and Dave, drunk out of their minds, stumbled into the room and pointed at the bed.

  “You guysss,” one of them slurred, “why aren’t you downstairs? Having fun?”

  “Yeah!” agreed the other.

  “Go away,” we said.

  “No,” they said and Matt turned around, pulled down his pants and mooned us. Dave followed suit.

  “Get out of here,” we said, exasperated.

  “You guys are fucking lame,” they said and pulled up their pants and wandered off.

  The Mormon and I went back to what we were doing. We did not get up and lock the door, again in deference to his emotionally unhinged celibate Christian Scientist libertarian roommate.

  About twenty minutes went by and Dave and Matt stumbled back into the room. Matt had his pants half off by the time he’d come through the door. He turned and pulled down his boxers and mooned us again. Dave, smaller, got his pants to about his shins and turned but in so doing tripped on Matt and fell into the wall adjoining the rooms. He somehow managed to take Matt down with him. Suddenly there were two boys with their butts out, writhing around in confusion and laughing at the mouth of the dorm, door still wide open onto
the hallway. Thankfully, again, there was a blanket over us.

  “You guy have the hairiest asses I’ve ever seen,” the Mormon said.

  “Fuck you!” they yelled. They scrambled up on their feet and charged the bed. Dave was the first to land on top, pinning the Mormon and effectively pinning me. Not to be outdone, Matt plunged onto the bed and on top of Dave, squishing all of us into one big, homoerotic pile.

  It should go without saying that neither Matt nor Dave had bothered to get their pants back on, and so they writhed around on top of us, making high-pitched cooing noises and saying things like, “Oooh, we’re having sex,” and rotating and grinding through the blankets. Neither myself nor the Mormon had yelled any objections to this invasion and therefore the boys hadn’t gotten the shock and horror they were after. The cooing and grinding went on for another minute until an eerie clarity pervaded their mischief. The room went silent.

  “Guys,” I said and it was the only time I ever nailed a deadpan that mattered, “he’s inside of me right now.”

  —

  They squealed like frightened babies, springing backward and yanking their jeans up in a fluid motion. They fell on top of each other again on the way out and screamed at that and then ran screaming down the hallway until they reached the bottom floor of the dorm and burst outside and we could hear their screams in the night through the open window. The Mormon and I carried on, unperturbed, and then went to sleep.

  I tell this story now, at the end of this book that’s my sex memoir but not about my sex life, because it’s a pretty perfect distillation of what I was going for. Sure it was infantile and absurd, but there was a concrete lesson to be learned: no one wants to hear about me having sex. You have to be receptive to feedback.