How Long You Should Wait to Have Sex: a Novel

by Sorgen, Monique

  “I’m sorry,” I finally fess up, “I didn’t show you my prettiest side just then.” His expression implies that he agrees. “Can we just pretend all that never happened, and we’re still as happy as we were before we had sex?”

  “Sure. Yeah. Let’s do that.” He seems to accept my apology, but we hike down the rest of the hill in silence, both still digesting our first fight.

  Aside from a few instructional words here and there to pack up the car, we drive home in silence, too. It’s all very uncomfortable. I can only hope he’s just being quiet because he’s gone into his cave, and he’s going to come out the other side with compassion and solutions, and a sense that it’s all gonna be okay now.

  As we get closer to my place, I feel the mounting need to talk about it more, building inside of me. I need to know that everything is okay. I need to know that he understands that I’m sorry, that my outburst was an exception, not the rule. If nothing else, I need to know that he still wants me.

  I try to think of ways to start a conversation, but it all feels forced and unwelcome, and I’m worried I might cry, reinforcing his idea that I’m just some unstable woman.

  When we pull up to my building, he’s the one who speaks first.

  “We’re here,” is all he offers, without emotion. Not exactly what I’d hoped for. I don’t get out of the car. I need to get this out in a somewhat private environment.

  “So, I’m sorry. About what happened. I’m not normally like that. I just got nervous. Because we had sex. But that’s not me. You know that’s not me, right?”

  He pauses before responding. I can tell he wants to believe me, but he’s clearly still working it out in his mind.

  “Yeah. It’s cool,” he says, leaving me guessing.

  “Okay.”

  What more can I say?

  I get out of the car. He gathers my stuff from the trunk, gives me a polite peck goodbye, and gets in the car to speed away. I don’t know what I’m supposed to think about all this, but what I am thinking is, “This doesn’t feel good.”

  ~

  My conservative old neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Apartment Seven, are walking by, as I unlock my apartment door, when suddenly, an earthquake shakes the City! Oh my God, I was right in my warnings to my animal friends! Simultaneously, The Apartment Sevens and I run for cover under the closest doorframe, which happens to be mine.

  This only becomes embarrassing when the final jolt of the earthquake swings my front door open, and subjects my neighbors to the mess I’ve left inside. For once I have a great excuse.

  “Whoa, it looks like an earthquake struck in there!”

  They don’t fall for it. They both look at me cockeyed as the wife says, “Yeah, we’ve seen it before. It’s always like that.”

  “Okay, fine! But I swear, it’s not a reflection of how much I respect myself…” I burst into tears as I say this, because my current state of self-esteem is about as flat as Wiley Coyote after any given run in with the Road Runner.

  I quickly run inside, shutting the door on them, so I can indulge in my misery in peace!

  I then proceed to cry hysterically for the rest of the night.

  Chapter 22

  I am still on the constant verge of tears by Tuesday, when I meet up with Marty to work on a project we’re doing for him. I’m embarrassed to say where I am, because the project is a sex toy. So, yeah, basically I’ve tracked down a top-notch dildo maker, and we are having a branded vibrator made based on Marty’s girth and length. This toy is just one of many marketing and merchandizing tools in our master plan toward creating his sexology empire, and most of the other (more educational and less-X rated) entertainment projects in our plan of action are also already in progress, but this is the one we’re dealing with today.

  Marty stands behind a table, preventing me from seeing that which I don’t need to see. He has assured me that his size and shape would be satisfactory to the customer.

  “In fact,” he explains, “this is one of those rare situations where size really doesn’t matter. You see, I’ve found that the vibrational quality of a sex toy is much more important to most women than its size and shape, since according to the studies I’ve conducted, most women never actually insert the device, but rather prefer to let it press and buzz against their clitoris.”

  I’m so depressed that I don’t even have to try not to laugh at the straight face with which he delivers his commentary.

  The toymaker is also behind the table, positioned in such a way that I can only see the top of his head and he appears to be giving Marty a blowjob. He’s not. What he is doing is applying plaster around Marty’s unit, with which he will create the mold in which he will pour the hot rubber materials, which will harden in the form of the plaster mold, and eventually become the actual sex toy.

  Marty’s big challenge is to somehow keep himself extended to full capacity as the cold, wet plaster sets. Most people never get the opportunity to realize that this is the job of a Zen master. It requires incredible mental stamina, since he has to continually imagine things that are arousing, despite the fact that he’s simply in a toymaker’s workshop, nothing can rub on him or it will mess up the mold setting, and I’m standing across from him obsessing over my phone, and why it’s not ringing. I am not well.

  “I’ve tried him like six times now. How can I fix this if he won’t call me back?”

  “Samantha, I have to concentrate on things that are sexy right now, which a sexy woman talking about another man is not.”

  I apologize, and the toymaker offers Marty some dirty magazines to look at, which Marty refuses for the third time.

  “As beautiful as those women’s bodies are, I can’t get turned on by them, knowing that they are victims of the unfortunate life circumstances that have led their self-esteem to be so low, that they believe the only value they possess is their nudity.”

  That is quite possibly the most compassionate thing I have ever heard a man say about sex industry workers. Only a total sweetheart could feel so much unconditional love for these women, that he can’t even get it up by admiring their perfectly curved bodies.

  “Suit yourself,” the toymaker says. “But you know, I’ve met a bunch of these girls in here, and seems to me they feel pretty good about the power they hold over us when they’re naked. Maybe they’re just embracing their sexuality, cuz it makes them feel proud.”

  “Look, I’m glad they’ve found a way to deal with their traumas that makes them feel empowered,” Marty responds. “Unfortunately, in all my research and interviews with the women who do this type of work, I have yet to speak to one who didn’t have a history of sexual abuse. Knowing that, I can’t help but feel a little more sad for them than aroused by them.”

  “Thanks, man,” the toymaker says sarcastically, “now I’ll never be able to jerk off in good conscience again.”

  Marty laughs as he apologizes, “Sorry, man. I didn’t mean to ruin it for you… That said, thinking about you pleasuring yourself isn’t helping me make this mold, either.”

  “Touché,” the toymaker laughs.

  “No, please don’t!” Marty jokes, playing off the double meaning of “to touch". Then Marty advises the toymaker, “You can always think about the other women you admire in your life.”

  That gives me an idea. I pull up the sexiest picture I have of Lacey on my phone and place it on the table in front of him, turning away, of course, to make sure I don’t see any of the private bits surrounding his plaster mold. I don’t know if Lacey would appreciate that I’ve offered her up for Marty’s arousal, but I figure he’s probably imagined her a lot more naked than this before; besides my instinct tells me that she’d be flattered to be the object of his erection, and then, would probably go around telling everyone she knows, that she was the inspiration and muse for the final vibrating product. Also, letting Marty look at my phone will prevent me from being able to check it every ten seconds to see if John has called or texted.

  “Here,” I sa
y. “This picture should give you something to concentrate on.”

  I walk myself back across the room to a safe distance from his nakedness.

  “That’s thoughtful, Samantha, but ever since you let me in on her true intentions, I’ve found that she doesn’t really do it for me anymore.”

  Oh, no. I ruined Lacey’s whole plan. I’m a terrible friend. But I didn’t mean for him to take it that way, when I said Lacey wants him to be “bigger”. I thought he would take it to mean that she wants to see him reach his full potential because she wants the best for him. Lacey’s not a gold-digger anyway. She only wants a guy with money as a defense mechanism against her fear that he might cheat on her and break her heart. Besides, I wasn’t trying to say that to Marty, I was just trying to inspire to him by telling him how big I thought his empire could be, and at the same time, explaining how I thought building his empire would help him land this great girl he’s been pining after. I don’t know, maybe I’m just making up excuses for myself, because I feel like the lamest friend ever. But I really didn’t think he would take it that way!

  “Well, is there anyone else, I can pull up on my phone for you? A famous actress? Or a famous scientist maybe? Who do you like to think about?”

  “It’s okay,” Marty says, smiling at me, “I’ve got everything I need right here.” He points to his head, at the level of his temple.

  I take back my phone, and stare at it some more. I want John to call me, and tell me everything is okay with us, and he’s so sorry about taking two days to call me, and it’s for some very good reason—like a hard day at the hospital, where a patient needed special attention and he had to stay up all night, and sleep the whole next day, and go straight back to work, where things only got worse, but he saved everyone (because I don’t want anyone to have to die for his excuse), it just took more of his attention than he expected.

  I fantasize about six other reasons why John has a good excuse to not have called me yet—none of which include him just not feeling like it because I wigged out at him after sex. Finally the toymaker announces that the mold is set.

  The toymaker carefully removes the mold from Marty’s unit, turns it upside-down, and then pours into it the liquid rubber he has prepared. When I see the amount of rubber required to fill the empty space that Marty’s body used to fill, I recall Marty’s hilarious monologue at the diner, where he mocked his own small size with the ease of a man who had endless years of suffering with which to come up with a comedic take on his personal tragedy.

  That’s my excuse, anyway, for blurting out, “That is not teensy-weensy at all!” Oops. Did I say that out loud? Yikes.

  Marty smiles proudly, then jokes, “See, why couldn’t you have said more stuff like that when I was trying to concentrate?”

  ~

  The next time I speak to Lacey, she is visibly bummed out that she is no longer getting the attention that used to come in the form of obnoxiously consistent phone calls from Marty.

  “But I thought you weren’t all that into him?” I console.

  “I’m not,” Lacey explains, “but I’d rather have him calling me than nobody calling at all! Now I just feel like a big, fat, loser reject.”

  She wants to come over to my place to watch mindless television, while she drowns her sorrows in her own individual pint of Ben & Jerry’s. John hasn’t been calling me either, so I’m glad I have two pints in the freezer.

  As we sit around ignoring some reality show on TV, so that she can complain to me about Marty’s absence and I can complain to her about John’s, our phones are never more than arm’s length away. Unfortunately for us, that’s not the only thing that makes us pathetic. We wear sweatshirts we haven’t thrown out since college, no makeup; unkempt hair flies every which way off of our heads. The only good news is that we’re having silent phone syndrome together. For once, she can relate to my misery.

  “This is why people wait until marriage to have sex,” I conclude. “It's the only way to know for sure that he's not going to leave you afterward. I should’ve waited until we were married.” I don’t normally believe in waiting until marriage to try out the goods, but in this case, I had tried them out already, so it might’ve been a good idea.

  “Yeah,” Lacey concurs, thinking of her own strange situation, “I can’t tell you how glad I am that I didn’t let Marty get a piece of me.” Well, at least that’s one thing that I don’t have to feel guilty about. Then she adds, “Do you know why he hasn’t called me?”

  Yes. It’s because I’m a terrible friend. It’s because in my selfish attempts to land him as my own private client, I threw you under the bus. I didn’t mean to, but I probably should’ve known better than to openly admit that you were only after the money he hasn’t even made yet, the money that he would only have the potential to make if he agreed to follow my business and publicity lead. What can I say? I know why he’s not calling, and it’s totally my fault.

  “I don’t know why he hasn’t called you. It’s weird!” I exclaim, in my best impersonation of a shocked person.

  “I know! I wonder what happened?”

  “Maybe he died?” I offer, not expecting her to consider it as seriously as she does. Like I said, as much as we wish it were sometimes, it’s never because the guy died.

  And then the most amazing thing happens. My phone rings!

  “Hello?” I say into the phone, before confirming that yes, I am Samantha Harper, and hearing that—holy crap, John died!

  Chapter 23

  So now I know why he didn’t call me, and it wasn’t because he didn’t like the person he had spent all that time getting to know before sex, and it wasn’t because she had acted like a whack-job after sex. It was because of something much more final. Turns out, sometimes when a guy doesn’t call you, it is because he died.

  On the way home from my place, John got in a fluke car accident. He went through an intersection where he was hit by a cable car that had been thrown off its tracks by the earthquake that occurred right after he dropped me off from backpacking on the day we had sex.

  It really makes you think about the value of a second of time, and how one or two of those little increments can change your destiny forever. Just a few seconds more or less in either direction, and John wouldn’t have been in that runaway cable car’s path. A few minutes more or less in either direction, and John might not have been in his car during the earthquake at all. A few hours more or less in either direction would’ve have put him out of harm’s way altogether.

  If the cable car had been off schedule, or we’d hiked a little longer, or we’d stopped for dinner on the way home, he would’ve dropped me off a little later. If we’d gotten up earlier, or hiked down the mountain sooner, or—Oh my God—if we hadn’t had sex! That would’ve changed the timing of everything. He would’ve been home safe, and possibly even showered by the time the earthquake hit.

  Oh my God, if I hadn’t had sex with him, he’d still be alive today! This is my fault! The love of my life is dead and it’s all my fault!

  I pant in and out heavily, trying to catch my breath, as I realize that I’m basically a murderer. Not only have I murdered him, but in the process I’ve murdered my very last chance at a happy ending, and there is absolutely nothing I can do to fix it! Death is unfixable.

  My breath feels like it’s getting stuck in my lungs, in my throat, in my gut. I can’t get it in, I can’t get it out. When I do it’s loud and strained and heavy with stress and blame.

  If only I hadn’t slept with him! I wish I hadn’t slept with him! I burst into uncontrollable tears, whaling and sighing and moaning. I sound like a wild animal, but I don’t care. I could’ve fixed all of this by simply not having sex with him!

  “Are you okay?” Lacey asks, gazing cluelessly at my convulsions on the ground, not sure if she should approach to wrap her loving arms around me or stay clear of what could spontaneously become a violent attack on the nearest living thing. Mind you, Lacey still has no knowledge of why
I’ve suddenly become so uncontrollably upset.

  “I just wish I hadn’t had sex with him!” I scream out of the depths of my Amazonian woman warrior. Lacey instinctually jumps away from my cry, as if I were a dog with rabies, not to be trusted with her safety.

  I drop my head into my hands and close my eyes to try to calm down, but when I start to feel my front side getting really hot, and smell fire burning, and hear crickets chirping, I open my eyes to find that I am at the campsite, where I spent John’s last night of life with him. I’m sitting in front of our campfire, beneath the night sky.

  I hear the tent zip up behind me and turn to see John coming out of it with the blanket he intends to wrap around me from behind. But this is impossible.

  Am I dreaming? Am I hallucinating? Am I just fantasizing? Or did I just go back in time again to the moments before I had sex with John. On the surface, it appears as if John is getting another chance at life, but based on my recent experience, I can’t help but wonder if this isn’t really about me getting another chance not to sleep with him.

  I did wish I hadn’t had sex with him, right before this happened. And that is the same wish I’ve unconsciously made both of the other times I was given a do-over. But can I really bring a person back to life? Does it matter? This is no time for questioning the Lord’s good work! This is a time to take it and say “Thank you! Thank you, Lord! Holy crap, thank you!”

  I jump up off the stump I’ve been using as a camping chair, and run up to John, hugging him and kissing him all over his beautiful face.

  “You’re here! You came back! This is incredible!”

  “I only just went into the tent,” he says, laughing, and seeming almost as shocked as I am.

  “I am just so happy to see you! I’ve never been so happy to see you. I’ve never been so happy to see anyone!” I kiss him on his cheeks and his nose and his mouth. I’m holding his face like I’m going to literally devour his whole head.