The Valeditztorian

by Alli Curran

  “Honey, I’m up to my elbows in tuna casserole. Just do me a favor…peek out the window—the bedroom window, mind you—and see who’s there. If it’s those Jehovah’s witnesses again, just pretend we’re not home.”

  “Okay.” Peering through the glass, I yelled, “It’s Helen, and she looks upset. I’ll let her in.”

  “What’s she doing here at this hour?” asked my mom.

  “I have no idea.”

  Dashing downstairs, I opened the front door and pulled Helen inside. In the bright lights of our entryway, it was easy to see that she’d been crying.

  “Hey, Helen,” I said. “What’s the matter?”

  “I hate my father,” she replied.

  Wiping her hands on a dish towel, my mother strode down the hallway, wrapped one arm protectively around Helen’s shoulders, and directed her straight into the kitchen.

  “Let me get you some tea, Helen, and then you can tell us the whole story. This is good timing, since I just put the water up a few minutes ago. Are you alright?”

  “Yeah, I’m okay.”

  “What happened?” I asked impatiently.

  “Actually, it’s a little embarrassing.”

  “Since when do we talk about anything that’s not embarrassing?” said my mom, while fussing with mugs and tea bags.

  “Good point,” Helen answered.

  Unable to speak candidly with her own parents, Helen was always consulting my liberal-minded mother on sensitive matters.

  “Did you walk all the way from home?” I asked.

  “The whole two miles,” she said.

  “Did something happen with Brian?”

  “How’d you guess?”

  Brian was Helen’s latest boyfriend, the most serious one she’d had thus far.

  “Would you like some sugar in your tea, Helen?” asked my mom.

  Standing next to the stove, she poured steaming water from the teapot into a mug.

  “No, thanks.”

  “Milk?”

  “I’ll take it black,” said Helen.

  “If you say so. Just be careful not to burn yourself. The water’s still pretty hot.”

  Helen took the mug from my mother and lowered it onto the table without drinking anything. The two of us then seated ourselves across from her, waiting expectantly. With my dad out tempting fate on the motorcycle, we girls had the house to ourselves.

  “So what happened?” I asked again.

  “My dad found out that Brian and I had sex.”

  “Oh, no,” I said.

  “Oh, yes,” Helen responded.

  Helen’s dad was an extremely conservative, arch-Republican with no tolerance for teenage sexuality, especially not in his own daughter. “Abstinence or nothing” had always been his motto.

  “How did he find out?” my mother asked.

  “Brian threw a used condom into the trash, right next to my dad’s workbench in the basement, and of course he noticed it.”

  “At least you’re using prophylactics,” said my mother. “That’s a smart choice.”

  “My father didn’t see it that way,” said Helen.

  “What’d he do?” I asked.

  “Well, after cursing and punching a hole into our basement wall, he pulled out a copy of the Bible.”

  “I hope he didn’t hurt his hand,” said my mom.

  “The Bible?” I asked.

  “Yeah. He said, ‘Helen, you’re going to burn in hell for having premarital sex!’”

  She shook her finger at us to demonstrate.

  “‘And here’s where it says so.’ Then he read me some awful, scary passage from the Bible.”

  My mom raised her eyebrows skeptically.

  “And who do you think wrote the Bible?”

  “Huh?” asked Helen.

  “Who wrote the Bible—God or man?”

  “Umm, man?” said Helen.

  “Right,” my mom replied. “Some man wrote down all of those stories a long time ago. And here’s the critical part, Helen. As with any religious document, taken out of context, the words in the Bible can be twisted by other men, and used for manipulative purposes.”

  “That’s true!” I said. “You’re always doing that to me with the Ten Commandments.”

  “What?” asked my mother.

  “Yeah, like last week, when I wanted to go to the movies, but the house was a huge mess, and you said, ‘First you need to honor your father and mother by cleaning up.’”

  “Ha, ha, Emma,” said my mom. “Helen, I want you to realize that your father is being ridiculous. You’re sixteen-years-old, which is practically an adult. If you want to have sex, it’s your choice. Your father ought to be proud of you for having safe sex.”

  “How old were you when you first had sex?” I asked my mother.

  “That is none of your business, Emma. And keep in mind, Helen, that the whole ‘burn in hell’ threat is just a scare tactic. Did you know that in Judaism, hell doesn’t exist? The Torah doesn’t even mention an afterlife.”

  “Really?” I said.

  “Yup. According to the Old Testament, when Jewish people die, they’re dead, and that’s it, which shifts the focus of existence to the here and now—to life on earth…this life.”

  “Then why be nice to anyone?” Helen asked.

  “Good question,” I said. “Being nice all the time is so annoying.”

  “Judaism teaches people to treat one another with kindness because it’s the right thing to do from a moral standpoint, not because it’s necessary to avoid eternal damnation. On the other hand, getting to heaven isn’t particularly likely, either,” said my mother.

  “What about the Messiah…and resurrection?” I asked.

  My mother sighed.

  “Religious Jews believe that when the Messiah comes along, all of the good Jewish people will be resurrected into the afterlife.”

  “But you don’t agree with that,” I said.

  “No, I don’t. When it comes to theories about the afterlife, everything is pure supposition. Since dead people can’t talk, it’s easy to make up any old story about what happens after death, with no threat of repercussions. Emma, please don’t repeat this to Rabbi Gerber, but if you ask me, the whole resurrection promise is just another fairy tale.”

  “She hates fairy tales,” I said to Helen.

  “We’re digressing here,” said my mom, “but she’s right. I can’t understand why parents purposefully lie to their children, setting them up for confusion and disappointment. But don’t get me started on princesses and fairy tales,” she said, holding up her palm.

  “That’s why I never believed in the tooth fairy,” I explained to Helen.

  “I try to live an honest life,” said my mom, “which means I could never lie to you, Emma, even about childhood stories that seem relatively innocuous.”

  “Mrs. S., when all the ‘good’ Jewish people get resurrected, what happens to the bad people?” asked Helen.

  “My understanding is that at the time of resurrection, the bad eggs just stay dead, but they don’t go to hell,” said my mom.

  “In that case, I should probably convert, before my father kills me,” said Helen dryly.

  “Don’t do it,” I said. “Then you’d have to deal with the whole Jewish guilt problem.”

  “Believe me, Emma,” said my mother, “fanatics like Helen’s father have their own guilt complexes.”

  “Yeah,” said Helen, “and the guilt is all about sex.”

  “Unfortunately, Helen, there’s a lot of truth in that statement. But wanting to have sex as a teenager is normal, not something that’s evil, or dirty. Biology is biology—and biologically speaking, all human beings have sexual desires. If they didn’t, the human race would be in big trouble.”

  “Don’t forget about the whole ‘sex if beautiful’ thing,” I said. Turning to Helen, I added, “She’s always going on about that.”

  “Right, Emma,” said my mom. “Thanks for reminding me. In addition to bei
ng essential for procreation, sex is also an opportunity for two individuals to express their love for one another. The way I see it, when two people consensually sleep together, they’re agreeing to share a piece of their souls with one another.”

  “So you’re saying I should have sex early in life, for all the spiritual benefits?” I asked.

  “Shh, Emma. The bottom line, Helen, is that your father was wrong to make you feel badly about doing something that’s a natural part of growing up.”

  “Plus it’s a mitzvah if you do it on Shabbat,” I said.

  “I think that’s only if you’re married,” said my mom.

  “Details,” I said. “You gotta love Judaism.”

  Without making a sound, Helen started crying. As the tears rolled silently down her cheeks, my mother and I waited for her to collect herself.

  Eventually my mother asked, “How did you leave things with your father?”

  “He said he’d throw me out of the house if I ever did it again. I told him he didn’t have to worry about that, since I was moving out anyway. Then I came over here.”

  “That was a very brave thing for you to do,” said my mom. “Of course you’re welcome to stay with us. You can have the guest bedroom upstairs for as long as you need it.”

  “That’s great, Mrs. S.”

  “You know, Helen, if you’d like, I could try speaking with your parents, to smooth things over. As badly as your father handled the situation, I’m sure he acted the way he did because he loves you. I know he only wants the best for you.”

  “Maybe later,” said Helen. “I’m so mad at him right now, I can’t even think about making up.”

  “No problem,” said my mom. “You just let me know when you’re ready.”

  A few days later, Helen asked my mother to serve as an intermediary with her father. Perhaps not surprisingly, my mom’s diplomatic efforts failed miserably when she attempted to reconfigure the man’s worldview.

  “That man is as stubborn as his daughter,” she complained to me afterward.

  “Do you think God is punishing him?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?” said my mom.

  “Maybe God gave him a rebellious daughter to punish him for being so rigid.”

  “That’s a creative idea, Emma, but I don’t see it that way at all.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “How do you see it, then?”

  “I’m guessing that his inflexibility drove Helen to become particularly stubborn and rebellious. In all likelihood, her father had a lot more to do with shaping her personality than God did.”

  In the end, Helen lived with my family for quite a while. Even after I moved out that fall, she remained with my parents until graduation. Later she became my college roommate, and we stayed together all the way through medical school. Which brings us back to New York.

  “Nice to see you too,” I answer, following her cold greeting.

  “Thanks for screwing things up with BJ,” she shouts, stalking into her bedroom.

  Oy, vey. Angry Helen is a formidable opponent. With her jet black, wavy hair, thick eyebrows, and piercing gaze, Helen can wither a blubbering man, or remorseful roommate, with just one glance. I hate it when she’s mad at me, especially when her anger is justified—and that’s most of the time, since it’s usually my big mouth that causes all the trouble in our relationship. Though we don’t always get along, I need Helen in my life. At times she’s more like a mother than a best friend. Whenever a crisis arises—and that’s every other day—bluntly honest Helen is great for advice. Over the past month in Brazil, I’ve missed her greatly.

  When Helen slams her door, I imagine the series of events leading up to her current unhappiness. Once I ratted on BJ, Grace must’ve confronted him, and he probably broke up with Helen. Or something like that. Throughout medical school, incidents like this one have cropped up on a regular basis for me and my classmates. Rather than love triangles, the med school menages often originate as love squares, which later morph into love pentagons. Generally these scenarios begin with two roommates dating two other roommates, hence the squares. Add a new object of desire, and you get the pentagons. At some point, chaotic emotional drama ensues. This phenomenon seems to replay itself, over and over again, when a bunch of unmarried, indiscreet, horny people (myself included) live in close quarters and fail to keep secrets.

  At a later time, I will strive to win Helen’s forgiveness.

  First, I need to deal with my own baggage, and I’m not talking about my suitcase. After a short power nap and a shower, I call Thomas. My soon-to-be ex-boyfriend is home in his apartment, just two flights below me. For our breakup session I wear an outfit intended to simultaneously tempt and frustrate him: snappy sandals, short shorts, and a low-cut spandex tank top. Then I march off to his apartment, planning to look fabulous as I leave him.

  Entering his lair, I smell the incense and candles he’s lit. A moment later I see his face, reflected in the soft glow of candlelight that fills his bedroom. That’s when the overwhelming chemical attraction I feel for Thomas hits me like a Mac truck. It’s always like this. One look at his gray-green eyes, strong jaw, and wavy brown hair, and my resolve collapses like a sandcastle against a tidal wave. Resolution number three immediately dissolves in an ocean of lust.

  “I missed you,” he murmurs in my ear, encircling me in his arms.

  “Me too,” I whisper back.

  What can I say? Everyone has their addictions. Sex with Thomas is mine.

  Though my obsession with Thomas has little to do with his appearance, his phenomenal good looks certainly caught my attention when we first met. Thomas is tall, thin, and muscular, with broad shoulders and six-pack abs, the latter acquired from doing no sit ups whatsoever. So unfair. Beyond the externals, his subtler qualities are sexy as well. His voice, for example, is sensual and commanding. When he says “get naked,” I say “how quickly?” FYI, sometimes he likes a slow strip tease, but other times he prefers to get straight down to business. And his smell—his wonderful, masculine smell—must harbor some pheromone that sets off an unrelenting, sexually charged chemical reaction in my blood stream.

  After not seeing him for more than a month, I’m salivating for his touch. Which brings me to the main attraction: his perfect anatomy. Like the rest of his body, his penis is remarkably long. Though I’ve never pulled out a tape measure, when fully erect it must be at least eight inches long from base to tip, not including the scrotum. At the head, the glans is wide and velvety soft, like newborn skin. Then there’s the angle of the shaft. When I’m on top, the insertion trajectory is just right for hitting a particular sweet spot that never fails to induce an amazing orgasm. Oh, baby. He’s a hard habit to break, and there’s no chance I’m breaking it today.

  Watching Thomas strip down to his boxers, I tackle him onto his futon before his jeans even make it past his ankles.

  “Whoa, there, girl,” says Thomas. “Feeling eager, are we?”

  Instead of answering him with words, I throw down his shoulders, pinning his hips under my knees. After devouring his lips, I quickly move south, consuming his rock hard member, reaching as far down the shaft as my throat will allow.

  “Oh, yeah. Grab my balls,” he commands.

  With pleasure. At the moment, I’m unable to say this out loud. Instead, I squeeze his scrotum with one hand, while massaging the distal shaft, behind the testicles, with the other.

  “Emma, that feels great,” he says, moaning with delight.

  Thomas loves this little maneuver, which I picked up from “Sex in the City.” While I don’t watch much television, occasionally I’ll tune in for this particular show, mainly for educational purposes.

  With my hands and mouth moving independently, but working synergistically to focus Thomas’s sexual energy, I feel a bit like a conductor directing an orchestra. This sense of power, of utterly controlling his body, is something I love…which is ironic. While I’m usually an uncoordina
ted disaster in life, in bed with Thomas, I’m completely confident. When his entire body starts shaking, I know our music is on key. Just before reaching crescendo, he grabs my hair and yanks my head upward, dragging my lips back to his.

  “Not yet,” he whispers in my ear, in a ragged but determined voice. “I want you on top.”

  Next thing I know I’m rhythmically gliding over him, filled to capacity with his fabulous manhood. The sensation is exquisite. Though I didn’t want to admit it, I’ve missed him—or this—terribly. As our bodies crash together, over and over again, my core begins to tense with expectation. Driving me closer to the edge, Thomas grabs both of my nipples and simultaneously squeezes.

  “Harder,” I beg.

  When he obliges, squeezing past the point of pain, I gasp with pleasure. That’s something else he’s taught me—the fine line between pleasure and pain. Not that we ever needed them, but a number of instruments in his closet were used to explore this fascinating phenomenon.

  “You’re so wet,” he whispers in my ear.

  “I know,” I say.

  It’s true. I’m dripping with desire. Though I’d be happy to have sex all afternoon, I’m not going to last much longer. Sensing my imminent climax, Thomas skillfully angles his hips, thrusting himself more forcefully into the center of my pleasure zone. As he takes control of my body, a warm, electric current begins building just below my umbilicus. The warmth spreads rapidly, charging my pelvis, abdomen, and extremities. Suddenly every fiber of my being explodes in a shower of fireworks, simultaneously contracting with intense heat and pleasure.

  “Thomas!” I scream, only to hear him calling out my name, letting himself go in the same moment.

  As aftershocks of ecstasy roll deliciously through my core, I know there must be a God.

  When our bodies finally relax, both of us collapse into one another, lying perfectly still. Pressed together, physically exhausted, we bask in the warmth of our mutual afterglow. After a while I nuzzle my head into the crook of his neck, enjoying the proximity of his body, which has been absent far too long. Eventually we fall asleep, and I’m not sure how much time passes.

  When I open my eyes, Thomas is wide awake, staring at the ceiling.

  “What are you thinking about?” I ask, my head pressed against his strong pectorals, his arm cradling my torso against his body.