Do This For Me

by Eliza Kennedy

  “He helps me vet them. To weed out the creeps and the weirdos.”

  “Vet them? These aren’t job applicants. They’re people you intend to be intimate with.”

  Bogard took every opportunity to telegraph his disapproval of my grand sexperiment. He was constantly prodding me to delve into the hows and the whys. I wasn’t interested.

  “I meet plenty of men on my own,” I said. “There was that guy at a bar event, and Sarah’s friend from college, and the man from Chicago I sat next to in the—”

  “After each assignation, you and Cameron discuss what transpired,” Bogard continued. “Often in detail.”

  “It helps to talk through my experiences with someone objective,” I said. “Do a kind of postmortem.”

  Or as Cameron called it, a post petit mort–em.

  He’s very clever.

  “How do you think he feels about his unusual portfolio?” Bogard asked.

  “I imagine he prefers it to making photocopies and updating binders.”

  “He works for you. He might feel unable or unwilling to say no.”

  “I’m coercing him. That’s what you’re suggesting?”

  “I’m suggesting we explore why you freely share details of your personal life with the people you employ. You’ve discussed Aaron’s deception and your sex life in front of your associate and your secretary. You’re an extremely professional person, yet you seem to have no regard for professional boundaries.”

  “What can I tell you? I’ve never spent a lot of time worrying about what people think of me. Anyway, everyone found out last time—”

  “Because you roped them in.”

  “I refuse to be humiliated,” I insisted. “I refuse to run and hide.”

  Bogard fixed his little gray eyes on me. “There’s more than one way to run and hide.”

  Here we go again.

  “If you act like you aren’t hurt,” he said, “people will believe you’re not hurt. In moments of great turmoil, where others might crumble, you present the appearance of a person in control. Utterly indifferent to the opinions of others. It’s an illusion, produced for those who might think you’re weak. You open the treasure chest and say, ‘See? It’s empty.’ But all the while, it has a false bottom.”

  “That’s ridiculous!”

  “Is it? If others think you’re impervious, you can use their judgments to bolster yourself, rather than confront your own vulnerabilities.”

  “Why are you attacking me?”

  For once, he gave me a straightforward answer. “Because you’ve stalled. You refuse to discuss your still-unresolved issues with emotions and sex. You won’t investigate the real motivations behind this absurd plan of yours—”

  “I’ve told you exactly what’s behind it.”

  “—and you refuse to acknowledge that your reaction to the first disclosure of Aaron’s infidelity and the second are essentially the same.”

  “Because they aren’t!”

  “The swiftness of your response?” he said. “Your refusal to communicate with him? Your dramatic tactics? Your apparent need to shock and awe?”

  “My shoes are cuter this time.” I stuck out my feet. “Look.”

  He wasn’t amused.

  “I’m not angry,” I said. “There’s a difference.”

  He frowned and sat back in his chair. “I’m not so sure about that.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  On the television, a man in a suit of armor dove into an Olympic-size swimming pool.

  “Mom!” Maisie barked. “Quit hogging the popcorn.”

  I passed the bowl. My phone pinged.

  —I had a great time on Monday.

  It was Garth. I wrote back.

  —So did I.

  —What are you doing this weekend?

  The armored man bobbed to the surface and began thrashing around in the water.

  —Work is a little crazy right now. I’ll be in touch.

  “What Bill doesn’t know,” the announcer said, “is that the bottom of the pool is covered with thousands of powerful magnets!”

  I looked up from my phone. “What’s Bill trying to accomplish?”

  Kate dug into the bowl. “If he survives this challenge, he can’t be voted out of the RV.”

  “Why is that important?”

  She looked at me as if I were simpleminded. “It’s the whole point of Roadtrippin’!”

  “And a potent yet subtle metaphor,” Maisie said.

  Kate rolled her eyes. “You think everything’s a metaphor.”

  Maisie tipped the last of the popcorn into her mouth. “Because everything is.”

  It had taken the girls a few days to realize that once again, the world had changed. After the call from Deirdre and my shotgun makeover, I held them off with pleas of a work emergency. I needed to be prepared this time.

  Two days after my date with Arnault, Jorge picked them up from school and drove them into the city. They tumbled into the suite, full of curiosity.

  “Why are we here?”

  “Why won’t you talk to Dad?”

  “Where did that car come from?”

  “Mom! Your hair.” Maisie reached out. “Kate—feel it.”

  But Kate was looking past me. “Oh my God.”

  The fine people at the Mandarin Oriental had offered me half a dozen suites. I’d chosen the Presidential: twenty-six hundred square feet on the fifty-third floor, two bedrooms, a study, a soaking tub, stunning views of Central Park and Midtown.

  Kate and Maisie moved toward the window. I watched them. My daughters had never known a moment’s deprivation. They were poster children for liberal, East Coast privilege—scions of the One Percent. But Aaron and I had never flaunted our wealth. Yes, we had a beautiful home, I used a driver, the girls went to private school. Still, compared to our peers, we lived modestly. We’d both grown up poor, so we saved our money instead of throwing it around.

  Which means our daughters had never experienced anything quite like the Presidential Suite.

  Kate tore her eyes away from the view. “What’s going on?”

  I sat them down at the long dining table. “Your father and I have hit a road bump. I’m going to be staying here for a while.”

  Maisie’s bottom lip was already quivering. I reached for her hands. “We got through it last time, didn’t we? I wish it wasn’t happening again, but it is.”

  As always, Kate pressed for facts. “What is ‘it,’ Mom? What happened?”

  “I don’t think there’s anything to be gained by sharing the details with you.”

  Maisie began shaking her head. “That means it’s worse. It must be worse this time.”

  “You don’t trust us to be able to deal with it,” Kate accused.

  “Honey, I’m having a hard time dealing with it. So, yes, I think you would, too. Anyway, what you’re looking for is reassurance, right? A promise that everything is going to be fine?”

  “Yes,” they said.

  “Your father and I love you more than anything in the world. And one way or another, everything is going to be all right.”

  They wanted more. I was loving and patient, but not forthcoming. As the weeks passed, and they shuttled between home and the city—a few nights with Aaron, a few nights with me—they adjusted. They were so resilient. So good. I was so lucky.

  On the television, Bill thrashed around in the water. Underwater cameras showed a blanket of tiny black magnets rising toward him in an undulating wave. The effect was strangely beautiful. My phone pinged again.

  —Bad news, counselor. I’m joining you for the hearing in LA on the 31st.

  It was Singer. He was referring to an upcoming court conference in one of Hyperium’s cases. I smiled and typed:

  —Devastated.

  —Me too. Unfortuna
tely, the big boss wants someone trustworthy to go with you.

  —To keep me in line?

  —Exactly.

  Bill was somehow managing to doggy-paddle. Maisie shook the empty bowl. “We need more popcorn. Who’s working tonight?”

  “Ernesto,” Kate said. “Get some soda, too.”

  My unspoiled little angels had adapted well to life in the Presidential Suite.

  Bill was two-thirds of the way across the pool and losing steam. A group of other contestants stood along one side, monitoring his progress. One of them was a young man with blond hair and a tan, angular face. Handsome, in a scruffy way.

  I got a text from Sarah.

  —Where do you wanna go on Saturday, hot mama?

  The blond man hauled Bill from the water. Maybe that’s what I needed. Someone young and pretty. Maybe that was the type of person who could help me figure it out.

  Whatever “it” was.

  I wrote:

  —Let’s go wherever really attractive men hang out. Like, professionally attractive.

  —Have I mentioned how much I love the new you?

  Bill lay on the edge of the pool. Strangled breathing issued from his magnet-encrusted helmet. An elderly woman stepped forward from the crowd to help him. As she bent down to pry open his visor, her gold crucifix floated toward him through the air.

  “See?” Maisie looked at us triumphantly. “Metaphor, bitches.”

  * * *

  —

  Two nights later, I got a text:

  —Are you there?

  —What’s up, Herr Bug Doctor?!!

  —Please come home, Raney.

  —Please dream on, Aaron.

  —I love you. I’m so sorry.

  —lol

  —Can we talk? Please?

  —Nope. Busy.

  —It’s one in the morning. What are you doing?

  —Lounging in bed after banging a Versace model.

  —Be serious, please. Tell me how you’re feeling.

  —I’m great, Aaron. Thanks for asking.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Things sometimes got weird.

  One Wednesday, I stayed late at work, preparing for a hearing. I finished typing up my notes and tried printing. Nothing happened. I tried again. Still nothing. I called the help desk.

  The IT-type appeared in my doorway a few minutes later. I explained the problem and ceded my chair to him.

  His fingers rattled across the keyboard. He said something I didn’t catch.

  “Sorry?”

  “I said I like your boots.”

  I was wearing a pair of shiny, knee-high black boots with a four-inch heel. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” Eyes on the screen, he kept typing.

  I moved around the desk and sat in one of my armchairs, watching him work. I’d never given the IT-type a close look before. He was in his early thirties, I guessed. Slender, with light brown hair. Interesting eyewear. A finely drawn, intelligent face.

  He was pretty good looking, actually.

  He was an IT-type, someone who pestered me. But of course, he was a person, too. A human being with likes and dislikes and opinions about boots. He had a name, Chase. I thought back to my last conversation with Bogard. I’d strong-armed this poor guy into helping me. I’d treated him like an object that existed only to do my bidding. Law firms are hierarchies. Those at the top command, those below obey. It’s a system everyone gets used to. Obviously I’d gotten too used to it. I felt terrible.

  I heard a machine start up in the outer office. Chase pushed back from my computer.

  “Your software is corrupted. I’ll have to reinstall it tomorrow. For now, I’ve connected you to your secretary’s printer.”

  “I’m sorry about what happened in September,” I said.

  “Oh.” He blinked, startled. “Um, okay.”

  “I was wrong to involve you. I wasn’t thinking straight. Which is not an excuse—I shouldn’t have done it.”

  “I appreciate that.” He was still sitting in my chair. There was an odd look in his eye. He was holding something back.

  “I hope you didn’t feel bullied in any way,” I continued.

  He shifted in my chair. “Bullied?”

  “Coerced,” I said. “You know—forced to do something you didn’t want to do.”

  “Well, you’re a partner.” He tugged on his ear. “You guys can be a little much.”

  He shifted in my chair again. Crossed his legs. Was he nervous? Was I now coercing him into accepting my apology?

  “That’s what I mean,” I said. “I’m afraid I was out of line.”

  “Abusing your authority,” he suggested.

  “I’m so sorry. Is there any way I can make it up to you?”

  “You could do it again,” he said.

  “What?”

  He didn’t move. His eyes had a wild look, half terrified, half…

  Eager?

  He shifted in his seat. Was he anxious? Or…

  No.

  No way.

  I half rose so I could see over the top of my desk.

  His khakis were definitely bulging.

  I burst out laughing. I clapped a hand over my mouth.

  “I’m sorry! I shouldn’t laugh.”

  “Yes, you should!” he said breathlessly. “You should do whatever you want!”

  “He did not say that!” Sarah gasped.

  We were at a club a few days later.

  “Oh, but he did.”

  A waitress sauntered by. Sarah ordered another drink. “What did you do?”

  “What else? I took him to the hotel.”

  Where we faced each other at the foot of the bed.

  “Are you sure this is okay?” I asked.

  “It’s not okay,” Chase said. “That’s why it’s perfect.”

  I was so confused.

  “Just to be clear, you liked it when I bossed you around a few months ago?”

  “Loved it.”

  “But you acted so put out. So aggrieved.”

  “That was part of the fun,” he said. “Now order me around.”

  “Kiss me.” He did. We broke apart. I smiled at him. “That was nice.”

  “No it wasn’t,” he said.

  “But…”

  He stopped me with a meaningful look.

  “That sucked!” I said. “Do it again.” He did.

  “May I undress you?” he asked.

  “Sure.” I tried to kiss him again, but he pulled back.

  “Could you maybe be…a little more fierce about it?”

  Fierce. He wanted more fierce.

  “Undress me…worm?”

  He took off my clothes. I reached down to unzip my boots. “I’d love it if you left those on,” he said.

  I looked up, my smile slow and dangerous. “Have you forgotten the magic word?”

  “Please!” Chase whimpered. “Please leave the boots on.”

  I ordered him to strip. Finally, he stood before me, head bowed, nearly naked. I did tell Cameron I wanted more variety. I tugged at Chase’s boxers. This wasn’t exactly what I had in mind, but who knows? Maybe I’d love it. Though I had no idea how I was going to explain this to Bogard. He’d probably accuse me of—

  It was at that point that Chase’s penis vaulted out of his underpants like one of those snakes springing from a can of fake nuts.

  I staggered back. “Whoa!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” I said quickly. “You’re just…extremely well endowed.”

  Understatement of the year. His penis was huge. It was like a thick, veiny sea creature. A fleshy calamity.

  Chase shook his head. “I’m tiny.”

  “Huh?”

  “Tell me,�
� he muttered, “that I’m tiny.”

  “You’re puny!” I cried. “You’re a wee, elvish thing!”

  He bent his head in shame. Yet his penis seemed to grow even larger.

  “Keep being mean,” he whispered.

  “I can barely see it!” I shouted. “Where’s my microscope?”

  I brushed it lightly with my fingers. I wrapped my hand around it. I wrapped my other hand around it. There was still penis to spare. I felt like a longshoreman, hauling in rope.

  “Seriously,” I added, in a lower voice, “I don’t think it’s going to fit.”

  He looked up with a smile. “Let’s give it a try.”

  Sarah was shaking with laughter. “I think I’m going to pee!”

  “He wanted me to do that, too,” I said. “I had to draw a line.”

  “Oh, God!” She wiped her eyes. “We should have known you’re a born dominatrix.”

  Two men at a nearby table were eyeing us. I turned away. “I don’t know. Surprising as it may seem, humiliating someone didn’t really do it for me.”

  She looked like she was about to say something. “What is it?” I asked.

  “I was just wondering. What is doing it for you?”

  I poked my straw into my seltzer. “I’m still trying to figure that out.”

  “During all this sex you’re having, how often do you come?”

  “I’ve gotten close a couple of times, but…” I shook my head.

  “Maybe you need to know people better first. Make sure you have an emotional connection before you jump into bed.”

  “I’ve tried that. I’ve gone out with some men three or four times. And we do connect. The sex is good. But it’s not…important.”

  “Does it have to be important?” she asked. “Can’t it just be fun?”

  “Fun isn’t really the point,” I reminded her.

  We were quiet for a while.

  “I’m overthinking it,” I said. “How do I stop?”