- The Armchair Sexologist [Contains Sexual Content]
I scanned the shelf for just the right book, finally finding one I thought would do.
Heartsongs, by Mattie J. T. Stepanek.
Oh, yeah, that's the little kid in the wheel chair who was on Oprah. I think he died. . .
His book had a hard cover, innocent artwork on the exterior, and it was slightly larger and longer than the other poetry books around it.
Perfect, I thought, as I slid my copy of Letters to Penthouse down into it.
Sorry, Mattie. . .
By browsing coyly in the Sex section at Barnes & Noble, retreating to secluded parts of the store, and concealing books within other, less salacious ones, I had read countless sexology books at this point. They fascinated me. I was learning all kinds of things, the most practical of which was a --ahem-- self-service technique, which seemed like it might come in handy now that I had graduated from Sexology to Erotica. I didn't last very long in the store that day.
I have to go home. I have to take a bath. Pronto.
Once home, I recalled some of the stories from the book while my bathtub filled with water. . .
I started to take a lot of baths.
But not too many, lest my family be forced to comment; only about once or twice a week. For a few years, I was constantly showing up to events late, with wet hair.
My research continued. I started telling people I was going to be a sexologist someday, to which they usually responded, "Wow, I didn't know that was a profession."
I dreamed of writing books and having my own TV show, like Talk Sex with Sue Johansen, which I would watch on low volume after my parents had gone to bed.
After a while, I became restless. I felt I had consumed enough theory. I needed to get out there and get in the field. I needed to experience some of these sexual acts myself, with a willing partner, for Science!
One Saturday, in the fall semester of my junior year, I got a call from a friendly upperclassman. He wanted to know if he could come over.
He came downstairs to the guest bedroom where I was working on homework. We sat on the bed and talked for a time; then suddenly, he got all quiet. He held my gaze and leaned in slowly. . .
. . .and he kissed me.
There were tongues involved.
I pulled back, eyes wide. That was my first French kiss ever.
I turned and cleared off all the homework from the bed in a dramatic fashion. He smiled.
He climbed on top of me as I lied down. We made out for a few more minutes.
We both shot up. My dad was standing at the top of the stairs. He couldn't see us from where he was, however, thank God.
"Yeah, dad, what's up?" I tried to sound casual.
"I've gotta take your sister to a friend's house. I'll be back."
"Okay!" I tried to sound indifferent.
The boy and I were barely breathing. We waited a minute, then crept upstairs to watch out the window as my dad drove away.
We looked at each other and smiled. Now we could really experiment!
We lied on the living room couch and started making out again.
"Do you want to go further?" he asked.
"Okay, sweet." He started to unbutton his pants. "Do you have a towel?"
We were gonna need a towel? Ew. Gross. What for?
I realized what I was doing. Towels were involved now. There was going to be physical evidence of whatever was about to happen. Bodily fluids, my mother's couch, sullying a towel--
"Um, I think you should go. I changed my mind. Sorry."
"What? Oh, come on. . ."
But he dutifully got off me. I said goodbye and apologized and herded him out the front door, even as he was still buttoning back up.
"Maybe some day," I said, as I closed the door in his face.