When I masturbate now it’s always the same. I close my eyes,
and all I can see are his eyes. His freakishly light, bright blue eyes.
What I feel is the touch of many. Many hands, many fingers,
many mouths, wildly exploring every crease, every hole, every opening. An
unknown dick in my cunt, filling me. The feeling of overwhelming intoxication,
impossibly drunk on sex, soaring high above any normal feeling of self, the
edges of my identity beginning to blur, to soften, to blissfully merge with the
world around me.
All under the quiet gaze of those eyes.
If you’ve never felt anything like it, you haven’t lived. I
wasn’t living, looking back on it. I never knew what I was until I met him.
This is how it all starts.
~ ~ ~
The invitation comes in a heavy black envelope, sealed with
black wax. The card itself is black, too, with raised black writing. I almost
have to touch it to read it, which I guess is the point: forcing a sensory,
tactile experience on me. In the end I raise it close to my face, to make sure
I have it right.
You have been
given
an Appointment
with
The Doctor
Tomorrow, 6 pm.
You will not be given another.
It’s all very dramatic. No clue where it comes from, or why,
or who this Doctor is. On the back is an address on the other side of town, in
a quiet, old money neighborhood, full of townhouses and wide, beautiful
streets.
I guess it shows what kind of state I’m in that I actually
consider not going.
I’ve tried to figure out what made me go, what got me out of
my funk and moving towards the man that would change my life. I think it’s
because when I get home from the temp agency the next day, just after five,
still without a new job, I find my brother in my room, dumping out the milk
crates that hold all my art stuff. He needs the crates for his records, he
explains, now that he was going to be a DJ.
“Mom said I could,” he says when he sees my face. Then he
shoves past me, milk crate in his arms.
Right after that I’m on my way to the Doctor. I think maybe
he’ll give me some pills or something, anything to make this life seem better.
I have no idea
what I’m in for.
It has been so long since I’ve had what could even remotely
be described as a boyfriend, let alone actual sex, that it never occurs to me
that the Doctor’s practice might be...unusual. Not even the strange invitation
suggests anything to me. That’s how naive I am.
It’s not that I don’t have a sex drive. Believe me, I have a
sex drive. But it’s all frenzied, angry masturbation beneath tangled sheets,
after I think everyone else is asleep.
Pathetic, right?
This is just by way of saying that I’m entirely unprepared
for what’s about to happen.
The Doctor’s office is in one of those fancy townhouses, a
mansion, really, with a beautiful limestone facade set back from the street and
guarded by a heavy iron fence and a locked gate. The fence itself is lightly
covered with ivy, and through the curling tendrils I can see the suggestion of
a lighted courtyard, and a path to a garden in back. It looks like a private
home, not a Doctor’s office. I double-check the address on the black card to
make sure, holding it close to my face in the fading light, and I’m about to
press the doorbell when the speaker box crackles to life.
“Come inside, Claire.”
I startle, unaware that I was being watched. The voice is
relaxed, but commanding, even through the distortions of the speaker, as though
its owner has never even considered the possibility that he might be disobeyed.
I find myself pushing eagerly at the gate, not even waiting for the tell-tale
buzz. Already this is the most exciting thing to ever happen to me, and I want
more.
I find the front door unlocked, and a sign indicating that I
should leave my coat on the side table in the vestibule. It’s chilly in the
house, with its high ceilings and marble floors, and I feel a little
self-conscious as my nipples grow pert
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