Sex Says(31)
If one of my proclivities was gambling, I’d lay down a hefty sum that my new friend was in need of sex and in need of it soon.
I smiled at the thought. Sex was one of my favorite pastimes, given a suitable partner, but as I’d explained in my original rebuttal, Lola’s column was good for nothing but her own needs and those of some small percentage of the population, and in terms of my column, that was what I needed to focus on.
Some people didn’t love sex, had never experienced the raw glory she spoke of so heatedly. Some people felt pressured to love sex more, to have it often, even when their libido lacked fervor. Some people wanted someone to tell them it was natural not to want sex, not to need it, not to desire it. They got their outlet through other venues than orgasms, and the pressure to lure someone in with carnal desire for only their body was a terrifying and intimidating thought.
Personally, I loved the female form as a whole, soft curves and delicate lines, but had never been able to get turned on with only a look. I needed the depth, the emotion, the personality to persuade me. And I happened to know one or two other people like me out there.
It was as if I were in the movie Shallow Hal without the need for the spell, seeing internal beauty or the lack thereof on the outside rather than big breasts and a heart-shaped ass.
“For some of us,” I typed and muttered aloud, “sex is never just sex.”
Already done with my cigarette thanks to a lengthy mental pep talk, I stubbed out the butt in the ashtray and set my fingers to the keys once more.
“An emotional experience can take many forms, and several of them don’t even require eye contact,” I explained—and mocked slightly.
On I went, putting a piece of myself into every word to make it real and using my infinite encounters with all walkers-of-life to guide me in a direction of inclusivity. For some people, sex held an appeal all on its own, and for others, it didn’t. But Lola Sexton’s ranting mind was what was really starting to call to me.
“Reed This,” I decreed, typing the last line to my anti-masterpiece. “Penis pressure comes in all forms. The act of sex isn’t the natural part—your specific sexuality is. Own it. Own you. And don’t follow anyone’s rules but your own.”
Clicking away, I moved the arrow up to save my work and then moved right down the menu to print. I wanted to make sure one special reader got an advanced copy.
As my old printer whirred to life, I pushed up from my seat and stalked across the room to my only phone—a landline. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe in cell phones so much as I didn’t like what carrying one did to me. I became disinterested and disengaged, and while that’s fine for some, it was the absolute opposite existence of the one I actually enjoyed.
It rang three times before my brother-in-law, Cameron, answered the phone.
“No,” he said by way of not greeting, and I laughed.
“I didn’t even say anything yet.”
“You don’t have to. I’ve been a part of your family by marriage for five years now and around to witness the depths of your debauchery for seven. You don’t need to say anything—ever. My answer is always no.”
“But what if this is a matter of life or death?”
“Is it?” he questioned, and I laughed again.
“Well, no.”
“Then the answer is still no.”
“Okay, it’s not a matter of life or death, but it is vitally important.”
“No, it isn’t.”
Jesus. You’d think this guy knew me or something.
“Fine. It’s not important at all.” At least not to him, or civilization, or whatever. “But it is a very simple favor to execute in exchange for me not telling Laura about the time we went to Amsterdam and—”
“I fucking hate you.”
Pot brownies in a foreign country that was known for letting loose and dabbling in medicinal highs could persuade even the best cops—like Cameron—into really letting loose and throwing caution to the wind. I’d like to say my influence had a little something to do with that wild night a few years back, but honestly, those pot brownies would’ve orbited anyone straight into outer space.
It’s a night I’ll never forget for the sole purpose of blackmail.
“I know. And I support those feelings. But that doesn’t change the facts here.”
“What do you need?”
See what I mean? Worked like a charm every time.
“An address,” I said simply. All I needed was an address.
Casa Dolores, it said on the sign that arched over the gated entrance to the Spanish style apartments in the Mission District.
It looked like a nice place, fairly safe for a woman on her own and centrally located to some really cool shit, but beyond all of that superficial stuff, it felt like her.