Sensuous

7 March — Sunday

“Hello.”

“Bill, this is Jennifer.”

“So it is.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“No problem.”

“I feel terrible.”

“Don’t be silly. Things happen. I’m glad you called, though. I’m about ready to have dinner and I didn’t want to go out and miss your call.”

“I don’t know what to say. I was all ready and I couldn’t leave the house. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. And I felt so embarrassed and guilty I couldn’t call you. And that made me feel worse, the thought of you sitting and waiting and wasting your day waiting, and finally I had to call. I’ll promise that you’ll never hear from me again.”

“Don’t do that. Call anytime you want. Even just to talk. I’d rather you do that than disappear on me completely.”

“You’re a strange man.”

“No argument there. Your average run-of-the-mill Nicholas Normal doesn’t advertise in Screw.”

“And Nellie Normal doesn’t answer ads in Screw.”

“Not as a general rule. There’s nothing wrong with being a little weird. The thing is being able to live with your weirdness.”

“I feel so guilty.”

“Well, you’ve got every right. I turned down a date waiting for you.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.”

“Nothing to worry about. You’re sorry you didn’t come over, aren’t you?”

“Of course. I was sorry yesterday that I didn’t see you Friday night. I always miss my chance and I’m always sorry afterward.”

“You could come over now.”

“I don’t think I can, Bill. I’m afraid to say yes because I couldn’t stand myself if I stood you up again, and I’m afraid that’s what would happen.”

“Well, maybe some other time.”

“Maybe. I don’t know. What are you going to do now?”

“Have dinner.”

“I mean after that. You had the expectation of having sex with me and then you didn’t get to. You must be, I don’t know.”

“Frustrated? A little.”

“Will you call someone else?”

“I don’t think so. Not tonight. I’ll probably just jerk off.”

“Are you joking?”

“No. Why?”

“Will you really do it?”

“Probably. Why?”

“Do you often?”

“Not often. I used to. Now I usually have something better to do, but if I’m in the mood and there’s no one handy. Don’t you ever do it?”

“Every night.”

“Then—”

“Do it now.”

“Huh?”

“Do it now. Over the phone. Do it and talk to me while you’re doing it. Tell me what you’re doing, what you’re thinking about. How it feels.”

“Sure.”

“God. All at once I’m so hot. So fucking hot. The strangest thing. Tell me what you’re doing. Are you naked? Do you have a hard on? Is it big and hard? Are you touching it? Tell me, tell me.”

The most extraordinary thing. I was completely out of myself. He told me everything he was doing. He said he had my image in his mind as he played with himself. He said he could feel my lips around the end of his cock. He told me how his excitement was peaking, and when he was going to come, and he moaned and cried out when he came.

I came without touching myself. A full and honest orgasm seconds after his.

He enjoyed all this. Said it was freaky and kinky and he liked it. Got real pleasure out of the scene that he would not have gotten masturbating by himself. But we didn’t talk much afterward. I was drained, couldn’t talk. Went and soaked mindlessly in the tub. Dried off, sat down, typed this.

I’m to call him tomorrow. There are things we can do, he says. Things that will thrill me without frightening me. Things that will let me remain an outsider. His word for it.

Why it worked, maybe: I was watching him jerk off. And I was invisible. A fantasy realized.

For the first time it seems faintly possible that I am perhaps gradually and tentatively becoming Jennifer.