Big Swiss(38)

Greta laughed. It was she who’d mentioned this novel to Om because, for better or worse, its sexual story spoke to her. Like Greta, the narrator of The Fermata was a transcriptionist. Unlike Greta, he had the power to stop time, during which he treated the women around him like dolls. He undressed them, posed them, groped and fondled them, and then he put their clothes back on, restarted time, and no one was the wiser. Well, except him, obviously.


FEW:?I don’t know what my sexual story is.

OM:?I can tell you mine—

FEW:?Please don’t.

OM:?It’s very short.

FEW:?I don’t want to hear it.

OM:?Fair enough. Let’s go back to your story about last Saturday.

FEW:?Fine. I went out for drinks with a friend. We sat in a booth. Two men at the bar bought us a round. My friend waved them over. We chatted with them for a few minutes. I wasn’t attracted to either of them, but I flirted a little. When I got home, I initiated sex, which I only do when I’ve had exactly two point seven glasses of wine, no more, no less.

OM:?How did you initiate?

FEW:?I got comfortable on the couch, complained about my period a little, and acted sleepy.

OM:?That’s your move?

FEW:?He’s more attracted to me when I’m drowsy.

OM:?But not unconscious.

FEW:?Just tired. And menstruating.

OM:?What does he like about period sex?

FEW:?The smell. The way it looks. He seems to want the bedroom to resemble a crime scene. He wants to see blood on the sheets, on his hands. Sometimes he smears it on his chest, or my chest, or he puts his hand around my throat, you know, just before—

OM:?He chokes you.

FEW:?Sort of.

OM:?Does he know about your… assault?

FEW:?It’s not violent. He’s otherwise very gentle. He lets people walk all over him. It’s hard to explain, but his roughness feels like a healthy impulse.

OM:?How’s the foreplay?

FEW:?Annoying.

OM:?Because it’s not long enough?

FEW: ?He’s too earnest.

OM:?I would think his flat, wide cow tongue might be useful, hint, hint.

FEW:?Don’t be disgusting.

OM:?Do you fake orgasms?

FEW:?How can I fake something I’ve never experienced?

OM:?It’s called acting? Lots of women—

FEW:?It would never occur to me.

OM:?How would you describe your sex life to friends?

FEW:?Like driving home from work and not remembering the ride.

OM:?So, forgettable.

FEW:?Yes, but not unpleasant. When the sex is acrobatic, as it sometimes is, I’m observing us from outside the window.

OM:?What do you see?

FEW:?An attractive couple who looks like they know what they’re doing. We look like professionals.

OM:?Porn stars.

FEW:?I guess.

OM:?Do you watch porn?

FEW:?No.

OM:?Are you anti-porn?

FEW:?No.

OM:?Does Luke watch porn?

FEW:?Probably.

OM:?So, you have what sounds like… display sex. When you see yourself from outside, are you aroused by what you see?

FEW:?My vanity is aroused. I become critical of my body, not always in a bad way.

OM:?Does Luke compliment you often?

FEW:?I don’t respond well to verbal compliments. They seem phony to me.

OM:?No verbal compliments. Noted. What about written ones?

FEW:?I like letters.

OM:?Do you use sex toys?

FEW:?No.

OM:?Have you ever owned a vibrator?

FEW:?No.

OM:?Would you be willing to try masturbating with a vibrator?

FEW:?I suppose. Not the rabbit, though. A friend of mine has that one, and I don’t know, something about the ears.

OM:?May I suggest the Magic Wand, which I’m sure you’ve heard about?

FEW:?It looks like a club.

OM:?Correct.

FEW:?I’ll order one online, I guess.

OM:?Would you consider ending our session with a breathing exercise?

FEW:?I don’t think so.

[END OF RECORDING]



Pi?on was staring at Greta from under the desk, as he often did while she was working, imploring her to lock eyes with him. In addition to exercise, he enjoyed a lot of sustained and intense eye contact. She let him out of the house and into the yard. He walked directly to the car and took a long piss on the back tire, his way of saying it was a nice day for a drive.

They drove to the unofficial dog park, an open meadow surrounded by woods. People showed up early mornings and late afternoons, but Greta preferred the middle of the day, when the meadow was mostly empty, because Pi?on was a loose cannon. His only true interest lay in killing rodents, but anything with four legs was fair game. Not that he was a bully—he was just an alpha born in the wrong body. He had what Greta called trans-breed dysmorphia of the soul and believed himself to be a young wolf trapped in the body of a terrier with worn-down teeth. If a wolf appeared on a television or computer monitor, Pi?on dropped whatever he was doing and lovingly licked the screen up, down, and sideways until the wolf disappeared.

Otherwise, he was mellow for a Jack Russell. He’d been unneutered when she’d adopted him and still searched for his balls, which had been comically large, upon waking every morning. He’d mated with multiple bitches back in the day and sired over a dozen pups. He had a definite type: French bulldogs, or anything with hips and a short neck, but was open to all breeds except shepherds and shar-peis. He’d vacationed abroad. His beverage of choice was iced black coffee. Greta thought of him as debonair, a word that meant more to her than simply charming and confident, and applied more to dogs than to men. Pi?on took pleasure in most things but wasn’t overly attached or committed to any one thing, not even Greta, not even living.