Joe

That doctor is a jerk.

I mean, he wasn’t mean or anything. I realize that. But was that whole exam even necessary? I don’t think so. I think he was just messing with me since I blew him off at the hat shop.

Gallery. I mean my gallery.

After my appointment, I rushed to the pharmacy. The old man at the counter seemed completely surprised to see me, and even more surprised that I expected my prescription to be ready. I mean, I was the only customer in the place and the pills come prepackaged. What on earth could have possibly been taking him so long?

But with my mother’s voice in my head scolding me for my Manhattan manners, I just smiled as politely as I could and promised to come back later. Surely I wouldn’t just spontaneously ovulate because I missed my pill this morning. I know I can take two tomorrow and be fine.

I hurried back to the cabin to work on gallery business, but my mind was buzzing with energy, refusing to settle in an orderly way. I flipped through images of the works I should expect for the show, trying to imagine a plan for the walls. That’s my biggest task right now: setting a gallery plan.

That’s all I should be doing, and it’s something I’m good at.

So why can’t I concentrate?

Sitting is uncomfortable. I’m still damp and swollen from my exam. After a little while, I decide to grab a beer from the fridge and take my laptop out onto the back porch. Maybe the ocean breeze will settle my nerves. But quickly I find out that the breeze is actually going the wrong way, sucking the oxygen from the house out to sea.

It’s hardly helping at all.

Back inside, it’s a stew of childhood smells and visions and memories. Everywhere I look there’s a piece of my life looking back at me. The shells we collected from the beach. This afghan on the futon that Grandma Ann crocheted in various shades of blue. I remember sitting at her feet and wrapping the afghan around me as she worked on the other end.

I wonder why I don’t recognize Dr. Warner? I suddenly think, seemingly out of nowhere.

He’s definitely several years older than me, but if he’s from Willowdale I’m sure I should’ve seen him around. And when I was a teenager, I certainly would’ve been curious about someone who looked like that. I certainly would’ve been curious about the son of Boss Warner, considering all the rumors that swirled around him…which, I suppose, aren’t even rumors. It’s true.

I remember Didi trying to explain this to me on several occasions, but I did not want to hear about it. Ladies would talk about it every once in a while, maybe at barbecues or after church meetings. They’d whisper with their foreheads tipped together, their eyes bright, their lips pursed. Lady treatments, just like Didi said. A remnant of Victorian gentility, some pseudoscientific hocus-pocus about backing up humors in the body or something like that.

Total baloney.

Like I’m supposed to believe the lady equivalent of “blue balls.” How can that even be a thing? Everybody makes a big deal out of sexual satisfaction, out of the magic of orgasm. If you ask me, they all know the Emperor has no clothes.

Totally naked Emperor.

Oh my God, why am I even thinking about this? I scold myself. Knock it off! Focus!

I glare at the pictures on the screen, trying to imagine them on walls, lit by color-corrected LEDs. But in moments, I’m fixated on the whole “lady treatment” phenomenon.

So the rumors are true, and now I know for sure. I had forgotten about it until Didi mentioned it, but now I have confirmation. Dr. Warner believes in lady treatments. His dad before him offered lady treatments. That is a fact. And everybody in town went to him. Also a fact. Like my mom…

Okay, can you please focus? I practically scream at myself. Grab a pencil! Draw a diagram! These paintings are not going to hang themselves!

As soon as I stand up from the sofa, I feel another gush of wetness soaking my panties through. Just thinking about lying there on that exam table, my legs in the stirrups, that machine pulsing between my thighs…

“Oh no,” I hear myself say as the room begins to swim in front of my eyes. Blindly I reach out and find the wall, leaning heavy against it to steady myself. It’s still in me, I can feel it. That nest of hornets, that vibration deep in my core. That warmth, spreading and pulsing.

Was that it? Was that the feeling that Dr. Warner was driving me toward? It seemed so strange at first, but then his professional manner lulled me into automatic feelings of security. I played along until it got too hot. I thought I was going to pee my pants or something and had to stop it, had to do something.

What if I hadn’t?

I suddenly remember Didi mocking me, telling me that I’m too much of a control freak to have an orgasm. Could she be right about that? I haven’t felt that way before, exactly, but I have felt similar things.

Have I been holding myself back this entire time?

What if that was my chance, right then? I mean, I’m only here for nine more days. Then I can head on back to Manhattan and let Willowdale become a distant memory again. Go back to my real life. What if the lady treatment really works?

Boot steps on the front porch startle me back to reality and I stand up straight, shaking my head to clear it. I need to get back to reality, back to focusing on the work in front of me.

I’m sure it’s my dad or one of his crew coming to ask me a question, so I sweep across the living room in my bare feet, flinging the door open with a smile. And I’m frozen on the spot, not sure what to say.

“I got your prescription,” Dr. Warner explains with a tense smile, holding up a small pharmacy bag.

“Oh, of course,” I mutter, holding open the screen door with my palm. “And you brought it here?”

He squints, his eyes darting to my bare toes and then back up again.

“You probably forgot that we do house calls,” he explains, his voice friendly enough. “I know that’s probably not a thing anymore in the big city.”

“Um… would you like to come in?” I offer, trying to remember my regular manners.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, walking past me. As his body moves past mine, I get a whiff of his office: antiseptic, wood-scented, masculine. My hand reaches out to steady myself as I go woozy again.

“Hey, are you all right?” he asks, steadying me under my elbows. His gaze sweeps over me from top to bottom, inspecting me.

“I’m not used to this heat anymore,” I explain. “But thank you for bringing the prescription. I have so much to do… I’m sure I would have forgotten.”

He guides me to the sofa and pushes me gently, indicating that I should sit down. He disappears into the kitchen and I hear the refrigerator door open. In moments he reappears with two glasses of sweet tea. I didn’t even make that, so I have to assume my mother was here stocking the fridge at some point.

“Drink this slowly,” he directs me, his features concerned but analytical.

I do as he says, because I can’t think of a reason not to. The tea coats my tongue in sweetness, cooling my core immediately.

“I’m fine, really,” I insist. “I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”

“The gallery,” he nods.

I notice he’s not drinking his tea. He’s watching everything I do, probably taking my pulse with his mind or something. Somehow, just having a professional in the room makes me feel a little less anxious.

“It’s just a lot of work. More work than I was expecting,” I explain. “I mean, it’s all under control now. There’s a whole crew getting it done. But I just need to stay on top of it and make sure everything goes all right.”

“That’s a lot of responsibility,” he remarks.

“It’s my job,” I snap defensively. “It’s what I do every day.”

He raises his eyebrows and leans back. A smirk twists the corners of his mouth.

“You really are very tense,” he repeats. “I can help you with that.”

Silence douses the room like a light going out. I force myself to breathe.

I am only here for nine more days, I remind myself. Nine days, and then I am gone.

“It didn’t work the first time,” I venture, clearing my throat. “Are you sure you can actually do it?”

He smiles, his cheeks crinkling confidently.

“I am 100 percent certain,” he nods. “Are you telling me there is some kind of problem?”

“I don’t want to come back to your office,” I say in a rush, ignoring his question. “I don’t want to create… gossip. I don’t want the whole town talking about how I started coming to your office over and over again, okay?”

His eyebrows go up. “Over and over again? Is that what you think we’re talking about here?”

I’m not sure if he’s teasing me, so I decide to just plow on and say what I want to say. Why did I say over and over again? I am not really sure.

“The point is I don’t want people to gossip about me. People in this town gossip. You know that.”

“I do,” he nods.

“And I’m only here for a little while. Nine days.”

“Understood,” he confirms.

“I mean, I’ve never done anything like this before,” I say quickly, aware that I am beginning to babble. “I don’t know what to say. I mean, I don’t want this on my insurance or anything. But I understand you have a valuable… treatment. Something that could help me relax or whatever. And since I’m leaving soon, I just thought—”

“Joanna,” he interrupts me.

“Joe!” I correct him immediately, incensed.

He shakes his head. “I’m not going to call you Joe,” he announces. “That’s not your name around these parts, all right? Jen says you’re called JoJo. I can call you that, or Joanna. Your choice.”

My breath catches in my throat. The audacity of this man! Absolute chauvinism. Florida-brand chauvinism, pure and simple.

And yet, what of it? Of all the things that have gone sideways in the last couple days, is being called by my name some big tragedy? There are bigger hills to die on.

“Joanna will be fine,” I growl.

“Perfect,” he smiles. “So it sounds like we have a treatment plan outlined?”

“An absolutely no-strings treatment plan?” I add, narrowing my eyes at him.

“Completely,” he affirms.

Despite my irritation, I appreciate the attention and the affirmation. That’s more of that doctor-patient training, I suppose. Whenever he praises me, no matter how small, I respond like a puppy.

“Okay, well, I guess I was a little tense in your office this afternoon,” I admit.

He crosses his arms over his chest, raising his eyebrows. His hair sweeps over his face lightly, a bit of a country boy look. I’ve gotten used to staring into the faces of men whose hair has been glued into complete submission. This looks more like something I might like to touch. Eventually. I mean I don’t see us holding hands or mussing each other’s hair just yet.

“A little tense?” he jokes. “You ran out of my office like your ass was on fire.”

“Oh? Is that your clinical diagnosis? Ass on fire?”

He shrugs. Every time he moves, I can see the width of his shoulders. He really doesn’t look like a doctor. He looks like an actor playing a doctor.

“I’ll bet you I am not like any doctor you ever met.”

I nod, curious if he’s reading my mind or what. Is that another doctor trick?

“So… I thought maybe you could—”

He holds up his hand, cutting me off in midsentence. My lips snap back together as though I am a puppet and he just pulled my strings taut.

“I know exactly what you need,” he tells me in a firm voice that leaves no room for negotiation. “Just lie down on the couch, please.”

Well, at least he said please, I say to myself as I shuffle toward the sofa, nervously untying my dress. I feel his hand under my elbow when he guides me forward, as though we are in some kind of a dance. I turn when he directs me, and then sit down when he directs me, and then lie down as he opens my dress, leaving me in only my bra and panties.

With his fingers behind my knee, he lifts my right leg and places my calf on the back of the sofa. Shifting his weight, he sits next to me and regards me clinically.

“Excellent,” he murmurs as his eyes rake over me from top to bottom.

Somehow, I am able to lie here. Maybe it is simply the magic of him being a doctor, but though I shiver slightly, I feel like I can let him look at me. Undressed, legs spread, lights on… I allow him to examine me.

“Let’s just finish what we started, shall we?” he begins.

I realize that is not really a question. It is not up to me.

Reaching into his pocket, he draws out a small, handheld device. The buzzing begins immediately.

“Does this bother you?” he asks me as he slides along the skin on the inside of my knee.

“I… I don’t know,” I answer honestly.

“Just relax,” he tells me again. “Breathe. In and out.”

I try to do as he says, but it is hard. I keep going between shivering, wanting to lean into the sensation he’s bringing me and cringing, and wanting to run away. It’s only the gravity of his voice that keeps me pinned to the spot.

“Joanna, do you masturbate?” he asks me gently.

“Do I… No,” I answer, gulping for air as the device drifts toward the very top of my thigh. I can feel it nudging against the hem of my panties.

He hesitates. “No? Why not? Is there a reason?”

“It’s just… I don’t know. There’s no point to it?” I answer distractedly as I try to keep from wriggling.

“Just close your eyes,” he tells me gently. “Just like before. Let it build. Let it wash over you.”

With my eyes closed, I focus on the feelings. One of his hands is wrapped around my knee, and the other is moving the vibrator slowly up and down my pussy, drifting along the fabric of my panties. With my eyes closed, I can still almost see. I see flowers. Complicated flowers like chrysanthemums or peonies. A million layers of creamy, pale pink petals, tightly closed.

“Have you ever had an orgasm?” his voice says, slipping into the space behind my closed eyes like a song.

The flowers multiply, growing in front of me. As one grows, another is born inside of it, then it grows, and then another is born inside of its tight pink center. Each flower replaces the one before it, swelling more quickly than the last.

“That’s good,” he murmurs, leaning forward to breathe near my ear. “Just stay with it.”

Just when I reach the crest of one wave of sensation, there is another. I feel my panties move to the side and more intense vibration sliding against my skin. The motions meet my needs. I barely have to think that I want something before it comes to me. It’s like having an itch scratched, just before it itches.

My heart begins to beat faster. I feel him shift and lean close to me, his cheek brushing against my cheek. That’s better. Having him here, having him close, salves another need. I don’t just want to be inspected, I want to be joined. I want to feel him in a way I’m not sure I have ever wanted to feel anyone.

“You’re doing it,” he whispers. “When it comes, don’t run away. Ride through it. Let it flow through you. I’m here for you. I will be right here, the whole time.”

The flowers bloom, trembling, ready to explode. My body shudders as heat comes over me quickly with a surge of physical urgency I have never known. Instinctively, I want to withdraw, to close back up, but he leans harder against me.

“Stay with me!” he commands in my ear as the vibrator batters my clit. “Let yourself come, Joanna. Let it happen... now!”

Gasping, I feel it wash through me like a lightning bolt. At once warm and wet, an explosive surge of sensation rakes through me like a tsunami. Following his direction, I let it batter me, hold me under, wash through me and then leave me breathless, trembling, awash in bliss.

My heart pounds and I feel consciousness slip away and slip back. He nuzzles my cheek and neck, brushing my hair away from my forehead.

“That’s it,” he chuckles proudly. “Right there. That’s it.”

“What? Really?” I gasp, amazed. “I did it?”

“You definitely did it,” he says with a mixture of pride and satisfaction. “I was happy to help.”

“Oh my gosh,” I sigh, trying to hold onto consciousness. “That was amazing.”

The sensation continues to surge through me, its intensity slipping away slightly with every wave. My muscles feel like they’re made of silicone, thick and overburdened by gravity. I feel like I could sink into the futon, or dissolve into a puddle. I wouldn’t regret a moment of it.

Now I know, I laugh to myself. This is it. This is what all the fuss is about.

How the hell did I ever live without this?