How to Avoid Sex (8 page)

He pushed his face against mine until I felt the stiffness of his moustache bristles scraping my nose. “Applebaum. I’m here to see Applebaum.”

He stood aside and with a sweeping hand gesture, motioned toward the door.

“She’s expecting you,” he said. “I hope you have cock insurance.”

These words sent a chill down my spine. I turned to face the gentleman. His face was stuck in a sickening wink that he either refused or was unable to release. I hesitated at the Sexualis threshold, but pushed forward in honour of Windsor. In honour of us.

I found myself in a moist, velveteen corridor. It wound its way out of view and was much longer than the façade of the building suggested possible. Each step squelched into the ground and tested the integrity of my footing. Red fairy lights lined the ceiling, the illuminative qualities of which were so low that it had to contravene occupational health and safety regulations. The further up the corridor I travelled, the less comfortable I was beginning to feel. When the corridor truncated with a circular, bulbous door, I was relieved and concerned. A sign above the door read ‘COME’. I tried knocking, but couldn’t produce a sound above a dull wet slap. I stared in confusion, noticing a feint yellow glow in the door’s centre. I moved toward it and slid my finger into the glow’s source. The door began to throb, building in intensity before falling away and dousing me in pink fluid. My outfit was completely ruined.

“Welcome, Mr. Worthington. Rest assured, any necessary cleaning costs will be taken care of by us.”

Standing in the doorway was a woman with a calm smile, almost as if she was oblivious to the discourtesy that had befallen me. She wasn’t clothed; rather she was painted, and not painted very well either. About her body was a generic depiction of Bossa Nova’s history in garish colours. It left very little to the imagination, nor did it depict the history of Bossa Nova accurately. It made me angry.

“Would you take a look at me?” I yelled. “There’s soiled, and then there’s this. What method of entry into a business is this? I can’t imagine it adheres to building codes.”

“You must be Mr. Worthington,” she said, ignoring my temper. “Please follow me and we’ll get started.”

The gooey corridor failed to betray the pleasant sterility of the room we were now in. While the corridor was a crass attempt to evoke sex, with the exception of the painted woman, this room was devoid of such vulgar gimmicks. I felt as though we were now within the walls of a scientific research institute.

“Before we get into it, Mr. Worthington, I’d like for us to sit down and have a brief chat. This will give us an idea of how to proceed.”

“Proceed with what?” I asked, making a show my irritation.

“That really depends on you.” She opened a door and gestured toward it. “Please take a seat, Mr. Worthington. I’ll be right with you.”

I was ushered into a small office and left to my own devices. The room was scarcely furnished, with just two chairs and a table between them – not that there was room for much else. I took a seat, and as had become my custom while sitting in chairs that weren’t Windsor, pined for our togetherness. On the wall behind the other chair was a large anatomical diagram with myriad lines pointing to so-called ‘sexual regions’. If this diagram was indicative of reality in any way, it suggested that we were rife with such regions. I shivered at the thought. Affixed to the wall on my right was a poster detailing a plethora of animal penises, starting with human and ending with the Aye-aye. I shuddered once more. Behind me was a similar poster, only this one was devoted to the vagina. I had never seen such a highly concentrated amount of filth. Perhaps coming here wasn’t a great idea. Who am I kidding? Of course it wasn’t!

The painted woman entered the office while I was studying the vaginas. I was ashamed and only hoped my face revealed an appropriate level of disgust. She made no mention of this and I at least admired her ability to let the shame of others rest.

“Sorry about that, Mr. Worthington. I had to attend to another patient. I’m all yours now.”

She flashed a smile that I didn’t return. Instead, I made a point of studying my sodden suit.

“What are you going to do about this?” I asked.

“We’ll have the suit taken care off. For now, shall we get into it?”

“Yes… I suppose. But I shan’t forget about the suit.”

I noticed her eyes roll back in frustration, which I considered something of a victory. Rather than continue discussing my suit, she opened a drawer and retrieved some papers. She squared them on the desk and placed them before me.

“I haven’t properly introduced myself. I am Perineum Applebaum. I am managing director and chief researcher at Sexualis Delirium. I am here to help you feel comfortable and respected during your awakening.”

The papers before me contained perverted questions such as:

Have you ever deliberately tasted pubic hair?

Do you examine your bowel movements before flushing?

Have you ever masturbated with a ‘sex duck’?

I threw the papers down in disgust.

“I’ll tell you right now, Miss Applebaum, the answer to each and every question is NO. And what do you mean by ‘awakening’?”

She flashed another smile – a smile that suggested she was enduring me rather than appreciating me. “You haven’t even read all the questions, Mr. Worthington. How can you honestly answer ‘no’ to each?”

“Because I am not a pervert. Now what’s all this palaver about my ‘awakening’?”

“The ‘awakening’ is merely a process of sexual understanding. People who come here are often afflicted with sexual frustrations, and our job is to remove those frustrations. Tell me, Mr. Worthington… what are your frustrations?”

I slammed my palm against the table. “I have a sole sexual frustration and that is that sex exists in the first place.”

Applebaum scribbled something into a notepad while repeating the word ‘interesting…’. “So it would be fair to say you don’t like sex?”

“Don’t like it? I loathe it with every fibre of my being. It is an infection slowly eating away at purity.”

A combination of outrage and self-satisfaction overcame me as Miss Applebaum scribbled my words down. No matter how hard the world tried to dissuade me, my ideology would remain strong. Not even the self-proclaimed ‘sex guru’ would alter that.

“You seem to have some very strong opinions about sex. Have you ever actually had it?”

I smiled. “Miss Applebaum… I am 48 years old. I have been on this earth for over 17,000 days, more than 400,000 hours, and in all that time I have successfully managed to avoid sex. No matter how far the world around me sinks into depravity, I remain moral and unsullied. So not only have I never had sex, but I am very proud of that fact.”

“So… with all this moral superiority of yours, one question must be asked, Mr. Worthington… why are you here? This is the last place I’d expect to find someone like you. Is this a moral crusade of yours? Are you here to convert me?”

Sarcasm dripped from her words, but I didn’t let this bother me. One grows used to the inferior displays of superiority in others.

“I’m not exactly here for me,” I said. “I’ve met someone.”

Miss. Applebaum’s eyes widened. She leaned forward, interest having struck for the first time since meeting me. “Ahh! Now I’m getting the picture. This ‘someone’ of yours… they want to have sex?”

“Regrettably, yes. He has a sexual appetite, and as you can imagine, this is causing me some consternation.”

“He? So you’re of homosexual persuasion then?”

I was truly surprised by this question as she continued to scribble down my words in her notebook. I wasn’t an anything sexual. Sexual appetite for any of the genders disgusted me.

“No… you don’t quite understand. I have chosen the ‘he’ pronoun for practical purposes only. In actuality, he has no gender, which is something that works very nicely for me.”

“If ‘he’ has no gender, how exactly are the two of you going to have sex?” asked Miss Applebaum. She was truly interested now.

“That’s one of the best aspects to this relationship. I don’t have to have sex with him, rather I provide sex for him. There is a difference.”

“What do you mean? You find people to have sex with him?”

I coughed up tea I finished drinking days ago at the nerve of the question. “No! Of course not. I personally give him sex.”

“With your body?”

“Yes with my body. What a ridiculous question.”

“Sorry if I seem a little slow on the uptake, Mr. Worthington, but are you suggesting the two of you have already had sex?”

“No no no! You simply don’t understand. I don’t need to have sex with him in order for him to have sex.”

“How is it that he is having sex and you’re not? Spell it out for me.”

“I sit on him. All I have to do is sit on him and he is having sex, whereas I am merely sitting.”

“Why do you sit on him?”

“Because that’s his function, you imbecile!”

“His function is to be sat on?”

“Of course it is! He’s a bloody chair for god’s sake! What else would you do with a chair?”

“A chair?”

I nodded. I was feeling quite put out by the barrage of questions, and my temper was getting the best of me. Applebaum wasn’t overly concerned by my temper, but she seemed dazed. Her eyes
were studying the ceiling while she tried to process what I had said. I really didn’t think it was that complicated… especially for a supposed ‘sex guru’.

“I could talk to you all day, Mr. Worthington. But I believe I have everything I need for us to get started.”

“Get started with what?” I asked. “I haven’t consented to anything.”

Applebaum retrieved the empty questionnaires, placed them back in her drawer and stood up. “It’s okay. You’ll be given every opportunity to refuse whatever is offered to you. Follow me please.”

We were back in the clinical glare of the research facilities. Miss Applebaum walked with brisk steps passed various rooms hidden behind closed doors. Given the nature of Sexualis Delirium, I couldn’t even begin to image what activity those doors were saving me from.

“We’re going to start you off in the evaluation lab, Mr. Worthington.”

She pushed through a set of port-holed double doors, which I snuck through before they had a chance to close, removing my need to touch them. There were two other individuals in this room, both of whom had their faces obscured by surgical masks. One approached me with a white hospital gown.

“Please change into this, Mr Worthington,” he said.

I took the gown and sought privacy behind a curtain. I didn’t like the way this appointment was developing. Intrigue wanted me to stay while panic wanted me to leave. I peeled off my sodden suit, trying as best as I could to avoid seeing my naked body. If avoiding one’s own nudity were a sport, I believe I’d be something of a champion. I wrapped the gown around me, tying desperate knots to keep it as tightly bound to my body as possible and stepped out.

“I’m not feeling terribly comfortable about this, Miss Applebaum,” I said.

“You have nothing to worry about,” she replied. “What we’re doing here isn’t invasive at all. We’re going to scan your body to ascertain the extent of your sexuality. This is an important step if we decide to move ahead with treatment.”

I had a cocky desire to have them scan me. It was one thing for me to speak of having no sexuality, but quite another for their scientific instrumentation to prove it. Several times throughout our consultation, I had a suspicion that Miss. Applebaum didn’t believe my conviction was pure.

“I’d very much like to be scanned by you folk,” I said.

I was led toward a stainless steel examination chair. Since meeting Windsor, I found myself intrigued by each and every chair I came across. The difference in design from chair-to-chair was an astonishment on its own. All paled in comparison to Windsor, of course, but I appreciated my newfound sensibilities in this area.

“Take a seat please,” said Miss. Applebaum.

I did as requested. The chair shifted about below me until I was supine and all I could see were lights. I was handed a pair of tinted glasses to help lessen the intensity of the glare.

“Just relax, Mr. Worthington. We have a range of devices designed to capture sexuality readings, all of which are very safe.”

A switch to my side was flicked and a dull hum filled the room. A monstrous machination was wheeled into view. It was a jumble of metal and glass with a long, protruding arm, at the end of which was a device similar to a barcode scanner. The scanner stopped inches from my eyes and glowed red with life. The light grew strong until I felt its warmth against my face.

“Prepared for complex cognitive sexual development scanning,” said an assistant.

“Just relax,” said Miss Applebaum.

The machine started to beep and whistle while the light scanned up and down my face.

“Decrypting cortex analysis.”

The beeping elongated, morphing into a single, painful squeal. I plugged my ears with protective fingers, but the sound was too insistent to merely be blocked out.