The Valeditztorian (15 page)

“
Right, Emma,” said my mom. “Thanks for reminding me. In addition to being essential for procreation, sex is also an opportunity for two individuals to express their love for one another. The way I see it, when two people consensually sleep together, they’re agreeing to share a piece of their souls with one another.”

“
So you’re saying I should have sex early in life, for all the spiritual benefits?” I asked.

“Shh, Emma
. The bottom line, Helen, is that your father was wrong to make you feel badly about doing something that’s a natural part of growing up.”

“Plus it’s a mitzvah
if you do it on Shabbat,” I said.

“
I think that’s only if you’re married,” said my mom.

“
Details,” I said. “You gotta love Judaism.”

Without making a s
ound, Helen started crying. As the tears rolled silently down her cheeks, my mother and I waited for her to collect herself.

Eventually my mother asked, “How did you leave things with your father?”

“He said he’d throw me out of the house if I ever did it again. I told him he didn’t have to worry about that, since I was moving out anyway. Then I came over here.”

“That was a very brave thin
g for you to do,” said my mom. “Of course you’re welcome to stay with us. You can have the guest bedroom upstairs for as long as you need it.”

“That’s great, Mrs. S.”

“You know, Helen, if you’d like, I could try speaking with your parents, to smooth things over. As badly as your father handled the situation, I’m sure he acted the way he did because he loves you. I know he only wants the best for you.”

“Maybe later,” said Helen
. “I’m so mad at him right now, I can’t even think about making up.”

“No problem,” said my m
om. “You just let me know when you’re ready.”

A few days later, Helen asked my mother
to serve as an intermediary with her father. Perhaps not surprisingly, my mom’s diplomatic efforts failed miserably when she attempted to reconfigure the man’s worldview.

“That man is as stubborn as his daughter,” she complained to me afterward.

“Do you think God is punishing him?”
I asked.

“What do you mean?”
said my mom.

“Maybe God gave him a rebellious
daughter to punish him for being so rigid.”

“That’s a creative
idea, Emma, but I don’t see it that way at all.”

“No?”

“No.”

“How do you see it
, then?”

“I’m guessing that his
inflexibility drove Helen to become particularly stubborn and rebellious. In all likelihood, her father had a lot more to do with shaping her personality than God did.”

In the end, Helen liv
ed with my family for quite a while. Even after I moved out that fall, she remained with my parents until graduation. Later she became my college roommate, and we stayed together all the way through medical school. Which brings us back to New York.

“Nice to see you too,” I answer, following her cold greeting.

“Thanks for screwing things up with BJ,” she shouts, stalking into her bedroom.

O
y, vey. Angry Helen is a formidable opponent. With her jet black, wavy hair, thick eyebrows, and piercing gaze, Helen can wither a blubbering man, or remorseful roommate, with just one glance. I hate it when she’s mad at me, especially when her anger is justified—and that’s most of the time, since it’s usually my big mouth that causes all the trouble in our relationship. Though we don’t always get along, I need Helen in my life. At times she’s more like a mother than a best friend. Whenever a crisis arises—and that’s every other day—bluntly honest Helen is great for advice. Over the past month in Brazil, I’ve missed her greatly.  

When
Helen slams her door, I imagine the series of events leading up to her current unhappiness. Once I ratted on BJ, Grace must’ve confronted him, and he probably broke up with Helen. Or something like that. Throughout medical school, incidents like this one have cropped up on a regular basis for me and my classmates. Rather than love triangles, the med school menages often originate as love squares, which later morph into love pentagons. Generally these scenarios begin with two roommates dating two other roommates, hence the squares. Add a new object of desire, and you get the pentagons. At some point, chaotic emotional drama ensues. This phenomenon seems to replay itself, over and over again, when a bunch of unmarried, indiscreet, horny people (myself included) live in close quarters and fail to keep secrets.

At a
later time, I will strive to win Helen’s forgiveness.

First, I need
to deal with my own baggage, and I’m not talking about my suitcase. After a short power nap and a shower, I call Thomas. My soon-to-be ex-boyfriend is home in his apartment, just two flights below me. For our breakup session I wear an outfit intended to simultaneously tempt and frustrate him: snappy sandals, short shorts, and a low-cut spandex tank top. Then I march off to his apartment, planning to look fabulous as I leave him.

Entering his lair, I smell the incense and candles he’s lit
. A moment later I see his face, reflected in the soft glow of candlelight that fills his bedroom. That’s when the overwhelming chemical attraction I feel for Thomas hits me like a Mac truck. It’s always like this. One look at his gray-green eyes, strong jaw, and wavy brown hair, and my resolve collapses like a sandcastle against a tidal wave. Resolution number three immediately dissolves in an ocean of lust.

“I missed you,” he murmurs
in my ear, encircling me in his arms.

“Me too,” I whisper back.

What can I say? Everyone has their addictions. Sex with Thomas is mine.

Though my obsession with Thomas has little to do with his appearance, his phenomenal good looks certainly caught my attention when we first met
. Thomas is tall, thin, and muscular, with broad shoulders and six-pack abs, the latter acquired from doing no sit ups whatsoever. So unfair. Beyond the externals, his subtler qualities are sexy as well. His voice, for example, is sensual and commanding. When he says “get naked,” I say “how quickly?” FYI, sometimes he likes a slow strip tease, but other times he prefers to get straight down to business. And his smell—his wonderful, masculine smell—must harbor some pheromone that sets off an unrelenting, sexually charged chemical reaction in my blood stream.

After not seeing him for more than
a month, I’m salivating for his touch. Which brings me to the main attraction: his perfect anatomy. Like the rest of his body, his penis is remarkably long. Though I’ve never pulled out a tape measure, when fully erect it must be at least eight inches long from base to tip, not including the scrotum. At the head, the glans is wide and velvety soft, like newborn skin. Then there’s the angle of the shaft. When I’m on top, the insertion trajectory is just right for hitting a particular sweet spot that never fails to induce an amazing orgasm. Oh, baby. He’s a hard habit to break, and there’s no chance I’m breaking it today.

Watch
ing Thomas strip down to his boxers, I tackle him onto his futon before his jeans even make it past his ankles.

“Whoa, there, girl,” says Thomas
. “Feeling eager, are we?”

Instead of answering him with words, I
throw down his shoulders, pinning his hips under my knees. After devouring his lips, I quickly move south, consuming his rock hard member, reaching as far down the shaft as my throat will allow.

“Oh, yeah
. Grab my balls,” he commands.

With pleasure
. At the moment, I’m unable to say this out loud. Instead, I squeeze his scrotum with one hand, while massaging the distal shaft, behind the testicles, with the other.

“Emma, that feels great,” he says, moaning with delight.

Thomas loves this little maneuver, which I picked up from “Sex in the City.” While I don’t watch much television, occasionally I’ll tune in for this particular show, mainly for educational purposes.

With my hands and
mouth moving independently, but working synergistically to focus Thomas’s sexual energy, I feel a bit like a conductor directing an orchestra. This sense of power, of utterly controlling his body, is something I love…which is ironic. While I’m usually an uncoordinated disaster in life, in bed with Thomas, I’m completely confident. When his entire body starts shaking, I know our music is on key. Just before reaching crescendo, he grabs my hair and yanks my head upward, dragging my lips back to his.

“Not yet,” he whispers in my ear, in a ragged but determined voice
. “I want you on top.”

Next thing I know I’m rhythmically gliding over him, filled to capacity with his fabulous manhood
. The sensation is exquisite. Though I didn’t want to admit it, I’ve missed him—or this—terribly. As our bodies crash together, over and over again, my core begins to tense with expectation. Driving me closer to the edge, Thomas grabs both of my nipples and simultaneously squeezes.

“Harder,” I beg
.

When he obliges, squeezing past the point of pain, I gasp with pleasure
. That’s something else he’s taught me—the fine line between pleasure and pain. Not that we ever needed them, but a number of instruments in his closet were used to explore this fascinating phenomenon.

“You’re so wet,” he whispers
in my ear.

“I know,” I say
.

It’s true
. I’m dripping with desire. Though I’d be happy to have sex all afternoon, I’m not going to last much longer. Sensing my imminent climax, Thomas skillfully angles his hips, thrusting himself more forcefully into the center of my pleasure zone. As he takes control of my body, a warm, electric current begins building just below my umbilicus. The warmth spreads rapidly, charging my pelvis, abdomen, and extremities. Suddenly every fiber of my being explodes in a shower of fireworks, simultaneously contracting with intense heat and pleasure.

“Thomas!” I scream, only to hear him calling
out my name, letting himself go in the same moment.

As aftershocks of ecstasy roll deliciously through my c
ore, I know there must be a God.

When our bodies finally relax, both of us
collapse into one another, lying perfectly still. Pressed together, physically exhausted, we bask in the warmth of our mutual afterglow. After a while I nuzzle my head into the crook of his neck, enjoying the proximity of his body, which has been absent far too long. Eventually we fall asleep, and I’m not sure how much time passes.   

When I open my eyes, Thomas is
wide awake, staring at the ceiling.

“What are you thinking about
?” I ask, my head pressed against his strong pectorals, his arm cradling my torso against his body.

As I’m
uttering the words, I sense this is probably a bad question.

“The match,” says Thomas.

“The match? Right now, you’re wondering where you’re going to match for residency? That’s not very romantic.”

“Emma, you misjudge me,” he says.

“Really? How so?” I ask.

“I’m leavin
g New York,” he says. “I hate this city.”

To better see his expression, I prop myself up on one elbow
. Thomas is always complaining about New York.

“Where are you going?”

“Maybe to the University of Michigan. While you were gone, I took a trip out to Ann Arbor.”

“
How was it?”

“
It’s great out there. Everything’s green. Lots of parks, good fishing.”

“Sounds nice,” I say.

“Yeah, it is,” he says. “I’m hoping you’ll like it, too.”

“Why?” I ask
.

Since Thomas is a
total commitment-phobe, the statement baffles me.

“You could also match there.”

“I could match there?”

“Right.”

“What exactly are you saying, Thomas?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you saying that I should move to Michigan and live with you while we finish residency? That we should get married? Or do you mean that I should get my own apartment in Ann Arbor, and we could hang out sometimes…and have sex?”

“I don’t know
. It’s too early to say.”

“Well, if you
end up matching in Michigan, what are we going to do about next year?”

“In what respect?” he asks.

“If you move to Michigan, are we going to keep dating—just the two of us—or will we start seeing other people? Ann Arbor is pretty far away, and I’ve got another whole year of school left to finish.”

“I’m not sure,” he says
. “We’ll just have to wait and see.”

Ah
. There’s the Thomas I know and love. As usual, the man is unwilling to offer more than a smidgen of romance or the faintest hint of commitment. Despite the fact that we just had the most amazing sex, the idea of him moving away to Michigan sounds great. For certain, putting a large geographic distance permanently between us is the easy way out of the relationship, but hey—I’ll grab any life preserver that gets thrown my way.