Paul and Yvonne sat idly by and watched without alarm as their sex life drifted down the river of time. They were positioned on a comfortable log by the riverbank quite unaware of one another’s presence.
Paul took the time rather well. He thought of his son’s first school camp. Dropping him off, seeing him onto the bus as other parents did the same but with alternate children. His son sat at the back where he could be seen through the window, he was one of the cooler kids, a fact Paul secretly enjoyed (having been picked on all through his own education), it saved him a lot of time parenting and money counselling. He watched his son disappear into the distance which the bus took him. It turned a corner with a lovely big oak tree standing firm in the wind. He never remembers where camp was but always remembers the oak with its slightly decayed branches.
Yvonne was less content. She struggled to deconstruct her latest recurring dream. As a fish she can see the fisherman’s bait floating deliciously just inches of hydrating H²O from her face. She knows it for what it is. She’s seen fish fall prey before. She doesn’t want it to happen, she does not want to eat this amazingly tantalising piece of worm squirming just for her as if to say ‘hey baby, come check out the taste sensation.’ There’s plenty more worms in the sea she thinks as she bites down, considers the fact that she’ll need a coral pick to get this hook from her mouth, realises she’s made the mistake signing her off to fate.
‘Yvonne’.
She’s ripped from her thoughts (and the safety of the water) by a voice her husband acquired some time after birth.
‘Yvonne I was thinking, where was his first camp?’
‘We need help’ comes her distracted reply.
‘Can’t you remember it either?’
‘I’m talking about our sex life’.
Paul realises that maybe he and his wife aren’t so distant; after all they’re thinking about sex at the same time. ‘Oh’ he says, wishing Fabio had written a ‘how to’ on women.
‘When was the last time we had sex?’
‘I gave up remembering’ comes his all too honest reply, Fabio would hang his head in shame.
‘Do you care? I care. I want sex. Come with me.’
Her commanding tone leads Paul from the house into the passenger seat and on a journey that only Yvonne knows the destination of. In Yvonne’s mind the car’s amphibious, hurtling down the river in pursuit of that sex life so nearly submerged.
The only attempt at conversation, ‘Well look at that, in our rush I forgot to change out of my pyjama pants’ is not met with response.
They arrive at Doctor Larry’s Sex Help Clinic.
Doctor Larry being a personal friend of Yvonne’s makes time to see the couple without delay.
‘I don’t care about your appointed time, I’ve just been met with a sexual emergency, now get out!’ provides the cue for Yvonne and Paul to make their way into Larry’s office, squeezing past the potent glares aimed squarely from the couple so recently ripped-off.
In the office sits a desk housing the front end of a chair, the walls adorned with what science calls ‘anatomy’ and the porn industry calls ‘soft’. Along the wall lies a bed, you can smell the clean sheets.
‘Yvonne, Darling, what’s the problem? Who’s this?’
‘This is my husband.’
‘Hi.’
‘Hello.’
‘Larry, Sweetie, we’ve come because we need help.’
‘You’re not having sex’ Larry asks expertly assessing the problem.
‘That’s exactly right’ she replies, unable to hide her marvel at his almost psychic abilities.
‘Isn’t that why everyone comes here’ Paul asks cutting a swathe through the indulgence.
‘No it’s not. But by looking at you and knowing Yvonne I managed to diagnose the problem directly. I’m going to help you love each others bits again’ Larry reassures.
The indulgence cuts back.
‘But it’s going to take a whole heap of trust. I’ll see you both individually.’
In the waiting room Paul’s focus wanders unrestrained. Easily done at a sex clinic. The décor stinks of meticulous planning. Magazines alphabetically arranged. Various colours fighting to distinguish themselves on every other surface. Mirrors emblazoned with the text, ‘WHAT IS IT YOU FORGOT TO LOVE?’
‘I’m not sure’ Paul responds in thought, ‘I used to like grapes.’
The female secretary’s bust line, teetering on the edge of inappropriateness and at times slipping over the edge before being recovered with the aid of her adjustments, screams for attention. She wears thick-rimmed jet-black spectacles that lack lenses. A bleach blonde head of hair compliments her fantastic good looks. Any man would argue that an attractive secretary is the last thing you need in a sex-clinic, it leads to impure thoughts, in Paul’s case those thoughts eventually give way to his newfound acknowledgement of the chandelier. As he begins to consider its relevance the door to Larry’s office glides open on freshly greased hinges, Yvonne’s ruffled appearance comes into view.
‘I totally trust him Honey’ she manages as she slumps in a chair attempting to corral her emotions.
Larry’s arm appears around the door loaded with a long investigative finger that points directly at Paul and begins curling in action. Once he’s bridged the door’s threshold Paul realises that his Doctor is standing stark naked, balls and all exposed without remorse. Clothes lay strewn about the office, most notably the underwear suffocating a desk lamp.
‘Now Paul, remember we talked about trust? I’ve just mated with your wife and expect to do the same with you, that way I can better understand what needs fixing.’
It felt good making an impulse decision for what seemed to be the first time in his life. It was refreshing to throw random belongings in a suitcase and that, in turn, into the back of the very same car he’d been a passenger only hours earlier. Now he sat in the drivers seat, pyjama bottoms comforting him in some unprofound way. He was unaware how his wife would get home, Larry owed her a favour he figured, maybe she could score a lift from him.
Whilst without solution to his marital problems his sexual dignity remained intact, which, in turn, uncovered a dormant libido gasping for expression. Was it because of jealously? A boiling over of repressed sexual frustration? Or possibly just because he’d had a naked doctor wanting to ‘mate’ with him. Whatever it was didn’t really matter. All that mattered now was whether the intended girl (whom he’d so recently developed a romantic interest in) might act on a similar impulse. He pulled to the side of the road and dialled.
‘Doctor Larry’s Sex Help Clinic, Lucy speaking.’
‘Hi Lucy, I’m Paul’ he began…
No comments:
Post a Comment