The Love You Crave

27.

Maybe Taylor.

Maybe’s first encounter with this stupid vaginal muscle spasm thing occurred eighteen months ago. She kept it to herself for a long time, hoping it would go away, but it just got worse. One night, while feeling particularly low, she tearfully explained her problems to Daddy, the man she now calls Ralph. Over time, he talked her into seeing an OBGYN, which is how she obtained the diagnosis. She then met with a specialist, but that didn’t work out, so Daddy did an exhaustive search that ended with his paying Dr. Scott a ridiculous amount of money to get Maybe on his patient list.

Over the past few months of therapy, Dr. Scott explored the possible psychological reasons for Maybe’s condition, including the fear of painful sex, and the belief that sex is wrong, or dirty. He even suggested a traumatic incident may have triggered her condition. Maybe cooperated in general, but never told Dr. Scott about Taylor, the young man whose name she added to her alias.

Taylor, a wealthy, good-looking kid, had attended J-State. Had a popular girlfriend, Nancy, and dated Maybe on the sly. Taylor’s dad was a famous TV personality in Atlanta, his mom a local celebrity. Since his best friend was Nancy’s brother, his relationship with Maybe remained a secret.

Taylor and Maybe were on their third date at his parent’s lake house in south Georgia. It was November, and the temperature well past chilly. The plan had been to spend a couple of quiet hours there, as they’d done twice before, only this time Maybe promised to go “all the way.”

When they arrived that night, the key was missing from its hiding place.

“It’s okay,” she said. “We can do it in the car.”

“I want our first time to be special, in a proper bed,” he said. “Wait here.”

With that, he went behind the house and broke a small windowpane in the door that led to the den, reached his hand in, and unlocked it. Instead of waiting out front, Maybe followed him inside. Within seconds their clothes were in a heap on the floor, and Taylor, nude except for his socks, chased a naked Maybe down the hall toward the kitchen. Moments later they were on the kitchen floor (so much for a proper bed) and both were benefiting from his extensive sexual experience. After a few minutes he asked Maybe to get on top, and she obliged.

Then all hell broke loose.

Something inside her-a sort of muscle spasm occurred, causing her vagina to clamp down on Taylor’s penis. He yelped in pain.

“What are you doing?” he yelled.

“ Nothing! It hurts me, too!” she yelled back.

As his erection quickly died, his level of pain increased. Now he was yelling, begging her to call 911.

“My cell phone’s on the counter!” she said, through clenched teeth.

“ Do something!” he screamed.

She tried to stand up, but couldn’t. She reached her hand onto the counter and knocked over what felt like a knife block. She reached up again, and swept the counter. Four objects fell to the floor: his car keys, her cell phone, and two steak knives. Her first thought was Taylor could’ve been seriously hurt, had the knives fallen the wrong way. Her second thought was she had no intention of allowing police or firemen to catch her in this situation, becoming the object of ridicule, looking for all the world like two dogs caught in mid-fuck. How would they separate them? Pour a pail of water on their crotches? What if one of the rescuers secretly videoed them on his cell phone and put it on the internet?

Taylor kept screaming, “ Call them! Call 911!”

Maybe suddenly didn’t care for his tone. Or his lack of concern for what would happen when the rescuers arrived. She began to think of Taylor as being weak. After all, she was in pain too. Excruciating pain. But you didn’t see her freaking out about it. Where was his concern for her? She looked down at his face. He was crying. Crying! What a wimp, she thought. Maybe grabbed a steak knife in each hand and began stabbing him wherever she could find an opening.

It took much longer than you’d think, but eventually he stopped screaming and flailing and-here’s the interesting part-the minute she knew he was dead, her spasm abruptly stopped. She pushed him out of her, used some paper towels, liquid soap, and hot water to wash the blood off her hands and feet. Then she put Taylor’s socks on and padded to the guest bedroom, where she took a long, hot shower and scrubbed herself until she was convinced all the blood was gone. Then she walked back to the kitchen, avoiding the blood spots.

She gathered her clothes from the den, dressed, and began the process of wiping down all surfaces she may have touched that night and the other times she’d been there.

Then she got a mop and bucket, some hot water, and cleaned up any traces of her footprints and palm prints. She washed the steak knives carefully, along with Taylor’s car keys and her cell phone. Then she locked the door behind her, got in his car, and drove it to a movie theater in Jacksonville, wiped down all the interior surfaces and the outer door handles, then wedged the car keys under the back tire of an SUV on the other side of the parking lot so they’d be crushed when the vehicle backed out of the parking space. From there she walked a mile to her dorm and climbed into bed. Moments later her roommate, Janice, came in, asked how long she’d been there. Maybe said about an hour. She listened with enthusiasm while Janice shared all the details of her date, then they turned off the lights and Maybe slept until ten o’clock the next morning.