The rest of the outing with Waldo happens in a fog. I’m pretty sure he spends at least twenty minutes railing against the stranger’s balls—literal and figurative—but I only half listen. As soon as is socially acceptable, I make an excuse to leave and rush home to videocall my twin.
Since the mystery guy knows her, she must know him too.
Entering my room, I scan it for a place to set up my phone where my sister won’t see the magician paraphernalia scattered all over. I don’t want her coming here in person and going Marie Kondo on my ass.
There.
I walk up to Manny, the mannequin I practice my tricks on—of the magic variety, that is. Taking off Manny’s expressionless head, I set my phone in his neck and dial Holly.
No answer.
Crap.
I call her without the video. Same result.
Switching to text, I ask her to call me as soon as she’s available and wait.
And wait some more.
Tired of waiting, I decide to distract myself. But with what?
Usually, I use every spare moment of my life to practice magic, but the mystery guy’s cock has reminded me of a project I’ve been working on from time to time—a type of exposure therapy meant to one day allow me to become intimate with a man.
Fine. I admit it. I might have an itsy-bitsy problem. I don’t just have trouble shaking hands without gloves. I also have an issue with more intimate touching, not to mention bodily fluid exchanges of any kind.
This isn’t great for a magician, or a human. If I wanted to be a detective à la Adrian Monk, though, I’d be golden.
On the bright side, my chances of getting dysentery are slim to none.
It all started in my childhood when I witnessed something horrible, an incident I’ve been calling The Zombie Tit Massacre.
My parents own a farm where they rescue all sorts of animals, and they had the bright idea to give shelter to a bird that goes by the scientific name of Parus major, more commonly known as The Great Tit. This bird has another name as well—the Zombie Tit. The reason for the latter is what you’d expect. In the wild, these birds are thirsty for brains—bat brains, to be exact. But as it turns out, they’re not super picky and will eat the brains of other birds too, including chickens, which is what I walked into on that fateful day.
Bloody chickens with their brains viciously pecked out.
Blood and brains everywhere.
A satisfied Zombie Tit.
I almost lost my voice from screaming.
There were actually two of us traumatized on that day. My sister Blue, one of the sextuplets and thus younger and more impressionable, came upon the bloody scene first. She’s afraid of birds to this very day. Maybe also tits, as in boobs. I’ve never asked.
Me, I’m okay with birds. And tits. But I am grossed out by blood and brains, and that aversion has since transferred to all bodily fluids and, by extension, germs.
So, yeah. If the concept of kissing is unfathomable to me, various sex acts are even more so.
With a loud sigh, I grab my laptop and open the first porn site I find.
Am I ready for this?
I take a deep breath and slowly let it out.
What I’m about to do is called systematic desensitization, and the idea behind it is as the term implies: if I see acts that scare me in a calm, controlled environment, I might be able to work up the courage to deal with the real thing.
Hey, it works for spider and snake phobias.
I start with videos of people kissing.
Keep calm. Don’t think about salivary microbiota. Or tongue microbiota.
The problem is, no one merely kisses in porn. They suck each other’s faces in a way that reminds of the monsters from Alien. In general, watching porn does for me what horror movies must do for everyone else.
Speaking of horror, time to up the ante.
I start with a vanilla sex scene. The story here is he’s a pizza delivery guy and she can’t help but seduce him.
Yeah. Sure. That’s likely.
Watching them undress is okay. They don’t kiss, which is good—not for their fictional relationship but for my squeamishness. However, as I watch a condomless cock go into the actress’s opening, my heart rate kicks up again, and not due to sexual arousal.
Fuck. Am I hyperventilating?
Breathe. In. Out. It’s not happening to me. The people in the video are consenting adults. Also, porn stars get tested regularly, so what’s the worst that could happen?
My mantras aren’t working. I can think of a handful of STDs that have an extremely short incubation period, yet according to my research, porn stars test themselves only about twice a month. Simple math says that if they shoot enough scenes, they could get infected.
Somehow, I manage to even out my breathing.
Good. I’m ready for more.
I click on a video featuring a kink that’s particularly disturbing to me—a golden shower.
The story here is she’s a MILF and he’s her son’s best friend. Which makes no sense. Shouldn’t she be his urologist or something? Also, MILF stands for Mom I’d Like to Fuck, so in this case, shouldn’t she be a MILPO, as in Mom I’d Like to Pee On? Or MILPOM—Mom I’d Like to Pee On Me?
In any case, this really amps up the therapeutic value of this session. Once I can tolerate watching something like this, I might be ready for first base in the real world.
Hopefully. Maybe.
As soon as the video starts, the feeling that I’m watching a horror flick intensifies.
Some people believe that urine is sterile, but that doesn’t make sense. When someone has a UTI, what do the doctors look for in their urine sample? Bacteria. Would that work if the stuff was really sterile? Nope.
I get halfway through the video before I have to shut it off. Not quite there yet, I guess.
I chew on my lip, debating ending the therapy session here, but I decide to brave one more thing.
Bukkake.
It’s a Japanese word that translates to “eye herpes.” At least that’s what I assume because bukkake is an act where a huge number of men collectively ejaculate on someone—a woman in the version I’m about to watch.
The story in this video is that she’s the naughty stepsister—a very popular porn theme on this site.
But hold up. Forgetting the fact that some of the guys are way too old to still live at home, how did this fictional family end up with fifty stepsons and one stepdaughter in the first place?
Once the actual bukkake starts, I find it hard to watch.
Maybe if I fast-forward a little?
Nope.
Worse.
They’re keeping a digital count in the corner of the video that tells the viewer how many times the guys have already come, as well as the number of times the actress has swallowed—and we’re up to sixteen cum splashes and ten gulps.
Shouldn’t this look like a horror flick to everyone? Unlike with a regular facial, the woman’s face is completely covered in creamy liquid, creating a grotesque effect.
Strangely, I don’t get the feeling that the actress is being exploited, though she might very well be. Maybe it’s because she looks like she’s having a great time, while the faceless men just rub one off mechanically and without any enthusiasm—like it’s a chore.
I wonder how much it would cost to hire so many dudes if you wanted this done privately at your house. Also, is this actually fun for straight men to watch? I’m not an expert, but it seems like cocks and man-jizz are the main course here, with a girl almost as an afterthought. Also, does the actress skip a meal after this scene? Just how nutritious is that stuff? Can a vegan consume it?
Side note: none of these cocks look as nice as the one the mysterious stranger was packing. In fact, none of the porn shlongs I’ve ever seen can compare.
Wait. I’m cheating. I disassociated from the video. I have to pay close attention to the screen and work on calming down to get any therapeutic effects.
I open my eyes Clockwork Orange-style and gape at the binge coming and drinking.
Now the panic sets in.
Just like with urine, if a guy has a UTI, semen can be contaminated with bacteria. With that many guys, the chances of a bad outcome increase proportionally.
I turn the video off and even out my breathing.
Am I ready for the hardest part of the therapy?
I go to the target category and do a double take. There’s a video called Analysis. Do people get off on analyzing things?
Nope. It’s actually Anally Sis, another stepsister situation.
Fine. At least this has a more realistic stepsibling ratio. I start watching and force myself to gape at the gaping orifice on the screen.
Yep. There it is. Ass to mouth—a practice I find creepier than Freddy Krueger, Michael Myers, The Babadook, and even Pee Wee Herman.
Slow breathing isn’t helping me at all now. This is how someone with a clown phobia must feel while watching It.
The receiver must be super clean.
Nope. Not helping.
The giver must have an extremely well-developed immune system.
Nope.
I turn the video off.
Can’t watch it. Not ready.
Hey, at least I didn’t scream. Or have a heart attack. The first time I learned what “toss the salad” meant, I gave up eating all salads for about a year.
Shutting my laptop, I work on calming myself.
Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe I don’t want my twin to tell me who the guy is. What’s the point? It’s not like I can do anything with him. It might just be frustrating to—
My phone rings.
As I nearly trip on my way back to my mannequin, I admit to myself that I do want to know who he is.
Which is why it’s a great relief that it’s my twin, Holly, who’s calling.