STAGE 1A: SEX

Aaron had a forty-five minute shower. The water went coldduring the lathering of his lower body. He sat in the tub shivering under an icy spray and cleaned the spaces between his toes.

Samantha looked up diseases on the Internet. Bird flu, swineflu, dog flu, horse flu. Spanish flu and Asian flu. Typhus, cholera,bubonic plague. She looked at pictures of blackened corpses,scaly rashes, x-rays of lungs with pneumonia. Telescopic imagesof invisible dots that could kill you. She looked until she felt herchest was coated with cobwebs, and then she looked some more.

She followed links that led her to syphilis, gonorrhea, HPVand HIV. She felt a little less ill at ease on these pages. Aaron wasthe only sexual partner she’d had in her life. She made him gettested for every disease on the chart before he so much as put hishands on her naked breasts. Aaron claimed he hadn’t slept withanyone before either, but sometimes she had her doubts. Therewas this one girl, Nicole Mowbray, a co-worker of Aaron’s atFaucet Fountain, who she knew had a thing for him. She’d callhim every now and again just to chat, and once she showed upat their place after an alleged fight with her roommate and slepton their couch, contaminating the apartment with her presence.Samantha threw the blankets Nicole had used in the garbage andcould still smell Nicole’s horrid scent of drugstore perfume andmenstruation on the couch to this day.

Aaron walked into the bedroom with a towel around hiswaist. “I have a new freckle,” he said.

Samantha continued to browse Wikipedia’s list of STDs. “Where?”

“On the underside of my foreskin.”

Samantha turned to face him. “Are you joking?”

Aaron shook his head.

Samantha closed her web browser and approached herboyfriend. His face was all blotchy from the shower, his wet hairstuck flat to his head. She put her hand on the knot in his towel.“Let me see.”

The towel fell at Aaron’s feet. He pushed it aside with his toe.

Samantha got onto her knees in front of him. She took hispenis in her hands and gently pulled back the foreskin. There was an oblong mark, light-brownish in hue, on the inside of the prepuce. She brushed it with her fingertip as if it were a drip of chocolate. Aaron flinched but let her touch it.

“Are you sure this is new?” she asked.

“Of course I’m sure.”

“It could be nothing.”

“It could be cancer.”

“I don’t think it’s cancer.”

“It’s cancer.”

She looked up at his face. “You’re kind of flushed. Do you have a fever?”

“No. Maybe.” He held his palm to his forehead. “Probably.”

Samantha stood up and gently rolled her fingertips on thelymph nodes in his neck and at the back of his head. “Hmm.Maybe a little swollen. Look up?”

Aaron did as she asked.

She placed her thumbs on his cheekbones and pulled the skindown slightly for a look under his lower eyelids. There was someredness but not much. She put her ear against his chest. “Deepbreath.”

He inhaled slowly, filling his lungs like balloons, and exhaledinto her hair. His heart echoed in her eardrum. His pulse wassomewhat elevated but not alarmingly so. She pulled her headaway and looked him in the eye to see if his pupils were irregularly dilated. They weren’t.

“I don’t feel well,” he moaned.

Samantha held her hand against his cheek. It was a littlewarm, probably from the shower. “I think you’re okay.”

He felt the nodes in his armpits and shivered. “I don’t know,Sam. I’ve got chills.”

“You’re making yourself sick.”

“That’s rich, coming from you.”

She sighed. “Fine, hang on.”

Aaron stood in place and stared at the laptop’s screensaver—an animated cardiogram pulsing across a black background—while Samantha went to the bathroom and came back with aglass thermometer wrapped in cellophane and a small tub ofpetroleum jelly.

“All right, spread ’em,” she said.

Aaron scoffed. “Come on. Really?”

“It’s the best way to get an accurate reading.” She sat crosslegged on the floor and opened the jelly jar. “Come.”

“Can’t we just use the digital one?”

Samantha shook her head and poked the thermometer out of itswrapper. “It’s broken or something. I used it earlier and it gave mea normal reading, which is crazy because I’m sick as a celebrity.”

“Are you kidding? You’re totally fine.”

“I’m really not. Now get over here.”

Aaron ran a hand through his wet hair and went to her. Hecould feel his anal sphincter tightening at the thought of whatwas about to happen. “Be gentle and go slow, all right?”

Samantha coated the thermometer with jelly. “I know. Relax.”

He turned and faced away from her, willing himself calm.“Maybe I should do you next,” he said, and laughed, but she didn’t respond. He felt her cool hand on his inner thigh, and triedto think about math problems, reading by a fireplace, or lookingout the window on a long train ride, but it all swirled back to theglass tube that would be sticking out of his ass any second now.

“Spread your legs a little more,” Samantha said. “Or we canmove to the couch if you want.”

“No, let’s just do it here. Hurry up.”

The thermometer was cold against his anus. He pinched hischeeks despite himself as Samantha slid it up inside him.

“Sshh,” she said, and rubbed his lower back in circles.

A siren sounded outside, close to the building, and for amoment he thought the cops would break down the door and arrest him for an obscure crime he’d either forgotten or hadn’trealized he’d committed, slapping cuffs on his naked, thermometer-stuffed ass and laughing at the half-erection he suddenlynoticed was bobbing between his legs. Why was this happening?He turned a little to the side so Samantha wouldn’t see it. Thesiren faded into the distance.

“Just a bit longer,” she said. “Wait, are you . . . ? Oh my God, are you hard?”

“Shut up.”

She was smiling. “I can’t believe you’re hard.”

“Can you take the thermometer out please?”

“Just a minute.” She reached around and put her hand on hispenis. It was warm. She squeezed it gently and he closed his eyes.She had read on the Internet about men getting excited by having objects inserted into their anuses. She hadn’t realized Aaronwas one of those men. Maybe he hadn’t known, either. His penisthickened and hardened inside her grip.

She said, “Do you like this?”

He kept his eyes closed, breathing deeply. She thought hisribcage might break open from the violent thumping of hisheart.

She began to stroke him. “Do you want me to . . . ? You know.”

“Right now?” he said, opening his eyes. “I have to be at work soon.”

“There’s time.”

He cleared his throat. “Yeah, okay.”

She stood up and went to the bathroom again. Aaron stoodwith his legs spread like a shortstop waiting for a ground ball andlooked down at his own penis. The oblong freckle was definitelynew. He was vigilant when it came to cleaning the remote flapsand folds of his body. He made a mental note to call Dr. Zilber’soffice for an appointment, and his erection began to fade whenhe thought of the waiting room full of coughing, sneezing,bleeding, contagious people.

Fortunately Samantha returned just in time with a bottle of mouthwash and a paper cup. She got onto her knees in front of him and took a swig; swooshed the liquid around in her mouth,gurgled, and spat it into the cup. Then she reached out andcupped his scrotum in her cool dry hand.

His body prickled at the touch.

She looked up at him. His penis solidified almost instantly,grazing her left cheek. She closed her eyes, leaned forward, andtook him in her mouth.

He inhaled sharply through his teeth. Her tongue was icyfrom the mouthwash. The sensation was irritating and pleasing atthe same time. He gave himself over to the sterilized wetness ofSamantha’s mouth, to the comforting sensation of her palms onhis freshly showered buttocks.

She stopped for a second to scrape a pubic hair off her tongue and looked up at him. His breathing had slowed and there was an expression of dumb peacefulness on his face. She unclipped her bra, let it fall, and took him in her mouth again. He tasted slightly of soap. She was beginning to get turned on herself, which didn’t always happen. She liked pleasing Aaron sexually, to see the bliss and gratitude in his eyes after she’d brought him to orgasm. But it was rare for her to get excited as well. Having sex was just something to do to ward off monotony, like playing a board game or cooking an elaborate meal.

This time was different. She was hot. She shut her eyes and imagined she was fellating the dusty young man in black.

Aaron tried to relax and enjoy what was happening. He and Samantha hadn’t fooled around in weeks. He looked down at the rhythmic trembling of her breasts, the swollen rigidity of her pepperoni-sized nipples. One of her hands was between her legs.She was touching herself. He’d only seen her do that once before—the time he’d asked her to, because he was curious to see what a female orgasm looked like. Of course she hadn’t been able to make herself come. She said she couldn’t bring herself to do itwith an audience present, and when he asked her if she ever did it by herself she said no. Typically she had a low sex drive, and he was fine with that. Sex was exhausting and tedious, not to mention messy, but he still got horny from time to time despite himself. He was male after all.

But now here was Sam, taking initiative and apparently enjoying it. He wondered if a sudden increase in sex drive was asymptom of anything.

Samantha kept her eyes closed—partly out of respect for her boyfriend, and partly to keep the vision of her imaginary partner intact. She imagined him sweaty and pent-up from a day’s work at a construction site or garbage dump. His scrotum would be hairy, his penis salty. He’d dig his dirty fingernails into her scalp and force himself down her throat. He might even call her names. He was probably a man-whore who slept with strippers and strangers, ditzy teenage socialites and boss’s daughters. He probably had a disease.

She was repulsed and extremely wet. She took Aaron’s penis as deep into her mouth as she could manage.

“Oh my God,” Aaron said as he felt himself in her throat.

“Sam, I’m going to . . .”

She moaned, bobbing faster, waves of energy pulsingthrough her body in little explosions. Seconds later he ejaculatedinto her mouth, interrupting her bliss. She suppressed her gagreflex, reached for the paper cup and spat his semen into it.

Aaron stepped back and was about to sit on the bed whenSamantha said, “Wait! Thermometer!”

His eyes popped. “Holy shit. I forgot it was in there.” Hepulled it out slowly and tried to hand it to her.

“Hang on,” she said, and took a post-fellationary swig of mouth wash.

Aaron held the thermometer as far from his body as possible. “Hurry.”

“Okay, okay.” She took it from him, careful to grab it fromthe clean end. She was pleased to see that it was free of fecal matter. It meant he’d showered properly.

“Well?” He pulled a handful of tissues out of the Kleenexbox on the nightstand and wiped the petroleum jelly from hisbutt crack. What remained of his erection withered instantly.

“The numbers are all blurry from the jelly,” she said. “Pass me a tissue.”

He did as she said, and she wiped it off.

“I don’t feel right in there,” he said, examining the residueon the tissues. “I think you might’ve pierced my rectum.”

“I did not! I was very careful.”

He rolled the used tissues into a ball and wrapped them inanother tissue. “So what does it say? Over a hundred?”

Samantha held the thermometer right in front of her eyesand squinted. “Huh.”

“Oh my God. Is it one-oh-three? One-oh-four?”

“Ninety-seven point eight. You’re actually cold.”

“That’s bullshit. I feel awful. Let me see.”

She handed him the thermometer and shrugged.

He looked at it, shook it in the air, and looked at it again.“Weird. Maybe I have sepsis.”

Samantha flopped down onto the bed and sighed. “Youdon’t have sepsis. Your body’s just cold from the shower.” Sheused her toenail to scratch an itch on her opposite leg.

He looked at her, spread out topless on the mattress, herblack hair splashed around her head like tentacles. “So . . . Whatwas up with that?”

“What do you mean?”

He picked a pair of boxers out of his dresser. “That was pretty intense.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

“It was unexpected, that’s all. Is penis cancer an aphrodisiacfor you? Or maybe you get off on shoving thermometers upguys’ asses.”

She sat up. Her vision blurred then slowly fuzzed back tonormal. “Seems like you’re the one who’s into that.”

“That’s not fair.”

She rubbed her eyes. “Are we in a fight or something?”

He stumbled a bit as he stepped into a pair of jeans. “No. It’sjust . . . weird.”

“Well I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry I gave you a blowjob.” Shelaughed and flopped back down on the bed. “I think that’s thefirst time in history any girl has ever apologized to a guy for that.”

He opened the closet and took out one of his many plainwhite t-shirts, his self-prescribed work uniform. With his back to her he said, “You going to be okay until I get back? I can call insick if you want. I feel like I should keep an eye on you.”

She crawled across the bed to the window and looked out. “I wanted to fool around, Aaron. That’s all.”

“That’s what I mean! That’s fucked.”

She continued to look out the window. “I wonder whenMr. Böröcz is going to repaint the parking spaces.”

Aaron sighed. “I hate it when you get like this.” He pulledon his shirt, picked the paper cup of mint-flavoured ejaculatebackwash off the floor, took it to the bathroom and poured itdown the sink. When he came back into the bedroom, Sam wassitting at her desk with her laptop, still topless and looking atmagnified images of colourful bacteria.

He decided not to say anything. He grabbed a brand new surgical mask from a box on his dresser and slung it around his neck.He rubbed sanitizer on his hands, up his forearms, on the back ofhis neck, and dabbed some on his face; equipped his knapsack withsanitary wipes, Windex, Tylenol, Advil, Echinacea, Gravol,Vitamin C, Ginger, Benadryl, Polysporin and NeoCitran. He’dslap on a fresh pair of gloves on his way out the door.

From the hallway he said, “You sure you’re okay, Sam?”

“I’m fine,” she said, her eyes on the screen. “I love you.Have a good shift. Be careful.”

*

Doug Chisholm felt like shit. He sat with a moist faceclothfolded on his forehead and his feet in a bubbling foot bath, flipping through the movies listed on his cable provider’s ondemand service. He wished they had more porn.

The closest thing they had was David Cronenberg’s Crash,but he felt too sick for violence. He’d already gulped down threetablespoonfuls of Robitussin and an extra strength Advil. If hedidn’t start feeling better soon he might have to cancel his seveno’clock appointment with Claire, one of his go-to escorts.

He put the remote down and stood up, knee bones cracking,and shuffled to his kitchenette to make tea. What he really want ed was a coffee, to caffeinate his lethargy away, but the last timehe had coffee while battling the flu, he got cataclysmic diarrhea.The better option was to finally bust open the box of chamomiletea he’d received anonymously as a secret-Santa gift from one ofhis co-workers at the dealership. He didn’t think a bunch ofcrushed-up flower petals mixed with hot water was capable ofgiving anyone the runs.

He filled his kettle with tap water, took the unopened boxof tea out of his cupboard, and placed a single teabag in hisfavourite mug, adorned with a cartoon image of a large-breastedbimbo in a purple bikini top. When the mug got hot, the bikinidisappeared, revealing two perfectly circular boobs with nippleslike candy buttons. Beside one of her blonde pigtails was a caption that said Hubba hubba! Doug liked to think of the bimbo asa sexed-up version of Betty from Archie comics, who, coincidentally, was the first woman he’d ever whacked off to as atwelve year-old. Because of this, Doug Chishom’s cartoon mugwas chock-full of sentimental value.

Before the water in the kettle was completely boiled, he tookit off the burner and filled his mug. Porno-Betty’s bikini top vanished. Doug held the mug to his nose and breathed in the steam.The tea smelled like perfume. Disgusting. He shuffled back to hisfuton and placed the mug on the coffee table; dipped his feet backin the footbath and pressed the turbo button with his big toe. As hereached for the TV remote he was seized by a coughing fit. It feltlike Satan had grabbed him by the throat and was digging his nailsinto his Adam’s apple. He leaned forward, eyes bulging, andhacked and spit into the footbath. His knee bashed against the coffee table and sent the bare-chested Betty mug tumbling to thefloor. There was tea and spittle and salty foot water everywhere.

He couldn’t have Claire over now. Not with his apartmentin this state. He thought about calling her to cancel, but he’dmissed her while he was away—she knew exactly what he likedin bed, unlike the little Dominican dumpling he’d slept with atthe resort. Maybe all he needed was a decent nap. Then hewould wake up feeling refreshed and invigorated, do a quickclean-up, and be ready for some kinky fun.

He stood up to convert his futon to bed-mode. He felt dizzyand sweaty. As soon as he was horizontal, nausea hit him like agong. He reached down, picked the Betty mug up off the carpet,and downed the single gulp of tea that was left in the bottom. Histhirst was barely appeased but his need to rest, to keep still, wasstronger. He closed his eyes and thought about the Dominicangirl.

Her name was Maria, and she was a member of the resort’sdance troupe, performing stage shows in the evenings for thedrunken guests. She was a little thick and buxom for a dancer,but she moved with a slow, graceful fluidity. He danced with herone night at the disco, mesmerized by her citrusy eyes and pockmarked collarbone, and invited her back to his room. Offered hera fistful of Canadian twenties when she seemed a little reluctant.Under the sheets she smelled earthy and peppery, like soil andsmoked meat. When she went down on him her teeth scrapedlightly along his johnson, and when she rode him she seemeddetermined to bounce out of sync with his thrusts, so hemanoeuvered her onto her belly and put himself inside her frombehind. She lay there with her eyes closed, whispering softly inSpanish.

It wasn’t until early the next morning, when he got up topee and saw her sprawled naked across the bed, that he noticedher rash. Large red pustules were spread across her body likeinsect bites, clustered around her neck, chest, and inner-thighs.Her breathing was laboured and raspy, like her lungs were filledwith fluid. Her fingernails, which the night before he’d assumedwere painted black, were caked underneath with dried brownblood. Lime green mucus oozed from her nostril onto the pillow.How had he failed to notice these things at the disco? He must’vebeen smashed and blinded by his own sex-tourist’s intentions.

He emptied his bladder and went immediately to the cafeteria for coffee. When he came back to his suite Maria was gone.On the soiled pillow was left a pile of twigs and feathers, tiedtogether with string. He threw the little scrap of voodoo in thetrash and hooked the sign on his door handle signalling thehousekeeping staff to change his sheets.

The last thing he thought of, before drifting into a feveredsleep on his futon, was that at least he’d had the good sense towear a condom.

*

Zack Pike blew two jet streams of smoke out of his nostrilsand flicked his computer on. He placed the joint in the orangeplastic ashtray on his desk and waited for the secondhandmachine he’d bought off his dealer, Ugbo, to start up.

Beep, boop, beep, followed by lots of whirring.

He took another drag on his spliff until his lungs were full,held his breath for ten seconds, then let the smoke curl slowly outof his mouth as he adjusted his balls in his Transformers boxershorts.

The computer stopped making noise and up popped theWindows login screen. He typed in his password—smokeweedeveryday—and waited for his settings to load.

His babe-alert software informed him that Youporn.com hadrecently uploaded new video clips featuring three of his “preferred” starlets: Ashli Orion, Remy LaCroix, and Ashlyn Rae.The thumbnail for the Ashli Orion clip led him to believe it wasa gangbang scene, so he saved the link in his “favourites” folderand decided to come back to it later.

He took another toke on his joint and looked out the window across the lot. The curtains to unit 404 were closed, but he knew she was in there. She was some kind of shut-in, which he found strangely arousing, like an extra-challenging game of hard to-get. He wondered what she was doing right now. Maybe she was having sex with her pretty-boy boyfriend.

He put his hand down his shorts and logged in to his Facebook account. He had no new messages, no friend requests, and nobody had liked or commented on any of his posts. Fucking typical. He briefly scrolled through the news feed before typing Samantha Riske into the search box.

There she was—the first entry displayed—sitting sideways in an armchair, legs hooked over the side, face half-hidden by her mane of black hair. Aside from the photo, however, her profile was blank.

Samantha only shares some information publicly. If you know Samantha, send her a friend request or message her.

Zack let his cursor hover over the link that read +ADDFRIEND, but opted not to click it. He’d never actually spoken to her in the whole three years they’d lived in the same building.There was a chance she wouldn’t recognize him and reject hisrequest.

Instead, he chose to send her a harmless, neighbourly poke. Then he right-clicked on her picture, saved it to his computer,and enlarged it four-hundred percent on Paint, so he could cutoff her digital head and paste it onto the body of a pale chick getting triple-penetrated by three muscular dudes.