Stripped Down (18 page)

Back in the dizzying humidity, only seconds have passed. “There's one last thing I wanted to give you, Jai,” she says handing me my final paper back. I nod, weighty and unable
to move. “Well aren't you going to look?” she asks.

I tell her, “It doesn't matter.”

“I thought it didn't,” she responds dejectedly and walks out of the room like just another one of her students would.

I strike a match to ignite the tobacco between my lips wanting the smell to be unfamiliar this time on my fingertips and the rim of the cigarette. Disappointed, I fill my lungs with smoke and nicotine and think to myself,
It feels good to be occupied.
I thumb through the pages she handed back, landing on the last one, which is adorned with a few words of wisdom, a mark penned in red and her name.

CLINICAL TRIAL

Radclyffe

 

 

 

 

Hunger is a powerful motivator. It's amazing the things you'll do that you never would have conceived of doing if you hadn't needed money to eat. Or in my case, to eat, pay the rent, and put gas in the car. Not to mention next semester's tuition, textbooks, and the occasional new pair of shoes. All right, it's not quite that bad, but almost. I'm the typical struggling graduate student, and fortunately, in a large university there are always studies being done that pay volunteers to participate. Although I've often thought that if you're being
paid,
you probably aren't a volunteer, but something else. In terms of my newest assignment, that “something else” turned out to be pretty hard to describe.

It started yesterday when I saw an ad in the campus newspaper that said:

So I called, got the secretary in the experimental psych department, and scheduled an appointment for this morning at 10:15. When I arrived a little bit before the appointed time, the same secretary directed me to an office down the hall. The fluorescent lights in the cinderblock-walled, tile-floored hallway seemed overly harsh as my footsteps echoed in the hollow silence. The third door on the left was unmarked, but I knocked as I had been instructed.

“Come in,” a disembodied voice called.

The room was spare, and in the few seconds I had to scan it before my attention was drawn to the woman behind the functional metal desk, I didn't notice that any attempts had been made to personalize the space. University-issue bookshelves against one wall, filled with haphazardly stacked texts, file folders, and piles of papers; no rug on the floor; two worn, armless, upholstered chairs facing a desk that sat in front of what I presumed were windows behind closed horizontal blinds. The woman who glanced up with a remote smile appeared to fit the room: late twenties, smooth pale skin, glossy dark hair pulled back from her makeup-free face, and big, dark, intelligent eyes. She wore a fitted linen blouse in a neutral shade, and although I couldn't see below the desk, I was willing to bet there were tailored trousers in a darker shade and expensive low-heeled shoes to match. Nice package in a professional, no-nonsense kind of way.

“Hello,” she said in a silky, rich voice while standing to extend a hand. “I'm Dr. Vanessa Adams.”

“Robbie Burns.” I shook her hand, wondering how I appeared to Dr. Adams in my threadbare jeans, striped polo shirt, and sneakers. At least I'd had a haircut recently, so my collar-length chestnut waves looked fashionably shaggy as opposed to just plain old messy. At least my eyes, an unusual gray-green, were distinctive. And why that should matter, I hadn't a clue.

“You're here about seven-sixty-nine, correct?” At my confused expression, she smiled absently. “Sorry. The multivari-ant sexual stimulus reaction study.”

I held up the page from the campus rag where I had circled the small notice in red. “Would that be this?”

“That would be the one.”

I thought I saw another trace of a smile, but I couldn't be certain. She settled down behind her desk and gestured me to one of the chairs that had probably once graced a student lounge but now should have adorned a trash pile somewhere. I sat and waited while she opened a folder and took out a number of forms. The first one she turned in my direction and pushed across the desk. “This is a nondisclosure statement. I'd like you to read it, ask any questions you might have, and sign it before I begin the intake interview.”

“There's an interview?”

“Yes,” she replied evenly. “There are certain screening criteria which are necessary for inclusion as well as exclusion from the study. The questions I will be asking are both personal and confidential—for you
and
for the study.” She paused, studying
me
. “And before we go any further, I need to see proof of age, please.”

I grinned and reached into my back pocket for my wallet. After opening it to the clear window that displayed my license,
I passed it across the desk for her perusal. “Twenty-five.”

“Thank you.”

She passed the wallet back, and I replaced it automatically as I scanned the page before me. It was a standard nondisclosure form essentially saying that I couldn't tell anyone the details of the study, the questions I had been asked prior to engaging in the study, or the activities I might be involved in as a study participant. I signed it and handed it back. Dr. Adams took it, tucked it neatly away, and pulled out another page filled with blanks and boxes. Eventually we finished with my name and birth date and other vital statistics. The initial round of questions covered standard medical, family, and social history-type things. She dispensed with them quickly and moved on to the good stuff.

“The remaining questions will be personal ones relating to your sexual preferences, activity, and function. Is that acceptable?”

“Fire away.”

“Are you single?”

“Yes.”

“Heterosexual, homosexual, bisexual, and/or transgendered?”

“Lesbian.” This was getting interesting. She didn't look up as she checked off boxes in various columns.

“Would you say that you have any kind of sexual dysfunction?”

I hesitated. “Does
not enough
count as a dysfunction?” I thought, but I couldn't be certain, that the corner of her mouth twitched.

She looked up and met my eyes, her face completely composed. “We're more interested in such things as anorgasmia,
premature orgasm, or anything that you would define as a physical or psychological problem associated with sexual activity.”

Anorgasmia.
Thank god for those two years of Latin in high school. But didn't the absence of orgasm follow from my question regarding not enough?
Oh. Anorgasmia as in “the inability to have” orgasms.

“No. Given the opportunity, I don't have any problem coming, and I generally have pretty good control.”
Of course it's been so long, who can remember
.

“Good.”

She made another little checkmark.

“Do you masturbate?”

I bit the inside of my cheek to prevent one of those stupid responses such as “Is The Pope Catholic?” and replied, “Yes.”

“Frequency?”

“Yes. I mean…ah…three, maybe four times a week.”

“You would be required to refrain from orgasm either with a partner or via masturbation for the duration of the study. Is that acceptable?”

“How long will the study last?” They were going to have to pay me a lot of money for this.

“I can't say how long your participation would be. It will really depend upon your response to the various stages. A week, possibly several.”

“How will you know if I'm compliant?”

She still didn't smile, but her dark eyes twinkled. I was certain of it. “It's the honor system.”

I grinned. “Agreed.”

“Are you able to masturbate to orgasm while being observed?”

Her head was bent over the forms again, her pen raised above another little box. The study was getting more and more interesting by the second, and I was still only in the interview stage.

“Yes. Who's going to be observing?”

She raised her head. “I am.”

I have no idea what showed in my face when my clit twitched. Hers revealed nothing.

“If you feel uncomfortable and prefer not to participate in the study,” she said gently, “just say so, and we'll terminate.”

“I'm okay so far.” I took a breath and forced myself to relax. “Is there going to be group activity?”

“Only in the advanced stages of the study, and you may never get to that point.” She leaned back in her chair and her voice took on a professorial tone. “The study is designed in levels, or tiers, and these strata are individualized depending upon the study subject's reactions to the test stimuli. Your responses to the early stages will determine the direction and nature of subsequent interactions. Although each set of study criteria is standard, not every subject will participate in the same sequence.”

Somewhere out of that doctor-speak I think I got that what was going to happen would depend a lot upon how I performed in whatever it was we were going to be doing. I was curious, more than curious. Intrigued and not a little turned on. I'd always considered myself a sexual adventurer—at least I'd never said no without trying something. Okay then. Masters and Johnson, here I come.

“That sounds fine.”

Another sheet of paper appeared. More blanks, columns, and boxes.

“Do you object to viewing sexually explicit images?”

“No.”

“Do you find sexually explicit images arousing?”

“Sometimes.”

“Do you use sexually explicit images as a tool during masturbation?”

Fortunately, I don't blush easily, and we were far beyond that point already anyway. “Sometimes.”

“Literature, photographs, or videos?”

“All of the above.”

Check. Check. Rustle. Rustle. I was getting wet. The interview couldn't have been more clinical. The subject, however, was getting to me. Talking about sex in any form, in any fashion, under almost any circumstance, turns me on.

“Have you ever used sexually explicit images during mutual masturbation with a partner?”

“How many people are going to read the interview form?”

Dark eyes met mine. “One. Me.”

“Yes, I have.”

Dr. Adams put down her pen and placed both hands on the desk, her fingers lightly clasped. She regarded me with a slight tilt of her head and a contemplative expression. “If at any time, for any reason, you want to withdraw from the study, you simply need to tell me. I will be administering all of the tests and collecting all of the data.”

Well, that got me nice and hard. Administer away. The sooner the better. I nodded.

“I'd like to start tomorrow. Can you be here at eight a.m.?”

“Yes.”

“It's important that you be well rested and in as relaxed
a state as possible. I know that may be difficult, but I assure you, there is nothing painful associated with any part of the study.”

“I promise to go to bed early.” I grinned.

“And please remember the stipulation regarding abstinence.”

How did she know that the first thing I wanted to do as soon as I was alone was jerk off?

“Got it.” After all, she wouldn't know. If I did it. Or if I just happened to be thinking about her when I did.

 

At five minutes to eight the next morning, I knocked on the door with the small plastic nameplate that read
V. Adams, PhD
. She answered immediately. Today, she wore a moss green shell, hemp-colored linen trousers, and low-heeled brown boots. Her lustrous hair was still severely tamed and tied back with a scarf.