Every man on the planet would pick intercourse over giving a woman oral sex, for the love of Pete. It was a harder choice for you than the average man, but still a no-brainer.”
“Still, it was a horribly painful decision.”
She smirks.
“Come on, Sarah. Answer my question. Are you gonna piss yourself when you hear music or when you orgasm?”
“When I hear music.”
“Seriously? You’d honestly prefer to piss yourself any time you hear music than in the privacy of our bed, just you and me?”
“I told you I don’t want to answer this one. I’ve already pissed myself enough in real life. I don’t need to do it hypothetically, too. Ask a different question.”
“What do you mean you’ve already pissed yourself enough in real life?”
She smashes her lips together but doesn’t reply.
“Sarah? What do you mean?”
She pauses for a long beat before speaking again. “I was a bed-wetter for a really long time,” she finally says. Her cheeks are turning a bright red.
“Really?” For a nanosecond, I feel the urge to laugh about this revelation, but the look of complete vulnerability on Sarah’s face stops me. “How long is ‘a really long time’?”
“Until I was ten or eleven. Until about a year after my mom and I finally got the hell out of Dodge.” She sighs loudly. “So, yeah,” she finally says. “Good times.”
“How is it possible I didn’t know this about you?”
She shrugs. “I’m sure at some point I’m gonna find out you secretly hate pistachios or had sex with a man and I’m gonna go, ‘Huh. Learn something new every day.’”
“Well, no. I love pistachios and I’ve never had sex with a man.”
“Well, still, I’m sure there’s something about you I don’t know.”
“So you, like, full-on wet your bed ’til you were eleven?”
“Well, not every single day. Whenever I had nightmares or got really, really scared, I just totally lost control of my bladder.”
“What happened?” I say, trying my damnedest to keep my voice calm and reassuring.
She shakes her head.
“Hey, I’m the guy who loves you, remember? You can tell me anything.” I flash her a reassuring smile.
“You sound like you’re coaxing a wild horse with a carrot so you can throw a saddle on her back.”
I smile. She’s got me pegged. That’s exactly what I’m doing. “Tell me, baby,” I say. “Let me throw a saddle on you.”
She shrugs. “It’s not that big a deal. There were just times when my father would scream or start getting all irate and I’d run and hide in the closet or under my bed and just... you know, pee myself—right down my leg and onto the floor—and then I’d be too scared to move so I’d just sit there in a puddle of pee for who knows how long. Sometimes, I’d have a nightmare and wet my bed. Nothing much to tell. I couldn’t control it. It just happened.”
“Jesus,” I say, a light bulb going off in my head. Suddenly, so much about Sarah makes perfect sense. “You know...” I begin. “I think this relates directly to your history of sexual dysfunction.”
She looks at me quizzically.
“You don’t see the connection?”
She shakes her head.
How does she not see what I see? “Just before you have an intense orgasm, it feels like you’re gonna pee, right?”
She nods.
“And the more intense the orgasm, the more intense that sensation?”
She purses her lips, considering.
“Well, duh, baby. For years you’ve associated that gotta-pee feeling with being absolutely terrified and doing something you were ashamed about. Before I came along to rock your world as only the Woman Wizard could, you’d become hardwired to pull back from that sensation. No wonder you couldn’t orgasm for so long. It was a royal mind-fuck.”
Her face is absolutely precious right now.
“You’ve been worried about wetting the bed your whole life. Literally.”
Her mouth hangs open. “Could it really be that literal?”
“Occam’s Razor, baby. The simplest answer is usually correct.”
She rocks in her glider chair silently for a long beat. “Holy moly,” she finally says. “I think you might be on to something here.”
“Of course, I am. I’m fucking brilliant. U Dub should give me an honorary doctorate in female psychology.”
“Holy Epiphany, Batman,” she says. “I actually think this might not be psychobabble.”
“Of course, it’s not psychobabble. It’s gold. Solid gold, baby—as golden as a golden shower brought to you by Sarah Cruz.”
She doesn’t want to laugh, but she does.
“This is a breakthrough, baby.”
“You might be right.”
“Of course, I am. If there’s one thing I’m always right about it’s hot girls with daddy