"Sir, the general has landed."
"Thank you. I'm on my way."
Lieutenant Colonel Grant Chen stood up from his makeshift desk tucked off in a corner from the open floor of his command and control center.
The facilities were less than ideal. Field conditions always required adaptation–in this case, the Battalion had occupied a bombed out former elementary school. Having made the necessary repairs to keep the weather out, the marines had fortified it with sandbags and repurposed classrooms as sleeping quarters, teachers' offices as storage rooms and repair work spaces. What had been the principal's office, adjacent to a large, open meeting space, was cleaned out and set aside for the battalion commander.
That battalion commander was a tall, beefy man in his mid forties. Standing 6 feet 3 inches and weighing 235 pounds, his physical presence only underscored the naturally intimidating bearing of his high rank. He was the embodiment of a vague but well grounded intuition–a single word out of the mouth of an infantry battalion commander could level a small city.
Best not to cross him.
Raised by immigrant parents–his father was Chinese, his mother Tongan–Chen was the first in his family to graduate from college. Recruited as an outside linebacker by the Naval Academy, he had significant athletic and academic success, but found the structured life of the academy surprisingly comfortable. Although he was approached by multiple pro scouts as he neared graduation, he opted instead for a military career where he developed the reputation of being a savvy, pragmatic field commander who rarely spoke more than a few words at a time.
Chen was halfway out the door to the helipad–what was a playground at the school was cleared for a landing zone–when his aide stopped him.
"Sir, there's an issue with the general's aircraft."
"What issue…" Chen replied, continuing to walk with his eyes forward.
"They said it was a security breach. They requested a security detail when we cleared them to land."
Chen said nothing, pushing the outer door open and continuing to walk toward the helipad. He could see the blades of the Osprey slowly spinning down, and, seeing it was safe to approach, waved his way past the gate guard.
After passing through the gate, he saw two armed guards with weapons drawn on a kneeling figure, and General Pack talking down to the man with a severe look on his face.
This was unexpected.
Chen approached the scene and stepped to the side of the guards to greet the general. "Good evening sir, what seems to be the issue here?"
General Pack's head jerked toward his subordinate. "Chen. Got a stowaway. Said he's one of yours. That true?"
Lieutenant Colonel Chen walked closer, and the kneeling marine looked up at him, hands laced behind his head.
Rein.
A small trickle of blood was running through stitches on the side of his jaw, and the hands laced behind his head showed the bandage on his arm.
Chen looked toward his superior and nodded.
General Pack looked down at Mark again, then back at Chen. "Well?" he asked pointedly. "What is he doing here?"
Chen looked at Mark, who returned his look with a stony face. He knew he was in trouble, but seemed to be characteristically defiant.
"Don't know, sir." Chen replied flatly. "I was unaware. He was recently wounded. Evacuated day before yesterday."
"No shit?" General Pack looked back down. "That explains the stitches then. Did he get his bell rung? Is his head fucked up or something?"
Lieutenant Colonel Chen shrugged. "Not to my knowledge, sir."
"Well then I ask again, Colonel…" General Pack said, squinting toward his subordinate. "What's he doing here?"
"Don't know, sir." Chen replied again, flatly. "Have you asked him?"
"Yes. But now that you're here, let's try that again." Pack looked back down at Mark. "Alright marine. Explain yourself. What in God's name did you think you were doing slipping your name on the manifest for my helicopter and coming back out here without authorization?"
Mark, his fingers still laced behind his head, still sheepishly on his knees, simply shrugged. "I don't know, sir…" he replied casually. "All my stuff's here."
A genuine laugh rippled through the guard detail and the General's entourage. Even Pack cracked a slight smile.
"No really, Sergeant. What the fuck are you doing back here?"
Mark shrugged again.
"Rein. Answer." Lieutenant Colonel Chen growled, clearly growing impatient.
Mark looked down sheepishly. "I just felt like I should be back. I ain't hurt that bad."
The guard detail shifted uncomfortably.
General Pack nodded slightly, a slight smile stretching his lips before he caught himself and returned his expression to a scowl.
"What's this marine's billet, Colonel?" he asked, looking over at Chen.
"Platoon sergeant, sir. Third platoon, Charlie Company."
"No shit?" Pack replied. "Are they in trouble out there? They gonna die without you, son?"
Mark shrugged awkwardly, his hands still behind his head. "I don't know, sir. Probably not. Just felt like a thing I needed to do."
The general grunted. "You could be halfway home by now. Spend some time with your family. Bet they're shitting their pants over you right now. You just got shot by the bad guys."
"I got no family, sir. I got nobody."
General Pack softened visibly. "Really, sergeant? Nobody?"
"Just my platoon, sir."
General Pack looked over at Chen. "Colonel, is this little hide and seek stunt a sign that your man is going apeshit on us?"
Chen raised an eyebrow, unsure of how to answer.
"Let me phrase it a different way…" Pack rephrased. "Is this behavior going to escalate, or can we trust him?"
Chen looked over at Mark. They locked eyes for a moment. Mark, not usually one to break a rock-like military bearing around superior officers, betrayed a barely perceptible plea to his superior.
"I trust him, sir," Chen said confidently.
General Pack gritted his teeth for a moment, then turned to walk away, leaving Mark behind.
"Detail, stand down. Colonel, return this marine to the front."
"Aye, sir."
The guards lowered their weapons and Mark got up from his knees as General Pack and his entourage started going through the gateway into the base.
"Thanks for the ride, sir…" Mark called out to the general.
"No problem, dumbass…" he returned cheerily over his shoulder.
* * *
David had left early to work.
Jordan had fallen asleep alone, crippled by the indecision that followed her early return from Bible study, her subsequent encounter with David in the doorway, and her later conversation with her father.
Her feelings were like a mixed cocktail still spinning in the blender. Indignation at David's weakness. Or revulsion at his disgusting display. Or horror at his betrayal. Which phrase she used to describe the act seemed to depend on the feeling she was having at the moment. And that feeling shifted rapidly as she grappled with her own admission of weakness, disgusting display, or betrayal. The difference between her and David's–whatever you want to call it–was that hers was brazen, rubbed in his face, went on for weeks, and resulted in injury and humiliation on his part. The difference between David's and her–whatever–was that she was unaware and unconsenting, walking in on a transgression that excluded her entirely from her husband's sexual preferences.
Both situations were terrible. It was a mess. She just couldn't deal with it then. She couldn't face him that night.
She had hoped that getting some sleep would clear her head. That she would wake up, meet David in the kitchen for breakfast, that they would apologize to each other and he would hold her again.
She badly wanted to be held. Even for one night, she missed being snuggled in bed as she fell asleep. It was her favorite part of married life.
David had offered to talk, of course, but she wasn't ready. Her emotional blender was still spinning, and if David were foolish enough to stick his hand in there too soon…well…
Anyway, he slept on the couch. And he was gone when she woke up. Early to work.
She fixed herself some cereal, made some coffee, picked up the lunch bag off the table, and then took her insulated mug from the counter as she headed out the door to school.
Most of the students were gone by now, so the campus was likely to be deserted. The arduous task of grading final papers and exams now hung like a depressing fog over an otherwise beautiful day. The drudgery of grading would drag out the day for sure. It might even go on for a week, depending on how well she could focus. And given last night's events, a long day of focused productivity seemed unlikely.
Now, as she pushed the outer door of their apartment building open and turned to walk toward campus, all she could think of was how to tell David she had cheated on him.
A particular phrase seemed to intrude on her stream of consciousness, over and over again.
"I just…can't believe I'd do that," she thought to herself.
Jordan was struck with a sudden sense of
deja vu.
That phrase.
She had said/thought/heard it before. It was inextricably tied to her own voice. It seemed to echo in her memory. Several times before, that phrase echoed in her memory, invoking different, but all recent experiences. Each memory contained the same phrase, but with different emotional valences.
Nodding amiably to passers by, she took a sip of coffee as she approached the crosswalk onto campus. She hit the crosswalk signal button, then stepped aside to wait before crossing.
Yes, she thought. Nearly identical words, only slight differences in verb tense and emotional valence. The signifiers of each word pointed in wildly different directions depending on the context of feeling and situation. What did it mean?
I can't believe I'd do that.
This version of the phrase, the one in the here and now…this particular "I can't believe I'd do that…"
A fixation on memory in the present tense. I, now, am remembering a "then" as if it were now, and judging myself in the present based on that memory in the past. That's what the phrase means. Here and now, I judge myself based on my past.
Jordan's analytical mind went to work on the syntax and the emotional color of her own inner monologue:
I (subject of sentence, self-referential indicating that identity..her own perception of herself as a moral being…is the core of the meaning of the utterance)
can't (simple present tense)
believe (simple present tense)
I would do (present tense referring to a past conditionally)
That. (object referent–the crux of the utterance)
"That."
Reference to a specific act with a strong emotional valence of disbelief and disgust.
Referentially tied to the "I" as the subject of the sentence, indicating that the disgust felt is because "I" have done something…disgust-ing.
Therefore, as a result of the object of the sentence, i.e. as a result of "that," the subject of the sentence, the "I" is disgusting.
Now, test the phrase. Rework it. Try present tense, reformat the utterance in a simplified emotional valence.
Because of, or as a result of that, I
am disgusting.
I am disgusting. Me. Jordan.
I am
disgusting.
Jordan's stomach turned as she took another sip of coffee, barely noticing the pedestrian walk signal changing. She crossed the street and walked under the arch of the campus entrance, still mulling over her own words.
So much for the here and now, the present utterance. But "that" referred to a thing in the past, naturally invoking a previous version of the phrase, nearly identical in form, but radically different in context, and therefore, meaning.
"I can't believe I would do that…"
The phrase echoed in her memory. When she said it back then, the emotional valence was a potent mixture of fear, apprehension, and excitement. Like sitting down and clicking the retaining bar into place right before a roller coaster starts moving.
The words were identical. The "I" still referring to herself, the "I" that, at that time, was presently unable to believe that "I," Jordan Stark-Simms would do…"that."
This time, however, "that" was not a vague reference to something disgusting in the past. The "that" of this memory was very much present at the time. Centered in this memory, as it was centered in her vision, was a clear physical object referent. Namely, in the middle of her outstretched fingers curled in a gentle grip, "that" was a large, erect penis.
"That," was in fact, the first penis she had seen in real life other than her husband's, and which she now felt growing hard while the skin stayed pleasantly warm and soft to the touch of her hand.
But no, she thought. A correction of term referent is needed at this point. In this instance, the "that," referred not to the penis itself, but to the act of her gripping the penis. Her hand gripping a new cock, one that strongly contrasted that of her husband in various dimensions of size and presentation.
It is an important distinction, Jordan noted to herself, since Mark's cock was not the "that" that later caused her moral revulsion. It was, rather, her interaction with the member, not the member itself.
"I can't believe I would do that…" she had mumbled to herself before answering Mark's invitation to inspect "that" more closely.
To smell it (surprisingly not unpleasant. He must have had good taste in body wash). To stroke it awkwardly at his encouragement, as tunnel vision thickened around her while gentle moans signaled his pleasure. To–much to her own shock–instinctively lean forward and lick the tip of it as a healthy gob of viscous fluid seeped out and threatened to dribble down the side.
Her first taste of semen.
Followed moments later by an eruption that frankly scared her.
Too accustomed to David's excited dribbles, Jordan–even in her tunnel-vision focus bordering on hypnosis–was jolted back into sanity as thick ropes erupted from Mark's large cock and cascaded down around her gripped hand.
Then followed the familiar utterance, yet again. A slight grammatical variation on the earlier utterance, now notably missing the conditional modifier, and simplifying both the statement and the emotional valence.
"I can't believe I did that."
Stunned disbelief, the effect of "snapping out" of "that", of soberly confronting a crossed moral threshold. Realizing that "I" had, in fact, done…"that."
"That," of course, had now changed form. "That" was now physically present as thick, viscous pools attached to streams running down her hand, wrist, and forearm. A liquid memento of what was, by any sober definition, a major transgression on her part.
Flummoxed, she apologized to Mark (who laughingly insisted that no such apology was necessary), then began searching his office for napkins or paper towels. Unable to find any, she had darted out into the dark, empty hallway of the ROTC offices and into the bathroom to wash up.
The harsh fluorescent lights burned her eyes as she opened the door to the empty bathroom and made her way to the sink, only to encounter her own look of shock and confusion in the mirror.
As she turned on the water, her eyes fixed on the residue of her sin: a thick, white liquid running down the back of her hand, the thickest pool nearly completely covering the
abductor pollicis transversus, i.e. that delicate muscle group between her thumb and forefinger, the very part of her body that had snuggled the thick circumference of another man's cock for the first time.
Stunned, Jordan froze at the sight of the mirror.
With the water running, Jordan's conscious intention was to wash away the evidence, but was for some reason fixated on the pooled and streaming semen on her hand and forearm. She looked into the mirror again, into her own dilated eyes, and lifted her hand to her mouth, hastily licking up a thick gob off the back of her hand.
The taste wasn't pleasant. A thicker, more voluminous portion than the smaller drop she had playfully taken straight from the source earlier. It wasn't revolting, either. It was just…new.
But she was shocked to find her heart thumping powerfully in her chest.
She licked again, targeting another, thinner pool between the knuckles of her first and second fingers. Then, her hand now shaking with some unknown emotion, gave several quick licks to clean the few streams running down her forearm to her wrist.
The visible remains of her sin now gone, Jordan carefully and quietly washed her hands with soap, and dried them. She avoided her own eyes in the mirror as she scrubbed.
Then, again, the phrase.
I can't believe I would do that.
A return to present tense. The semen now gone, the "that" had again morphed into self-directed disgust as Jordan snapped out of the memory and turned down the walkway toward the campus building to her shared office space.
But her analysis was incomplete. One more instance of that phrase echoed in her mind. One she wanted to avoid…
Deep in the roleplay phase with her husband, well before the flurried encounter in the empty ROTC offices, but well after the faceless movie stars of her fictional liaisons had evolved into "Mark," and then finally becoming Mark without scare quotes, Jordan had been shocked as David, through hazy eyes caught up in the narration and the loving caress of her pinched fingers, expressed for the first time his earnest desire to be cuckolded.
Having previously–and clearly–established that any such indulgence in David's fantasy on her part would be strictly imagination based, she had burst into tears that her husband would think such a thing were possible.
If this was what he wanted, he married the wrong woman.
David's furious backpedaling sought to reassure Jordan that his desire was not literal, that he was merely trying to push gently on the edges of the fantasy, to bring the savor of reality into their roleplay. That he certainly never thought of her that way.
That he didn't believe she could ever do "that."
Some time later, after more crying, more reassurance, and more desperate cuddling, with the erotic fog of roleplay having long since dissipated, Jordan had locked eyes with her husband and made the deeply felt truth of her stance on the matter crystal clear:
"I just…I can't believe I would do that."
This utterance…the first of the three chronologically, bore the emotional valence of moral certainty. Of long held conviction flowing from a confident moral identity.
A firm stance that "I" cannot, would not, will not do "that" and still remain myself.
Jordan snapped out of the memory again, walking into the building and turning up the stairs toward her office. She sighed audibly. Her stomach turned again.
She found herself wishing that she could claim that it had been a long moral battle from that earlier moment of moral certainty to the uncanny moment in the mirror. That a long, drawn out process had been necessary to lead from the moral certainty of memory 3 to the giddy, sexually playful exuberance of memory 2. That the journey between the identical phrases with opposite meanings was long. Difficult. Studied.
But the truth was, Jordan admitted to herself with another sigh, less than a week had passed between the night when she castigated her husband for thinking she was "that kind of woman," and the night where she tentatively but willingly gripped Mark's cock for the first time.
Less than a week between never doing "that" and doing…exactly…"that."
She felt sick to her stomach as she walked through the door of the shared work space for psychology graduate students and made her way to her desk.
She blinked tears to herself as she sat down. If she were to focus on the task of understanding and correcting herself, she had to complete the analysis. Otherwise she would be distracted all day by the moral horror of her actions and what they meant.
"So, Mrs. Stark," she thought to herself, "time to wrap up your thoughts."
Tentative conclusion: Reordering the syntax of the same utterance in memory two–the excited one that led to the encounter in the mirror–one can remove the unnecessary conditional modifier from "I can't believe I would do this," since the deed was–regrettably–not hypothetical. If she hadn't so instinctively created emotional and moral distance between her identity and the cock she was gripping, she would have more accurately said, in the simple present:
I can't believe I'm doing this.
Present tense. One more breakdown of the phrase and meaning.
"I" (subject again, highlighting moral self-evaluation as the central function of the utterance)
Can't believe (simple present tense, indicating current, real world, very much not hypothetical action)
I'm doing (tying the moral act directly to the doer.) In this case, "I am doing" refers, Jordan, to your very own trembling, feminine fingers pumping up and down around Mark's stiff cock as you bite your lower lip sympathetically with the gentle, masculine moans resulting from "that."
Or more accurately:
This (relative pronoun, indicating moral and physical proximity rather than using the implied moral distance of "that").
"This." "I" did "this." An act that seemed strangely inevitable once started, as if it had its own built in momentum. An event that seemed to draw her along rather than wait for her to decide when to start. An event that culminated in the shocking force of a powerful ejaculation from a large, stiff cock–the combination of which awakened a new, latent layer of fascinated desire in Jordan's psyche.
One that she was not prepared to deal with at the time.
Or, for that matter, was she prepared to deal with it now.
So…she thought, sitting down at her desk…a pattern arises from these memories if analyzed chronologically. A familiar arc of feelings guides the same sentence said three times to three different emotional destinations in three different contexts.
I can't believe I would do/did that/this.
1) Moral horror arising from moral certainty. (fantasizing with David)
2) Sexual excitation strong enough to cause a near-delirium of tunnel vision (first sexual experience holding Mark's cock)
3) Moral revulsion as the transgression from the earlier moral certainty is contemplated. (Here, now, and present moral revulsion directed at myself, Jordan, the "I" of all the sentences. The one constant of all these phrases.)
She sighed, depressed, as she booted up her laptop. Watching the screen flicker on and the operating system load, she arrived at a preliminary conclusion:
Hypothesis: The moral and emotional arc that followed her evolution through step 1, 2, and 3 seemed like it could only mean one of two things in terms of her own moral identity.
The first possibility was that her identity as a moral, Christian woman, fiercely devoted to her husband and her faith is in fact her real identity, and the emotions that make up step 2 are a departure from her moral self. The result of some kind of temporary insanity, as she had contemplated earlier. The solution in this case is daunting but practical: to work on herself, discover the roots of that insanity, and remove the impulses to avoid any more reprehensible behaviors. Ideally, the outcome would reinforce her true identity as a moral, Christian woman fiercely devoted to her husband and faith.
The second possibility was that she didn't in fact know who she was. That her real moral identity was revealed in step 2, unleashed by the crossing of the moral threshold. That she was actually–deep down–a sexually craven woman unable to control herself despite her more sober desires to be, or at least her desire to appear to be, fiercely devoted to her husband and her faith. Therefore, steps 1 and 3 were an elaborate attempt on the part of her ego to mask her true identity…to convince herself that she was something–a good person and a faithful wife and Christian–which she simply was not. That she was a hypocrite of the highest order who was either doomed to go crazy with sinful desire, or that she was a harlot who would only find psychological equilibrium by freely indulging her most powerful sexual appetites, all the while living in exile from the faith that she loved.
And, in all likelihood, destroying her marriage to the man she loved.
Both options were deeply troubling. Her stomach turned again.
She thought briefly of what she stood to lose. Memories of her father preaching love and the brotherhood and sisterhood of humankind from the pulpit, swimming at the lake with her family, her wedding day with David, her voice lessons with Mrs.Dolly, coming home to the smell of David's cooking, snuggling during Star Trek…Who could leave all that behind?
Who would want to?
Following hot on the trail of that sobering question, an unwanted, intrusive image flashed in her memory. Again, the image of herself…Jordan…looking in the mirror as she transferred a healthy gob of semen from the back of her hand to her tongue.
Was that a sparkle in her eye?
Jordan shuddered.
Very troubling.
* * *
The armored convoy out to third platoon's patrol base wouldn't leave until the next day. Mark was ordered to report to the Battalion physician to get his wounds checked and redressed. But he had no sleeping bag, no extra clothes, and nothing to do. Wandering around the base for a time, Mark eventually found an empty cot with no bedding on one side of the bombed out school and stretched out to go to sleep.
He was just drifting off when he heard his name down the hall.
"Rein."
Mark's eyes jolted open and he shot to his feet.
"Evening sir."
It was rare for Mark to encounter another marine nearly eye to eye and pound for pound. Lieutenant Colonel Chen was almost Mark's size exactly, and had a similar, if older physique. So the physical similarity, coupled with the fact that Chen was Mark's commander's commander's commander, put Mark immediately on a back foot.
He stood stiff, waiting for his battalion commander to speak.
Chen stepped back and sat down on the old cot, patting the spot next to him.
"Sit down, Rein."
Mark sat warily, keeping his back straight to emphasize attention and respect.
The colonel locked eyes with Mark again.
"Well?"
Mark cleared his throat. "Well, um…thank you sir, for sticking up for me with the general. That could have been a career ender for me."
Chen nodded, saying nothing.
"And…I feel fine, it hurts a little when I chew and grip stuff too hard, but I'm at 98 percent. Maybe more."
Chen nodded again. Mark waited for him to speak. Nothing came.
"Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?"
Chen cleared his throat and nodded one more time.
"Rein, I'm glad you're okay. And I've got your back. Count on that. But I need you to get mine."
"Sir?"
"I actually do need you back at the head of third platoon. Wolfe needs you too. I've informed him you're back. He was glad to hear it."
Mark nodded respectfully. "I'll do my best sir."
The colonel continued. "The kinetics are getting hotter north and east of your position. Charlie company is doing well, but they're skittish after the ambush your patrol fell into the other day. Seems like the local Taliban are getting aggressive, planning some more ambitious stuff. Seeing you disappear on a medevac helicopter made your boys nervous. They'll be happy to have you back. Your job is to help them find their balls again."
It was the longest Mark had ever heard Chen speak at a time. He didn't know what to say.
"Understood, sir. I…I'll do my b…"
"Your boy Poisson…"
Mark raised his eyebrows, uncertain at what was coming next.
"Corporal Poisson. I've been watching him for a while. He's good stock, he's trying hard. But he's not cutting it."
"I'm sure he's just finding his sea legs, sir. I have total confidence…
"He's a number two man." Chen interrupted. "Do you understand what I mean?"
Mark shook his head slowly…"I'm not sure I do, sir…"
Chen sighed. "It's a hard thing to realize, especially when you're friends with one of them. Some guys are number-one guys. True leaders. Some born, others made. Lead from the front, inspire hope, loyalty, greatness. But some guys are followers, not a leading bone in their body. But some…some are just number two guys. They'll lead, but they can't be leaders. They'll accomplish everything you need them to do, but they can't be the guy. Their place is right next to the guy. That's where they belong. As long as they're in that place, they do great. Exceptional, even. But that's their place. That's your boy Poisson. He's got everything you've got. Grit. Fight. Brains. Dedication. But he's a number-two man."
"I think I understand, sir. But I think if you gave him a chance…"
"No, Rein, this isn't about who's gettin' promoted or who will have the most opportunities. There's loads of opportunity in the world, and in the marine corps, for number-two men. Tons of 'em. More opportunities than there are for number one guys, in fact. But they need to be in their place. Put 'em where they feel right, and then watch 'em work miracles. That's what we gotta do."
"I…I'll have to think about that, sir. I appreciate the advice."
"I'm not done, Rein. I know something went down between you two…the look on Poisson's face when he gave his first report after you got lifted out…He feels responsible, and you left it in a bad place. Whatever's going on there…fix it. That's an order."
"Aye sir. I will."
"Good. Convoy leaves at 0700 hours. Be on it."
"Aye sir."
The commander stood up and began to walk away. As he rounded the corner, Mark called out to him one more time.
"Sir…just…"
Chen looked back at him and stopped walking.
"How…with a number two man…"
"You get a good one, it's real simple. You just tell them exactly what you expect. Then you take off the leash and step back. They take care of the rest. They are great leaders, as long as they have someone above them taking the full heat of responsibility. Give him the reins, then tell him you're still in charge. He'll surprise you. Then you focus on actually leading. Use your eyes and ears twice as much as your mouth. Expectation trumps straight direction every time if the leader is trusted. You don't need to say shit. Let your number two do that. It'll work. Trust me."
Mark nodded briskly, beginning to understand. "Thank you sir. For everything."
He nodded one more time and disappeared around the corner.
0645.
The next morning's convoy was lined up at the base exit fifteen minutes before departure. Mark had triple checked he had formal permission to be on the convoy's manifest, then took his seat in the back of an armored vehicle, waiting for departure. The compartment was unfamiliar–Mark was used to riding in the front passenger's seat as vehicle or convoy leader. The back was dark and cramped. Especially for a man of his size.
The convoy all started their diesel engines together with a vaguely musical metallic grinding sound that reverberated stronger with each additional engine. Within minutes, they were through the security wiring and out among the Afghan people.
As windows to the outside not being available to look out of, Mark had to guess where they were located at any given moment based on the vehicle's turns. Now they were probably on the south side of the Market…now crossing the bridge…now climbing the hill…
Eventually the convoy arrived at his patrol base. Mark closed his eyes briefly as he felt the vehicle shift into park, and took a deep breath. When the "all clear to exit" call came back, he opened the back compartment door to step outside.
He was not anticipating the entire platoon–minus those on guard in the towers–bunched around the outside of the vehicle. When the light burst into the back compartment, he blinked painfully as the collective cheer of several dozen dusty marines greeted him. Stepping down onto the dusty ground, his arm back in the sling following the battalion doctor's orders, he smiled awkwardly as his marines slapped his back or fist-bumped his left hand.
Jared was the last to greet him, holding his rifle and pistol with its holster.
Both weapons, sling, and holster were Immaculately cleaned.
"Thanks, man. How you holding up? How's the head?"
"I'm good, sergeant. Glad to have you back, how are you holding up?"
"I'm good. Hey, you got a minute later to…"
Mark stopped himself as he realized the crowd of marines was silent again, listening. He looked around, unsure of what to do. Realizing Jared was also waiting silently, he shook his head briskly and snapped the pistol holster around his thigh with an audible click. Then, he slipped his rifle sling over his head and stood up to his full height, looking straight at Jared.
"Corporal Poisson. Report."
Jared briskly gave an account of the last few days, the fallout from the ambush, the state of food, ammunition, and guard shifts, and informed him of a video call with Captain Wolfe at 0930.
Mark listened intently, jaw tense but not clenched, and nodded when the report concluded. Then he turned to the platoon.
"Break's over, ladies. First and third squad, be ready to pump out on patrol in fifteen minutes. One-five minutes. Gear and water. Go."
The platoon scattered, and Mark began to make his way back toward his own quarters in the hut. He was going to take Jared aside, but he had scattered with them, ostensibly to check on his own fourth squad, who was on guard rotation.
Or possibly to avoid Mark.
He wasn't sure.
Mark took a deep breath and sighed as he pushed the door into the hut, then found his cot more or less the way he had left it.
Except…
There was a small box neatly placed next in the center of his cot.
Mark darted to the cot and fumbled to pick it up with his left hand, resting the weight on his right hand in the sling.
The address line read: To Sergeant Mark (Hulk) Rein.
From: Molly Cohen.
* * *
The department secretary had placed the exams for Professor Lukacz's Introductory History and Principles of Psychology lecture class, along with the papers for her other class, in separate manila envelopes in Jordan's correspondence box. She sighed as she lifted both envelopes out and walked back to her desk, opening the one with the exams first. She reached for a red pen in her bookbag and clicked it open before getting to work on the top test.
She was less than halfway through the first test when Patrick Lin, her graduate student colleague, walked in with his own set of manila folders. He, too, sighed as he sat down and opened the first envelope to remove a stack of paper. He looked down the row of desks to Jordan and sighed loudly.
Jordan smiled.
"How far in are you?" He asked.
"About halfway through the first one. I just got here," Jordan responded matter-of-factly.
"I'm so jealous you're farther along…" he groaned.
"Barely…" Jordan laughed back.
"Every little bit helps…" he insisted, smiling.
They worked in silence for a few minutes, only the sound of pen skritching standing out from the hum of fluorescent lights.
Patrick cleared his throat. "I have a student who spelled Freud F-R-O-O-D."
Jordan smirked. "Isn't that how they spell the cereal name? Freud Loops?"
Patrick snickered again. "Frood Loops. Test your oral fixation…"
Jordan laughed out loud.
The silence returned as they continued work. Then Jordan:
"This student said that Erikson's biographies were a Netflix series originally written for the History Channel."
Patrick snickered. Then returned:
"This student said Pavlov was the founder of Behaviorism, since he worked with dogs. I guess they think dog training and Behaviorism are the same thing?"
Jordan giggled.
"This student thinks penis envy is the same as erectile dysfunction."
"No! Really?"
"Yeah…" Jordan giggled. "Right here. Listen: 'question-How does the concept of penis envy fit into Freud's schema of gender and development? Answer-because if you can't get hard you feel like a woman and you get jealous.'"
Patrick laughed out loud.
Jordan joined him: "Think about it…A student…an adult…wrote that on a paper for me to read. I'm thinking of giving him half credit for style."
Patrick snorted. "Well, strictly speaking…a thing that doesn't exist…can't…you know…I mean, to not have a penis, and then live with the knowledge that the penis you don't have is also inadequate–that could mess you up. Let the neuroses roll, right?"
Jordan grinned. "I wouldn't expect a man to understand the concept of penis envy. That's only for us."
"Oh yeah?" Patrick grinned back. "Feeling a little incomplete, are ya?"
Jordan rolled her eyes, still smiling. "Oh, you have no idea. All girls–all women just wish they had penises. Pine for it, day after day. You just don't understand the pain we go through…"
"Maybe not," Patrick smiled as he returned to grading. "Although…"
Jordan looked back down at her work, still smiling. "Although, what?"
"I don't know. I've always wondered what it would be like to have two of them. So I think I do understand penis envy. At least a little."
Jordan's head dropped to her desk, giggling. "You did not just say that…"
Patrick grinned again. "You can't tell me in all your years of envying the penised folk, that you didn't once…just once…wonder what it would be like to have two penises. And not just one?"
Jordan's laughter tipped up in pitch and volume, until she threw her head and body back in her chair, holding her sides.
Patrick grinned, thrilled that his joke had landed so well.
When she finally stopped laughing, she sat up and wiped her eyes. "Oh my gosh, thank you. I needed that."
Patrick nodded proudly, turning back to his stack of papers. "Glad I could help."
* * *
The box itself was unremarkable. A standard military care package in a standard box provided by the US Postal Service. 8 ¼ x 11 ¼ x 6 inches. White cardboard with blue lettering. Identical in every way to every other care package handed off a truck to an eager servicemember.
But Mark's heart fluttered as he held it. It was the first package he had received while deployed.
Or ever.
The first of an anticipated zero. The feeling was, naturally, unexpected. It was similar to the feeling he had when he saw an email from Molly in his inbox…that fluttery feeling, that involuntary deep breath that felt like the first bite of a juicy steak…that feeling was back, but a little bit stronger as he held the physical box in his hands.
He was touching something she had touched. In a weird way, however distant, it seemed like she was there with him.
It was a welcome feeling. After the drama of the last few days, he found himself thinking often about being back in the beach tent with her. Feeling the warmth of her cheek on his chest. Hearing her giggle as she hastily took off her clothes for him. The deep feeling of contentment after releasing inside her–soaking in the afterglow as she clutched the back of his neck before he withdrew his cock from between her legs.
After the stress of the last few days…he craved it.
Mark pulled out his pocket knife and cut the box open.
The first thing he saw was a small bundle of socks.
He broke into a wide smile as he lifted to inspect them. Black, noticeably fluffy, and with little blue hearts on them.
Interesting.
They weren't regular military-issue socks, they were much softer, but still looked like they would fit and extend above his boot tops.
Mark eagerly unlaced his boots to try on the socks.
"Hmmm…" he heard himself cooing as he slid them on. They were comfortable. Good socks were as good as gold out in the badlands. The little blue hearts were…a little distracting. But also a little endearing. He dove back into the package, pulling out individual items and arranging them on his cot, all the while with a big smile on his face.
A handful of candy bars. Snickers, Three Musketeers, M&Ms.
Two boxes of Slim Jims.
A manila envelope containing a letter from Molly, and even a letter from Lucy, along with a crayon drawing of a dinosaur from Max. He set the letters aside and kept going.
A package of razors. A medium sized package of granola. And laying flat at the bottom–
A couple of pictures. One–a wallet sized picture of Molly. It looked like a graduation photo from nursing school–it was clearly a studio photo. She was wearing dark blue scrubs and had a stethoscope hanging around her neck. She was beaming at the camera, her red hair pulled back into a working ponytail.
Mark picked up the other picture. This was candid photo–and he was in it. It was a picture of him and Molly from the back. The two of them were walking on the beach toward the ocean in their swimsuits. Mark smiled again as he looked up and down the back of her mostly-exposed body, her copper hair swishing across her back and shoulder, the string of her bikini top tied together behind her neck and under her shoulder blades, the bottoms tightly hugging and partly revealing her soft, cute butt.
The photo showed the two of them looking toward each other, the profile of their faces clearly visible. Molly appeared to be laughing, an open mouth smile betraying her delight. There was a smile on his face, too. The fingers of her right hand were gently curled around the inside of his left elbow.
Good picture. Chris must have taken it.
At least he was good for something, Mark smirked to himself. He set the photos down next to the candy bars and looked over his haul of goodies.
He smiled again. He hadn't received a package before. Usually he was the charity case, the one that other guys would share their goodies with. Now he had a box of his own.
He couldn't stop smiling. The pressure pulled on his stitches.
Having cataloged all of the goodies in the care package, Mark opened the letters.
First, the carefully neat handwriting of Lucy.
Dear Mr. Rein.
I'm writing to you because my parents have informed me that you are in a war. I read some books about wars, and many of them have letters that girls write to boys in them, so I thought I would try to write a war letter.
My school started two weeks ago, and I like my teacher. My desk is on the right side of the class, and I have a new glasses prescription that helps me see the board better. I'm better at reading than Math, but my dad helps me with Math now. He's really smart at Math.
My little brother is in school too, but he can't sit still. He's new, and I told him I couldn't sit still when I was his age, either, but he says it's different because I'm a girl. I just think he's ridiculous.
My mom has been helping me with the book you told me about. I got Don Quixote from the library, but I had to check the spelling when I wrote that. So far I like it. It's funny, especially how the main character sees things that aren't there. I also like how he dedicates his adventures to the lady of his dreams, but he hasn't met her. So I like it so far, but it's really long.
Please be safe in the war and don't go too close to the bad guys. I hope we can do another vacation to the beach where you take us on boats and treasure hunting again. That was fun.
Kindest Salutations,
Lucy Cohen
The last "n" in the signature line terminated in a massive flourish with both overlapping and interlacing lines that extended to cover the remainder of the lined page.
Mark's grin pulled the stitches on his chin as he read Lucy's precocious prose. He couldn't believe she was actually tackling an 800 page novel. She would almost certainly grow up to be a genius.
Mark's heart quickened as he reached for the other letter. Once he got it open, he took a deep breath, then…
Dear Mark,
I feel weird handwriting a letter to you in addition to email, but Lucy insisted. She also insisted we use fancy paper, but I don't have any in the house. Add it to the shopping list, I guess. And Max wants you to know that is his best triceratops.
I hope I did the package right. I looked up advice on military care packages online, and they were helpful. I hope the pictures aren't too forward, but I realized you probably didn't have any. Lucky for us, Chris was doing his pervert thing and got some good shots of us together. Don't worry, none of them get racier than that, I checked his whole camera roll to make sure.
Things are still weird with me and Chris. I'm weighing my options, and I think he knows it. He's definitely trying hard. Harder than I've ever seen him try, but I think you scared him. But also think we flipped a different switch too, one with some very weird sexual tendencies. I don't know how I feel about all of that. And I don't know if you want to hear that, but you're kind of the only person I can talk to about it, so I hope it's okay. I'll leave out the details, though.
Overall, things are going okay here, probably better than where you are. Like I said, I've been doing some overtime, but Chris has a paying project now, so he's busy coding most days when the kids are at school. He's also been helping Lucy with her Math, which is a first. She's loving the attention. On top of that, I've been reading Don Quixote with her. She's determined to get through it. I have to admit, I'm laughing as I read through it. It's fun.
I'm not sure what else to say, other than that I'm thinking about you. I like it when I get an email from you, I get excited to open them. I even reread them sometimes when I don't hear from you. It feels good to hear your voice in my head.
I really enjoyed our time together, and I'd like to see you again when you get back. I'm not sure how to make that work, but I thought you should know that if you want to spend some time together after you come home, I'd like that too. Even if it is just to tie me up on a picnic table.
LoveBest,
Molly.
P.S. Please stay safe out there, Mark. I did an overtime shift in the ER last week, and it made me worried for you.
Mark looked again at the photos she sent, then reread the letter one more time. The palimpsest in the signature in particular–she had tried to write over the word "love" with the word "best." It didn't cover it entirely, though. He touched the letters "love/best" on the paper, wondering what she was thinking when she wrote over it. Was it an accident? Just the muscle memory of signing off a letter with the word "love?" Or was she afraid of saying something she didn't mean? Or maybe she was afraid of saying something she did mean?
He felt a cyclone of contradictory emotions. He and Molly–he didn't quite know what they had. They really didn't know each other that well, but the short time they had spent together was intense.
He hadn't felt this way about a woman before, but the obvious encumbrances of his deployment and her family…he wasn't sure where he stood. And not knowing where he stood, he wasn't sure how to get where he wanted. If he even knew what he wanted or where that was.
He looked at the photo again. Whatever he felt, it was strong. He missed her. He wished they were together, but he would never bring her here.
Maybe he could tell her that. Would that be going too far?
* * *
Patrick left after lunch. She enjoyed the banter with him, he was a nice guy. They had started the program together, and had some shared classes. But their separate research areas and mentoring professors meant that they didn't collaborate very often.
Just friendly colleagues. He always made her laugh though.
Unless plans had to change based on circumstance, they were both amping up for their final year before graduating as Ph.Ds. Both had had their dissertation prospecti approved, both had finished their coursework. Both were slated to begin teaching their own classes next year, and, fingers crossed, completing and finishing their dissertations at the same time. So while they didn't work together in the strictest sense, they shared experiences, and their path to the profession seemed to move parallel: same direction, same speed. Travel companions in early academia.
So it was always nice to chat. But Patrick usually left a little before noon, opting to have lunch with his girlfriend and then work from his home during the afternoon. Other grad students had come in, all of which were cordial with Jordan, but none particularly friendly. It was a work space, after all.
So, come noontime as Patrick was leaving, Jordan had stepped out onto the lawn in front of the building to eat the lunch David had packed. Yes, even though she made him sleep on the couch, David still packed a nice lunch for her, leaving it on the table so she saw it. Nutritious, tasty, and a nice note proclaiming his love.
He really was a great husband. His heart was so…uncomplicated. Attentive. Devoted. Sweet. Whatever he focused on got his absolute attention and utmost care. Jordan felt that way when he fixated on her…his love was total. Consuming. In a good way.
That's why it was so disorienting to imagine him masturbating while looking at other women on the internet. It seemed so at odds with the way he looked at her. Was she wrong about the totality of his devotion? Was he faking it, all the while lusting after every big-boobed girl with shiny hair that popped up in a google search?
Was she not enough? What did they have that she didn't? Why did she have to compete with them? How could she possibly compete with them?
She hated this feeling. Confused. Powerless. Insecure. She wanted to slap him, but she also wanted him to hug her tight and promise her it would never, ever, ever happen again.
She knew that their sexual politics had become…unconventional. Although it was not without his consent. Willing consent, in fact. She had done some sexual experimenting with his blessing. His encouragement, in fact. She had a nagging sense of the unfairness of it–that she had romped in the garden of earthly delights with another man, that she had openly lusted after him, and that David wasn't allowed to even look at other girls.
Maybe it was hypocritical. Definitely, it was unfair. Or at least…unequal. Briefly entertaining the possibility that she could grant David the same liberty he had granted her, Jordan's stomach turned with revulsion. The mere thought of David with another woman…
No.
Just no.
Her indignation rose, and she determined to put the thought from her mind. She picked up her phone and opened her email app.
Her inbox was predictably arrayed with junk mail, students begging for paper extensions well after the deadline, a couple bills, an ad for a new Netflix series.
One message jumped out. It was from Aisha, Hamad's wife. Jordan's brow furrowed as she opened it.
Dear Jordan
I write to say thanks! I am not believing this. Hamad said we got the first money from the new business and he showed me. I looked at the number and said is this for the month? And he said no this is for the week. He says that David got so many clients and they have more work than they can do, that they are trying to hire more mechanics. Hamad is talking to all his friends, and he says it's all because David runs the business so well!
I just thought to write because I am so happy! This is such a blessing for our family! Hamad said we could start to save for our own house if business stays busy like this!
I just wanted to thank you for David and your help. Me and Fatima are dancing! This is so exciting!
Love Aisha
Jordan felt her heart soften and her eyes begin to mist.
Apparently the business was going well. David had expressed cautious optimism, but she never knew what that meant.
He was probably excited to tell her about their first successful billing cycle when she came home. He probably had the bank app up on his phone, ready to show her the windfall. A conversation that was awkwardly preempted.
Darn it.
Jordan sighed and opened up her text messages and composed a new one:
J: Hey baby, I love you, but we need to talk about last night.
The message was barely marked as read before his response popped back.
D: I'm ready to talk. Whenever, wherever. I love you, Jo.
Jordan smiled tightly, considering her response.
J: Just be home for dinner, regular time. I love you too.
D: Okay. I'll be there.
J:
D:
* * *
The next day after Mark returned, having returned from afternoon patrol, Jared's squad was set to take on guard duties in just a couple of hours. He took off his helmet and shucked off his flak vest, setting them down next to his cot–set at one end of the long tent, closest to the door from 12 other cots occupied by his juniors.
He only had an hour or so to rest before having to supervise the 24 hour guard shift. He sat down on his sleeping bag and tipped over onto the makeshift pillow of rolled up clothes. As he did, he felt a plastic crinkling under his body. He sat up, fumbling under, then through his sleeping bag until he found an unopened bag of peanut M&M's.
He looked at the yellow bag in his hand, unsure of what to do with the obvious peace offering.
He didn't know how to feel, or what to do with this. While showing strong promise and definite skill and ability as a leader, Jared was often crippled by uncertainty. Uncertainty that took the form of insecurity–an emotional state that he fought ferociously to hide, often overcompensating with aggressive or hostile displays of overconfidence.
It usually worked. Nobody could hear the inside of his head, but it was full of recriminations and second guesses. Only Megan knew about his emotional tendencies…she was the only person he felt safe enough with to be honest. She knew when he was floundering in anxiety. She knew all of his tells. So when he told her that he was called up to be platoon sergeant, she was far more concerned than proud. She heard the angst in his voice. The crippling self-doubt that might lead him to implode, lose face, mess up his career…
Maybe get himself killed.
All of the catastrophizing thoughts that always accompanied an anxious stream of consciousness.
She had reassured him, told him she was proud of him, called him invulnerable, the ultimate warrior. She did all the things that usually help…but all of those things were usually accompanied by the offer of her body as a physical comfort. Megan's sexual appetite was an intense emotional validator for Jared. When he could tell she wanted him…he felt like Superman. When they would finish, he felt like he could take on the world.
But they couldn't have that now. He had received a promotion he didn't want, he didn't feel ready for. And he didn't have his woman to build him up every morning and talk him down every night.
Thank god Mark had basically hijacked a helicopter to come back 3 days after the ambush.
Thank god he could go back to being a squad leader where he felt more comfortable.
Thank god there had been no firefights. Jared had laid awake dreading the word "contact" coming over his radio. Or a bullet coming for one of them.
The plastic package crinkled between his fingers.
A clear peace offering.
Things had been less cold between him and Mark since he got back, but it was still awkward. He had disrespected Mark, then Mark had saved his life, and then he had failed at Mark's job.
It was a disaster.
Still, knowing that his body was destined to be full of bullets before Mark threw him like a rag doll off that half wall…
He didn't have a word for the feeling. Grateful. Embarrassed. A little in awe, and a little resentful. All of those things together.
He stood up and walked out of the tent toward the command hut. Knocking on the door, Lieutenant Macintosh opened the door in nothing but his shorts.
"Afternoon, sir. Is Sergeant Rein available?"
"Yep. He's in his bunk. Everything go okay this afternoon?"
"Yes sir, all good. I've got an after action report if you'd like…"
"Nah, give it to Rein. I'm busy." He walked back to his cot and flopped down. Jared followed him through the door. Mark was sitting up on his cot across from the Lieutenant. When he saw Jared, he folded up a piece of lined paper, tucking a photo in between the folds before sliding them both in his breast pocket and folding the pocket closed.
"Afternoon, Sergeant." He held up the package of candy. "This from you?"
Mark turned to sit sideways on his cot, setting his boots on the ground. He nodded uncomfortably. "Yep."
"Okay. You want to talk?"
Mark nodded, then looked over toward the platoon leader. "Sir, I need a moment with Corporal Poisson."
Macintosh grunted. "I'm platoon leader…anything that needs said, I should hear."
Mark flexed his jaw. "Sir, I think we might interrupt your enjoyment of The Sopranos over there. Maybe take your laptop out somewhere else where there's less noise?"
The lieutenant looked moodily over his laptop screen to see Mark's eyes filled with menace. He gave an exasperated sigh and relented. Mark and Jared watched awkwardly as he fumbled to put clothes on and stomp moodily out the door.
"That fuckin' guy…" Jared muttered as the door slammed behind the lieutenant.
"You have no idea…" Mark responded, patting the cot next to him.
Jared sat down.
"I got a taste while you were gone. Dude…what the fuck…"
Mark smiled. "Dude, you have no idea. He watches the weirdest pornos at like two in the morning. Full volume. Deranged shit. Like, barely legal girls with clowns. Actual, literal clowns. In makeup, red noses, everything. It's…baffling."
Jared snorted. "Are you serious? No shit? Oh my god, really…"
Mark nodded, brow furrowed with a half smile. I can't get to sleep, all I here is clown fucking and Macintosh jacking off…and then when I finally do get to sleep, my dreams are like…insurgents are around the corner, but when I come up on them they're being fucked by clowns…then my mom shows up and yells at me for failing Algebra…it's so weird. I'm having the weirdest time here, Frenchie. It's torture living in this place. Like…literal psychological torture."
Jared laughed out loud. Mark's reversion to his nickname had lifted much of the awkwardness between them. "Wait…do the clowns have like…makeup on their dicks too? Or just their faces?"
"I don't know, I haven't actually seen it…I can only hear it. It's just like girls moaning…'ooh Sprinkles, give me more of that clown dick…' and then like a bike horn sound. That's all I know."
Jared snorted again. "That's fuckin' wild, dude."
"Yeah…"
The humor had cut the tension, but it soon returned. Finally Jared spoke.
"Thanks for the candy, man. Was that in that box you got?"
"You saw that?"
"Yeah. Is Molly that girl you met on leave?"
"Yeah."
"Cool, man. That's…that's awesome. Good for you."
Mark cleared his throat. "Look Frenchie, I overreacted when you called me out. I shouldn't have done that."
Jared nodded. "Water under the bridge, man."
"No, it's not. Shit's weird now, and the ambush made it weirder. But I came back because…I don't know, I got nowhere else to go. I just don't want you to feel like I didn't trust you to take over. Because I do."
Jared nodded again, a lump rising in his throat. "Thanks man, I really appreciate that. But I'm glad you're back. Everyone is. And…I'm glad you…did what you did during the ambush. I was a dead man. I owe you."
"You don't owe me shit, Frenchie. I did it all on instinct. I'm sorry I rang your bell. I really didn't mean to. Your head okay?"
"Yeah…totally fine. My ears rang for a little while after they medevaced you in the helicopter, and I threw up like an hour later. Doc said I might have a mild concussion, but I was good to go by nighttime. I'm fine. So seriously, don't worry about it."
Mark nodded gravely. "How was being platoon sergeant? You were only on for a few days. You get a taste for it?"
Jared grimaced. "I'm just…glad you're back, man."
"You don't want the job?"
"Maybe someday. Not today."
Mark nodded and paused for a moment. "That's too bad, Jared."
"What?" Jared didn't understand.
"I need you to basically keep on. I'm taking over, but I need a number two. It's why I was micromanaging so bad earlier. I can't delegate. But I can't be everywhere. I need someone who I know can take over in a second to basically make sure everything's tight in every room I'm not in. You've proved yourself. So you're my number 2 now. Understand?"
Jared blinked in surprise. "No. Are you leaving again?"
"No. I'm still in charge. I'm staying right here. I'll deal with Macintosh's clown porn and the brass, and the day to day shit. I'm still running the platoon. But I need you to anticipate what I need when I can't get to it. In every room I'm not in, on every patrol I'm not on. Every guard shift I'm too busy to supervise…you are to make sure things run the way I want them to run. Don't wait for my orders. Do what I expect. If I'm not available, you're the guy everyone goes to now. Understand?"
Jared nodded. "I don't know if I'm ready."
"You're ready. You're ready because of two things: first, you're perfectly competent, and second, I'm here with you. Everything you do, you're doing under my supervision. I'm still responsible for everything. I'm still the guy. You're my extra eyes, ears, and hands. You don't need to prove yourself to your guys, to the other squad leaders, to Macintosh, to Wolfe, to Chen, or to God. Just me. You focus on me. I'll handle the rest."
Jared nodded, a sense of pride and purpose welling up in his chest.
"Good." Mark nodded back, standing up. "Now go get Arnie and the other squad leaders in here. I'm gonna make it official."
* * *
4:30. The alarm on Jordan's phone went off.
She sighed in faux relief as she clicked her red pen shut. She had finished the comparatively easy final exams, they were now tucked back into the manila envelope.
Now came the much more arduous task of grading the final papers. She had gotten through a few of them, but at least another day would have to be devoted to finishing them. Maybe more.
Jordan sighed as she tucked the papers into the other envelope and placed both envelopes and her laptop back in her book bag to leave. Glancing at Patrick's neatly kept desk, she smiled to herself remembering his Freud penis-envy joke and walked out of the office.
She was not looking forward to the talk. Dealing with David's porn-fueled romp was going to be awkward, and he knew she was hurting from it. But she couldn't be okay with it. She couldn't get there. As unfair as it might be, Jordan was ferociously indignant that David would be aroused by another woman. That was simply unacceptable to her.
But she also continued to grapple with the monster of hypocrisy. The fact that David was beyond permissive of her lust for Mark ought to soften things in a situation like this, but it just didn't. Her heart hurt and her stomach was filled with rocks when she saw his erection while looking at that screen.
She honestly didn't know how he experience the same horror and revulsion thinking about her and Mark.
Having read up on it, she understood the psychological phenomenon of compersion, of cuckoldry. She just couldn't wrap her head around it.
And before she saw what she saw last night, she could observe and even indulge David's behavior and fantasies without entering that same emotional space.
She just couldn't watch him have eyes for others. Now that she had seen him masturbating to other women, the revulsion for his fantasy grew strong and held deep. How could he do that? How could he like that? How could he enjoy her…doing what she did?
Jordan's mind snapped back to the intrusive memory of that morning. Standing in the bathroom, scooping semen off the back of her hand with her tongue.
She couldn't remember if she had looked in the mirror before she began cleaning her hand, or if she began cleaning her hand, and then caught sight of herself in the mirror.
The difference seemed important psychologically. On the one hand, if it was the latter scenario, where she caught sight of herself as she cleaned her hand, then she was simply responding to some primal curiosity, and then shocked herself by catching herself in a gross, humiliating act.
On the other hand, if she looked at herself and then began cleaning…she wasn't sure what that meant. Almost as if she wanted herself to see herself in a gross, humiliating act. If that were the case, then it was almost like there was another woman in her–one that genuinely wanted these gross things, and further, wanted her–the good Jordan, to watch her depravity.
She genuinely couldn't remember which one it was. She felt more certain this morning when processing the memory, but she was less sure now. She definitely remembered the complex emotions she felt as the salty, still-warm-but-cooling viscosity pooled in the hollow of her tongue. Curiosity, excitement, revulsion, even a little self-horror. The emotional flavor profile was complicated, but it also felt strangely deep.
Holding eye contact with herself in the mirror, she had watched her hand fall and her lips close, hiding the secret in her mouth before her tongue lifted, the tip touching the roof of her mouth, causing Mark's semen to flow back into her throat before her epiglottis flexed to cover her airway, inviting Mark's semen into her body for safekeeping. She remembered the shock at seeing the subtle contraction of her throat.
Swallowing.
She definitely remembered being shocked at the feeling that followed as her epiglottis extended to uncover her airway, as her tongue dropped down and her mouth opened to breathe again, Mark's thick semen safely on its way to her stomach.
It felt…
Natural.
Reaching the crosswalk at the edge of campus, Jordan shuddered. With the comfort of some physical and emotional distance, as well as time, she was extremely uncomfortable with that feeling.
One was not supposed to feel so right about something so wrong. It was simply unacceptable.
She also realized that the "two Jordan" theory she had been developing had some traction to it. The more she thought about the mirror episode, the more she realized that there were multiple voices in her, contradicting each other. That in some way, there were two Jordans in the room. Something the mirror had shown, but she had been unable to see until now. That the complexities of her emotions, the sense of both wrongness and rightness crashing over each other…there really was something to it.
It wasn't just a sexual self vs a regular self, though. There wasn't just sexual Jordan and non sexual Jordan. She was confident about that. She didn't feel that way every time she had sex. She didn't feel the deep chaotic swirl of conflicting emotions at all when she was having sex with David.
When she was with David, she simply felt happy, loved, accepted, excited. She felt warm, safe, loved. Even euphoric. A clean emotional palate. Purely nourishing emotional food.
No, her other self was…some other way. Maybe a subset of her sexual self that stood in opposition to her normal, more familiar self. Something that had made itself known that night. The night where Mark was promoted to Captain. That night where he and Jordan went for a coffee and pastry to celebrate. Where Jordan had intended to spin a sweet little fiction about a sexual liaison to feed to her husband in bed. Where she hadn't planned for or anticipated crossing any real moral boundaries whatsoever. Where they had stopped at Mark's office to pick up a uniform item he needed before dropping her off at home. Where they had shared a new kind of look in the dim light of his office. Where he had kissed, and she had kissed back.Where she had asked to see another man's penis for the first time. Where she had felt another man's penis for the first time. Where her trembling hand had brought pleasure to another man for the first time.
Where Dr. Jordan had met Mrs. Hyde in the mirror.
She couldn't tell David about this.
She couldn't.