Carl Hiaasen - Nature Girl

Fry said, “You’re right, Mom.”

“And you know what? If they don’t get it, then screw ’em. They should go back to the big city and commune with the pigeons and rats, ’cause that’s all the wildlife they deserve.”

Fry regretted questioning the realism of her artwork. Once Honey Santana launched a project, extreme delicacy was required in commentary. To criticize even mildly was to risk agitating her or, worse, sparking a more fanciful initiative.

“You have any more questions?” she asked sharply.

“Yeah, one.” Fry stood up. “Got an extra paintbrush?”

Boyd Shreave hurried to pack before his wife came home. He didn’t want her to see his Florida wardrobe, seven hundred dollars’ worth of Tommy Bahama boat shorts and flowered shirts that he’d charged to her MasterCard. They all fit neatly inside a new Orvis travel bag that he’d spotted at a high-end fishing shop downtown.

He was finished by the time Lily walked in the front door. With evident skepticism she eyed the Orvis bag. “What’s the name of this place you’re going?”

Falling back on Eugenie’s advice, he dredged up another dead president. “The Garfield Clinic,” he said.

“Garfield, like that lazy cat in the comics?”

“No, it’s the name of the doctor who discovered my disease.”

“No offense, Boyd, but leprosy is a disease. The fear of being groped is a mental condition.”

“Disorder,” he said stiffly.

“What’s it called again?”

Shreave paused long enough to nail the pronunciation. “Aphenphosmphobia-you can look it up. Dr. Millard Garfield was the one who first documented it.”

His wife said, “Is that right.”

“He died a few years ago.” Boyd Shreave hoped she would wait until tomorrow morning, after he was gone, to get on the Internet and check his story. “So they named the clinic after him,” he added.

“Quite an honor,” Lily said dryly.

Shreave didn’t waver. “I’m feeling worse every day. I sure hope they can help.”

“And Relentless is picking up the tab?”

“They said they’ve got an investment in me. They said I have a big future with the company.” It felt like he was working the phones, the lies were rolling so comfortably off his tongue.

“So what exactly is the therapy for this kind of thing?” Lily asked. “You sit in a rubber room with a bunch of other nuts and practice fondling each other?”

“That’s so funny.”

“I’m serious, Boyd. I want to know if you’re ever going to get better.”

“Why do you think I’m making the trip?” he said. “Garfield is like the Mayo Clinic for aphenphosmphobics.”

“If you say so.” His wife headed for the kitchen. “I’m having a drink. Want one?”

Boyd Shreave stood at the window and watched the neighbor’s tiny Jack Russell take a mastiff-sized dump on his lawn.

Lily returned with two strawberry daiquiris and thrusted one at him. “Might as well get into the tropical spirit.”

Shreave raised the glass and said, “To Dr. Garfield.”

“Ha! To hell with that quack,” Lily said. “I bet I can cure you quicker.”

Her mischievous tone caused Shreave to hack out a nervous chuckle. He had not forgotten the aborted bagel-shop blow job, or the attempted red-thong seduction on the couch.

“Sit down,” she said, motioning toward a wingback chair. “Sit and enjoy.”

“Lily, this isn’t a game.”

“Oh relax. I promise not to lay a hand on you.”

“You better not.”

“I swear on Daddy’s grave.”

What grave? Shreave thought. The man was cremated and scattered over a golf course designed by Fuzzy Zoeller.

“Boyd, sit,” said his wife.

He surrendered his daiquiri and sat.

“Excellent. Now shut your eyes,” she instructed.

“What for?”

Lily put down the two glasses and said, “You want the cure, or not?”

Shreave squeezed his eyelids closed, half-expecting her to latch onto his crotch. He decided to stage a fainting episode if that happened-complete with convulsions and flecks of spittle.

“Clear your mind of every distraction, every random thought,” his wife said, “except for one. I want you to focus all your concentration and energy on this simple image until it fills your whole consciousness, until you can’t possibly think about anything else even when you try.”

“Okay, Lily.” Shreave assumed that she was cribbing from Deepak Chopra or some other flake.

She said, “Boyd, I want you to focus on the fact that I’m not wearing any panties.”

That’s original, he thought.

“Think about the tight jeans I’m wearing. Think about what you could see if you really tried,” Lily said, “but don’t you dare peek.”

That’s what Boyd Shreave was tempted to do. Despite his determination to remain unaroused, he found himself imagining in all its velvet detail the very thing that his wife wanted him to imagine. How she loved tight pants! “Smuggling the yo-yo,” she called it.

“What’s the point of this?” he asked somewhat shrilly.

“Hush.”

He heard a zipping noise and then the unmistakable sliding of fabric on skin as she pulled off the jeans.

“Come on, Lily, don’t.”

“Just take a deep breath. Let yourself go.”

“You don’t understand. This is an irrational fear that’s out of my control.” He was quoting from the unofficial aphenphosmphobia Web site. “Are you trying to humiliate me, or what?”

“Boyd, open your eyes,” his wife said, “and look down.”

He did.

“Now, tell me you don’t want to be touched,” she said. “Tell me that’s not a happy, sociable cock.”

It was hard to argue the point. As Boyd Shreave assessed the telltale tent pole in his pants, he began to reconsider his staunchly monogamous commitment to Eugenie Fonda. The sole reason he’d been deflecting Lily’s advances was to avoid the rigors and inconvenience of maintaining two sexual relationships simultaneously. However, Shreave’s domestic agenda recently had changed, as had his outlook. Tomorrow he was jetting off to start a thrilling new chapter of an otherwise drab and forgettable life; what possible harm could come from a quick good-bye fuck with his wife?

“Boyd?” said Lily.

He looked up and saw her stretch like a sleepy lioness on the Persian carpet. He noted approvingly that she’d been truthful about her lack of underwear. Her blouse and heels lay in a pile with the blue jeans.

He said, “Okay. You win.”

“What do you mean?”

Shreave rose and briskly began to unbuckle his belt. Lily studied him curiously.

“Go to town,” he said, dropping his pants.

She sat up and drew her knees together, blocking her husband’s view of the shadowy treasure.

By now he was nearly levitating with lust. “It’s okay, honest,” he said. “Grab all you want.”

Lily’s brow furrowed unpromisingly. “That’s not how this therapy goes. The first stage is look but don’t touch.”

“Excuse me?”

“Like you said, Boyd, this is a very serious disorder. I’d never forgive myself if you had a coronary or something while I was sucking you off.”

“I’m willing to take that chance,” Shreave declared with a desperate stoicism. “I feel good, Lily-in fact, I feel terrific. It’s what they call a breakthrough!”

“No, let’s wait to see what the experts at Garfield say. We shouldn’t try anything too wild until we’re sure it’s safe.”

“But I’m fine,” he squeaked, watching sadly as his wife wiggled into her clothes.

“We definitely made progress tonight,” she added brightly. “I can’t wait till you get back from Florida-we’ll do it all night long, if the shrinks say it’s okay. We’ll touch our brains out.”