Hilary Fields - Bliss

Dr. Flores steepled her fingers and frowned over them—not in a judgmental way, but rather as if pondering a perplexing puzzle. “If you had to guess, what would you attribute your sexual dysfunction to?”

“The lady in your waiting room,” Sera blurted out.

“Your aunt Pauline?” One gray brow rose, Spock-like.

Sera nodded, wishing she hadn’t spoken.

“What does your aunt have to do with the situation, if I might ask?”

How to explain this? “You know how Pauline has this Ourgasms movement, right?” She rushed on when the doctor nodded. “Well, I, um… I sort of watched one of her instructional videos once, when I was fourteen…”

Behind her shiny steel-framed bifocals, Dr. Flores’s eyes widened just a tad.

Sera’s cheeks flamed, and she felt just this side of nauseated. She didn’t want to imagine what the doctor was thinking. “It wasn’t my fault—the tape was in our Princess Bride video sleeve—but once it got rolling, I couldn’t look away. And, um, it was pretty graphic, you know? And after that, whenever I’d get close to orgasm, I’d have a vision…” Sera couldn’t finish.

“A vision?” The doctor looked vaguely alarmed.

“Not like a hallucination or anything,” Sera hastened to explain before the woman could summon the men with straitjackets to come haul her away. “Just, um, in my mind, I always end up picturing Aunt Pauline. She pops up like a bogeyman just when I’m most in the mood, and… I, ah, lose it. The moment, that is.” Serafina swallowed. “Sometimes I’ll see what I saw in the video”— so gross! —“and other times, it’s like she just shows up in my head and does one of her signature ‘Helloooooo, Bliss!’ greetings right when things are getting hot and heavy.” And now that I’ve seen Pauline in that fuchsia belly-dancing outfit, she’ll probably be wearing that next time. If there is a next time.

Now Dr. Flores showed some spark—a spark of asperity. “Let me get this straight. You’re saying your aunt is to blame for your difficulty achieving orgasm. Your aunt, who has spent her entire life empowering women to do exactly the opposite.”

“That’s about the size of it.” Sera squinched down lower on the sofa. “I mean, I’m not blaming her, I’m just saying she, ah… kind of gets in the way.”

Dr. Flores set down her shiny steel Cross pen and squared Sera’s folder on her desk with exaggerated precision.

“Miss Wilde, I sympathize with your position. However, I can personally vouch for Pauline’s methods. That woman’s got a pelvic floor like a trampoline.” From her tone, Sera gathered this was a good thing. “She’s my best patient, hands down. I wish they could all be like her—knowledgeable, responsible; hell, she’s taught me a thing or two about female genitalia. Simply put, your aunt is a bona fide sexual guru. I recommend her unreservedly to many of my patients who need counseling in this regard. And I’m sorry, but if she can’t help you, I don’t think I can help you with your problem.”

The doctor rooted through her desk drawer and came up with a business card. “However. If I might make a suggestion,” she said, offering Sera the card, “I’d say give this person a call. It might take years to see results, but it’s worth a try.”

Sera stood, accepting the little rectangle of reinforced paper, as well as the doctor’s handshake.

“Good luck, Miss Wilde. And give my regards to Pauline.”

Sera didn’t have long to wait to obey.

In the waiting room, Pauline leapt to her feet at the sight of her beloved niece. Her hair, barely confined in a messy braid, bounced down her back, trailing ribbons and tiny bells. Her breasts, even less fettered, jiggled gently against the worn green and yellow T-shirt she wore, emblazoned with “Hot Stuff” and an arrow pointing straight down. Her skirt was a calico tribute to Laura Ingalls Wilder. Her expression was anxious.

“So what’d Dr. Flores say? Isn’t she great? I knew she could fix you up, kiddo.” She patted Sera’s shoulder gingerly, as if her niece were a terminally ill patient who would shatter at the slightest hint of rough treatment. “What’d she recommend? I can lend you my Kegel exercisers if you want, but really, I should just buy you a set. I don’t know what I was thinking, I should have gotten you a whole array last Christmas!” Pauline was babbling a bit, clearly anxious.

Wordlessly, Sera handed over the card Dr. Flores had given her. Pauline took it, then blanched. “This can’t be right,” she muttered. “It says this guy is a clinical psychiatrist, specializing in Freudian analysis!”

With short, jerky movements, Sera gathered up her jacket and steered her aunt toward the door. “Not another word about orgasms, Aunt Pauline,” she growled. “Or I’ll scream. And not,” she threatened, “in a good way.”

It was just one kiss, Sera, she reminded herself as she drove the short distance from Pauline’s house to the shop. One kiss, no tongue, no reason you should have spent the last three days in a frenzy of breathless anticipation.

But she had.

And don’t forget, he practically dropped you like a hot rock afterward. If one could drop a hot rock politely. Asher had pulled away after leaving her lips in a state of emergency, his eyes shuttering and expression turning, if she had to describe it, rather mortified. He’d thanked her gallantly for the dance, even kissed her hand in a way that would have been utterly cheesy coming from another man, and promised to see her at Placita de Suerte y Sueños on Tuesday as agreed. And then he’d beat a hasty retreat.

Leaving Sera to wonder what it was about her that left everyone involved so unsatisfied.

The weather seemed to mirror her glum mood this morning. It had been showering intermittently since dawn—she’d been surprised to learn it did, in fact, rain in the high desert—and the air had taken on a distinct autumn chill. Clouds scudded across the sky, turning it a tumultuous gray as she pulled her aunt’s crappy Subaru into a parking space just outside the little shopping center. Her rental car had become too expensive to keep, and Sera hadn’t had a chance to look into a car of her own yet, though she, Hortencia, and Pauline had discussed shopping for one later this week. (Sera, who had never owned a car, was having mixed feelings of dread and delight over the prospect.) In the meanwhile, Pauline had been kind enough to lend her the shitheap, though she hadn’t come along for the ride.

Sera had wondered why Pauline had refused to join her at the store today—she’d expected her aunt to be ecstatic at the chance to wade waist deep into the plans for renovations. When Sera expressed her surprise to Hortencia that morning, the older woman had given Sera a bit of insight. “She’s letting you make Bliss your own, dear. She’s afraid that if she comes with you, she won’t be able to resist sticking her beak in your business and you’ll feel obligated to go with her ideas rather than your own. The only way she can keep her trap shut is to plant her old butt at home while you draft your plans.”

Touched, Sera had given her aunt an extra big hug on her way out, accepting Pauline’s return squeeze and “Go get ’em, kiddo,” with eyes that were just a shade misty. “I’ll be really careful with your stuff, Aunt Pauline,” she’d promised.

“Eh, junk it all, what do I care? Shovel that shit outta your way and get crackin’, cutie. Just don’t forget the back room—we agreed you’ll be leaving that alone for now, right?”

“Right, Aunt Paulie. Let the boners be. Got it. Love you, see you later!”