Alissa Nutting - Tampa

After a decade of hiding my urges, I’ll admit it wasn’t easy to come to terms with the fact that my preference had been publicly outed. It was as though in merely following my own desire I’d been catapulted far beyond the intended lands of pleasure into a realm of punishment. By some trick of the mind, several times a day I would nearly forget what had transpired—that everyone knew, that my face was plastered across newspapers nationwide—but then with all the panic of the initial realization, recent events would flood back to me until my thoughts wandered again and the cycle repeated itself for a whiplashed sensation of déjà vu. It made me recall a particular seasick feeling of my youth: I’d once had a spirited bus driver who liked to come over the PA system whenever a sizable piece of low-processed roadkill emerged in her path, usually an armadillo, that was going to cause her to rapidly decelerate. “Huh ho !” she’d yell, and we’d brace our tiny arms against the seats. The force’s weight was always greater than expected; it always gave me the real fear, as I slid against my will closer and closer to the green vinyl of the seat-back in front of me, that I might continue forward and hurtle into the air.

Ford had once expressed a similar sentiment to me after being hit with a Taser gun at work during a training exercise: he’d been incredulous at how unable he was to ready himself, mentally or physically, for the pain. “I know you don’t have balls,” he’d told me, “but imagine having them, then imagine them being struck by lightning and a hammer at the same time.” Ford always was one to ask the impossible from others, both often and casually.

“So I’m seeing everybody get hit and fall onto a mat, right?” he’d continued. “One by one. Like Noah’s ark except we didn’t even get a partner.”

He’d raised his brow at this point, as if to say, I’ll let that heady biblical reference settle into your brain for a moment while I chug down this beer. I’d crossed my legs, widened my eyes and leaned in, nodding in faux amazement.

“Anyway,” he’d continued, “watching all these tasings, I’m getting sort of tense, right? Because when they’re hit guys are screaming. Really huge guys—Bill even pissed himself.”

“You mentioned testicles,” I’d reminded him. “Were they directing the gun at your testicles?”

“No,” he’d clarified. “Course not. That’s just the best description of how it felt… shit hurts .”

At the time, it had struck me that this was a somewhat intelligent perception on Ford’s behalf—how arousal and pain share certain breakers on the switchboard of the central nervous system—even if he couldn’t quite parse the reasoning behind his word choice. All the anguish and fear surrounding the upcoming trial seemed to have settled into my nipples; they’d begun to spontaneously harden on the hour in the hopes they might be utilized as channels of release like in the past. If only I could be allowed a few minutes of Boyd teasing them with the sharp prongs of his orthodontia. As I supposed our criminal justice system knew, withholding an orgasm brought about by a second party was a hearty rattrap for pessimism indeed. It was a type of torture, only having myself for sexual stimulation: I could predict everything I was about to do.

According to the news, I wasn’t the only one in confinement. Jack received six months in a juvenile detention center for his attack on Boyd. In moments of clarity, I was willing to admit to myself that I shouldn’t have taken another boy to his father’s house. But Jack also could’ve saved us all a great deal of agony if he’d simply had the consideration to call before dropping by.

Though personal effects in the same drawers as my hidden stashes of prescription pills did get boxed and delivered to me, none of my medications or high-end facial-contouring creams made the journey; this was no doubt an intentional fuck-you on Ford’s behalf. I often spent entire days drinking cough syrup and scouring the television stations for boys in Jack and Boyd’s age range, their images blurry and voices echoey, to join me in dreams as I nodded off to sleep. I still hadn’t spoken personally with Ford since the incident. I couldn’t deny this disappointed me for a variety of reasons. I certainly still held the hope that he might forgive me—that we could go back to our routine like normal. Now knowing the secret life I’d have to lead in the hours away from home, Ford could negotiate for greater benefits—I’d be willing to meet a more robust monthly sexual quota with him in return for letting bygones be bygones, and I could once again have access to luxury. But if not—if we were over forever and there was no hope of gaining him and his money back—Ford was the one arena where my having been caught was a victory; now he finally knew that in our own private battle, I had bested him. Despite his needling pockets of doubt, he had more or less believed the whole time that I was his distant and mercurial wife, not an actress whose talents were cultivated to hide a sexual aberration.

I needed to play a part for the jurors, too. In order to appear as palatable as possible to them, Dennis wanted me to look as close in age to Boyd and Jack as I could. I often stood in front of the studio apartment’s dimly lit vanity mirror and practiced my courtroom expressions: doe-eyed and frequently surprised, often shocked; seldom blinking but with exaggerated motion when I did.

Additionally, I worked to produce an overwhelmed and apprehensive shakiness in response to any loud stimuli, my moist lips puckered and hopeful with nervous hesitation. I also practiced speaking in a somewhat higher and softer voice. “When they came on to me,” I breathed, pursing the corners of my mouth as though it was a difficult confession, “the attention was nice. For whatever reason I felt so isolated.” At this point I would nod imperceptibly in order to seem like I was admitting the truth to myself before speaking it. “It sounds pathetic,” I would continue, beginning a reflective stare off into the distance, “but I think all I really was looking for in Jack and Boyd was a friend.”

Dennis was meanwhile losing no time launching a battle of public opinion. When I watched him on the news, my heart would leap with a sort of near-patriotism; never before had I felt such pride in my country as I did now in considering its justice system. There he was, immaculately dressed and persuasive on my behalf, simply in return for an exchange of money! The impeccable linear geometry of his mustache made him appear unilaterally calm on camera, never moving or changing formation.

“My client is guilty of nothing more than poor judgment,” he’d often repeat. “Details about the alleged sexual misconduct will come to light that paint a far different picture than what the prosecution is claiming.” He knew we’d never be able to win over the soccer moms, but for those who might be open-minded enough to accept it, he began to lay the foundations of a commonsense defense: I was young and good-looking, and adolescent boys would want to sleep with me. On one talk show, he sat with the commentator while a picture from my early college modeling days appeared behind them on a large screen—I was bikini clad, lounging on the hood of a sports car, my blond hair fanned back in the wind. “If you were a teenage male,” the commentator began, pointing a leering finger back at the photo, “would you call a sexual experience with her abuse?”

Dennis did a purposefully bad job of restraining a smile and cleared his throat. “I think that’s a fair question to ask in terms of this case,” he answered.

Though droves of shock jocks and sensational newsmagazines offered lucrative sums for phone interviews or to bring their cameras inside my apartment for a sit-down chat, my attorney worried it might interfere with his construction of my Pollyanna image. “You’re very sexy,” he explained, “but what I want the jury to see is that you’re not necessarily aware of it.” His secretary brought the clothing I’d wear to the proceedings over to my apartment for a fitting—jumper-style dresses, Mary Jane shoes with a low heel—and went over the rules for makeup.