AT THE VA by sheila muirenn

A silver-haired—gentleman, sits next to me. He reads a magazine. My attention is caught by his breathing. Slow, but with energy.   I'm suspicious. I move just my eyes: spying. I look at the page he reads and see the words, How well do you know your O?  “O?” I think. Not The Story of “O!” The magazine doesn't look "right" for that—somehow.   The woman pictured next to the article's words is sophisticated, sexy, and suburban. "O" has nothing to do with this woman: at least in appearance. Then I see the word “orgasm.” I look away for a moment, a reflex-action to protect his privacy. Habit. Then I decide: if he is reading about orgasms in a hospital waiting-room, he doesn't need privacy. I direct my attention to his magazine, again, not caring it’s none of my business. Hmm, how well does he know his "O?” I read the captions under the title:  You've got questions? She's got answers! Can every woman have an orgasm? Truths and myths about orgasms.  His knee moves, I watch his foot in fascination as he circles his toes without stopping, his legs, crossed...  I hear him breath again, deeply. I look around to see what everyone else is doing, and realize the waitingroom echoes with the cacophony of veteran "sea-stories" and women discussing what they are going to buy from the mall "that" day (as opposed to yesterday, and the day before). Okay, I am the only one who notices the orgasm-man.  I giggle. And he—keeps reading. His sandaled, tanned leg pokes from the bottom of his long "boy" shorts, and he keeps moving it, not in agitation, more: rhythmically. And now my focus is definitely, totally on this stranger I've never spoken to. I don't want to talk to him; I want to watch him.   And my breathing, matches his. Slow.  A woman walks by the waiting area, interrupting us, but I don't forget Mr. "O." She wears magenta scrubs; her hair is brass-blond, long, frizzy, and curled with short wiry bangs. Probably the same hairstyle she cherished as a high school senior in 1987. "How are you Mr. Smith?" She calls as she passes without stopping. Mr. Smith replies from somewhere behind me: "blessed, I'm Blessed!" I turn my head to see him nod, and look back at the woman before she vanishes. The silver-haired O-Man hasn't broken from his trance-like reading. No, I muse to myself, you're not blessed, Mr. Smith. This guy is.  Much later, Mr. "O" finishes. He lays the magazine in the empty seat between us. The word Redbook proclaims the magazine's identity—and its clientele.   Yes, of course it's Redbook, what else? (I roll my eyes). It's a progressive, respectable, American "sex-book.” I smile as I contemplate the cover. The woman on its front wears a sensible, lavender-colored linen shirt. Sensible, that is, except for the buttons, which open almost to her navel. She, like the "O" model from the orgasm story, is "sleeked" into the mode of suburban happiness. She makes it okay for conservative military retirees to read about orgasms in public. No trashy "skin" shots for her, thanks. She is proper. She is perfect. And at around the level of her crotch, the word "orgasm" is underlined with an arrow pointing straight at her.  I look at the man. I look at the woman on the cover. I wonder if I have the nerve to pick up that magazine and read it while he watches...  I reach for the magazine; touch it, but then become distracted by movement.  His foot is circling again.

Sheila Muirenn served a tour in the United States Marine Corps and has a background in dance, music, and art. She writes experimental slipstream fiction, creative non-fiction; even a little poetry. Ms Muirenn is writing a novel: The Four. This study in experimental fiction explores the boundaries between historic folktales and the paranormal. For more of her work, please visit http://www.chimeracritiques.com/sheila.html .