Here’s what Robyn would’ve had to explain, had she been asked:

That Sunday morning she did not have any plans. After sipping coffee and trying to enjoy the sunshine coming through the windows, she opened her laptop and began sifting through personal ads, a perverse array of men who had no idea what words might attract a woman. She was seconds away from a flurry of emails filled with pictures of foreign cocks. All she needed to do was post an ad.

She was composing it (Something with “Good Girl” in the title.) in her head when she saw an ad that put her on pause.

It referenced a movie called “Secretary,” which is about a man who hires a woman who eventually becomes his sex slave. She hated the preview for the movie; the art house down the street had it as the second trailer on every movie for months. But then the dreams started. Nearly every night she submitted to the man from the movie, James Spader with glasses on. And once that happened, terrible things ensued, though they were unclear and usually involved that collar they have to put on dog’s necks so they don’t chew themselves. When she woke up, she had to remind herself weren’t true over and over, like a patient mother. Yet every night she ended up going to bed early, which was so much more interesting than fighting them or him off.

The man wrote back, quickly.

He told her he needed to see a picture and a brief resume. Robyn complied as if this were a job she wanted or needed. She took pictures of herself with her phone and wrote a cover letter filled with aspirations.

He said she had promise.

They exchanged nearly fifty emails in the next two days. Robyn begged him to clarify what her job would be. He wouldn’t be clear. She would be his slut and that was what she needed to know. Finally, at ten PM on a Tuesday night, Robyn sent him a one-line email begging him to see her immediately.

That can be arranged, he wrote. And sent his address.

He was in Stockton, so far away. Impossibly far away. There were cows between them. Fuck, she thought, I know I’m in the suburbs, but he’s in fucking Stockton.

She put her hands between her thighs and squeezed. Something shook her. Some need woke up.

It doesn’t matter, Robyn wrote back with one shaky hand. I’ll drive.

That kind of drive only happens in a blur not worth describing.

When she arrived, she was shocked that he lived in a nice townhouse. Like in any suburb in America.

He looked like his picture–hirsute, a bit Jewy–but his breath stunk like coffee.

The décor of his apartment was pastel second-hand furniture and empty walls. The empty walls scared her. But at first, she thought being scared was maybe what this was all about.

He stared at stomach for a moment. “You’re better looking than I thought you’d be.” He was sweating. His sweat stunk like coffee. He must’ve realized he was losing her because he became very serious.

“Listen to me, Miss R,” he said.

He wanted to fix her posture but he had no idea what he was doing. He adjusted her hips the wrong way, pushed her shoulders forward. He moved around a lot, spreading his coffee breath everywhere. He wasn’t handsome. She knew that from his pictures. He wasn’t ugly either. He wasn’t interesting at all. Even his voice seemed familiar. He was barking orders like a middle school science teacher during a lab. There was no way this was supposed to be sexy. She had been aroused almost the entire way there, now her muscles were clenched and her mouth was dry.

“Excuse me, sir,” she finally said, as he sat on the ground doing something with her calves, something that felt medical and tiresome.

Sir is what he told her to call him in his emails.

“Yes, Mrs.-Miss R.” He was stammering. He was nervous. He wasn’t supposed to be nervous.

“Have you ever done this before, sir?”

He stood up and shrugged. Now he was cute, cute like a little boy. But the room still stank with coffee. Cool, overly creamed, overly sugared coffee. “Why?”

“Fuck,” Robyn said and fixed her posture.

“Have you even seen it?”

“What? A pussy? Of course.”

“The fucking movie, sir,” she said. But she didn’t raise her voice. She was at his house, in his world. There were cows between her and home.

He shook his head. “Have you?”

“Of course.” The preview was good enough, better than nothing at least. “I should go.”

“Alright. But. Why?”

She turned away.

“Hey,” he put his hand on her shoulder. Robyn dipped her knees and contact was broken. She stepped away. “Can’t we just have normal sex, please? I’m being honest now. I’m really good at oral.”

She didn’t like oral much; it was as enjoyable as a hand massage to her.

His hands were in fists.

She turned to the door—afraid he’d show her his tongue. “I’m sorry. There’s just no chemistry here.” She felt bad and wanted to laugh at how serious her face must’ve look. But it was funny to her for a second, such an understatement. But she still wasn’t safe.

Only her heart seemed to understand. It raced like she were running, leaping, clawing down stairs. And when she finally got to her car it was beating so fast that she had to remind herself how to breathe.

Please God, she thought, just let me calm down and go. I have cows to see tonight.

This story was inspired by Jeff Hurlow’s Myspace Portrait Project.

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