Turning the Tables

Peter Gibbons was freaking out. The final presentation was supposed to have been sent to his manager by noon. It was five o'clock, and Peter was still furiously working on the most crucial slide in the deck. The phone rang, and he knew who it was before he even answered it.

"Yeah, I know," he said. "I know. I...I am. I know. I...I'll have it done. I know. I'll send it to you by the bottom of the hour."

He hung up the phone and continued working at a furious pace. In the surrounding cubicles, co-workers were shutting down their laptops for the night and heading home. As it was Friday, several of them were discussing their plans for the weekend.

"Peter, why are you still working?" It was Michael, one of the members of his team.

"I'm trying to get this goddamned slide done for Lumbergh's presentation next week," Peter said.

Another colleague joined Michael and asked the same question. As Michael patiently explained the situation, Peter continued his frantic efforts.

"Well, listen," said Michael, "we're heading to Chotchkie's for a beer or two. Why don't you stop by when you're done?"

"I'd love to, guys," Peter said, "but I really have to get home."

"No problem," Michael said. As they walked away, Peter could hear Michael making the "pussy-whip" sound effect. He recognized that sound all too well. He had heard it for years.

By the time Peter wrapped up his work, it was nearly six o'clock. He hurried home to discover his wife, Joanna, sitting at the dining room table with their two daughters, Emily and Sarah. By the looks of their plates, it appeared that they were nearly finished with dinner.

"Sorry I'm late," he said, hanging up his coat. "Traffic was really bad."

"There's plenty left on the stove," Joanna said, motioning with her fork.

Peter filled a plate and sat at his usual spot at the table. "How was your day?" he asked.

"Ugh," Joanna responded. "Don't get me started." She then proceeded to tell him every excruciating detail of her day, from the long drop-off lines at the schools, to the phone call from Sarah's teacher about her missing homework assignments, to the lunch meeting with her friend who suspects her husband is having an affair.

Peter listened patiently as he finished his lukewarm dinner, pausing every now and then to nod his head or give some sign that he was listening. Truthfully, he hadn't absorbed a single word she said. He finished his meal and made his way to the kitchen to wash the dishes. He barely had enough time to change out of his work clothes before it was time to put the girls to bed. He read to them both and tucked them in. He returned downstairs to find Joanna wiping the kitchen counters.

"You got water everywhere," she complained. "Honestly, do you have to make such a mess when you do the dishes?"

"Sorry, honey," he said.

He sat in his usual spot on the couch and exhaled deeply. It had been a long and difficult week, to say the least, but the worst of it was over. Joanna sat in her customary spot at the other end of the couch, and stretched her legs until her feet rested on his lap. Without even thinking about it, he instinctively took each foot in his hands and massaged and kneaded them as they watched whatever mindless show was on the screen.

At eleven o'clock, right on schedule, Joanna announced she was tired and rose from the couch. Peter followed, shutting off the lights and locking the doors along the way. As usual, she wore a pair of old sweatpants and an oversized tee-shirt to bed. He simply stripped down to his boxers. They got under the sheets, and she turned her back to him. He instinctually wrapped his arms around her in the "spooning" position, and gently kissed her neck.

"I'm so tired," she repeated. It was her oft-repeated, completely transparent, code phrase for "I'm not in the mood for sex."

Like every married couple, it seemed, their sex life had dwindled down to nothing in recent years. In a good month, they had sex two or three times. When they did, it was always a quick session in the standard military position. It wasn't always like that, of course. When they first met, Joanna couldn't keep her hands off of him. She was so wild in bed, he thought he hit the jackpot. She was open to just about anything, and often initiated their sexual adventures.

As the years passed, sex became more and more of a rare treat. After Sarah was born, it seemed as though their sex life went into a coma. Peter protested at first, and tried everything he could think of to revive her libido: sex toys, romantic evenings, extra doses of affection, kinky lingerie, extra work around the house, and even role-playing. Nothing worked.

Joanna explained that she was simply growing older, and that it was natural to lose your libido over time. All of her girlfriends said the same thing, she insisted. She explained that she had too many things on her plate, and too many responsibilities caring for their daughters. Sex just wasn't at the top of her mind anymore.

As was his nightly habit, he massaged her back as his thoughts roamed. It was Friday, he thought, and that was usually the best night for sex. It had been more than three weeks since the last time they had sex. They were due. The muscles in his hands ached, but he kept rubbing and kneading. If she enjoyed her massage, he thought, maybe she would reciprocate his kind gesture. Everything he did for her, it seemed, was predicated on the notion that she would reciprocate with sex. As the years went by, he found himself doing more and more for her, all under the presumption that she would repay him with affection.

He allowed his hands to roam down to the small of her back. He contemplated whether or not he should make the next move. It would either result in some much-needed intimacy or yet another bruise to his ego. He decided it was worth the risk. He slid his hands under the waistband of her sweatpants, and beneath her panties. He cupped one of her ass cheeks and squeezed.

"Ugh!" she said, pushing his hand away and turning around to face him. "Seriously? I told you I'm tired."

"I just...I thought..."

"Ugh!" she repeated. "You're always pawing at me. I just want to go to sleep. It's been a long day."

Another blow to his ego. He could feel his temper rising. "Okay, fine," he said, turning away from her. "Get your precious sleep."

She gave an exasperated sigh and grabbed him by the shoulder, forcefully pulling him onto his back. Giving an exaggerated yawn, she yanked down the sheet and blanket and grabbed his cock. She yawned again and she squeezed and stretched it like it was made of putty.

He closed his eyes and tried to think of sexy thoughts. He knew that if it took more than a few minutes to finish, she would become frustrated and angry. He wondered if maybe she would let him fuck her, or if this would only be a handjob. Either way, she would consider it as sex, and it would likely be weeks until the next display of intimacy, so he had better make the best of it.

Another yawn. She increased the pace of her dry hand stroking up and down along his semi-rigid shaft. He concentrated hard, frantically searching for some image or idea that would send him over the edge. Another deep sigh. She was growing impatient.

"Can I fuck you?" he whispered.

She stopped stroking. "Not tonight," she said. "I told you, I'm tired. Do you want me to continue or not?"

"Okay," he said, defeated.

She continued her stroking, her annoyance clearly evident in the manner in which she performed the act. "Are you almost there?" she asked with a sigh.

"Almost," he lied. It was difficult to enjoy the moment when it was so apparent that pleasuring him had become such a chore to her.

After another minute or so, he pushed her hand away. "Just forget it," he said. He kissed her forehead and rolled over while she did the same. In the back of his mind, he thought, since I didn't finish, maybe she won't count it as sex.

***

Weekends were never about relaxing. They were all about catching up on housework, grocery shopping, and running the kids back and forth from one activity to another. Naturally, Peter was involved in every aspect of these tasks. By the time Monday morning rolled around, he was almost thankful to return to work.

As he sat at his desk, starting at his laptop, pretending to be busy while his thoughts strayed everywhere except his work, his manager, Bill, suddenly appeared. His head popped up over the cubicle wall, startling Peter for a moment.

"Hey, Peter," Bill said. "Can I have a word with you?"

"Sure," Peter responded. Bill's head disappeared, and Peter rose from his chair and followed Bill to his office.

"I'm not going to be able to make it to this presentation on Friday," Bill informed him. "Something has come up, and I'm gonna have to ask you to step in for me."

Bill's jaw dropped. "What? What do you mean? Bill, I can't do that."

"Why not?"

"This...this is a big deal, Bill. There will be dozens of people in that room - people whose pay grades are well above mine. I can't..."

"Peter," Bill said, adopting a fatherly tone, "you know this material better than anyone in this office. Hell, you created those models yourself. You understand them better than I do, and you can explain those numbers better than anyone here."

"I...I just can't."

Bill sighed and sat back in his chair. "Okay, what's the problem, Peter?"

"I can't speak in front of that many people," Peter explained. "I get so nervous I pass out. It happened to me in college...a couple of times. I will never do that again. That's why I pursued this line of work, Bill! I do my best work alone, and I figured I'd never have to put myself in that situation ever again."

"Well," Bill said with a smile, "you figured wrong. This is part of your job, and I'm asking you to do your job. If you can't, then..."

"I get it," Peter said. "I'll deal with it. Thanks, Bill."

Peter left the office looking pale and nauseous. He slumped into his chair and put his head in his hands.

"Well, shit, that must have gone well," Sammy said, draping his arms over the cubicle wall. "What the hell happened in there?"

"Lumbergh wants me to give the presentation on Friday," Peter groaned.

"The presentation?" Sammy said. "You mean the presentation? This is huge, Peter! What an opportunity for you!"

Peter groaned and rubbed his temples.

"What's wrong?" Sammy asked. "Why aren't you thrilled about this? Help me out here."

"Sammy, I can't speak in front of that many people - especially that crowd. I...I just can't. Whenever I speak in front of that many people, I break out in a sweat, my heart races, and before I know it, everything goes black. Next thing I know, I'm on the floor staring up at some EMT and a crowd of people. There's no way I can do this."

"Ah...okay," Sammy said. "You have anxiety."

"Extreme anxiety," Peter said, "abso-fucking-lutely."

"No problem, my friend," Sammy said with a smile. He tapped his phone a few times, and Peter's phone vibrated. "I know a guy. I just texted you his info. You call that guy, and he will cure all your problems."

"All of my problems?"

"Well...he's not a miracle worker."

Peter dialed the number immediately, and was disappointed to learn that the earliest appointment was weeks away. Just when he began to hyperventilate over the idea of giving that presentation, however, he received a call from the office. A last-minute cancellation presented an opening that afternoon. Peter quickly booked the appointment. He asked Bill for the rest of the day off, and once he told him why he needed it, he was granted the last-minute request.

He followed the directions to the office building and opened the door labeled, "Dr. Lucas Swanson, MD." After a short waiting period, he was ushered into a small, but cozy-looking, room containing a desk and two stuffed leather chairs in the middle of the room. Dr. Swanson rose from behind his desk to greet Peter, and motioned toward one of the chairs.

"Please, get comfortable," Dr. Swanson said. "Can I get you anything? Water?"

"No, I'm fine," Peter responded.

"Okay, Mr. Gibbons," Dr. Swanson said, setting a notepad on his lap, "what brings you here today?"

Peter explained his predicament with the looming presentation and his history of blacking out whenever he spoke in front of a large group of people. All the while, Dr. Swanson remained silent and broke eye contact only when making an occasional note on his pad.

"I see," the doctor said at last. "Well, judging from what you've told me so far, I would say you suffer from anxiety, which is a fairly common condition."

"Yes, that's what my co-worker said," Peter noted. "Is there anything you can do for me?"

"Well, assuming it is anxiety, there are many different types of treatment. In general, anxiety is caused by fear - a fear of failure, a fear of embarrassment, etcetera. The antidote is confidence. What you need is an injection of confidence, and that is something we can begin to build right here in this room. Can you tell me when this sensation began for you? Can you recall an incident, perhaps from your childhood, when you first experienced this anxiety?"

Peter sighed heavily and glanced at the clock. "I don't mean any offense, doctor, but this presentation is on Friday, and I have to be cured by then."

"Cured?" Dr. Swanson repeated with a chuckle. He removed his glasses and looked Peter in the eye. "Mr. Gibbons, if curing someone of a lifetime of anxiety were that easy, I'd be a fiction writer instead of a psychiatrist. These things take time, you have to understand. There are no quick and easy cures."

"What about medication?" Peter asked.

Dr. Swanson sighed, and put his glasses back on. He scribbled a few more notes on his pad. "I don't know what it is with this modern generation," he said, "but you all seem to want to take the easy way out. I am not like other psychiatrists, Mr. Gibbons. I will prescribe medication only as a last resort. There are far too many side effects to be worth the risk."

"How about just one pill, then?" Peter implored. "One pill that I can take before the presentation. Surely, there can't be side effects to taking just one pill?"

Dr. Swanson peered at him from above his glasses, which teetered on the bridge of his nose. "I'll tell you what, Mr. Gibbons. I will try another technique with you, and if that doesn't work, then you can call my office on Thursday or Friday, and we will fax you a prescription for that one pill."

"Excellent!" Peter said. "Thank you—"

"But on one condition," the doctor interrupted. "You have to give this technique an honest chance. You must give me your word that you will let any skepticism or doubt leave your mind, and really give this a chance. Otherwise, no pill for you."

"I promise," Peter said.

"Okay, then," the doctor said, jotting down a few final notes. "Now, get comfortable in that chair and close your eyes. Listen to the sound of my voice and nothing else. Set aside any other thoughts you may be having right now and turn off that inner voice."

Peter exhaled deeply, and tried his best to clear his head.

"Now, I want you to think of a happy place," Dr. Swanson said, "a place where you feel warm and comfortable and safe. It could be indoors, outdoors, at home, or far away. Concentrate on your breathing. Each time you inhale, transport yourself to that place and imagine you are there right now. Each time you exhale, feel your body sink further into the chair. Feel your shoulders and arms grow heavier, and melt into the chair. Feel your legs and feet grow heavier and sink into the floor."

Dr. Swanson continued this exercise for several minutes, slowly counted backwards from ten, and snapped his fingers. It was the last thing Peter remembered of the session.

***

Peter strolled through the front door that evening just as dinner was being set on the table. Joanna was taking plates from the cabinet when he stopped her, turned her around, and kissed her. He let his lips linger longer than usual. He took the plates from her hands and placed them around the table as the girls entered the room.

"I was given quite an opportunity at work today," he bragged. He told Joanna about the presentation, and the potential impact it would have on his organization. He explained that the people attending that meeting were responsible for the funding for the following fiscal year. There were literally hundreds of thousands of dollars riding on that one presentation.

Joanna's eyes widened, and she seemed to weigh her words carefully. "And you're the one who will be giving this presentation?"

Peter nodded, and took another bite of his meal.

"Are you...okay with that?" she asked, apprehensively.

"Sure," he said, "why wouldn't I be? It's a huge opportunity!"

He decided not to tell her about his visit to Dr. Swanson. There was no need for her to know. After dinner, he retired to their bedroom to change his clothes, leaving the girls to clear the table. He left the sink filled with dirty dishes, and when he returned downstairs, he noticed Joanna was standing at the sink cleaning them.

"You know I hate having a sink full of dishes after dinner," she said, glaring at Peter over her shoulder. He simply hugged her from behind and kissed her on the back of her neck, and then strolled into the living room. Joanna turned to watch him, an expression of disbelief on her face.

Peter tucked the girls in that night, as was their ritual, and returned to the couch to find Joanna sprawled at one end. He picked up her feet and placed them on his lap. He then took the remote control and changed the channel.

"Oh, were you watching that?" he asked.

"No," she responded. "It's fine."

They continued to watch television while discussing their daily events. The entire time, her feet rested on his lap, untouched except for the occasional affectionate petting. At eleven o'clock, he turned off the television and went upstairs to the bedroom. By the time Joanna arrived, he was already in bed. She dressed in her usual sweatpants and tee shirt and crawled under the covers, turning her back to him.

Peter took her by the shoulder, turned her toward him, took her face in his hand, and kissed her. She protested at first, but soon melted in his embrace. He then turned her away from him and pulled her sweatpants and panties down.

"What are you doing?" she said. "I'm tired."

"I'm going to fuck you," he said, "and then you can sleep."

"What?" she said, breathing heavily. "Peter, what..."

"Shh..." he whispered. "Don't worry; I only need a few minutes." He spread her thighs a bit and rubbed his hard cock against her pussy from behind. When his cock head was good and wet, he inserted himself inside her. She gasped and moaned. He held her ass firmly, and pounded into her, hard and fast.

Normally, he would wait for her to cum first, but not this time. Within minutes, as promised, he emitted a low moan and filled her with three weeks of pent-up sexual frustration. He gave her a sweet kiss on the back of her neck, rolled over onto his side of the bed, and began snoring.

***

By the time the sun rose on Friday morning, Peter had forgotten all about calling Dr. Swanson's office about his medication. He felt nothing except cool confidence when he entered the conference room and faced a room filled with at least twenty people, including several top-ranking executives. He delivered his presentation with ease and competence. He answered every question tossed his way, and closed his presentation to a polite smattering of applause.

He was so impressive, in fact, that a week later he was summoned to the office of Milton Waddams, who served as Vice President of Finance. Milton informed him that a new organization was being formed, which would be dedicated to advanced analytics. Peter was offered the position of this new group - a position that came with his own office and a significant pay raise. Naturally, Peter accepted.