Modern technology comes for us all
Dr. Wittol requires little introduction, though he insists on one out of modesty. Indeed, one suspects he would have no objection to being introduced twice, thrice, or even into perpetuity, provided there were brief pauses for applause. A couple’s therapist, he was a modern Cupid, winged by the arms of his plush green directors’ chair, armed with a Staples laser pointer rather than a quiverful of arrows—though both are guaranteed to set people of all genders quivering. Today, he does his work behind voice calls and LED screens. Where did it go wrong?
Enter Ben and Susie; now a historical relic, once Wittol’s clientele. Ben, a man whose emotions span the range from mildly perplexed to vaguely unaware, sits there in his office somewhat confused as to what exactly will happen. He is prepared to listen, perhaps to nod. Susie, on the other hand, awaits with bated breath, an unfortunate habit given the intense cardio fate has in store for her.
Cue a few awkward introductions (as if all of this information had not been provided by Susie in the preliminary Google Form), some foregrounding by Dr. Wittol, a frantically infinite period of undress, and they are off!
“Observe,” Dr. Wittol intones, at which point a red dot springs to life and begins dancing over Susie’s tense shoulder like a firefly on a splendid summer’s night. “The center of our tension. Ben, could you engage that region with a bit more … resolve?” He is endlessly calm in his throne, positioning his patients like fine fruits in a still life. The art will come, so very soon.
Ben’s internal monologue comes in syncopated beats. It’s a shoulder. Her shoulder. It’s a shoulder with a dot. The dot is red. But The Chair is green.
Ah, yes. The Chair.
Ben has been making a valiant effort not to look at it, to focus on Susie and her soft shoulder, but this proves about as effective as ignoring his own inadequacies. For before them—and before many others before them—looms The Cuck Chair, vast and plush and greener than Susie’s moderately blue eyes. Dr. Wittol occupies it, reclining in a manner suggesting both authority and excellent lumbar support.
After a few minutes of febrile attempts, Dr. Wittol offers a change of pace. The suggestion is delivered lightly, as all life-altering suggestions should be. Just a small shift, a reorientation, no need to frighten the horses. He would leave the room. Ben would take the chair. And in would come a Bull.
The Bull. More a tool than a person, really: a demonstration of the potential of a more perfect lover. Nothing so crude as competition is implied; this is a natural step, allowing all parties to assume their proper roles rather than continue this tired charade. Forms are distributed and signed with a quiet efficiency, and the act between Susie and the Bull soon begins, Ben watching.
No one speaks. Indeed, the rhythmic strength of the Bull is such that, combined with the lush furnishings of The Chair he now occupied, it lulled Ben into a pleasant torpor. He was not sleeping, Ben would later insist to the Bull, merely resting his eyes to conserve energy for the intense emotional processing to come.
The bull accepts this without comment. He, Kevin, is a professional; an aloof contractor, like a plumber or those people who calibrate bowling lanes. He long ago learned that silence is part of the job. And what a demanding job it is! So much depends upon a musclebound bull glazed with sweat atop a nervous wife, and so the Bull must be perfect. His hands are light and nimble. He never stops. He fucks in laser light and in the shadow of watching cuckolds. He knows this art, his place in the performance, better than any. He never stops, the Bull. He says that he will never fucking stop fucking.
This is, however, his very last valiant fucking. All this effort and bravado is in vain.
The Bull is behind the times. The future has arrived in the form of virtual guidance: now, experienced guides direct the participant at a distance, a helping hand seeing through GoPro and directing through earpiece. Observation, once the refuge of the sexually underqualified, is now a task for the professional. Those once confined to watching—accepting a mediocre side part for the excellence of the final production —may now be actively coached by professionals boasting unclear experience and overbearing opinions.
The Bull finds this perverse, stating his “disgust over having [his] work marginalized by those who would prefer to normalize their own obviously abnormal, frustrated condition rather than accept their natural roles as cuckolds.” Though the language employed is perhaps even more virile than the Bull at his best, as if to compensate for his newfound sexual unemployment, it is hard to disagree with this sentiment. The certain magic—of Dr. Wittol’s office, his chair, and his noble contractor—has vanished.
But progress marches on, heedless of dignity or tradition. If it is any consolation, somewhere deep in The Chair’s generous upholstery, the noble and slightly milky smell of the past still lingers.