The Magazine (18+) ✭ Michael Jackson

2: Sexual Reflexology

—2—

The deadline for my column was getting closer and closer, giving me bouts of anxiety that was impossible to soothe. I researched for hours about sex in hopes I could find something new to write about. I couldn't find anything and I was on the brink of losing my mind.

"Hey, Essena." Salima chirped over the phone. "I was wondering if you wanted to go out for lunch."

"As much as I want to, I can't. I need to work on my column."

"Oh, that's right. How's it coming along?"

"Quite awfully. I haven't even written a word yet and I don't think I'll be able to before the deadline hits." I said, downcast. "Do you know what's so comical? I told Michael about it and he offered to be my sex partner to teach me kinks to write about. How diabolical is that?"

I could picture Salima almost gagging in response. "Please don't tell me you're going to sleep with that man. He's so slimy! Cute, but slimy nonetheless. Also, he's 20 years older than you. He's pushing 50."

"Of course I won't sleep with him, Salima. I rather break every bone in my body than sink that low."

"Oh, thank God. It's nice to know you still have some sense. So, what are you going to do, then?"

"Get fired, blackballed, then finish medical school. My life is about to become so insufferable."

"Don't be so pessimistic, Essena. You just may get an epiphany before the deadline."

As much as I wanted to believe Salima, I couldn't. My mind was filled with so much doubt that there was no space for hope. But I didn't let it deter me. At least, not yet.

Six hours later, my document was still blank. At this point, I reached a new level of desperation. I began to think about Michael's offer. Just the thought of accepting it was embarrassing, but going back home to finish medical school would've been even more embarrassing because it would've proved my parents were right about me failing in the fashion industry. They wouldn't let me forget it, either. I rather be in hell than endure that for the rest of my life.

After contemplating for a half hour, I built the courage to go to Michael's house. His housekeeper, Patricia, brought me to a lounge Michael was in, who was sitting on a couch as he viewed multiple papers. Once he saw me at the door, a half smile appeared on his face. It was a smile that said I knew you'd come sooner or later. I hated that I gave him the satisfaction.

"Good evening to you, Essena." He greeted. "Thank you, Patricia. You're excused."

When Patricia left, I took a seat next to him and glanced at the papers that turned out to be sketches of bridal dresses. Although there are about a thousand reasons to not like him, one of them wasn't because of his talent as a fashion designer. There was a unique beauty in the clothes he designed. Except for one design on the table. It was a bland white sheath dress with a lace train.

"Impressive?" Michael asked, smug.

"Besides this one." I said, pointing at the sketch. "It's bland."

He furrowed his eyebrows. "Oh? What's wrong with it?"

"It's predictable and fashion is about the unpredictable. So, redo the design: princess silhouette with a plunge sweetheart line in rose gold then add rhinestones and pearls as embellishments."