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The subway was particularly crowded, and I pushed deeper into the crowd in order to give some room to an older fellow with a seeing-eye dog. The twenty minute ride from Porter Square, where I live, to Park Street in downtown Boston where I work was easier than the long commutes my friends at work suffered through. Still, on days like this the tight quarters made me long for their situation instead. I took a deep breath, and scanned the crowd of commuters, looking for the blond yoga woman, that was my nickname for her, who often got on this time of day in Harvard Square. She mustn’t work, I thought to myself, if she can afford the luxury of yoga at 7 in the morning. I didn’t see her, but my mind still conjured up her slim thighs, strong core, and revealing curves under her yoga stretch tights and top.

My mind was daydreaming about peeling up her yoga shirt when I noticed the advertisement. It was posted among the others, at eye-level, above the windows on the subway.

“Seeking volunteers for study of human sexual behavior. If you are a healthy adult between ages 30 and 50, you could earn $100 plus transportation by participating in a study at Massachusetts General Hospital in association with the Massachusetts Institute of Technology.”

It gave a phone number and email address to contact the study administrator.

I was curious. I wondered what they meant by “study of human sexual behavior.” I had seen ads encouraging people to volunteer for studies at the hospital involving weight problems, post-traumatic stress disorder, and hair loss. But never sexual behavior.

I quickly jotted the email address on my palm, just for larks. And quickly, my mind returned to yoga lady, my job, and the errands I had to remember to do after work. By the time I got to the office, I had completely forgotten about the advertisement.

My day went smoothly, and I was in the bathroom when I noticed the email address on my palm while washing my hands. I decided I would inquire. I went back to my desk and sent a short email asking for more information about the study and whether they were still looking for volunteers.

Later that evening, after my commute home, errands, and dinner, an email reply arrived. They had two more openings, and if I were willing to come in for a brief screening interview the next day they would probably be able to include me in the study. They gave some further contact information and link to a website describing the study in more detail.

I replied that was interested and that I could spare an hour the next day to do the interview. I then clicked on the link and read about the study. It sounded like they wanted to survey people about their sexual habits, fantasies, and behaviors as part of some nationwide study on American sexuality. That seemed like something I could do, and, besides, what guy isn’t interested in adding to their array of sexual outlets? Maybe a survey would be interesting, and I might learn something in the process, just from the questions they asked or from the data that came back. I didn’t really need the $100, but it would buy a nice dinner out with a date so what the hell.

As before, I sort of forgot about it until the next day when an email arrived and suggested 4:30 pm for the interview at the hospital. I arrived a few minutes early, and sat in a waiting room for 15 or 20 minutes. An attractive woman, a few years older than me, came out, and walked past me. She must have been the previous interviewee, I thought. My eyes tracked her as she passed me, and I watched her hips sway in a pretty skirt as she walked down the hall towards the elevators.

At that same moment, a woman’s voice surprised me.

“Jonathan Clemson?” she asked.

I spun my head around, my face reddening after being caught watching the woman leave. “Yes,” I said, and stood up abruptly.

“Dr. Harnkess,” she said, and put out her hand. A partial smirk formed on the edges of her mouth — she had noticed me and she was letting me know it.

We shook hands, and I re-introduced myself, awkwardly. She nodded, motioned for me to enter a smaller interview room nearby, and followed me in.

I hadn’t missed, in the short introduction, how attractive she was. Shorter than me, but in good shape. About my age. With sparkling blue eyes, pretty lashes, and slightly pouty lips. Her teeth were bright, and her dark hair was cropped at neck level. She was not wearing the lab coat of other doctors at the hospital, but dressed more like a lawyer in a wool suit, with a colorful red lightweight scarf high up on her neckline. Her lips drew my attention again, and the tone of her voice was that amazing blend of sensuous and businesslike.

“Hard job to be a sex researcher AND be sexy,” I said in my mind to myself. It was true — she had to talk to people about sex all day long, and it must drive everyone crazy that she was so attractive. I watched her legs as we walked, and noticed her narrow waist.

She motioned me to a chair. The room bahis firmaları was a bit stark, like every hospital room I have ever seen. Definitely not sexy, if that is what you are thinking. I sat on a slightly uncomfortable small chair, and she sat behind a somewhat industrial looking desk on a swivel chair. There was a short bookcase with medical journals stacked on the shelves. The room clearly wasn’t used much — it felt stuffy, and a thin layer of dust was on the floor beyond the natural zones where people would walk to get to the chairs and door. The lighting buzzed above us.

“The interview doesn’t take long,” she said. “But we do want to meet people before beginning the study. The goal of the study is to get a broad baseline of people’s sexuality, and our hope is to publish sometime in September.”

I nodded, not knowing what else to say or do, my eye catching the line of her blouse as it crossed her chest.

She continued, “Basically, we need you to sign a consent form, fill out some simple paperwork, and agree to provide us with as accurate an account of your sexual history as well as behaviors and attitudes. We then ask you to carry a small pad that serves as a sexual journal. We will teach you to use the journal to quickly make notes and mark down information relevant to the study. We don’t want to use up much of your time, but it is important that you have a way to record your activity and behavior as close to real-time as possible, otherwise we find people tend to forget what happened or make up statistics. Does that make sense? Some people have a lot of trouble being honest about their sexuality, and recording this information. Do you think this is something you can do?”

Halfway through her little monologue she had crossed her legs and I could just make out her skin on her knee and thigh from above her higher leg. My eyes darted back to hers, and I listened to what she was saying.

“I am happy to join the survey,” I said. “I think it will be interesting, and I have never done anything like this before, so it is a learning experience for me. It might be hard for me to be honest as you say, but I will promise to be as direct and honest in answering the questions and keeping the journal as possible. If I don’t think I can proceed, I will tell you so rather than bias your results. Is that fair?”

“Perfectly,” she replied, shifting the scarf onto her shoulders, and jotting some notes on a pad she held. “Let’s start with a short interview of facts here, then I will get you the survey as well as the journal. A graduate assistant will walk you through the journal tool — it takes some getting used to how to fill it in and demarcate the various information, but once she has talked you through it I am sure you will find it easy enough.”

I nodded again. But a part of me did want to stand up, walk out, and be left to blond yoga woman fantasies on my own. This was a little more challenging than I had imagined. But I stuck to my seat, smiled a little.

Dr. Harkness pulled out a file, snapped her ball point pen, jotted down my name on a form, and thus began the intake interview. She started easy. 37 years old. Grew up in Bethesda. Parents were middle class; Dad worked for a small architecture firm. Mom was trained as a high school teacher, but spent most of her time as a lobbyist in D.C. Went to Berkeley for college, moved to Boston 5 years ago to work at a small materials science research lab. Divorced, no kids.

After about fifteen minutes of these questions, we moved onto the more, shall I say, intimate ones. Heterosexual. No girlfriend presently. As these questions progressed, I couldn’t help but feel a little nervous. And it didn’t help that Dr. Harkness was really stunningly attractive, and she carried herself in a way that exuded confidence and energy. I noticed she had the habit of popping the pen in her mouth, like it was a cigar or cigarette, and twirling it. I couldn’t help but imagine what her lips would feel like as she did this. That pen got quite the workout, as she would click the point in and out between questions, as a way of focusing. But I tried to remain completely clinical, and to keep my mind focused on the survey.

“How often do you masturbate, roughly?” she said, adding that she asks because one thing they were studying was the difference between what people said they did and what they actually did by comparing the questions now with the hard facts from the daily journal.

I closed my eyes and pondered. “Once per day approximately,” I replied, my face flushing a bit. I thought that kind of question would be harder, but she made it so clinical that I didn’t really seem worried about it.

The questions never really got that hard, thank goodness. How often do you have sex when you have a partner? How many women have you been with sexually? When did you have your first orgasm? This went on briefly, but in all there were only twenty or thirty questions.

Whew, I was getting off easy, I told myself. kaçak iddaa She told me to wait for the graduate student to help me with the daily diary, and that she was done with the intake survey.

“Welcome to our study,” she said, shaking my hand as she walked out.

I turned to watch her go again. I couldn’t help myself. And that is when I noticed that I had formed a solid erection during the interview. And I could feel wetness on my tip, inside my jeans. My eyes absorbed her walk, until the door swung shut with a thump behind her. I rolled my eyes, bit my lower lip, and patted my hands on my thighs. Relax buddy I told myself.

The graduate student looked remarkably like blond yoga woman, sans the stretch tights and five years younger. She wore instead a traditional white medical garment, stitched with the name of the hospital, and with a stethoscope hanging around her neck.

“Are you a medical student?” I asked her.

“Finishing my training in psychiatry, yes,” she replied, looking up from her paperwork, over her designer glasses, smiling. She beamed a permanent smile from what I could tell. She must be slipping the Prozac on the side, I told myself, and smiled back at her in that slightly false way where you tug the sides of your mouth apart.

The forms from the diary were pretty straightforward and I felt like I was back in a lab at Berkeley being taught by an over-eager grad assistant. She flashed back and forth between pages, explaining the checklists and columns, reinforcing the need for honesty and immediate response to events in my life. I interjected the occasional “Yup” or “OK” or “Sure, I understand” but otherwise kept my mouth shut.

I did however let my eyes wander during the instructions. She had swung around to my side of the old desk and as she described the form I had time to watch her mouth moving, her tongue on her palate forming words, her eyes tightening and relaxing. I also let my eyes take in her light blond hair on her forearms, her manicured hands that looked so young and without creases. And her jacket did an inadequate job hiding her bosom. I stole glances of the top rim of her bra as we interacted, and I liked what I saw enough that the erection was returning. The pressure along the top of the bra was obvious, and I anthropomorphized her breasts momentarily, imagining that they wanted out, they wanted freedom from their restraints, that I could provide them that freedom.

At that moment, she interrupted the flow of the conversation.

“Jonathan? Hello?” she asked.

I looked up, and murmured a feeble, “Yes?”

“This is exactly one of the moments that you would want to jot down the event. Here in this column for sexually intrusive thoughts you would want to put a check, note the time, and write a quick note to remind yourself later when you fill in more details. Something like ‘grad student breast reverie’. And then in this column you would put a check next to ‘partial erection’ — you get it?”

I was shocked. I had tried to hide the fact that I was glancing at her. I thought I was being pretty discrete.

“But I was just listening to what you were saying — I don’t understand,” I replied, trying to play dumb.

She jumped in, “Remember, this is all about being perfectly honest. Don’t hide anything. Nothing. I know men, and I know that you were looking at my breasts. And I can see your erection — women notice these kinds of things. We aren’t completely oblivious to the sexual life of the men around them. So, just be honest with the form. If you aren’t, you defeat the purpose of the whole study.”

“Sorry. You’re right. I shouldn’t have denied it,” I said, as I lifted my shoulder bag from the chair next to mine and placed it on my lap, conveniently covering up my erection.

“No problem,” she said, smiling fiercely again. “Everyone takes some time getting used to just laying it all out there. I had to do the diary too, before I could join the study, and I learned a lot by being honest. OK. That’s all. Here’s the diary, and here is the longer fill-it-in-yourself take home survey. Put that in the mail by Friday, ok? And mail us the diary in two weeks?”

“Sure. Certainly. Thank you,” I said, standing to leave.

She handed me the thick packet of documents in a large envelope, and the little diary form which was bound in a small notebook for convenient carrying through my daily life. We shook hands and walked out together. I caught a whiff of her perfume as I followed her out, and I just shook my head. The first thing I would have to write into the diary I told myself, as the perfume had definitely triggered an erotic sequence in my brain.

In the elevator and alone now, I flipped open the diary, put a check next to ‘erotic stimulus’, another next to ‘smells/perfumes’, and another next to ‘image event’. The image event, as the grad student had informed me, meant that one experienced an image in their mind, some sort of instantaneous fantasy or trigger. I jotted in the open space kaçak bahis to the right of the entry, “Holding blond hair while fucking her, dressed, from behind. Screaming.” OK, that was honest, that wasn’t so hard to write down. No holding back there I told myself. I wonder what they think when they read this information and compile it in their database. I shook my head when imagining the poor IT folks who had to compile the data. Must be a shocker for them.

Outdoors, I added other entries that had occurred during the intake inteview:

“Breast stimulus/Partial erection/Wetness/Image: yanking bra downward, ejaculating on breasts of Dr. Harkness”

“Pen in mouth stimulus/Partial erection/Image: tongue on my erection, twirling, as with pen. Ink becomes semen pumping onto tongue”

I felt a little better having got those off my chest, and I closed the little journal shut with a satisfying slap of my hand. I walked back to work and picked up where my workday had left off, the partial erection slowly fading as I made my way to the office.

========= ========== ========== ========== ========

All went fine until an afternoon meeting. My mind was sex-free, which meant that the journal stayed in my back pocket. No new entries, and proud of it. But the afternoon meeting brought the journal out. Jennifer was new to the firm, and was very good at structural analysis. She presented a set of results looking at bridge stress and new steel alloys for bolts. Sounds dry, right? Well, if you could see legs on this woman you could listen to her ramble about alloys all day long. Her hips were narrow, and her long strong legs just wanted to fold around you. My mind swirled. And I found myself with the strangest images. Each time she said the word bolt, I got a flash of my erection in her hand instead of these heavy bolts that she occasionally picked up off the table to demonstrate to us. The bolts were cock-sized, maybe slightly bigger. It became a little like the Seinfeld drinking game in college where we all took a drink whenever Kramer entered the room. Instead, I got a hot flash of an image of her holding my half blood-filled cock every time she said the word bolt, or when ever she was holding the bolt. Finally, the meeting ended, and I bolted, pun intended, out of the meeting to record the experience in the journal.

“Leggy Jennifer stimulus/No erection/Image: her legs wrapped around my chest as she presses her clit onto my collar bone and orgasms”

“Bolt stimulus/Erection/Image: ten inch bolt becomes cock in her hand”

It helped to jot these down and get them out of my head. I was able to concentrate again on some code I was writing, vaguely in connection with her alloy experiments. And before I knew it my day was done.

On the train-ride home, I saw the advertisement again, and smiled. I wondered how long the study would run ultimately, and whether they really needed more volunteers or they just rejected all new applicants at this point. That reminded me that I needed to fill out the survey material and send that in. Maybe I would do that tonight I told myself. The ride home was interesting:

“Two college-age women stimulus/No erection/No explicit image”

“Much older attractive woman stimulus/Salivation/Image: slapping my face as she masturbates me with the other hand”

And perhaps the most unexpected one:

“Dr. Harkness mental stimulus/Biting my lip & rearranging my penis through the pocket of my jeans/Image: her sucking on her husband’s cock”

I got home before dark, picked up the mail, and poured a glass of orange juice.

Sorting the mail, I hit upon a Tiffany’s ad on the back of a magazine. A woman, seductive, holding a vaguely phallic bottle of perfume. That hit me quickly: the perfume, the phallic image, the sexual tensions of the day. Placing the magazine on the dining room table I was stroking my already-hard cock. I counted the pumps. Eighteen, nineteen, twenty and boom, I sprayed a giant orgasm across her face, onto the table. The orgasm lasted for a long time, my neck arching backwards, my toes tightening, my legs pressing forward so my balls could rub hard on the table top. The spray kept jutting upward from my tip, then flowing from the tip and splashing as I whiplashed my cock up and down in a final release of pleasure, semen dripping from the end and whipping out in various trajectories. She was covered in semen when I was finished. I sighed in relief, then tore the back page off and threw it away. Out came the diary:

“Advertisement of woman with perfume/Erection/Image: none. Orgasm 1: alone, stroking with right hand, 30 seconds, strong orgasm, semen on advertisement and desk, neck and leg tension, testicles stretched to the limit on desk.”

Later that evening, I brushed my teeth, read some of my latest book. Then:

“Fantasy of mixed images and scenes/Erection/Image: none specific. Orgasm 2: masturbation in bed, 20 minutes, rubbing head hard with thumb and orgasm on belly, asleep quickly thereafter.”

And when I say asleep quickly, I mean it. I woke up, still sticky, in the middle of the night, took two aspirin and fell back asleep until the sun filled my room and I knew it was time to head to work.

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