This book is based on real events. Only the people, places, and events are fictionalized. The stupidity is 100% real.
Cynthia walked straight into her room and locked the door behind her. When she didn’t come out for dinner, Carlos left her a plate of food. It was still there when he checked the following morning. He knocked lightly on the door.
“Hey, Cynthia,” he said. “I just wanted to check on how you were doing.”
There was no response. Carlos turned to Monica, who was sitting at the dining room table. She looked up from her laptop and made a circular motion with her hand as if to say, “Keep going.”
Carlos turned back to the door.
“Monica and I are worried about you. Also, we got the results on the soil and air samples back from the lab. Unfortunately, they all came back negative.”
Carlos heard a groan from inside the room.
Monica rolled her eyes and turned her head as if saying, “Not the time to bring that up.”
“What?” mouthed Carlos in reply to Monica’s gesture. “At least now we know she’s alive.”
“Look,” he added. “It’s cool if you need some time to yourself. You don’t need to come out just yet. I’ll leave you some more food by the door.”
And so, he did. First, he left a sandwich at around noon. When that hadn’t been touched by 7, he replaced it with a bowl of pasta and chicken. It wasn’t until four hours later that Cynthia finally emerged.
Carlos caught her eye just as she reached for the bowl. She wore an ancient t-shirt several sizes too large and a pair of tattered athletic shorts. Her bloodshot eyes looked like they hadn’t seen any sleep since she’d locked the door 24 hours earlier. Cynthia froze in mid-crouch, arms extended for the bowl, when her gaze met Carlos’. She looked exhausted and feral.
“Hey, there,” said Carlos like he was trying to coax a wild wounded animal. “How you doing?”
Cynthia grabbed the bowl and stood up in one swift movement. She turned to go back into her room.
“Hey, wait, wait a second,” he continued. “I’m watching Drag Race. I could use some company. You want to join me?”
Cynthia stopped and rotated slowly back around.
“What do you say?” asked Carlos. “I could use the company.”
He patted the spot next to him on the couch.
Cynthia pouted, glanced around the apartment, and shuffled next to Carlos on the couch. He lifted his arm, and she curled into his side. Carlos covered her with a blanket. They watched the epic Anetra vs. Marcia lip sync episode while she ate. Eventually, they fell asleep to Untucked at three in the morning, Cynthia with her head on Carlos’ lap and Carlos leaned against the back of the sofa, mouth slightly agape.
Monica woke them the following day by kicking the sole of Carlos’ shoe, sending a shock through him and then her. The mid-afternoon sun shone directly into Carlos’ eyes, making him squint.
“Hey,” said Monica. “Santos is inaugurating the Bulge in two days. They just published the press release.”
Carlos yawned as Cynthia rose from his lap and rubbed her eyes.
“We’d better get moving,” added Monica. “They’re going to start construction soon and it’d be a disaster if they turned out to be building on a volcano.”
“It’s not a volcano,” replied Cynthia, her shoulders sagging and eyes fixated on the floor. “The tests came back negative, remember?”
“Well, we don’t know that for sure yet,” said Carlos. “It could still be any number of things. We just have to keep investigating.”
“Yeah, I don’t know if I want to do that,” muttered Cynthia. “What’s the point, you know? I’ve already caused enough harm without actually accomplishing anything.”
“You accomplished plenty,” responded Monica, hands placed firmly on her hips. “You exposed a massive corruption scheme.”
“Sure, and they got away with it. All I did was get Rosa’s and God knows how many other families detained and possibly deported.”
“You didn’t do that,” said Carlos. He readjusted himself on the couch to face Cynthia. “That was Santos. And she’s going to get away with a lot more if you don’t keep digging into this. You’re basically the only person who can do it at this point.”
Cynthia rose from the couch and headed to her room.
“Hey, wait!” said Carlos. He got to his feet and stood between her and the door. “Come on. We can figure this out. We can do something important here.”
“I don’t think I want to do this anymore.”
She tried to sidestep him, but he got in her way.
“Whoa, whoa,” he raised his hands. “You got Monica and me into this. There were bullets flying over my head a couple of days ago. We dropped our entire lives to do this with you.”
“And I’m really sorry about that. I’m sorry I put you in danger and wrecked your lives, just like I wrecked so many other people’s lives. I’m just a piece of shit…”
She sidestepped in the other direction, but he matched her stride.
“So fucking what?” cried Carlos, losing his patience. “So what if you’re not a selfless superhero? So what if you want to make money, win awards, and feel stable? You can’t pay rent with admiration. Look at some of the greatest journalists of all time: Woodward, Bernstein, Hemmingway, Murrow, Jennings—they were all assholes! They weren’t shining examples of altruism! They wanted to succeed, and they did! You’re just feeling sorry for yourself. You’re trying to hide from your guilt.”
Cynthia glowered at him.
“You’re one to talk!” she exclaimed. “You hid from your problems in this apartment for a year and a half. I’m sorry if it’s taken me a couple of days to sort through the damage I’ve done.”
Monica raised her eyebrows and grabbed a seat.
“That’s not fair!” retorted Carlos. “I was embarrassed in front of the entire world. And I did plenty in this apartment!”
“Did you?” Cynthia’s tone changed from angry to mocking. “Did you really do all that much, making your videos and running from the trophy wives?”
“Hey! I educated millions of people…”
“Educated!” cried Cynthia with a laugh.
“Yes, educated! I helped millions of people learn about extremely important…”
“You helped them get off!” retorted Cynthia.
“Yeah, I’m sure I did,” Carlos was getting flustered. He paced the living room, his face reddening. Cynthia followed him with her eyes. “But I did a lot! I reached a lot of people! And, and I did a lot for Asian men everywhere!”
“What?” Cynthia extended the word into an exhale and then a snicker.
“That’s right!” Carlos turned back to Cynthia. “Asian men have been emasculated in Western culture for centuries! I’ve probably done more to counteract that stereotype than anyone else alive!”
Monica hid her chuckle, but Cynthia burst into laughter.
“You’re kidding me, right? I have a newsflash for you, Carlos: the planet doesn’t revolve around your dick!”
“And it doesn’t revolve around your self-loathing!” he countered. “And newsflash for you: just about everyone on this planet wants to see my dick.”
“I definitely don’t want to see your dick,” quipped Monica.
They both glared at her.
“You know what,” she went on. “I think I’m going to get something to eat.”
She rose from her chair and pointed at the door with both thumbs.
“You guys want something to eat?”
She pointed back at them. They continued to silently scowl. Monica walked backward toward the elevator lobby.
“Stir fry? You guys cool with stir fry? ‘Cause I am. Yep, stir fry it is. I’ll see you guys in a bit.”
She dashed out the door like the apartment housed a ticking timebomb.
Cynthia moved to the kitchen.
“You know what your problem is?” she asked.
“I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”
“Your problem is you’re convinced you’re smarter than everyone else,” shot Cynthia, her eyes narrow and fuming.
“Ha!” Carlos threw his hands in the air. A mocking smile played on his lips. “I fucking wish!”
He rushed the gap with Cynthia in three steps so his face hovered six inches above hers. She only slightly winced, committed to holding her ground—so she told herself.
“My problem,” continued Carlos raising his voice. “Is that I am smarter than everyone else! My mind takes no pleasure in that fact, but my body—my fucking body!—does!”
The steady cadence of their synchronized, animated breathing punctuated the silence.
“You’re not as smart as you think you are,” whispered Cynthia.
Carlos blinked hard.
“What did you say?” he demanded.
“Your fetish isn’t dumbification…” Her voice grew louder, more firm. She looked him dead in the eye.
“Your real kink is mansplaining,” she concluded.
“I’m a feminist!” retorted Carlos. “And real feminists don’t…”
“Shhhhh,” she interrupted softly. Cynthia placed a finger to his mouth. “Shut the fuck up unless I tell you to explain something to me.”
A low groan rose from deep in Carlos’ diaphragm. His entire body tensed. He leaned in, bracing an arm on the counter behind Cynthia.
“Go on…” he said, failing to control the quiver in his voice.
“You go on,” Cynthia lifted her head so her lips almost brushed his. “I’m just sooo much dumber than you. Could you possibly describe the concept of mansplaining to me?”
Carlos swallowed.
“It’s um…”
Cynthia grabbed his hips and drew them into hers.
“You can do it…”
Carlos inhaled deeply, attempting to compose himself.
“It’s when men describe phenomena in an overconfident or demeaning manner to women.”
Cynthia kissed him hard but pushed his head back before he could really react.
“That was so good!” she encouraged, dripping in condescension. Cynthia dropped her hands from his temple to his groin. “You should tell me more.”
“It’s a widespread microaggression.”
He closed his eyes as she undid his belt.
“Commonplace in workplace and social settings.”
Down went the zipper.
“Derived from a patriarchal sense of superiority wherein men underestimate women’s ability to grasp complex concepts. The former believe they are illuminating the latter when they’re just making asses of themselves.”
The jeans fell to his feet. His heavy belt clanged off the hardwood floor.
“Huh…” paused Cynthia with a quizzical look. She cocked her head to the side.
“What is it?” asked Carlos, opening his eyes.
“It’s just, ummm…”
“Is it not as big as you thought?” he asked.
“Uh no, if anything, it’s a bit bigger.”
Carlos flushed.
“Is it the girth? We can go slow if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“No, no, that’s not it at all. It’s just…”
“What?” he demanded, feeling self-conscious.
“It’s standing straight up. It’s not a bad thing!” she quickly insisted. “I’ve just never seen something like that. Most guys are at, like, 90 or 120 degrees, but you’re at full mast. That thing’s above your belly button.”
“This is a bad idea,” muttered Carlos.
He reached for his pants, but Cynthia gripped his wrists in both hands. She turned him around and pinned him to the counter.
“No,” she replied firmly. “You’re not done. There’s so much I still don’t understand.”
He stood upright and gave her an unsure smile.
“Really?” he asked, a bit off balance.
“Oh, yeah. Really.”
Carlos grinned.
“There’s just one thing…,” said Cynthia.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I have my period.”
“Oh, OK,” he paused. “How bad’s the flow?”
“I’m toward the end of my cycle so, um, pretty lightish…” she trailed off, hoping it wasn’t a dealbreaker.
“How are your cramps?” he asked, not skipping a beat.
“Not bad anymore,” she answered.
“Well then, Cynthia,” he growled. “Let’s paint the town red.”
It was simultaneously the hottest and dumbest thing any man had ever said to her.
Freeing himself, Carlos grabbed the back of her neck with one hand and kissed her. The other wrapped around her waist and pressed her body into his. Cynthia kissed Carlos’ neck, moved up to his ear, and bit it just hard enough to make him flinch. She yanked off her shorts and panties, let them fall to her ankles, and kicked them away.
“Talk to me about carbon capture technology,” she sighed.
Carlos groaned.
“It’s a red herring,” he breathed into her collarbone. “Basically, just a way for the world’s worst emitters to put off making meaningful systemic changes to their business models…”
Cynthia pulled off Carlos’ shirt as he dropped to his knees.
“It’s the technology of the future and always will be…”
She thrust his mouth onto her clit, transforming his monologue into an indiscernible mumble.
Cynthia grabbed the countertop for support as waves of heat and pleasure radiated from her core. She lifted her shirt above her head and threw it on a Keurig.
Carlos’ mumbling continued for another few minutes before tapering off, at which point Cynthia pulled his head from between her legs and slapped him.
“I didn’t tell you to stop lecturing!”
Carlos looked up at her, wide-eyed and startled.
“Oh, sorry,” she apologized. “Are you into that?”
“Apparently I am!” he responded excitedly. “There are infinitely more effective and less expensive interventions than carbon capture…”
He grabbed the back of her thighs in both hands, and dove back in. Cynthia craned her neck skyward and moaned loudly as she ran her fingers through his hair. Roiling sensations built and plateaued, built and plateaued over several minutes. The body-wide, clenching tension curled her toes and arched her spine until a flood of euphoric relief rippled across her body. Carlos, head still between her legs, lifted her bodily and placed her on the kitchen island. The cold marble on her bare thighs only accentuated Carlos’ warm tongue and lips.
“Ugh, fuck!” she cried. “I’m coming!”
Carlos stayed under for another ecstatic thirty seconds as Cynthia threw her back against the countertop and grabbed his head, the edges of the island, anything to keep her tethered to reality. Her convulsions peaked and then slowed until she was left panting on the marble for breath. Carlos emerged from between her legs and helped Cynthia off the island. She gingerly placed her feet back on the floor, held onto his arms, and slowly straightened her back.
“Do you want to go to the couch?” he asked, wiping his mouth with a paper towel.
“Uh, yeah Carlos, I fucking want to go to the couch,” she replied, a tremble in her voice.
“Do you have a condom?”
Cynthia lifted an eyebrow and glanced at his crotch.
“No, but I can find a trash bag.”
She stared at his penis like a famished person might at a five-course Micheline meal.
“Fuck it,” she declared at last. “I’ll take Plan B tomorrow.”
“Is that wise given Florida’s reproductive health policy…”
“I swear to God,” she cut him off. “The last thing I want to hear about is this state’s abortion laws. I’m not fit to make any sort of rational decision. I just want that,” Cynthia pointed at his penis, “In me,” she pointed at her abdomen, “Right now.”
She took a towel from the bathroom, returned to the kitchen, grabbed Carlos by the shaft, and led him to the couch.
“Do we need lube?” he asked, stumbling behind her.
“Not today, Satan,” she responded, throwing the towel on the cushions and him against the backrest. She landed in front of him, rolled to her side, and backed into him. Once more gripping his shaft, she guided him slowly inside herself.
“What do you know about clitoral stimulation?” she asked.
“Different techniques work for different people,” he replied, wrapping his arm around her front. He dragged three fingers down her neck, across her sternum, and around her breasts, making sure to just pass underneath her nipples. He then brought them down her stomach, took a detour to her pelvis and then onto her inner thigh before barely grazing her clit. Cynthia shuddered.
“A lot of guys just want to attack it straight away, but that ruins the anticipation,” he whispered into her ear.
“Go on,” she gasped as she drew him inside herself.
“The whole body is a sensual organ, every inch of skin, every hair can produce pleasure.”
His hand rounded the bottom of her breast and caressed her nipple.
Cynthia groaned.
“Some parts more than others, of course,” he continued. His hand plunged back down her stomach and between her legs. Cynthia’s eyes briefly rolled backward.
“But the general rule is to avoid overstimulation. Don’t just focus on the clit.”
Carlos narrated his actions while she pulled him deeper. The pressure and tinge of pain mixed with the growing pleasure, making her woozy.
“Sure, rub above and below the hood,” he continued. “But the vulva and labia have thousands of nerve endings. They need attention too.”
Cynthia trembled as the last few inches slid in.
“I guess I’m in,” said Carlos.
“I guess you are,” she replied. “But I can still squeeze you like a vice.”
She tightened her pelvic floor, eliciting a moan from Carlos.
The next noisy, sweaty 35 minutes were filled with bruised knees, overturned furniture, some mutual airway constriction, a serendipitous hair tie, and breathy soliloquies on the Turing test, unified theory of physics, ceramic composite manufacturing, and the blatant hypocrisy of Ian Banks’ post-scarcity Culture.
“Ocean acidification is literally dissolving arthropods’ shells around the world,” cried Carlos in short gasps.
He lay on the carpet with Cynthia on top. Her third climax rose from deep in her pelvis.
“Oh, yeah?” she muttered. Her knees squeezed together, trying to hold back euphoric breakers causing her legs to shake uncontrollably. “Are… lots… of them… dying?”
“Billions!” declared Carlos, eyes closed and head turning side to side. “Maybe trillions!”
“That’s… such a… tragedy,” she murmured. Cynthia grabbed his chest and locked her elbows to keep from doubling over.
“I know!” he declared. “It really is… Oooooh, it’s coming!”
She rolled off him, eyes unfocused, adrift in the swirls and eddies of an unstoppable riptide. Cynthia barely had the presence of mind to grab his penis and help him finish.
“I’m coming now!” cried Carlos. “Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, Edith Clarke!!!”
This immediately brought Cynthia back to Earth.
“Who the hell is Edith?” she demanded as Carlos’ groans transitioned into heavy, content breathing.
“She was the first woman electrical engineer to find professional employment in the U.S.” he explained without opening his eyes. “A real trailblazer for someone in 1922. Also, an inductee into the National Inventors Hall of Fame. She’s my historical hall pass.”
Cynthia pursed her lips.
“You’re an odd duck,” she said at last.
“You’re one to talk,” he quipped back. He slapped her ass, jumped to his feet, and staggered to the bathroom.
Monica returned an hour later with the stir fry—just enough time for another go in the shower.
They set the table and made small talk until she got bored.
“So, did you guys fuck it out?”
“What? No! Huh?” stammered Carlos.
“What are you talking about?” added Cynthia with an exaggerated laugh. “Why would you even think that?”
“‘Cause your hair is wet, you’re both glowing like teenagers, the place smells like pennies, and the couch and carpet look like someone threw buckets of water on them. You should burn them. Or frame them. No judgment.”
Monica bit into a broccoli while Carlos and Cynthia looked sheepish.
“Plus,” she added with a smirk and sideways glances at them both. “I know your search histories.”
Cynthia cleared her throat.
“Well, yeah, we did have sex,” she answered.
“Cool,” replied Monica nonchalantly. “You going to keep doing it?”
“Umm, well, if you want to…” started Carlos, looking at Cynthia.
“Yeah, I don’t know, I think so…” she replied.
“OK,” said Monica, spearing a snap pea with her fork and brandishing it at her dinner companions. “Did you fuck out your sadness too?” she pointed the fork at Cynthia.
“Uh, I mean, I don’t know…”
“Do you feel better?” interrupted Monica, losing her patience.
“I, um, yes,” she admitted. “But I still…”
“Will you commit to keep investigating the Bulge?”
“Um, yeah.”
“OK, good, but if you hooking up gets in the way of me fucking over Santos,” she lowered her voice, “I’ll kill you both. Got it?”
Cynthia swallowed hard. This crazy bitch might just do it.
“Yep!” replied Carlos with a worried look.
“Suuuure,” said Cynthia.
“Great!” responded Monica with a chipper smile. “Pass the soy sauce.”
Carlos gingerly slid it over.
“What’s our move tomorrow, Dr. Science Genius?” asked Monica.
“I need more data,” he answered. “Preferably core samples so I can take a look at the different sedimentary layers. There might be a clue in there about what caused the Bulge.”
A paradigmatic lightbulb went off in Cynthia’s head.
“Noah Foster!” she exclaimed.
They turned to look at her.
“Who?” asked Monica.
“He’s a geologist friend. Taking core samples is what he does for a living. He told me that he hosts a drum circle the first Saturday of every month way out in the boonies.”
Monica already had her phone out.
“Which means tomorrow,” said Carlos.
“That’s right!” added Cynthia. “I just wish I remembered the address he gave me…”
“The intersection of the L-29 Canal and 325th Street,” said Monica. “It’s not too far from the Bulge.”
“Right!” cried Cynthia.
“OK, kiddos,” grinned Monica. “Looks like we’re taking another field trip tomorrow.”
