Murphy's Law

Has Anyone Seen My Control Freak?

by Nelson



"It's a bird, it's a plane, it's… Superman!" – Narrator for Superman



The whole house shook when the garage door leading to the kitchen slammed shut, and I turned from the stove to see the guilty party (you know him as Keith) standing just inside the kitchen entryway.

"I have bad news," Keith announced to me in a tone dripping with foreboding, eerily ominous, and laced with a tinge of irritation. It was the first thing he said after he walked in the door: no "hi", "kiss my foot", or anything, as my granny would say.

I turned off the stove and laid down the wooden spoon. The spaghetti could wait. I turned my full attention to Keith, and sat down at the bar to receive the news. "It was more than what you thought, or exactly what you expected?"

"Worse. Far worse." He trudged toward me, and slumped in a heap on the stool next to me.

"What is it?" I reached out and put my hand over his, trying to be supportive.

"Crowns. Eight of them."

I sighed in relief, and gave him a crooked grin. "Did you tell the dentist you aren't royalty? That you don't need one crown, let alone eight?"

"Very funny," he said.

I tipped my head toward him and lowered my eyes respectfully. "Majesty."

"We are not amused," he grumbled, then slipped his hand free to go to the refrigerator. "I knew I would probably need two crowns, and that was bad enough; but eight? You know how I hate dental work. The needles, the drilling…"

He pulled out the milk and sniffed it even after he checked the date. He was always sure it could be bad no matter what was stamped on the outside or when we bought it. Creature of habit.

"I do. I do know how much you hate it. But, you know…" I waggled a finger at him, and Keith paused in pouring his milk to level a look at me. He knew I was winding up for a zinger of some kind, and he was right. "You should have at least had the two done three years ago when the other dentist tried to get you to do it."

He shook his head and finished with the milk. "Murphy, you know I don't get any dental work done that's in any way 'optional'. I opted not to do it. She said I'd have to do it at some point, but it wasn't critical right then. Why did she have to get married and move away?" he whined like an eight year old, head thrown back pathetically.

"If I remember right," and I knew I did, "she *reluctantly* said you could wait, and recommended you do it back then. She should have strongly recommended. You knew you were going to have to do it sooner or later."

"Later was just fine by me."

That was no surprise. Keith was deathly anxious at the very thought of needles, let alone having them in his mouth. He swore he was traumatized as a kid when he first got a mouthful of amalgam fillings in his back teeth with a dentist he liked to refer to as Dr. Frankenstein. His real name was Griffith, but I never heard Keith call him that until after the guy died.

When we were coming along, there were no fluoride treatments, no real preventive measures aside from brushing and flossing, to circumvent any decay, and as a result, a lot of people from our generation had a mouthful of metal. Keith had been one of them, God bless him, so he had spent more than his share of time at the mercy of Dr. Frank—er, Griffin.

"My hands were sweating just talking to the dentist about it today," he confided, wiping his hands along his jeans as he relived the experience. "Look. They're getting slippery again."

I really did feel for him, but there wasn't a thing I could do except to be there. It was going to have to happen. A necessary evil. "What happened to your teeth anyway? Eight crowns? Have you been snacking on rocks or something when I wasn't looking? I know you brush."

"Floss even!" he pointed out. "It was that quack Frankenstein I went to when I was a kid. He put those metal fillings in my teeth, and apparently, that's what started the whole mess."

Still blaming that guy for all the trauma, and now for his cracked-up teeth 30 years later. Actually, I wasn't sure if he was blaming the dentist or the metal or both, or simply looking for somewhere to place blame, period.

"But that's what everyone used back then, and you just got all those old fillings removed a few years ago," I remembered.

"Well, apparently," he started sarcastically, pausing for a swallow of milk, "he did a lot more drilling than was necessary, which further weakened my teeth which - by the way - were already weakened by the metal fillings. *Which*," he continued the litany of reasons, "expand and contract, *which* also weakens your teeth. Mine have been pressurized to the point they've all got cracks through them now. Thank *you*, Dr. Griffin."

"The man died ten years ago, Keith. How long are you going to hold a grudge?"

"As long as I want," he declared. "At least as long as it takes to get through all this dental work."

I guess it's a good thing the old dentist was dead and buried, or he might have run the risk of my partner doing him in. Then Keith would be in jail and that would be worse than a root canal. "Seems like it would have hurt or something with cracks in your teeth."

"I know. But I could see the cracks on this high-tech monitor thing the dentist had. Fancy equipment," he grumbled. "Maybe they just superimposed some 'cracks' on my teeth to get the money for all those crowns."

Distressed *and* bitter. What a combo. "Did it look bad to you?"

"Oh, yeah," he said with wide eyes. "You should see the cracks, Murph. My teeth look like they could freaking shatter at any moment. That's the danger, apparently, and if they break below the gum, I could lose them."

"Sounds like it looked bad enough to convince you to have the work done. Needles and all."

He wiped his hands along his jeans again and shook his head. "I hate it."

I was sympathetic, I really was. Just seeing him nervous and twitchy reminded me how much dental work really bothers him. It takes a lot to rattle Keith: he's such a laid back, go-with-the-flow sort of guy, but dental work beyond a cleaning can bring him to his knees. And not in the good way, either. "I wish I could do something. I know how much you hate it, but you'll get through it."

"I know I will, but I don't want to. I hate it," he repeated, as if his sweaty palms, furrowed brow, and snappy chatter weren't enough to convince me.

"I'm sorry, Keith."

"Thanks. At least, this dentist uses laughing gas. I told him it had better be Valium strength to keep me in the chair."

I had to laugh – no gas involved. If the dentist only knew.

"I don't think it comes in Valium strength."

"He assured me I'd be fine."

"But you don't believe him," I surmised.

"Of course not," he said, mildly irritated. "I know how bad I hate it. I can't believe I have to go through all that crap again. Oh! That's not the best part," he tossed me a phony grin. "It's going to cost us $2700. Times two."

Had they already given him the gas? He was making no sense. Times two? I thought he had said eight teeth. "What do you mean, 'times two'?"

"It's $2700 extra over what insurance pays for the first 4 teeth, then I have to get the other 4 done. Double your pleasure, double your fun," he flashed another humorless smile, shining his uncracked front teeth at me, and raised his glass of milk to toast the great times he was going to be having.

"I'm sorry, Keith," I sympathized again. I didn't know what else to say. "When do you have to go back?"

"Three weeks."

"Three weeks? They couldn't get you in before that?"

"No, they wanted me to come this Thursday and I told them no."

All right, that was unacceptable so I glared at him disapprovingly. Two days versus three weeks? He wouldn't let me get by with something like that even if I wanted him to. "And just why not?" I demanded to know.

"You don't understand," he said patiently. He spoke in his "let me talk slowly so you can get this" voice. "I have to wrap my mind around this, Murphy. I can't stand all that drilling and the needles and the smells..."

There went his sweaty palms again, rubbing down his legs. I could almost see the tension rolling off of him at the very thought of what they were going to do. I really wished I could go in his place. I mean, no one *likes* needles and drills, but Keith was one of those people whose heart started to race at the thought of it. He intentionally picked Tranquility Dentistry after our dentist moved just because of the name, hoping to get a massage or something to relax him while they cleaned his teeth, I guess. I had seen the name of the place for what it was: an oxymoron. Tranquility and dentistry cannot abide in the same space. Everyone knows that.

"I know you hate to go back, Keith, but putting it off isn't going to change anything. You're just prolonging the inevitable."

"I didn't plan for that this week," he said lamely. "I was just supposed to be getting my teeth cleaned, that's it."

I shrugged. "Plans change."

He shook his head. "I can't do it this week." I stared at him while he tried to come up with more of a reason than "I can't". I wasn't buying that one. He didn't want to go back to the dentist, and that was the simple fact. He finally crumbled under my glare of disapproval. "Fine," he admitted. "I don't want to do it this week."

See? I knew that was the problem. "I know. You won't want to do it in three weeks either. What other reason do you have for putting it off?"

"Isn't that enough?"

"It wouldn't work for me if the shoe were on the other foot." I raised my eyebrows at him and he met my eye.

"Well, it isn't. It's on *my* foot."

"The goose and gander don't apply, is what you're saying," I said with a twisted grin.

"It's not funny," he said without an ounce of mirth.

"Oh, I agree. Just like I didn't think it was funny when you decided I needed to be spanked for putting off a doctor's appointment, either. Ring a bell?"

He huffed and set his glass down roughly. "I knew you were headed there. That was different and you know it."

"Really? How?" This was going to be good, hearing him fumble for an answer to that.

"Three respiratory infections in as many months? And you put off the referral to the allergist, how many times? *After* I warned you not to?"

That was no fumble. His fingers didn't even slip on the ball even though they were dripping sweat! I grimaced a bit and admitted, albeit under my breath, "A few."

He heard me anyway. "A few? You call three times in four weeks a few? Not only that," he pointed at me, "I warned you after the second time – I should have spanked you then - that if you didn't make an appointment and follow through, there were going to be consequences. It was your choice, and you chose to cancel. I don't know why you ignored me and the doctor."

He has the memory of a freaking elephant. Try to make *one* small point, and he has to go off on a tangent. I caught myself squirming under the lecture like I was about to get spanked all over again. It might be because he said all that stuff the first go-round, if I'm not mistaken. What was I thinking, reminding him of that nasty ordeal?

"I didn't have time to go to the allergist. I was busy. You aren't."

"I am busy. I work, too, remember?"

"Not why you're not going," I pointed out.

He expelled a rush of air in total exasperation. "Listen. I have the appointment; I won't put it off or cancel."

And he wouldn't. As much as he hated to go, he'd use the three weeks to come to terms with his fears, face them head on. I mean that sort of figuratively because Keith's way of dealing with unpleasant things was to play them out in his head until he was comfortable with how things would pan out. I always tell him it's because he's a control freak. I didn't think he was up to hearing that speech again at the moment, so I gracefully set it aside, and didn't share my observation.

He always disagreed anyway, saying that he wasn't controlling and as far as he knew, not a freak, either. He claimed it was merely "proper planning", a far cry from "control freak". I'm not so sure, though. He had that lasik eye surgery a couple of years ago (no needles involved) and he actually sat in the waiting room and watched God knows how many procedures through the viewing window before he could work himself into agreeing to the procedure. He made the appointment for two weeks later even though they wanted to take him the next day. I know he waited so he could replay the surgery in his head, seeing himself on the table rather than the host of unknown strangers he had watched. That and to have time to practice holding his eye still.

That's how he deals with things. He plans and plots. Me? I don't want to know the gory details. The less I know, the better. I don't want to think about it, either. If I replay something unpleasant enough times, it will only make me feel like I'm going to puke. It will do nothing to prepare me. I'm one of those guys who likes to compartmentalize stuff, lock away the ugly until someone makes me pop the lid off.

"I know you have the appointment just like I know you won't miss it and just like I know you'll be fine."

He sighed and wiped his hands again.

It's weird to say this but his anxiety and humanity were endearing to me and yes, a little bit sexy. In fact, it was a lot bit sexy. I mean, here he was, a man whose physique alone screams strength and is enough to make me as hard as his toned abs, yet he's normal enough to have a nearly knee-knocking fear of going to the dentist. Keith, tough enough to be my disciplinarian, quietly stubborn enough to be my Rock of Gibraltar, strong enough to leap buildings in a single bound, was still humble enough to show me the chink in his armor. Well, more like a huge dent, but you get the idea.

My dick started to rouse, head pushing against my underwear and fly, hoping to get out and see what was going on that it was missing. It could just be that I was horny, but I'm going with Keith's vulnerability being sexy. It made me want to take him upstairs and make it all better.

I shifted on the barstool to give my dick some space, and tried to put those thoughts away for now. It was obvious Keith was extremely distracted, but then maybe a distraction of a different kind was just what he needed.

I stood up and slipped my hands around his waist and pulled him close to kiss him. I pressed my lips tightly against his, then softened the pressure and teased at his mouth by nipping lightly with my teeth.

"Murphy, I –"

"Shhhhh."

I kept working and planted kisses along the tenderest part of his neck, just below and behind his ear. I made quick work of the buttons of his shirt, my dick really getting anxious at the sight of his flat stomach with a bit of hair trailing into the hidden cover of his jeans. His breathing quickened as I ran my tongue around one nipple before tugging on it with my lips as I sucked it. His cologne managed to hang on through the stressful dentist's appointment and through the end of the day, and the scent of it intermingled with the natural sweet smell of him, filling my nostrils.

He responded to my touches hungrily, grabbing my face and kissing me hard, sliding his tongue just past my lips to connect with my mine.

I spoke after I caught my breath, my lips brushing against his while I formed the words. "No." He frowned and looked at me curiously. "I'm taking care of you right now."

I slipped my hand between our bodies, pressed my palm to the growing front of his pants, then cupped my fingers gently around the bulging there. "How about a little more room right here?"

I unzipped his pants and pushed my hands inside them, my palms against his ass. Then, never losing contact with his skin, I used the backs of my wrists to push his pants down his legs. The lapels of his shirt worked well as reins, and I dragged him toward the sofa where I positioned him comfortably so I could take care of him. I toed off my shoes and worked my way out of my own jeans so I could have some freedom myself before settling on my knees between his legs. I worked my mouth up and down him, getting just as much pleasure from his appreciative moans as I was giving him physically. After he came, I took care of myself quickly, then collapsed as much on top of him as beside him on the sofa. I have to say, he was much more relaxed when I was done.

"Thank you," he whispered.

~~~~~~~~~~~

My little afternoon distraction worked for the rest of the evening, but by the time we were in bed for the night, he was stressing again. He does it differently than I do. I get edgy, snappish. I'll take your head off as good as look at you when I'm uptight about something. Keith is quieter about it, internalizing the whole thing. He stews on it and chews on it, working it out in his head. But I can still tell when he's worked up, mostly by his sleep patterns. Wait - does "no sleep" constitute a pattern?

We were lying in the bed together and I was tuned into him, knowing he was likely going to be bothered by the news he got that day. I was right. After about an hour of lying in the dark, his breathing still wasn't slow and shallow. Worse, every time I tried to slip into REM, he flopped over or shifted enough to wake me up.

"So, how long are you going to lay there, worrying about what you can't change?" I'm a bit intuitive with a dash of directness. What can I say?

"Oh, I don't know," he replied conversationally. "All night? Half a night? I'll go with somewhere in between, like say five hours. What do you think?"

I rolled over toward him and draped my arm across his chest to hold him in place from turning over again. "I think you need to let it go, and admit you can't change it, and that it's going to be fine."

"Ok," he agreed too easily.

"You can't fool me, mister," I warned him. "Don't try to placate me with your smoothness."

He snorted a laugh. "Ok, I promise I'll try. How's that?"

"Better. Three weeks this time, it will all be history. Well. Not *all* because you'll have to go back to have the crowns seated, but the part you hate will be over with."

"That's true."

"Quit it."

"It is true."

"I know it's true. I'm the one who made the statement. Am I going to have to have sex with you again to get you to sleep and stop worrying?"

He rubbed his hand down my bare arm and I could hear the smile in his voice. "I'm fine. I promise."

"Uh huh. I'd be in trouble for lying, you know."

He chuckled softly. "Yes, you would. Ok, let me try this again. I'm not really fine, but I will be, and in the meantime, I'll try to get some sleep."

"Much better."

He might have tried, but he wasn't really successful. He kept the tossing and turning to a minimum, at least enough for me to get some sleep. Even though he had some trouble sleeping that night, he finally managed to get his worries buried, but he sunk them so deep they didn't seem to cross his mind again, even the night before the big day.

I sort of think that was his strategy. Subconsciously, of course. If he made the follow-up visit far enough out, then it was like it was never going to happen. Out of sight, out of mind, so to speak.

That day did come, though, no matter how much Keith might have been secretly hoping for it to go away. He argued and fussed that it came far too quickly, and that he should have made it at least a month out. Three weeks just wasn't long enough, and he was quite sure of that.

"A month?" I asked him, slack-jawed. "You wouldn't be ready if it was a year out."

"I'd like to have had the opportunity to find out," he grumbled.

"You're going to be fine. Cross my heart and hope to die." He heaved a sigh. "Don't forget your toothbrush."

I tried to be supportive without going overboard, not wanting to dredge up too much of what he had so expertly sealed away. There was no point in discussing all the dirty details of what was going to take place. I changed the subject after wishing him luck.

There wasn't a lot more I *could* do. He was going to have to face the demon on his own, so I sent him off to battle armed with nothing but luck, a toothbrush and dental floss, knowing full well they were no match for a dentist with a drill. They stood their own pretty well against plague, but Keith was facing a lot more than that. At any rate, the dentist had a license to use the drill so I was sure Keith would be fine. It was much more mental than physical, and we both knew that. It didn't make it any easier for him, though. There really is some truth to that old mind over matter notion. The matter was definitely on his mind and it was winning.

He made it through work and called me on his way to his appointment that afternoon. I promised him again that he would survive, wished him luck one more time, then waited. They had told him it would take several hours, so I was starting to watch the clock around 5:30. I was beginning to wonder when he finally got home around 6:15, and I rushed to meet Keith at the door. He trudged toward me, looking more worn out than 10 year-old carpet in a high-tread zone.

I reached out and took his wrist as soon as he was close enough, and I tugged him in from the garage then hugged him tight.

"Thank God, you're alive," I breathed a sigh of relief. "I can't believe it. I was so worried."

He lightly swiped the seat of my pants. "Smart ass."

I grinned at him. "I told you you'd be ok."

"I knew I'd be fine, I just get nervous," he spoke awkwardly, only part of his lips functioning.

I tried not to laugh, and touched the paralyzed right side of his mouth. "You're still numb."

"I know."

"Was it as bad as you thought it would be? You were there over 3 hours."

"Not too bad, I guess. The gas helped, but not entirely. I knew every single thing that was going on," he declared.

"It's not supposed to knock you out."

"I know, but…" he laughed with a cockeyed grin using the few muscles in his lips that were still obeying. "You know what's funny?"

"What?" I pointed at a bar stool, demanding that he take a seat, then I grabbed two wine glasses. I figured he could use a little alcohol since the gas had worn off.

"I kept thinking, 'It isn't going to work. You can't make me not care about what's going on. I *know* what's going on!'" He punctuated his knowing with a forefinger stab at the countertop.

"You know what?" I laughed as I poured a full glass of White Haven sauvignon blanc for him. "That is *so* pathetic. You don't always have to be in control, Keith."

"I don't think that was it."

The twinkle in his eyes told me otherwise. It was all about his unwillingness to give up control and we both knew it. "Uh huh."

"But that's not the funny part," he said, trying to divert my attention from him being controlling - which he did by controlling the conversation, by the way. I wasn't fooled, but I let him have his win. He had had a rough day.

He couldn't control deadened nerves, though. He made a stellar attempt to drink his wine without wasting it down his chin, but he dabbed at the corner of his mouth. "I feel like I'm drooling on myself."

"You're not. What was the funny part?"

"They totally had me. I was as high as a fucking kite, yet thinking I was in control the whole time. Now that I’m not high, I remember things like the music sounding warped at one point, almost psychedelic. I remember checking my iPod when I didn't need to, stuff like that."

I raised my glass to him. "Long live laughing gas. The only element out there that's powerful enough to take control from my partner *and* keep him in a dentist's chair."

"That and chains. They were out of chains, though."

He tapped the edge of his glass to mine then drank to my toast, managing to keep the wine in his mouth despite his numbness. I leaned across the bar conspiratorially, lowering my voice before sharing a secret. "I promise not to tell anyone that you weren't exactly on your game after you got the news about the crowns, your highness."

He laid a hand on his heart sincerely. "Thank you."

I smiled at my hero and kissed him while I was that close to his lips. He really is a hero to me, not because he has saved the world or anything, but because he's man enough to admit he's afraid of the dentist.

And just between us? I'd be willing to bet he could save the world, too.

End