Ever since New York passed the law that we couldn’t talk on the phone while driving, New York State drivers have come up with inventive ways to comply. Some use hands-free earpieces that they also wear everywhere they go which makes them seem to be talking to themselves. Some have bought the cell adapter that attaches to the radio so that the person on the other end sounds like the voice of God coming out of the speakers. Some hold the phone up to their ear and fling it into the passenger seat if they see a cop car. I mastered the art of text messaging while driving, but have stopped since a near miss with a black cat which I’m positive was a sign that I was near tragedy if I kept up my stupidity.
Instead of calling Sophia while driving to Steeve’s house, I pull into a drug store parking lot three blocks from his place. I was fine when Leah and Elena left. I was eager to see Steeve. Then during my drive, my insides revolted against me. Something started going very wrong. I’m now in a panic and need my friend.
“Hey, hang on!” is the one intelligible thing I hear when Sophia answers her phone. The rest is raucous thumping. After a full minute, she returns, “Hey what’s up?”
“Working I assume?” My windows fog up as I speak.
She loudly responds, “You know I am. You on your way? What are you wearing?” Sophia is at some model thing tonight. I try never to compare her job to mine.
“A skirt and a shirt. I’m freaking out!”
“Hang on!” is her answer. I listen to some muffled Nelly Furtado from her end while rocking slightly. The neon light in the drug store window casts a green-pink glow in my rearview. “Okay, why are you freaking out?”
I answer shakily, “Because I’m me.”
“Yes, that makes sense,” she replies. “I thought Leah and Elena helped you get ready. Didn’t they calm you down?”
Sophia was bummed she couldn’t share in the Festival of Closet Raiding when she found out my date conflicted with her work schedule. She had told me that if I still wanted to chat, I could call. I say, “They did calm me down. We had a lovely discussion about virginity and syphilis. Then they called him Rain Man and went home.”
“Ha!” Sophia doesn’t hold back. “Rain Man. Now that’s funny right there.”
“Sophia!”
She says more quietly, “Okay, sorry. So what, exactly, is the problem? You like this guy.”
I nod as if she can see me, “I do, I do. Still, there’s something about him.”
“I know what it is. He’s nice to you and you can’t handle that.”
I now shake my head. “Absolutely not true. I’m past that whole phase of bad boy. I like that Jeffery Rigger treats me good.” Nice. My defense is an unethical romp.
However, Sophia agrees, “You’ve got a point.” We’re both quiet for some time, the thumping on her end getting louder. Then she says, “What are the chances that he has a girlfriend?”
My insides churn more violently than ever. “Now that’s something we didn’t come up with.”
Sophia offers, “Maybe because it’s the one thing that his charm points to and his quirks steer you from.” I don’t reply right away so she continues, “Still, now we’re making something out of what is most probably nothing.”
I lean forward as far as I can to try to stop my insides from their rumbling. Flipping the defroster to high, I say, “Now that we’ve all gone over every possible scenario of what could be wrong with him, maybe I should focus on what’s right with him.” I say it mostly to get my nerves in check, but it’s also very true. I can’t live my life assuming the worst of my dates.
Amid the ruckus on the other end of the line, Sophia asserts, “There’s one more scenario. Maybe he’s married.” She has the nerve to laugh at this.
“Sophia! Not helping!”
“Stop, Marie. You know it’s funny.”
I shudder as the hot air blasts out of the vents. “Fine. It’s funny. Why is it funny?”
She screeches, “Because it’s idiotic to think so! You’re going on nothing! So he has a weird laugh. He doesn’t want to talk about his childhood. So what? You threaten me whenever I bring up high school!”
My insides, which had been on the road to settling, clench up at the thought of high school. Not my favorite subject. I’m guessing this is what Steeve feels like when I ask him about the past. Maybe it’s stuff that’s not worth mentioning. “Point taken,” I mumble.
“Hang on!” is Sophia’s response.
As I’m hanging, I reflect back on the card and the poetry. I picture the dimples and the strong hands that picked me up off the cracked ground in the rain. The voice that insisted I let him help.
“Are you there?” breaks through the muffled Furtado remix on the phone.
I jump. “Yes. Weighing it all.”
“Feeling better? I can hear you are.”
I answer, “And I can hear you’re busy. Go work. I’m gonna go play.” My insides churn in that can’t-wait-to-get-there way.
“Sure, brush me off,” Sophia mocks.
“Shut up!” I yell. “Thanks, by the way.”
“I know I’m great,” she laughs.
Before I hang up, I ask, “Is David Nellson around tonight?”
I hear her smile as she says, “You know it.”
We hang up and I whap the gas pedal to the floor for three blocks straight.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Friday, September 4, 2009
The Thing About Steeve
Elena and Leah were separated at birth. The same style, the same suggestions, and the same quick wit. It’s frightening. They had known each other for only five minutes and already bonded against me and my judgment. I am standing in my bedroom in heels, a gray, lettuce hem skirt, and my bra, wrapped in my flannel throw because I’m freezing. I apparently cannot decide what shirt matches what shoes. That’s up to them. I try to remind them that I have gone out with Steeve on my own before, not once did I go naked. They still don’t believe that I can dress myself.
They are raiding my closet, holding up shirts and asking, “Do you seriously wear this?” When I answer that I do, they clarify, “In public?” Arg. I may not shop in Gucci, but I still know what looks good. At least I thought I did.
Elena insisted that she raid my closet. Leah, about the same time, insisted too. So I let them both do it. The one condition I set for Elena was that she could not under any circumstances even hint at the name Jeffery Rigger. I still haven’t told Leah. The timing hasn’t been right. It probably won’t ever be right. Elena crossed her heart, and now here we all are, the two of them berating me and me wondering why I let this happen.
I try to convince them one more time that I am a fashionista in sheep’s clothing. “You know, I know Steeve better than the two of you do. I would know what he likes best.”
They glance at each other and giggle. Some secret silent language known only among fashion-forward clothes horses. Elena hugs my shoulders. “Oh, Marie. Steeve doesn’t even know what Steeve likes. From what you’ve said about him, he doesn’t know much about desires.”
“Oh, come on, now! You make it sound like I’m dating Rainman!”
“K-Mart sucks!” Leah comes bounding out of my closet with a black halter top.
“Leah said, ‘sucks’” I point out. The rudest word she ever uses is crud.
She makes air-quotes. “I was quoting, Professor. I used to do English!” She holds the halter up in front of me for Elena’s approval.
Elena nods. “That’s a pretty top. Try it on.”
I snatch the shirt. “Oh? You approve of this one? It doesn’t scream thrift-store?” I drop the throw and put on the halter top.
They ignore me, continue with the Steeve conversation. “So where is it all going with him?” Leah plucks at the back of the top around my waist and then steps back to Elena. She makes the twirling sign. I obey, arms akimbo, spinning.
“I don’t know. I really like him.” I smirk. I don’t know why I smirk but I do. Sometimes even I do not understand the power of the smirk.
“Your face says you may not.” Elena replucks what Leah already plucked.
I spin like a ballerina. “Well, I like spending time with him even though he’s a bit of a mystery. There’s the whole not-making-a-move thing. Then there’s the hotness factor.”
“K-mart sucks!” Leah chuckles.
“He’s not Rainman, dammit! He’s mysterious. Like, um . . .”
“Like Forrest Gump?” Elena suggests. They cackle. They have the same cackle. I swear they are twins.
I brought all of this on myself. This making fun. This jabbing at Steeve. It started with me snarking about his spelling—the whole three e thing still irks me. I try to ignore it. I suppose one day, if we get married, I’ll be able to get him to legally change it. Even beyond the spelling, I started to notice his little quirks right off the bat. They’re endearing yet quirky. Like the way he sticks out his tongue when he unlocks a door. How he snorts when he laughs but only a snuffle snort, not a full snort, so it’s sort of like a nose whistle. The way he answers a lot of questions by first repeating the last verb of the questions (as in Question: “where did you grow up?” Answer: “Grow? Queens.”). The way he sometimes talks to himself or to the radio instead of talking to me (as in “Nice weather today, Steevo” or Radio: “Coming up, Beatlemania” Steeve: “Play it, radio, play it loud.”). How he seems interested in sex in that puppy love kind of way instead of any way that would lead to a long hot night.
However.
He also has talked me into the wee hours of the morning. He has sung “Wonderful Tonight” to me several times and sounded exactly like Clapton. He gave me books of poetry. He has made me want to be with him to feel my stomach flip. He has made me want to buy him cheesy cards that say he’s cute and funny and nice. He has calf muscles that bulge in a subtle way and fingers that can crack walnuts and wide, wide shoulders. Mmm.
Still, that only gets him so far. This is where the mystery comes in. In our past dates, I have told him the story of my life. He has told me he grew up in Queens. He’s thirty-three. His parents spelled his name with three e’s so that he would stand out in a crowd. That’s about all I know. Plus, although at first he made me forget about Jeffery Rigger, now Jeffery found his way back to the forefront of my mind, especially since the sexual pleasuring. That tongue ring was his best move yet. Since Wednesday, I haven’t thought much of Steeve except for when I got that card. Now, it’s more about Steeve than Jeffery. My head can’t pick just one.
“Voila. You look mahvelous!” Elena claps at her own acceptance of my black halter, gray skirt, black heels, and gray pashmina.
“Oui, oui, mon cheri!” Leah claps too.
I hike up my skirt. “Ooh, la, la! Maybe I’ll get some action tonight.”
Elena, adjusting my shirt, begins to delve into the Steeve psyche a little more. “I know that he has annoying habits.”
Leah says, “As do we all.”
Elena continues, “He also has a very sweet side.”
Leah says, “As do we all,” again.
Elena adds, “So we just need to figure out why he’s not kissing you all over the place.”
Leah says, “Or not.” She blushes.
I say, “I’d like to know why not.” I flush, heated by the thought of a naked Steeve all sweaty and gruff.
Leah suggests, “He’s probably a private person. I am. I don’t kiss until the eighth date.”
I squint at her. “The eighth date? What kind of rule is that?”
Leah leans against the dresser and counts on her fingers, “Date one is get to know you over drinks. Date two is dinner and drinks. Date three is dinner, a movie, drinks.”
Before she gets to date four, I ask, “How can you consider yourself a non-drinker? By date three, you’re sloshed.”
She rolls her eyes. “Anyway, by Date Eight you know if you want to kiss him. Even then, a simple kiss on the lips will do. Save the bump and grind for when you’re really passionate.”
Elena and I fall to pieces. Now it’s my turn to count off on my fingers. “First off, you just said ‘bump and grind’ which I thought was a term reserved for bad rap music circa 1984. Secondly, you wait until Date Eight just because it rhymes and you know it.”
Leah indignantly says, “Well I can’t explain it then. You won’t understand. That’s how it works in my world.”
Elena suggests, “I wonder if that’s how it works in Steeve’s world. Perhaps in the Land of Steeve, bump and grind is reserved for Date Eight.”
I clarify, “It’s not the bump and grind I want. I want to feel like I’m irresistible to him. Feeling cute works for only so long. Feeling irresistible, that’s the key.”
Leah allows, “Fair enough.”
Elena grabs my wrist suddenly. She blurts out, “Maybe he’s a virgin!”
I say, “No way.”
Leah says, “Even I’m not a virgin.”
I agree, “Good call, Le.”
Elena shakes her head. “No. It makes perfect sense. He’s probably got all these annoying habits that come out because he’s so nervous. Then he probably wants to get in your pants, but he’s waited way too long. He’s missed his virginity-loss window and now he’s a basket case.”
Leah pipes up, “He could simply be a private person.”
Elena keeps going with her own theory. “Think about it, Marie. He doesn’t talk a whole lot about his past. He’s probably never had a real girlfriend. Probably has never been in love.”
It does make a bit of sense. Then I have to disagree. “No. Not him. Maybe he hasn’t had a girlfriend in a while; however, he’s had to have someone when he was younger though. I mean, the guy is ripped. Long fingers and all. He’s sometimes charming. Habits develop over time so he probably didn’t have those weird habits when he was a teenager. Plus, he’s ripped.”
Elena says, “You said that he’s ripped already.”
“Oh, it’s worth repeating. Long fingers, too.”
Leah, seeing her “private person” theory is going nowhere, suggests, “Maybe he’s been hurt. Like really hurt. A broken engagement. A broken heart.”
Elena then says as if she’s come to the real reason, “Maybe he has syphilis!”
I whack her with a bra. “Elena! Please refrain from accusing my date of having an STD!”
Leah says, “Well, she could be right. I mean, we’ve all probably had something at some point whether we’ve known it or not.”
I throw the bra at her. “From Little Miss Privacy to Sexual Health Consultant in one minute flat. Nice.”
She throws the bra back at me. “I was just making a statement of fact. Please refrain from tossing your underwear at me.”
I sit on the bed. “This is what we have so far. Steeve is a virgin who contracted an STD from someone who broke his heart.”
Elena slaps my knee with an, “Exactly!” while Leah simultaneously shouts, “No!”
I put out my hands in prayer and beg, “Then please tell me what you really think it is about him that makes him hold back!”
Leah then grasps something that even I don’t at first. “Oh, sweetie. You think it’s you.”
I start to say, “That’s ridiculous” but stop myself. Instead, I say, “I think you’re right.”
Elena sits next to me. “Marie, it’s not you. You have plenty of guys wanting you.” I squeeze her hand and widen my eyes. She squeezes back, reassuring me that she’s not about to blow my cover by mentioning Jeffery Rigger in front of Leah. Instead she says, “First off, all your students must drool over you. Secondly, every time we go out, guys stare at you and hit on you.”
Leah adds, “Remember Cash Cab guy? He was into you, too. Whatever is going on in Steeve’s head has nothing to do with you.”
I stand up. I twirl for myself in the mirror. I do look good. “Thanks, you two.”
They gather their things and head out the door together to get a drink, saying the things friends always say to send other friends out on dates: “Call if you need anything. Have fun! Use a condom!” When I almost have the door closed, I hear a quick, frantic, “Officer Steeve. Main man. Charlie Babbit.” And then a loud cackle that will wake the neighbors.
They are raiding my closet, holding up shirts and asking, “Do you seriously wear this?” When I answer that I do, they clarify, “In public?” Arg. I may not shop in Gucci, but I still know what looks good. At least I thought I did.
Elena insisted that she raid my closet. Leah, about the same time, insisted too. So I let them both do it. The one condition I set for Elena was that she could not under any circumstances even hint at the name Jeffery Rigger. I still haven’t told Leah. The timing hasn’t been right. It probably won’t ever be right. Elena crossed her heart, and now here we all are, the two of them berating me and me wondering why I let this happen.
I try to convince them one more time that I am a fashionista in sheep’s clothing. “You know, I know Steeve better than the two of you do. I would know what he likes best.”
They glance at each other and giggle. Some secret silent language known only among fashion-forward clothes horses. Elena hugs my shoulders. “Oh, Marie. Steeve doesn’t even know what Steeve likes. From what you’ve said about him, he doesn’t know much about desires.”
“Oh, come on, now! You make it sound like I’m dating Rainman!”
“K-Mart sucks!” Leah comes bounding out of my closet with a black halter top.
“Leah said, ‘sucks’” I point out. The rudest word she ever uses is crud.
She makes air-quotes. “I was quoting, Professor. I used to do English!” She holds the halter up in front of me for Elena’s approval.
Elena nods. “That’s a pretty top. Try it on.”
I snatch the shirt. “Oh? You approve of this one? It doesn’t scream thrift-store?” I drop the throw and put on the halter top.
They ignore me, continue with the Steeve conversation. “So where is it all going with him?” Leah plucks at the back of the top around my waist and then steps back to Elena. She makes the twirling sign. I obey, arms akimbo, spinning.
“I don’t know. I really like him.” I smirk. I don’t know why I smirk but I do. Sometimes even I do not understand the power of the smirk.
“Your face says you may not.” Elena replucks what Leah already plucked.
I spin like a ballerina. “Well, I like spending time with him even though he’s a bit of a mystery. There’s the whole not-making-a-move thing. Then there’s the hotness factor.”
“K-mart sucks!” Leah chuckles.
“He’s not Rainman, dammit! He’s mysterious. Like, um . . .”
“Like Forrest Gump?” Elena suggests. They cackle. They have the same cackle. I swear they are twins.
I brought all of this on myself. This making fun. This jabbing at Steeve. It started with me snarking about his spelling—the whole three e thing still irks me. I try to ignore it. I suppose one day, if we get married, I’ll be able to get him to legally change it. Even beyond the spelling, I started to notice his little quirks right off the bat. They’re endearing yet quirky. Like the way he sticks out his tongue when he unlocks a door. How he snorts when he laughs but only a snuffle snort, not a full snort, so it’s sort of like a nose whistle. The way he answers a lot of questions by first repeating the last verb of the questions (as in Question: “where did you grow up?” Answer: “Grow? Queens.”). The way he sometimes talks to himself or to the radio instead of talking to me (as in “Nice weather today, Steevo” or Radio: “Coming up, Beatlemania” Steeve: “Play it, radio, play it loud.”). How he seems interested in sex in that puppy love kind of way instead of any way that would lead to a long hot night.
However.
He also has talked me into the wee hours of the morning. He has sung “Wonderful Tonight” to me several times and sounded exactly like Clapton. He gave me books of poetry. He has made me want to be with him to feel my stomach flip. He has made me want to buy him cheesy cards that say he’s cute and funny and nice. He has calf muscles that bulge in a subtle way and fingers that can crack walnuts and wide, wide shoulders. Mmm.
Still, that only gets him so far. This is where the mystery comes in. In our past dates, I have told him the story of my life. He has told me he grew up in Queens. He’s thirty-three. His parents spelled his name with three e’s so that he would stand out in a crowd. That’s about all I know. Plus, although at first he made me forget about Jeffery Rigger, now Jeffery found his way back to the forefront of my mind, especially since the sexual pleasuring. That tongue ring was his best move yet. Since Wednesday, I haven’t thought much of Steeve except for when I got that card. Now, it’s more about Steeve than Jeffery. My head can’t pick just one.
“Voila. You look mahvelous!” Elena claps at her own acceptance of my black halter, gray skirt, black heels, and gray pashmina.
“Oui, oui, mon cheri!” Leah claps too.
I hike up my skirt. “Ooh, la, la! Maybe I’ll get some action tonight.”
Elena, adjusting my shirt, begins to delve into the Steeve psyche a little more. “I know that he has annoying habits.”
Leah says, “As do we all.”
Elena continues, “He also has a very sweet side.”
Leah says, “As do we all,” again.
Elena adds, “So we just need to figure out why he’s not kissing you all over the place.”
Leah says, “Or not.” She blushes.
I say, “I’d like to know why not.” I flush, heated by the thought of a naked Steeve all sweaty and gruff.
Leah suggests, “He’s probably a private person. I am. I don’t kiss until the eighth date.”
I squint at her. “The eighth date? What kind of rule is that?”
Leah leans against the dresser and counts on her fingers, “Date one is get to know you over drinks. Date two is dinner and drinks. Date three is dinner, a movie, drinks.”
Before she gets to date four, I ask, “How can you consider yourself a non-drinker? By date three, you’re sloshed.”
She rolls her eyes. “Anyway, by Date Eight you know if you want to kiss him. Even then, a simple kiss on the lips will do. Save the bump and grind for when you’re really passionate.”
Elena and I fall to pieces. Now it’s my turn to count off on my fingers. “First off, you just said ‘bump and grind’ which I thought was a term reserved for bad rap music circa 1984. Secondly, you wait until Date Eight just because it rhymes and you know it.”
Leah indignantly says, “Well I can’t explain it then. You won’t understand. That’s how it works in my world.”
Elena suggests, “I wonder if that’s how it works in Steeve’s world. Perhaps in the Land of Steeve, bump and grind is reserved for Date Eight.”
I clarify, “It’s not the bump and grind I want. I want to feel like I’m irresistible to him. Feeling cute works for only so long. Feeling irresistible, that’s the key.”
Leah allows, “Fair enough.”
Elena grabs my wrist suddenly. She blurts out, “Maybe he’s a virgin!”
I say, “No way.”
Leah says, “Even I’m not a virgin.”
I agree, “Good call, Le.”
Elena shakes her head. “No. It makes perfect sense. He’s probably got all these annoying habits that come out because he’s so nervous. Then he probably wants to get in your pants, but he’s waited way too long. He’s missed his virginity-loss window and now he’s a basket case.”
Leah pipes up, “He could simply be a private person.”
Elena keeps going with her own theory. “Think about it, Marie. He doesn’t talk a whole lot about his past. He’s probably never had a real girlfriend. Probably has never been in love.”
It does make a bit of sense. Then I have to disagree. “No. Not him. Maybe he hasn’t had a girlfriend in a while; however, he’s had to have someone when he was younger though. I mean, the guy is ripped. Long fingers and all. He’s sometimes charming. Habits develop over time so he probably didn’t have those weird habits when he was a teenager. Plus, he’s ripped.”
Elena says, “You said that he’s ripped already.”
“Oh, it’s worth repeating. Long fingers, too.”
Leah, seeing her “private person” theory is going nowhere, suggests, “Maybe he’s been hurt. Like really hurt. A broken engagement. A broken heart.”
Elena then says as if she’s come to the real reason, “Maybe he has syphilis!”
I whack her with a bra. “Elena! Please refrain from accusing my date of having an STD!”
Leah says, “Well, she could be right. I mean, we’ve all probably had something at some point whether we’ve known it or not.”
I throw the bra at her. “From Little Miss Privacy to Sexual Health Consultant in one minute flat. Nice.”
She throws the bra back at me. “I was just making a statement of fact. Please refrain from tossing your underwear at me.”
I sit on the bed. “This is what we have so far. Steeve is a virgin who contracted an STD from someone who broke his heart.”
Elena slaps my knee with an, “Exactly!” while Leah simultaneously shouts, “No!”
I put out my hands in prayer and beg, “Then please tell me what you really think it is about him that makes him hold back!”
Leah then grasps something that even I don’t at first. “Oh, sweetie. You think it’s you.”
I start to say, “That’s ridiculous” but stop myself. Instead, I say, “I think you’re right.”
Elena sits next to me. “Marie, it’s not you. You have plenty of guys wanting you.” I squeeze her hand and widen my eyes. She squeezes back, reassuring me that she’s not about to blow my cover by mentioning Jeffery Rigger in front of Leah. Instead she says, “First off, all your students must drool over you. Secondly, every time we go out, guys stare at you and hit on you.”
Leah adds, “Remember Cash Cab guy? He was into you, too. Whatever is going on in Steeve’s head has nothing to do with you.”
I stand up. I twirl for myself in the mirror. I do look good. “Thanks, you two.”
They gather their things and head out the door together to get a drink, saying the things friends always say to send other friends out on dates: “Call if you need anything. Have fun! Use a condom!” When I almost have the door closed, I hear a quick, frantic, “Officer Steeve. Main man. Charlie Babbit.” And then a loud cackle that will wake the neighbors.
Friday, August 28, 2009
What A Hickey From Kenickie Is Like
After battling through traffic on the parkway and finding no water at the water cooler to make a much-needed cup of hot chocolate, I grab at my mail in the department office. Some papers left by students are there even though I tell them never to leave papers in my mailbox. Some are not even from my students. I shove them into the general office box for everyone to peek through.
I head to my office down the hall, sifting through flyers from Career Services and Student Affairs. Then I come to an envelope as I push into my office. It’s sealed. It’s mint and pearly. I put all the other junk down to open the envelope.
It’s a card. From Steeve. A puppy on the front. Holding a milkbone. The inside is all from him. “Just saying hi. Thought this was cute. Kind of like you. Cute. Have a great day.” He signed it with his name in flourishing script. So flourishing that I could barely notice that it has two e’s where only one should be. He even added a P. S.: “Will be envisioning our next encounter until I actually see you.”
Awwwwwwwwww!
I guess that’s a perk of dating someone at work. He knows just where your mailbox is to leave you a love note. Wait, this isn’t a love note. Not love. It’s a like note. It’s an I-like-you-enough-to-think-about-you-when-I-see-cute-puppies note. He didn’t sign it “love.” He signed it with a passionate, flourishing Steeve. He added a post script because he couldn’t contain his charm. The morning quickly switches to a good one as I think about Steeve, and when I think about Steeve, I see a massive body made of all solid muscle and smooth tanned skin. A lickable neck. A likeable smile. Swoon.
“Isn’t it too early to be that happy?” Brenda’s standing in the doorway. She holds out a Styrofoam cup. “Hot water?”
I throw down the card and exclaim, “That’s just what I need!”
She says, “I know. The student aid told me you were mumbling to yourself about the water cooler. I found some student in the hallway. Got her to put on a new bottle.”
“Her?”
“Have you seen some of our softball players?”
“Oh, yeah,” I agree, taking the steaming cup from her. “Thanks. You’re a Godsend.”
She waves her hand and says, “No problem.” Then, “So why the happy happy joy joy?”
I grab the card from the desk and show her. “Cute, right?”
She says, “Awwwwww.”
“I know!” I blush. I feel my cheeks get all warm. “Someone likes me!” I squeal, plucking the card back from her.
She rolls her eyes. “Are you twelve?”
“Thirteen and a half!” I twirl around.
“Too early for this.” She goes off to her own office in good spirits.
I give myself another twirl and upon my completion, stop dead in my tracks.
“Did you mention politics in your composition class yesterday?” Cockknocker blocks my doorway, manila folder in hand. I wonder if it’s my file. Actually, it can’t be my file. It’s way too thin to be my file.
Buzzkill. My giddiness fades. “No,” I reply, “I didn’t have Comp yesterday.”
She’s unfazed. “Do you know who did?”
“Who mentioned politics or who had Comp?” I’m still standing with my feet in twirl position. I’m teetering but I don’t want to budge. Movement always causes her to stay longer.
She says, “Both.”
I say, “I don’t know. Don’t you have the schedule?”
She says, “Yes.”
I say, “Okay.”
She says, “We should have a meeting. To talk about this.”
I’m stunned. I ask, “About what?”
She waves around at nothing in particular. “This.”
I glance down. I see my feet so close together and wonder how long I can hold myself in the balance. I check out my hem. It’s fine. It’s right above my knees. My skirt is flowy, not too tight. My belly button isn’t showing. My hair is down and out of my face. I have to ask. “What do you mean by ‘this’?”
Cockknocker waves more wildly. “This. You know that your office is a place of work. Not play.”
She must have seen me twirling. I respond as earnestly as I can, “I was swatting at a fly. I wasn’t playing.”
She eyes me up and down. She stops at the card in my hand for a second. Her eyes meet mine. She pushes her glasses up the ridge of her nose. Amazingly enough, she uses her pointer finger for a change. She says, “You may want to try to swat at it with something a little bigger.” She points at the card, completely transparent. Yet she’s giving in for some reason.
I ask, “So no meeting about fly swatting, right?”
She nods. “Right.” Then leaves. No doubt, she’s got a bigger fight to pick with whoever dared to talk politics yesterday.
I fall into my desk chair and click on the computer to check my email before I head over to class. As the login screen comes on, I hear a voice whisper-singing “Wonderful Tonight.” My chest flutters.
“Officer Steeve!” I practically jump over my desk to hug him. “Thanks for the card. How did you know I needed that this morning?”
“Know? I just knew.” He hugs me back. His cheek rubs mine. It’s cold and smooth. His arms squeeze all the breath out of me, in a good way.
I coo, “It was nice that you knew.”
He laughs. It comes out as kind of a laugh-huff. A half-laugh. When he did it on our first date, I thought he was choking. I’ve noticed that it’s just how he laughs. He growls all sexy, “You’re cute when you call me nice.”
I turn on my coy voice. “You’re even nicer when you call me cute.” I put my head down, swing back and forth with my hands clasped behind me in my best cute-as-a-button routine.
He hugs me quickly (oh those pecs) and says, “Gotta run. Just wanted to say good morning. See if you got the card and stuff.”
“Well I did. And good morning to you. Working all day?” I ask.
“Working?” He answers. “All day? Yup. You betcha. I’ll call you later. Make plans. Kay?”
I gush, “Sure!”
He leaves and I begin to twirl but then stop myself for two reasons. One, I think I hear him say something to me. I peek my head out the door to find that he’s talking to himself. I suppose we’re all entitled. Two, the fly swatting excuse won’t work a second time if Cockknocker is still on the prowl.
I return to my email, newly elated by the pop-in visit from Officer Steeve. Sure he answers questions by repeating half the question and he talks to himself and he has a weird laugh. He also bought me poetry and gave me a card and gave me a sweet hug hello. Maybe this will lead to something good.
When I go back to my email, I see something that is also good. Very good. An email from Jeffery Rigger. Just to say hello. And to ask what the homework was. I’d like to believe that last part is all subterfuge.
I head to my office down the hall, sifting through flyers from Career Services and Student Affairs. Then I come to an envelope as I push into my office. It’s sealed. It’s mint and pearly. I put all the other junk down to open the envelope.
It’s a card. From Steeve. A puppy on the front. Holding a milkbone. The inside is all from him. “Just saying hi. Thought this was cute. Kind of like you. Cute. Have a great day.” He signed it with his name in flourishing script. So flourishing that I could barely notice that it has two e’s where only one should be. He even added a P. S.: “Will be envisioning our next encounter until I actually see you.”
Awwwwwwwwww!
I guess that’s a perk of dating someone at work. He knows just where your mailbox is to leave you a love note. Wait, this isn’t a love note. Not love. It’s a like note. It’s an I-like-you-enough-to-think-about-you-when-I-see-cute-puppies note. He didn’t sign it “love.” He signed it with a passionate, flourishing Steeve. He added a post script because he couldn’t contain his charm. The morning quickly switches to a good one as I think about Steeve, and when I think about Steeve, I see a massive body made of all solid muscle and smooth tanned skin. A lickable neck. A likeable smile. Swoon.
“Isn’t it too early to be that happy?” Brenda’s standing in the doorway. She holds out a Styrofoam cup. “Hot water?”
I throw down the card and exclaim, “That’s just what I need!”
She says, “I know. The student aid told me you were mumbling to yourself about the water cooler. I found some student in the hallway. Got her to put on a new bottle.”
“Her?”
“Have you seen some of our softball players?”
“Oh, yeah,” I agree, taking the steaming cup from her. “Thanks. You’re a Godsend.”
She waves her hand and says, “No problem.” Then, “So why the happy happy joy joy?”
I grab the card from the desk and show her. “Cute, right?”
She says, “Awwwwww.”
“I know!” I blush. I feel my cheeks get all warm. “Someone likes me!” I squeal, plucking the card back from her.
She rolls her eyes. “Are you twelve?”
“Thirteen and a half!” I twirl around.
“Too early for this.” She goes off to her own office in good spirits.
I give myself another twirl and upon my completion, stop dead in my tracks.
“Did you mention politics in your composition class yesterday?” Cockknocker blocks my doorway, manila folder in hand. I wonder if it’s my file. Actually, it can’t be my file. It’s way too thin to be my file.
Buzzkill. My giddiness fades. “No,” I reply, “I didn’t have Comp yesterday.”
She’s unfazed. “Do you know who did?”
“Who mentioned politics or who had Comp?” I’m still standing with my feet in twirl position. I’m teetering but I don’t want to budge. Movement always causes her to stay longer.
She says, “Both.”
I say, “I don’t know. Don’t you have the schedule?”
She says, “Yes.”
I say, “Okay.”
She says, “We should have a meeting. To talk about this.”
I’m stunned. I ask, “About what?”
She waves around at nothing in particular. “This.”
I glance down. I see my feet so close together and wonder how long I can hold myself in the balance. I check out my hem. It’s fine. It’s right above my knees. My skirt is flowy, not too tight. My belly button isn’t showing. My hair is down and out of my face. I have to ask. “What do you mean by ‘this’?”
Cockknocker waves more wildly. “This. You know that your office is a place of work. Not play.”
She must have seen me twirling. I respond as earnestly as I can, “I was swatting at a fly. I wasn’t playing.”
She eyes me up and down. She stops at the card in my hand for a second. Her eyes meet mine. She pushes her glasses up the ridge of her nose. Amazingly enough, she uses her pointer finger for a change. She says, “You may want to try to swat at it with something a little bigger.” She points at the card, completely transparent. Yet she’s giving in for some reason.
I ask, “So no meeting about fly swatting, right?”
She nods. “Right.” Then leaves. No doubt, she’s got a bigger fight to pick with whoever dared to talk politics yesterday.
I fall into my desk chair and click on the computer to check my email before I head over to class. As the login screen comes on, I hear a voice whisper-singing “Wonderful Tonight.” My chest flutters.
“Officer Steeve!” I practically jump over my desk to hug him. “Thanks for the card. How did you know I needed that this morning?”
“Know? I just knew.” He hugs me back. His cheek rubs mine. It’s cold and smooth. His arms squeeze all the breath out of me, in a good way.
I coo, “It was nice that you knew.”
He laughs. It comes out as kind of a laugh-huff. A half-laugh. When he did it on our first date, I thought he was choking. I’ve noticed that it’s just how he laughs. He growls all sexy, “You’re cute when you call me nice.”
I turn on my coy voice. “You’re even nicer when you call me cute.” I put my head down, swing back and forth with my hands clasped behind me in my best cute-as-a-button routine.
He hugs me quickly (oh those pecs) and says, “Gotta run. Just wanted to say good morning. See if you got the card and stuff.”
“Well I did. And good morning to you. Working all day?” I ask.
“Working?” He answers. “All day? Yup. You betcha. I’ll call you later. Make plans. Kay?”
I gush, “Sure!”
He leaves and I begin to twirl but then stop myself for two reasons. One, I think I hear him say something to me. I peek my head out the door to find that he’s talking to himself. I suppose we’re all entitled. Two, the fly swatting excuse won’t work a second time if Cockknocker is still on the prowl.
I return to my email, newly elated by the pop-in visit from Officer Steeve. Sure he answers questions by repeating half the question and he talks to himself and he has a weird laugh. He also bought me poetry and gave me a card and gave me a sweet hug hello. Maybe this will lead to something good.
When I go back to my email, I see something that is also good. Very good. An email from Jeffery Rigger. Just to say hello. And to ask what the homework was. I’d like to believe that last part is all subterfuge.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Grading
Conference call number two of the week. Sophia and Elena are loving the soap opera. My love life serves as usual fodder for comic relief. Now? It’s juicy.
“I feel so dirty!” I put my hand over my forehead as I sit on my living room floor. “This is so wrong. I am so going to Hell.”
Elena asks, “Seriously. What’s so wrong about it? It’s not as if you’re giving him grades he doesn’t deserve.”
Sophia adds, “And neither of you is planning on threatening the other with blackmail, right?”
In any other case, that would be part of my paranoia. With Jeffery Rigger, I just know he wouldn’t do that. “You guys are right but still, it’s wrong. I know it’s wrong to compare him with Steeve, but I mean, come on!”
Elena answers first, “I see what you’re saying. You get an orgasm from Jeffery Rigger one night. The next night, you go out with Steeve, and the highlight of your evening is catching the Soup Nazi episode of Seinfeld.”
Sophia pipes up, “I can’t stand that show.”
I come back, “Yes, I know. You’re the only person in the world who hates Seinfeld.”
She tsks her tongue and says, “Hate is a strong word. I dislike it.”
I answer, “Whatever.”
Elena cuts in, “Not the point, ladies! Point is, Marie had two orgasms with Jeffery and none with Steeve.”
True. Whenever I give, I also feel satisfied. I’ve always been able to do that. I have no idea how. I’m such a lucky gal.
Sophia answers, “Fine. Still, Steeve is the only real chance at a functional relationship right now. I mean, you and Jeffery Rigger need to keep secret. That won’t work very long. If you go public, you’ll have no job. Also, according to your own admission, Steeve is hotter. He’s a hunk, remember.”
Elena adds, “Playing with fire is fun. Sophia has a point here though.”
I nod as if they can see me and say, “Yes, but I need some fun right now. If fun means juggling an elicit affair with someone I shouldn’t even lay eyes on with a good-times relationship with a genuine hunk of a guy, so be it!”
Sophia says, “Okay. Keep doing what you’re doing. Be careful. No one says you have to be tied to one man.”
I exclaim, “I was just telling myself that the other day!”
Elena says, “Good. So it’s settled. Continue both relationships until one fizzles out.”
I answer, “With Steeve, there’s not much left to fizzle if we’re talking sex.”
Elena answers back, “Well, you have one more date planned with him. See how that goes. Plus, there’s more to having a relationship than orgasms.”
We’re all silent for a minute. We listen to each other breathing as we ponder this last tidbit of reality. I’m the first to speak. I say, “I know you’re right, Elena. I know I’m being a bit unfair about Steeve. I know I should give him a fair chance. I should stop comparing sexual prowesses.”
Sophia chimes in, “So then stop doing that. Take Steeve seriously. He seems really into you. He gave you poetry. That lasts longer than an orgasm.”
Elena adds, “Maybe he’s shy. Gentlemanly. Maybe he’s waiting for the right moment to make a perfect memory.”
Sophia continues, “So go out with Steeve with an open mind and see where it takes you. You did say that you like him.”
I answer, “I do like him.”
Sophia adds, “Remember what Elena just said. That relationships aren’t all about the orgasm. You did admit to having fun with Steeve, you know.”
“True.” I answer. Sophia keeps going.
“You called him nice and cute.”
Elena says, “The books are endearing. If you stop comparing him, he chalks up to be a great guy. Maybe he’s just not sexually aggressive.”
I cock my eyebrow all the way up. “That’s a nice way to put it,” I answer. “The orgasm thing isn’t the only thing that’s giving me issues with him.” I can’t keep it from them anymore. It’s time to point out the little flaws. They wait in silence. I explain, “He has a way about him that he can say a whole lot and not really say anything.”
Sophia says, “So he’s not a conversationalist. He doesn’t want to tell you everything about him at once. So what?”
I answer, “I know it sounds petty. If it were only that, only the not-opening-up to me, I’d be fine with it. If it were the lack of sexual tension alone, I’d be okay. But it’s both. If you don’t have one, you should have the other. Right?”
More silence. Then Elena says, “You should try to crack open the vault. Is your conversation all that extensive with Jeffery Rigger?”
I say, “no,” having never really thought about it. Come to think of it now, I do have good conversations with the fine young thing. However, I convince myself to listen to my friends, “You’re right. No more comparing.”
Elena chimes in, “Good job, Sophia.”
“Thanks, Elena. I know all about putting things in perspective.”
“Gag me,” I giggle. They giggle too. “Thanks you guys. Let me go. I have to get back to grading.” I shift around the papers on the floor in front of me.
“Ciao,” says Elena.
“Have fun,” says Sophia.
“Right,” I say to myself as I let my grading pen fly.
~Academic Interlude~
Malik Lov
Composition
In-class Free Write
Prof. Roma
The worst date I ever had…
Well, you see, the worst date I ever has was with this bangin’ shorty, so you know that it was supposed to be all good. My cousin set us up, you see. It was a blind date. I ain’t never had a blind date before. Oh, wait, now I’m writing the way I talk, which you, Professor Roma, tell us never, ever to do, even if it has to do with our own personal lives. My love life, I have got to tell you, is as personal as personal gets. So anyway, let me back track here.
I had a blind date with a girlie that my cousin set me up with and I was psyched because she was supposed to be hot and stuff. So then I go to pick her up and I borrowed my cousin’s Rolex, which is fake but looks realer than my fake, and his Escalade. No, I’m not making this up because my cousin is rich. He know P. Diddy. I mean, knowS P. Diddy. Almost did that writing the way I speak thing again. Don’t you love how I correct myself. Anyway, P. Diddy. He and my cousin are real tight and stuff. So PD gave my cousin an Escalade. So I borrowed it.
I pulled up to this girl’s house. She came out all fine, wearing a hot red top and a tight black skirt and some shoes that had heels and she was sparkly and fine. So I got out of the car and said, “Hi, I’m Malik.” She smiled. I guess she said, “Hi, my name is so and so,” but I have NO IDEA what she said, Professor. Because, Professor, she had the most jacked-up teeth I ever seen! Believe that! She was nasty! She should of never smiled.
So I faked a sudden ear-ache, got back in the vehicle, and drove off.
And that was the worst date I ever had. How you like that, P?
Malik—
I feel your pain, save that this wasn’t really a date. You never even got to the date part! However, this was quite descriptive, and I appreciate the conscious effort into trying to write the way you’re supposed to write instead of writing the way you speak.
Nice job. A+
MRoma
“I feel so dirty!” I put my hand over my forehead as I sit on my living room floor. “This is so wrong. I am so going to Hell.”
Elena asks, “Seriously. What’s so wrong about it? It’s not as if you’re giving him grades he doesn’t deserve.”
Sophia adds, “And neither of you is planning on threatening the other with blackmail, right?”
In any other case, that would be part of my paranoia. With Jeffery Rigger, I just know he wouldn’t do that. “You guys are right but still, it’s wrong. I know it’s wrong to compare him with Steeve, but I mean, come on!”
Elena answers first, “I see what you’re saying. You get an orgasm from Jeffery Rigger one night. The next night, you go out with Steeve, and the highlight of your evening is catching the Soup Nazi episode of Seinfeld.”
Sophia pipes up, “I can’t stand that show.”
I come back, “Yes, I know. You’re the only person in the world who hates Seinfeld.”
She tsks her tongue and says, “Hate is a strong word. I dislike it.”
I answer, “Whatever.”
Elena cuts in, “Not the point, ladies! Point is, Marie had two orgasms with Jeffery and none with Steeve.”
True. Whenever I give, I also feel satisfied. I’ve always been able to do that. I have no idea how. I’m such a lucky gal.
Sophia answers, “Fine. Still, Steeve is the only real chance at a functional relationship right now. I mean, you and Jeffery Rigger need to keep secret. That won’t work very long. If you go public, you’ll have no job. Also, according to your own admission, Steeve is hotter. He’s a hunk, remember.”
Elena adds, “Playing with fire is fun. Sophia has a point here though.”
I nod as if they can see me and say, “Yes, but I need some fun right now. If fun means juggling an elicit affair with someone I shouldn’t even lay eyes on with a good-times relationship with a genuine hunk of a guy, so be it!”
Sophia says, “Okay. Keep doing what you’re doing. Be careful. No one says you have to be tied to one man.”
I exclaim, “I was just telling myself that the other day!”
Elena says, “Good. So it’s settled. Continue both relationships until one fizzles out.”
I answer, “With Steeve, there’s not much left to fizzle if we’re talking sex.”
Elena answers back, “Well, you have one more date planned with him. See how that goes. Plus, there’s more to having a relationship than orgasms.”
We’re all silent for a minute. We listen to each other breathing as we ponder this last tidbit of reality. I’m the first to speak. I say, “I know you’re right, Elena. I know I’m being a bit unfair about Steeve. I know I should give him a fair chance. I should stop comparing sexual prowesses.”
Sophia chimes in, “So then stop doing that. Take Steeve seriously. He seems really into you. He gave you poetry. That lasts longer than an orgasm.”
Elena adds, “Maybe he’s shy. Gentlemanly. Maybe he’s waiting for the right moment to make a perfect memory.”
Sophia continues, “So go out with Steeve with an open mind and see where it takes you. You did say that you like him.”
I answer, “I do like him.”
Sophia adds, “Remember what Elena just said. That relationships aren’t all about the orgasm. You did admit to having fun with Steeve, you know.”
“True.” I answer. Sophia keeps going.
“You called him nice and cute.”
Elena says, “The books are endearing. If you stop comparing him, he chalks up to be a great guy. Maybe he’s just not sexually aggressive.”
I cock my eyebrow all the way up. “That’s a nice way to put it,” I answer. “The orgasm thing isn’t the only thing that’s giving me issues with him.” I can’t keep it from them anymore. It’s time to point out the little flaws. They wait in silence. I explain, “He has a way about him that he can say a whole lot and not really say anything.”
Sophia says, “So he’s not a conversationalist. He doesn’t want to tell you everything about him at once. So what?”
I answer, “I know it sounds petty. If it were only that, only the not-opening-up to me, I’d be fine with it. If it were the lack of sexual tension alone, I’d be okay. But it’s both. If you don’t have one, you should have the other. Right?”
More silence. Then Elena says, “You should try to crack open the vault. Is your conversation all that extensive with Jeffery Rigger?”
I say, “no,” having never really thought about it. Come to think of it now, I do have good conversations with the fine young thing. However, I convince myself to listen to my friends, “You’re right. No more comparing.”
Elena chimes in, “Good job, Sophia.”
“Thanks, Elena. I know all about putting things in perspective.”
“Gag me,” I giggle. They giggle too. “Thanks you guys. Let me go. I have to get back to grading.” I shift around the papers on the floor in front of me.
“Ciao,” says Elena.
“Have fun,” says Sophia.
“Right,” I say to myself as I let my grading pen fly.
~Academic Interlude~
Malik Lov
Composition
In-class Free Write
Prof. Roma
The worst date I ever had…
Well, you see, the worst date I ever has was with this bangin’ shorty, so you know that it was supposed to be all good. My cousin set us up, you see. It was a blind date. I ain’t never had a blind date before. Oh, wait, now I’m writing the way I talk, which you, Professor Roma, tell us never, ever to do, even if it has to do with our own personal lives. My love life, I have got to tell you, is as personal as personal gets. So anyway, let me back track here.
I had a blind date with a girlie that my cousin set me up with and I was psyched because she was supposed to be hot and stuff. So then I go to pick her up and I borrowed my cousin’s Rolex, which is fake but looks realer than my fake, and his Escalade. No, I’m not making this up because my cousin is rich. He know P. Diddy. I mean, knowS P. Diddy. Almost did that writing the way I speak thing again. Don’t you love how I correct myself. Anyway, P. Diddy. He and my cousin are real tight and stuff. So PD gave my cousin an Escalade. So I borrowed it.
I pulled up to this girl’s house. She came out all fine, wearing a hot red top and a tight black skirt and some shoes that had heels and she was sparkly and fine. So I got out of the car and said, “Hi, I’m Malik.” She smiled. I guess she said, “Hi, my name is so and so,” but I have NO IDEA what she said, Professor. Because, Professor, she had the most jacked-up teeth I ever seen! Believe that! She was nasty! She should of never smiled.
So I faked a sudden ear-ache, got back in the vehicle, and drove off.
And that was the worst date I ever had. How you like that, P?
Malik—
I feel your pain, save that this wasn’t really a date. You never even got to the date part! However, this was quite descriptive, and I appreciate the conscious effort into trying to write the way you’re supposed to write instead of writing the way you speak.
Nice job. A+
MRoma
Friday, June 19, 2009
Unprotesting
Standing in front of my Composition class is becoming a project. I start out by never laying eyes on Jeffery Rigger. Then a little voice in my head tells me that the class is growing suspicious because I can’t make eye contact with him. Then I wind up staring at him to make them not suspicious. He squirms, I shake my head to snap out of stare mode, and then I forget what I was saying. Someone reminds me. I pick up repeating right before where I left off, and I start not looking at Jeffery again. A vicious cycle of neuroticism.
Right now, I don’t have that problem. Instead, I’m worrying about where Jeffery is. The smoothie-tea-burn-my-tongue-rip-our-clothes-off-in-the-car episode was Monday. I haven’t heard from him since. Not that we need to talk every day; still, I’m worried that my dating other people may have bugged him more than he was willing to let on, and now he’ll never come to class again. Then I started figuring that perhaps telling him I’m seeing other people followed by my sexually attacking him could have sent a very mixed message.
Today everyone is trickling in late because of the campus traffic. The single-lane loop around campus is backed up because a protest has gone awry. A coffin, Lord knows where they got it from, is blocking part of the road, causing cars to maneuver around onto the grass. Tires are getting caught in muddy grass and cars are stalling out because the sprinkler system is still in full swing and the rain and snow have already saturated everything.
Instead of beginning my Wednesday lecture, I act annoyed. I have everyone write about the worst present they’ve ever received and the worst date they’ve ever been on. I find such joy in the misery of others. Sometimes students wax sentimental and write about how their worst date was really a lesson of love or some crap. They don’t understand that I want something to poke fun at and commiserate with. Out of a sense of fairness, I tell them about one of my very bad dates when I’m finished reading theirs aloud anonymously.
I punctuate every student’s entrance with a “You’re late.” When they explain, I say, “I know, the coffin. The traffic. Sit.” When Jeffery comes in, I say, “You’re late.”
He says, “There’s traffic.”
I don’t dare look at him as he hovers over the front table. I don’t want to give away my inner excitement at seeing him and feeling relief. I continue pretend-adding numbers in my grade book and say, “I know, the coffin. The traffic. Sit.” He remains hovering. I finally lift my head from the false calculations. “Yes?”
“Nothing.” He smiles and sits. Damn him. He won. He just wanted me to start off class by looking at him instead of avoiding him. Maybe it’s a good plan. Maybe now I won’t wind up staring at him and losing my train of thought mid-way through class.
He sidles up to a farther seat than usual, takes out his notebook, keeps on his coat, and asks Alicia what the assignment is, although the topics are on the white board (I remembered to bring a working dry erase marker today). Alicia slumps in her chair all by her lonesome. Jim sits down front, talking to Alicia’s roommate Allison. Those three should all just have a ménage and be done with it.
“Should we keep waiting?” I stand and close my grade book. Some heads pop up from writing and others fall into a Pavlovian sleep at the mention of beginning class.
Jim half-raises his hand. “Start.”
Alicia slaps closed her notebook. “We should wait!”
Jim stares back up at Alicia. “What’s with you?”
“What’s with you, dick?” She screeches. Then she grabs her book and coat, tramples on Jeffery Rigger, flies down the mini-steps, and slams out the door.
Jim jumps up to follow her. Allison jumps up to follow him. I move out of the pathway of the lovelorn freshmen. “Cupid pissed in their Krispies this morning,” Malik Lov shouts from the last row of the lecture hall. Everyone laughs including me. He’s always good for a laugh, and I’m constantly urging him to transfer out to bigger and better things.
As I begin to repeat my question, giving them the option to either keep writing or listen to me discuss causation versus correlation, Malik interrupts. “Yo, check this out!” He presses his body against the windows behind his seat. Instead of listening to me, the entire class shuffle-runs up the mini-steps to see out the back. I stand at the bottom of the desk slope, curious and defeated.
They chime in with “no way!” and “holy crap!” Finally, Jeffery turns around and yells, “Professor, you gotta see this!” I’m startled that he turned to say it. I can’t possibly go up there now! Our cover is blown!
Paranoia fades when I notice Malik and all the others beckoning me. Seeing as how no one is going to pay any attention to lecture, I climb to the back of the room, carefully choosing the aisle farthest from Jeffery Rigger.
When I get to the top, I stand on my tip toes and see two students in handcuffs near the time capsule amid cop cars and fire trucks. To the left rests a large pile of dirt, the coffin that had been blocking the road, lots of other students jumping and cheering, and an endless line of cars around the campus loop. I jokingly ask the class. “What’s it all about this time, Alfie?”
No answer. They’re apparently waiting for Alfie to answer. So I rephrase the question: “What’s the protest about today, guys? What’s the deal?”
They continue to stare out the window, fogging it up with breath and oily noses. “Something about how time is sacred and shouldn’t be buried. The exploitation that time capsules encompass.” Larry shrugs. “It’s just an excuse to protest.”
Jeffery chimes in. “Yeah. They always find a reason to make a statement.”
Alicia’s voice rings up from the front of the lecture hall. “Yeah. Most of the time it’s for a good cause. Like the hanger thing. Cause my jacket is way too expensive to be dirty.” She hugs her puffy white jacket that transforms her into human-sized marshmallow. “Today is wack.” Allison and Jim have come back as well. They go to their seats, most likely too wrapped up in their own petty argument to care about the arrest taking place. Jim takes out his cell phone and starts rapidly pressing buttons, no doubt sending a text message to someone.
I climb down from my perch and shuffle-step back down to the front of the room while posing the question, “Well, why are college campuses known for student protests?”
Allison, who has picked up her things and moved back up to where Alicia is sitting, leaving Jim alone in the front, takes a stab at it. “Because young people want to be heard. College is the first time people actually start listening to you.”
I see Alicia sneakily reaching down for her cell phone as her bag vibrates. Probably receiving the message that Jim just sent. I ignore it.
“That’s interesting, Allison. Why?” I sit on the edge of the front table.
Jim pipes up. “Because now we’re young adults.”
Alicia, still reeling from whatever happened between them, and highly annoyed that she can’t reach her cell phone, spits, “Some of you are still little boys.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Hey! Quit it! It was enough that the three of you acted like three year olds by storming out of here. You’re lucky today is a weird day. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be sitting where you are.”
Jim, who doesn’t know when to quit, adds, “Yeah, Alicia! Quit it.”
While his head is still towards the back, I walk right in front of him. “You too, hot shot,” I whisper at him. He jumps, has nowhere to go. I back away, and now risk a quick snicker.
“Oh, yes, she did!” yells Malik. Jacinda, Malik, and Frannie all applaud.
“Back to the protest!” I yell over them, not able to wipe the smirky smile off my face. “Can someone tell me why?”
Jacinda stops cheering to answer. “Because some things are wrong with the world.”
Tim: “Because people want change.”
Frannie: “Because people are bored.”
I stop them. “Then what results do protests bring?”
Lucille shouts out, “They don’t do a damn thing except cause chaos. Look at that mess out there!” She sticks a thumb over her shoulder, indicating the scene outside. “What are they proving by protesting locking up time? That doesn’t even make any sense.”
Thank God one of them gets it. They’re not all nuts.
Malik: “Sometimes people get what they want. They stopped serving meat in the caf for a while.”
Frannie: “Yeah, but then with the new protest, they started again.”
As they talk, I get out my dry erase marker and write it all down on the white board. When they’re finished, I let them in on my trick. “So you’ve all just brainstormed for your cause-effect essay.”
“Oh, man!” Jim throws his pen down. “You mean we have to write about it now?”
“Um, yeah? This is a composition class.” I nod. Then I catch a glance of Jeffery shaking his head at Jim, as if Jeffery knows secrets that Jim never will. I paranoidly look away. The cycle has begun. Thankfully class is over.
“So we’ll continue this next time,” I say loudly over the sound of packing up. Usually, I yell at them for packing up while I’m speaking, but I’m at the point today where I’m happy to have gotten anything done.
They file out with Jim calling after Allison and Alicia to wait up for him. I hear a faint, “You’re such a dick!” fade down the hallway. Jeffery Rigger lags behind as I erase the white board. The ink doesn’t want to come off. “Hey, Professor, thanks for conferencing.”
“Thanks for saving my tongue.” I stop mid-erase. “With the burning tea.” I continue to erase. I suddenly feel self-conscious, as if every part of my body that can jiggle is all a-jiggle as I scrub against the board.
He says, “I wanted to let you know, that, uh, well, I lied about something.” He scratches the back of his head. Rolls the silver ball through his front teeth. I hear the tiny clinking of metal against bone. It’s only the two of us, the clinking, and the wisping sounds of eraser against board.
He stops rolling the tongue ring. My arm drops to my side and the eraser falls. We both lean down to pick it up. I win. I get it first and place it on the ledge of the board. The erasing can wait. “This isn’t going to be some sort of confession of plagiarism, is it? That would be a lot of paperwork for me.” I figure an English professor joke wouldn’t hurt much.
He smirks. I smirk back. “Nah. It’s about when I told you about seeing other people. I, uh,”
Omigod. He’s going to say that he’s married. Wait. He’s only 20. That’s old enough to be married. Hell, some people get married at 14. Yeah, they’re called Quakers. Is he a Quaker?
“I didn’t have a date last week. I just said that because you said that you were seeing someone. It was guy thing. I actually haven’t had a date since the beginning of the semester.”
My teachery attitude kicks in. “Aw, come on. A handsome guy like you can’t get a date?”
He steps back and folds his arms. “I didn’t say that. I said I haven’t had a date. Because,” he unfolds his arms and leans against the lectern, “all I’ve thought about is you.”
I immediately return to erasing the board, jiggling all the way, although I know that it’s as clean as it’s going to get. “Okay. Well, that’s nice.” What do I say to that? Now I feel bad for dating someone else. I’m allowed to, though. I’m a grown woman, for heaven’s sake! I can date more than one person!
Jeffery stands there, shifting weight from one foot to the other. Clinking breaks silence, only this time it’s his thumb ring against the lectern. I stop erasing. I shift weight, too. He reaches out his arms. “Shall we dance?”
The corners of my mouth go up slightly. “How about you walk me to my office? You can carry this.” I load him down with my bag. I take the folder of bad date and bad present stories myself.
He throws the bag over his shoulder, Santa-like. “Sure. And, um, I was kinda upset that you’re seeing someone else.” Now my heart falls, not the way it fell when he had told me he was seeing someone. Now it falls the way it should when someone is too damn sweet. “I don’t mean that you shouldn’t. I mean that I don’t want to know about it and I shouldn’t have asked.” I put my coat on, unsure of how to answer him. “So there!” he says.
“So there.” I repeat. We go to my office, never speaking of my other date. Only discussing how a protest against caging up time is one for the record books.
When he gives me the folders and starts to leave, I call after him, “Thanks for Monday, too!” I shout and wonder if anyone knows that “Thanks for Monday” really means “Thanks for the orgasm” and perhaps I’ll get fired because of it.
Seeing as how no one pokes a head out of any office, I exhale. Jeffery Rigger comes back, all teeth and glitter. “Any time.” He gives me two thumbs up.
Then, because my guilt has subsided, I say, “I owe you one.”
This is the first time I’ve ever seen Jeffery Rigger taken aback. “Wow. Okay. Cool.” That’s all he can say.
“What?” I’m confused. What’s wrong with him?
“What what?” He answers in confusion.
“Did I say something wrong?”
“Oh, uh, no. It’s just that, you know, girls don’t usually say that. Not the ones I know.”
I nod. I’ve known girls like that. I had a roommate once exactly like that. I say, “That’s unfortunate.” We’re still in the hallway and should not be talking like this out here. So I ask, “Want to come into my office?” His entire being goes into complete bafflement. I realize that it sounds as if I want him to come in to give him what I owe him, and that’s so not what I was asking because I, Queen of The Neurotics, would not want to risk that in my office.
Immediately, I make weird arm movements and blurt out, “No, oh, no! Not that. I mean, oh, wow.”
His body exudes relief as he comes closer to me. “Whoa,” he whispers, “you almost gave me a story for the boys back home.”
My arms stop flailing. I whisper back, “I kind of thought I already did.”
He puts his hand to his chin and rolls his eyes up to the ceiling. “Hmm. Good point.” He rolls his eyes back down towards me. “This one? Would have been even better. Especially, for me.”
I take a step back into my office and step down from the Neurotic Throne. Paranoia takes a vacation as do all my inhibitions, fears, any common sense. “Well, I’ve never been one to let a good story go to waste.” I pull him inside after me. We shut the door.
I close all the blinds, leave only my soft desk lamp on, and wheel a chair against the door. “Have a seat, Jeffery.”
“Whatever you say, Professor.”
He sits. I kneel.
We’re even.
Right now, I don’t have that problem. Instead, I’m worrying about where Jeffery is. The smoothie-tea-burn-my-tongue-rip-our-clothes-off-in-the-car episode was Monday. I haven’t heard from him since. Not that we need to talk every day; still, I’m worried that my dating other people may have bugged him more than he was willing to let on, and now he’ll never come to class again. Then I started figuring that perhaps telling him I’m seeing other people followed by my sexually attacking him could have sent a very mixed message.
Today everyone is trickling in late because of the campus traffic. The single-lane loop around campus is backed up because a protest has gone awry. A coffin, Lord knows where they got it from, is blocking part of the road, causing cars to maneuver around onto the grass. Tires are getting caught in muddy grass and cars are stalling out because the sprinkler system is still in full swing and the rain and snow have already saturated everything.
Instead of beginning my Wednesday lecture, I act annoyed. I have everyone write about the worst present they’ve ever received and the worst date they’ve ever been on. I find such joy in the misery of others. Sometimes students wax sentimental and write about how their worst date was really a lesson of love or some crap. They don’t understand that I want something to poke fun at and commiserate with. Out of a sense of fairness, I tell them about one of my very bad dates when I’m finished reading theirs aloud anonymously.
I punctuate every student’s entrance with a “You’re late.” When they explain, I say, “I know, the coffin. The traffic. Sit.” When Jeffery comes in, I say, “You’re late.”
He says, “There’s traffic.”
I don’t dare look at him as he hovers over the front table. I don’t want to give away my inner excitement at seeing him and feeling relief. I continue pretend-adding numbers in my grade book and say, “I know, the coffin. The traffic. Sit.” He remains hovering. I finally lift my head from the false calculations. “Yes?”
“Nothing.” He smiles and sits. Damn him. He won. He just wanted me to start off class by looking at him instead of avoiding him. Maybe it’s a good plan. Maybe now I won’t wind up staring at him and losing my train of thought mid-way through class.
He sidles up to a farther seat than usual, takes out his notebook, keeps on his coat, and asks Alicia what the assignment is, although the topics are on the white board (I remembered to bring a working dry erase marker today). Alicia slumps in her chair all by her lonesome. Jim sits down front, talking to Alicia’s roommate Allison. Those three should all just have a ménage and be done with it.
“Should we keep waiting?” I stand and close my grade book. Some heads pop up from writing and others fall into a Pavlovian sleep at the mention of beginning class.
Jim half-raises his hand. “Start.”
Alicia slaps closed her notebook. “We should wait!”
Jim stares back up at Alicia. “What’s with you?”
“What’s with you, dick?” She screeches. Then she grabs her book and coat, tramples on Jeffery Rigger, flies down the mini-steps, and slams out the door.
Jim jumps up to follow her. Allison jumps up to follow him. I move out of the pathway of the lovelorn freshmen. “Cupid pissed in their Krispies this morning,” Malik Lov shouts from the last row of the lecture hall. Everyone laughs including me. He’s always good for a laugh, and I’m constantly urging him to transfer out to bigger and better things.
As I begin to repeat my question, giving them the option to either keep writing or listen to me discuss causation versus correlation, Malik interrupts. “Yo, check this out!” He presses his body against the windows behind his seat. Instead of listening to me, the entire class shuffle-runs up the mini-steps to see out the back. I stand at the bottom of the desk slope, curious and defeated.
They chime in with “no way!” and “holy crap!” Finally, Jeffery turns around and yells, “Professor, you gotta see this!” I’m startled that he turned to say it. I can’t possibly go up there now! Our cover is blown!
Paranoia fades when I notice Malik and all the others beckoning me. Seeing as how no one is going to pay any attention to lecture, I climb to the back of the room, carefully choosing the aisle farthest from Jeffery Rigger.
When I get to the top, I stand on my tip toes and see two students in handcuffs near the time capsule amid cop cars and fire trucks. To the left rests a large pile of dirt, the coffin that had been blocking the road, lots of other students jumping and cheering, and an endless line of cars around the campus loop. I jokingly ask the class. “What’s it all about this time, Alfie?”
No answer. They’re apparently waiting for Alfie to answer. So I rephrase the question: “What’s the protest about today, guys? What’s the deal?”
They continue to stare out the window, fogging it up with breath and oily noses. “Something about how time is sacred and shouldn’t be buried. The exploitation that time capsules encompass.” Larry shrugs. “It’s just an excuse to protest.”
Jeffery chimes in. “Yeah. They always find a reason to make a statement.”
Alicia’s voice rings up from the front of the lecture hall. “Yeah. Most of the time it’s for a good cause. Like the hanger thing. Cause my jacket is way too expensive to be dirty.” She hugs her puffy white jacket that transforms her into human-sized marshmallow. “Today is wack.” Allison and Jim have come back as well. They go to their seats, most likely too wrapped up in their own petty argument to care about the arrest taking place. Jim takes out his cell phone and starts rapidly pressing buttons, no doubt sending a text message to someone.
I climb down from my perch and shuffle-step back down to the front of the room while posing the question, “Well, why are college campuses known for student protests?”
Allison, who has picked up her things and moved back up to where Alicia is sitting, leaving Jim alone in the front, takes a stab at it. “Because young people want to be heard. College is the first time people actually start listening to you.”
I see Alicia sneakily reaching down for her cell phone as her bag vibrates. Probably receiving the message that Jim just sent. I ignore it.
“That’s interesting, Allison. Why?” I sit on the edge of the front table.
Jim pipes up. “Because now we’re young adults.”
Alicia, still reeling from whatever happened between them, and highly annoyed that she can’t reach her cell phone, spits, “Some of you are still little boys.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Hey! Quit it! It was enough that the three of you acted like three year olds by storming out of here. You’re lucky today is a weird day. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be sitting where you are.”
Jim, who doesn’t know when to quit, adds, “Yeah, Alicia! Quit it.”
While his head is still towards the back, I walk right in front of him. “You too, hot shot,” I whisper at him. He jumps, has nowhere to go. I back away, and now risk a quick snicker.
“Oh, yes, she did!” yells Malik. Jacinda, Malik, and Frannie all applaud.
“Back to the protest!” I yell over them, not able to wipe the smirky smile off my face. “Can someone tell me why?”
Jacinda stops cheering to answer. “Because some things are wrong with the world.”
Tim: “Because people want change.”
Frannie: “Because people are bored.”
I stop them. “Then what results do protests bring?”
Lucille shouts out, “They don’t do a damn thing except cause chaos. Look at that mess out there!” She sticks a thumb over her shoulder, indicating the scene outside. “What are they proving by protesting locking up time? That doesn’t even make any sense.”
Thank God one of them gets it. They’re not all nuts.
Malik: “Sometimes people get what they want. They stopped serving meat in the caf for a while.”
Frannie: “Yeah, but then with the new protest, they started again.”
As they talk, I get out my dry erase marker and write it all down on the white board. When they’re finished, I let them in on my trick. “So you’ve all just brainstormed for your cause-effect essay.”
“Oh, man!” Jim throws his pen down. “You mean we have to write about it now?”
“Um, yeah? This is a composition class.” I nod. Then I catch a glance of Jeffery shaking his head at Jim, as if Jeffery knows secrets that Jim never will. I paranoidly look away. The cycle has begun. Thankfully class is over.
“So we’ll continue this next time,” I say loudly over the sound of packing up. Usually, I yell at them for packing up while I’m speaking, but I’m at the point today where I’m happy to have gotten anything done.
They file out with Jim calling after Allison and Alicia to wait up for him. I hear a faint, “You’re such a dick!” fade down the hallway. Jeffery Rigger lags behind as I erase the white board. The ink doesn’t want to come off. “Hey, Professor, thanks for conferencing.”
“Thanks for saving my tongue.” I stop mid-erase. “With the burning tea.” I continue to erase. I suddenly feel self-conscious, as if every part of my body that can jiggle is all a-jiggle as I scrub against the board.
He says, “I wanted to let you know, that, uh, well, I lied about something.” He scratches the back of his head. Rolls the silver ball through his front teeth. I hear the tiny clinking of metal against bone. It’s only the two of us, the clinking, and the wisping sounds of eraser against board.
He stops rolling the tongue ring. My arm drops to my side and the eraser falls. We both lean down to pick it up. I win. I get it first and place it on the ledge of the board. The erasing can wait. “This isn’t going to be some sort of confession of plagiarism, is it? That would be a lot of paperwork for me.” I figure an English professor joke wouldn’t hurt much.
He smirks. I smirk back. “Nah. It’s about when I told you about seeing other people. I, uh,”
Omigod. He’s going to say that he’s married. Wait. He’s only 20. That’s old enough to be married. Hell, some people get married at 14. Yeah, they’re called Quakers. Is he a Quaker?
“I didn’t have a date last week. I just said that because you said that you were seeing someone. It was guy thing. I actually haven’t had a date since the beginning of the semester.”
My teachery attitude kicks in. “Aw, come on. A handsome guy like you can’t get a date?”
He steps back and folds his arms. “I didn’t say that. I said I haven’t had a date. Because,” he unfolds his arms and leans against the lectern, “all I’ve thought about is you.”
I immediately return to erasing the board, jiggling all the way, although I know that it’s as clean as it’s going to get. “Okay. Well, that’s nice.” What do I say to that? Now I feel bad for dating someone else. I’m allowed to, though. I’m a grown woman, for heaven’s sake! I can date more than one person!
Jeffery stands there, shifting weight from one foot to the other. Clinking breaks silence, only this time it’s his thumb ring against the lectern. I stop erasing. I shift weight, too. He reaches out his arms. “Shall we dance?”
The corners of my mouth go up slightly. “How about you walk me to my office? You can carry this.” I load him down with my bag. I take the folder of bad date and bad present stories myself.
He throws the bag over his shoulder, Santa-like. “Sure. And, um, I was kinda upset that you’re seeing someone else.” Now my heart falls, not the way it fell when he had told me he was seeing someone. Now it falls the way it should when someone is too damn sweet. “I don’t mean that you shouldn’t. I mean that I don’t want to know about it and I shouldn’t have asked.” I put my coat on, unsure of how to answer him. “So there!” he says.
“So there.” I repeat. We go to my office, never speaking of my other date. Only discussing how a protest against caging up time is one for the record books.
When he gives me the folders and starts to leave, I call after him, “Thanks for Monday, too!” I shout and wonder if anyone knows that “Thanks for Monday” really means “Thanks for the orgasm” and perhaps I’ll get fired because of it.
Seeing as how no one pokes a head out of any office, I exhale. Jeffery Rigger comes back, all teeth and glitter. “Any time.” He gives me two thumbs up.
Then, because my guilt has subsided, I say, “I owe you one.”
This is the first time I’ve ever seen Jeffery Rigger taken aback. “Wow. Okay. Cool.” That’s all he can say.
“What?” I’m confused. What’s wrong with him?
“What what?” He answers in confusion.
“Did I say something wrong?”
“Oh, uh, no. It’s just that, you know, girls don’t usually say that. Not the ones I know.”
I nod. I’ve known girls like that. I had a roommate once exactly like that. I say, “That’s unfortunate.” We’re still in the hallway and should not be talking like this out here. So I ask, “Want to come into my office?” His entire being goes into complete bafflement. I realize that it sounds as if I want him to come in to give him what I owe him, and that’s so not what I was asking because I, Queen of The Neurotics, would not want to risk that in my office.
Immediately, I make weird arm movements and blurt out, “No, oh, no! Not that. I mean, oh, wow.”
His body exudes relief as he comes closer to me. “Whoa,” he whispers, “you almost gave me a story for the boys back home.”
My arms stop flailing. I whisper back, “I kind of thought I already did.”
He puts his hand to his chin and rolls his eyes up to the ceiling. “Hmm. Good point.” He rolls his eyes back down towards me. “This one? Would have been even better. Especially, for me.”
I take a step back into my office and step down from the Neurotic Throne. Paranoia takes a vacation as do all my inhibitions, fears, any common sense. “Well, I’ve never been one to let a good story go to waste.” I pull him inside after me. We shut the door.
I close all the blinds, leave only my soft desk lamp on, and wheel a chair against the door. “Have a seat, Jeffery.”
“Whatever you say, Professor.”
He sits. I kneel.
We’re even.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
The Next Night
I am home at midnight. I have just brushed my teeth. I have climbed into bed. The very manly Steeve dropped me off an hour ago. He brought me a book of poems by David Ignatow. He had inscribed the front page: Dear Marie—I don’t get any of this stuff, but I know you probably will. Hope you dig it. That was sweet. So very very sweet. We ate. We talked. I stared at his ass when he walked in front of me. I watched his plush lips move with every word. I got caught up in mind-fucking him that I sometimes forgot to pay attention to the words coming out of his mouth.
However.
I was home in time to watch Seinfeld. I got a quick peck on the lips. None of that cutesie stuff compares to the Jeffery Rigger induced orgasm of yesterday.
However.
I was home in time to watch Seinfeld. I got a quick peck on the lips. None of that cutesie stuff compares to the Jeffery Rigger induced orgasm of yesterday.
Monday, May 25, 2009
How Did He Do That?
“I have no fucking clue what he did, but I KNOW he’s gotta be older than what he says. I mean, I know guys in their forties who couldn’t even come close to doing what he did to me!” This is the first thing I’m doing since I’ve gotten home. Conference calling Sofia and Elena. Telling them about the fingers and the tinglies. They can’t get a word in edgewise. “I mean, I keep going out with Steeve and he doesn’t even try to kiss me. And he’s old. Well, not old, but older than Jeffery Rigger. Jeffery Rigger is so in tune with me now. God, Steeve can’t compare. No one I’ve ever dated can compare to Jeffery Rigger.”
Finally, Sofia finds a moment to cut in as I gasp for air. “So when you have sex with him, you call him Jeffery or do you scream out ‘Oh, Jeffery Rigger!’?”
Elena cackles at her end of the line. “I was gonna say the same thing! Marie, you keep calling him by his first and last name.”
Sofia keeps going. “Plus, now you’ve lifted him up to God-like status just because he gave you an orgasm. I know it’s been a while, still, orgasms don’t make gods. I mean, you can give yourself an orgasm if you wanted to.”
Elena doesn’t let me recommence the babbling. She points out, “You shouldn’t be comparing. Jeffery is a young guy with a high sex drive. Steeve is a man with a plan, hopefully. You’ve always complained that guys only want to get in your pants. Now you’re complaining that Steeve isn’t. You can’t have it both ways.”
I let their comments sink in. I see their points. I know that they won’t understand that it feels different though. So instead of explaining that, I go back to Sofia’s first comment to defend myself. “We didn’t sleep together, Soph. I told you, he didn’t even try to find a hole. He stayed outside the whole time. That’s why I’m so shocked by it all.”
Sophia answers, “Okay, fine. No sex. Yet.”
Elena adds, “That still doesn’t make up for comparing the two. Quite honestly, there shouldn’t be any comparison. Jeffery Rigger is a fling that’s dirty in a good way. Steeve is, you know, regular adult dating material.”
Sophia chimes in, “And you’re an adult, you know. It’s not like we can cruise Frannie Lou anymore to pick up guys in shiny cars.”
“I know. It’s just that, I don’t know. I guess I know nothing, as usual. I don’t even know how it went so far so fast.”
Elena offers some comfort. “Do any of us really know what the hell we’re doing?”
“You do!” I exclaim. “You’re married to Jack, the wonderhusband.”
Sophia agrees with me. “Yeah. So don’t talk about dating woes to us. You’re done.”
Elena answers, “Yes, I’m done with dating. That means my set of problems are completely different and permanent.” She sighs. Twice. Then says, “I truly wouldn’t exchange them for the dating hell that you guys are still putting up with.” She cackles her signature cackle. We both laugh, too. That’s what we do best.
I’m first to recover. “Thanks. Orgasm followed by laughter is quite a rush.”
Sophia yells, “Shut up! I haven’t met with The O Factor in a very long time.” Now she sighs.
I ask, “Big Kenny not putting the moves on you like he used to.”
She answers, “Actually he is. That’s the problem. Most of his moves are a zip code away from where orgasms reside.”
Elena scolds, “Tell him so!”
Sophia sounds beat at this point. “I have told him. I give him directions Every. Single. Time. He can’t remember.”
I chime in, “Tattoo a map on your belly.” I snicker. She laughs. Elena howls. I add, “And your lower back.” More howling.
Elena sobers up and says quite seriously, “I’ll have a chat with him if you want.”
“No, no. It’s okay. We keep pluggin away. He’ll get it right eventually.” Sophia doesn’t sound hopeful.
I interject, “If he doesn’t, David Nellson is right around the corner anyway. I’m sure he’s got the moves.”
Elena continues, “Especially with the size of his package, it would be a pity if he knew nothing.”
Laughs all around. Then Elena needs to get going because she’s working the early shift tomorrow. She hangs up and Sophia lingers on the line.
She says, “You know, Marie. You just need to be careful. If you really start liking Jeffery Rigger, things could get sticky.”
I attempt to answer with another lame, “I know,” but she stops me.
“No, Mar. I’m serious. You know I would never judge you. If you want to have a fling with a guy four years younger who happens to be your student, then by all means. You have every right to every orgasm. Don’t get too caught up in the web. You know?”
I mull it over for a minute and offer a very genuine, “I know.”
“However, it would be a great way to leave NYLISC with a figurative-on-many-levels bang.”
“What?”
“You’re a smart chick. I know how you work. On some subconscious level, I think part of you is doing this to get caught and get fired so you don’t have to take a leap of faith into the unemployment pool.”
“Where is all this coming from?”
“The heart.”
My breath catches in my throat and I make a croaking sound before answering, “I hate that you always know everything.”
“So I’m right and this is self-sabotage?”
“It’s a fling. Can we leave it at that, please?” Now she’s got me thinking that it is self-sabotage. I never thought of it that way. I’ve been thinking that it’s fun, pure fun that I’ve never allowed myself to have before. A quick passionate affair to get me over an ex who needs to go away. I never thought that it would get me out of my job—-a job that I’ve wished would go away as well.
Sophia’s voice breaks in. “Plus, don’t you have a date with Steeve? Maybe he’ll surprise you tomorrow and give you everything Jeffery Rigger gave you. Maybe more.”
“That’s true.” I picture Steeve in my mind for a second—all height, all muscle, all dimples. “He’s so nice.”
I can hear Sophia smile on the other end. She says, “See? You’re liking him already.”
I say, “He’s hot, too.”
Sophia says, “That’s important, too.”
“Yeah. He’s the total package. An older version of a total package.”
Sophia replies, “Older. Sometimes that’s good. You’ve gotta keep an open mind.”
I agree. I envision the upcoming date with Steeve for a split-second, and then ask, “Hey, does getting two orgasms from two different men in two days make me a slut?”
Without a breath, Sophia says, “You betcha, you big whore.”
“Okay, just checking.” And we laugh.
Finally, Sofia finds a moment to cut in as I gasp for air. “So when you have sex with him, you call him Jeffery or do you scream out ‘Oh, Jeffery Rigger!’?”
Elena cackles at her end of the line. “I was gonna say the same thing! Marie, you keep calling him by his first and last name.”
Sofia keeps going. “Plus, now you’ve lifted him up to God-like status just because he gave you an orgasm. I know it’s been a while, still, orgasms don’t make gods. I mean, you can give yourself an orgasm if you wanted to.”
Elena doesn’t let me recommence the babbling. She points out, “You shouldn’t be comparing. Jeffery is a young guy with a high sex drive. Steeve is a man with a plan, hopefully. You’ve always complained that guys only want to get in your pants. Now you’re complaining that Steeve isn’t. You can’t have it both ways.”
I let their comments sink in. I see their points. I know that they won’t understand that it feels different though. So instead of explaining that, I go back to Sofia’s first comment to defend myself. “We didn’t sleep together, Soph. I told you, he didn’t even try to find a hole. He stayed outside the whole time. That’s why I’m so shocked by it all.”
Sophia answers, “Okay, fine. No sex. Yet.”
Elena adds, “That still doesn’t make up for comparing the two. Quite honestly, there shouldn’t be any comparison. Jeffery Rigger is a fling that’s dirty in a good way. Steeve is, you know, regular adult dating material.”
Sophia chimes in, “And you’re an adult, you know. It’s not like we can cruise Frannie Lou anymore to pick up guys in shiny cars.”
“I know. It’s just that, I don’t know. I guess I know nothing, as usual. I don’t even know how it went so far so fast.”
Elena offers some comfort. “Do any of us really know what the hell we’re doing?”
“You do!” I exclaim. “You’re married to Jack, the wonderhusband.”
Sophia agrees with me. “Yeah. So don’t talk about dating woes to us. You’re done.”
Elena answers, “Yes, I’m done with dating. That means my set of problems are completely different and permanent.” She sighs. Twice. Then says, “I truly wouldn’t exchange them for the dating hell that you guys are still putting up with.” She cackles her signature cackle. We both laugh, too. That’s what we do best.
I’m first to recover. “Thanks. Orgasm followed by laughter is quite a rush.”
Sophia yells, “Shut up! I haven’t met with The O Factor in a very long time.” Now she sighs.
I ask, “Big Kenny not putting the moves on you like he used to.”
She answers, “Actually he is. That’s the problem. Most of his moves are a zip code away from where orgasms reside.”
Elena scolds, “Tell him so!”
Sophia sounds beat at this point. “I have told him. I give him directions Every. Single. Time. He can’t remember.”
I chime in, “Tattoo a map on your belly.” I snicker. She laughs. Elena howls. I add, “And your lower back.” More howling.
Elena sobers up and says quite seriously, “I’ll have a chat with him if you want.”
“No, no. It’s okay. We keep pluggin away. He’ll get it right eventually.” Sophia doesn’t sound hopeful.
I interject, “If he doesn’t, David Nellson is right around the corner anyway. I’m sure he’s got the moves.”
Elena continues, “Especially with the size of his package, it would be a pity if he knew nothing.”
Laughs all around. Then Elena needs to get going because she’s working the early shift tomorrow. She hangs up and Sophia lingers on the line.
She says, “You know, Marie. You just need to be careful. If you really start liking Jeffery Rigger, things could get sticky.”
I attempt to answer with another lame, “I know,” but she stops me.
“No, Mar. I’m serious. You know I would never judge you. If you want to have a fling with a guy four years younger who happens to be your student, then by all means. You have every right to every orgasm. Don’t get too caught up in the web. You know?”
I mull it over for a minute and offer a very genuine, “I know.”
“However, it would be a great way to leave NYLISC with a figurative-on-many-levels bang.”
“What?”
“You’re a smart chick. I know how you work. On some subconscious level, I think part of you is doing this to get caught and get fired so you don’t have to take a leap of faith into the unemployment pool.”
“Where is all this coming from?”
“The heart.”
My breath catches in my throat and I make a croaking sound before answering, “I hate that you always know everything.”
“So I’m right and this is self-sabotage?”
“It’s a fling. Can we leave it at that, please?” Now she’s got me thinking that it is self-sabotage. I never thought of it that way. I’ve been thinking that it’s fun, pure fun that I’ve never allowed myself to have before. A quick passionate affair to get me over an ex who needs to go away. I never thought that it would get me out of my job—-a job that I’ve wished would go away as well.
Sophia’s voice breaks in. “Plus, don’t you have a date with Steeve? Maybe he’ll surprise you tomorrow and give you everything Jeffery Rigger gave you. Maybe more.”
“That’s true.” I picture Steeve in my mind for a second—all height, all muscle, all dimples. “He’s so nice.”
I can hear Sophia smile on the other end. She says, “See? You’re liking him already.”
I say, “He’s hot, too.”
Sophia says, “That’s important, too.”
“Yeah. He’s the total package. An older version of a total package.”
Sophia replies, “Older. Sometimes that’s good. You’ve gotta keep an open mind.”
I agree. I envision the upcoming date with Steeve for a split-second, and then ask, “Hey, does getting two orgasms from two different men in two days make me a slut?”
Without a breath, Sophia says, “You betcha, you big whore.”
“Okay, just checking.” And we laugh.
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