THE EXES IN MY IPOD: A Playlist of the Men Who Rocked Me to Wine Country

by Lisa M. Mattson

  “Just a minute, ma’am.” The officer’s voice barked. He walked back to his patrol car with my license and registration. The hair on my neck stood up. I could almost feel the handcuffs snapping onto my wrists. I helplessly watched the officer in my side-view mirror, biting my thumbnail. He had short, black hair and a goatee. I guessed he was Cuban and in his thirties. Crying to cops had gotten me out of three speeding tickets in high school and college, and I prayed it would work again. My driving record, unlike my dating history, was spotless.

  He grabbed a metal clipboard from his dash. My pulse pounded while my mind raced. I cannot get arrested. Who would possibly bail me out? He began walking back to my car. My entire body was shaking.

  The officer leaned down to my window and squared his shoulders. “Miss, I think I should escort you home.” His voice was stern, but his brown eyes filled with kindness. The crippling fear loosened its grip as he handed me my license and registration.

  My car crawled slower than a float parade the entire eight blocks home. My eyes bounced from the odometer to the rearview mirror. The bright lights of his black and white patrol car trailed close behind me. I’m fucked. He’s going to arrest me, I thought. I pictured myself in orange scrubs, my hands gripping the jail cell bars, surrounded by prostitutes and car-jackers. Tears trickled down my cheeks. I sucked a few more pennies.

  When we reached my apartment building, I pulled onto the grass in front of my sidewalk where all the tenants parked. His car inched up next to mine, and I gripped my steering wheel tighter. My nerve endings prickled, awaiting the cop’s next move; I felt like I’d been shocked with a cow poker. I watched him under the light of the street lamp, turning off his engine. He stepped out of the car; I sheepishly opened my car door, its weight had tripled in less than ten minutes. He marched toward the trunk of my car. His movements were sharp and stiff like an Army sergeant’s. I tucked my bangs behind my ears and faked a few sniffles. I walked back to my bumper and glanced up at him. I could smell the vodka on my breath and looked down at the pavement. My knees shook in fear.

  I rubbed my damp cheeks with both palms. “Thank you for being so kind.” My voice quivered. I looked down at my white uniform, which probably helped me get out of the breathalyzer test.

  “You seem like a really nice girl,” he said, adjusting the chirping walkie-talkie on his shoulder. “Keep your chin up. Not all guys are jerks.” His dark gray uniform looked black in the night.

  “Thanks,” I replied softly. “I really hope so. I guess I just have really bad luck with men.” I shrugged my shoulders. My keys jingled in my hand.

  The officer glanced up at the dim streetlight, then back to me. “I have something I want to ask you.” Fear of the unknown squeezed my throat. My lungs fought for air. Oh, shit. Here it comes: Have you been drinking? He kicked a few rocks under his black boots. “Would you be interested in having dinner with me some time?”

  My jaw locked. I’d been trying to give an Emmy-winning performance to get out of a ticket, and he just wanted to get in my pants. I waited for someone to jump out of the bushes and scream, “Smile! You’re on Candid Camera!”

  “I’m really sorry.” I looked down at my white sneakers. “I can’t really even think about dating anyone else right now.” My body began shivering again. The guy was at least ten years older than me. Gross.

  He stepped closer to me. His eyes moved from my chest to my eyes. I felt his x-ray vision imagining what I looked like naked. I took one step back, fearing he might change his mind and reach for those handcuffs. I was officially creeped out, and scared shitless.

  “I figured as much.” He readjusted the black club on his belt. “Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me.” The CB radio in his patrol car clicked and beeped. I listened to his dispatcher’s voice echo as he drove off into the night.

  A sigh the size of Lake Okeechobee left my lungs. I stepped into the courtyard of my apartment building, and I looked up at the moon shining through the branches of an overgrown Banyan tree. The wake-up call rang in my head so loud my ears throbbed. No more unprotected sex with strangers. No more dating guys who used drugs. No more broken-wing syndrome. No more drinking and driving. I’d been given four passes by a higher power. Fate worked in the strangest ways.

  I crawled into my bed and counted my lucky stars—all before midnight.

  Robert never called or came to the restaurant to apologize. My test results came back negative, which numbed the pain and the shame. His ménage-à-trois marathons remained the talk of every pre-shift napkin folding for weeks, thanks to Mark’s constant diarrhea of the mouth. I avoided Dan Marino’s until Mark told me Robert had stopped showing up to work. Robert was fired, gone, missing—I’ll never know. He disappeared from my life, disappeared into the night.

  MARCO

  “CLOSER”

  Nine Inch Nails

  REWIND: I stood in the dim hallway, fumbling for my keys in the bottomless black hole of my purse. It was one of those warm, January nights when the ability to wear a sundress made me feel invincible. The three peanut butter and jelly shots didn’t hurt either.

  Marco grabbed a fistful of my curls from behind. “Hurry up.” The words breathed raspy from his thick lips, as he nibbled my neck. Goose bumps rippled down my arms.

  I moaned and exhaled, drinking in his touch outside the front door to my apartment. “You just wait.” I threw him a sassy look, then continued digging through my purse. His teeth fondled my earlobe, making my whole body quiver with pleasure.

  I poked my key at the dead bolt, giggling. “Stop it! I need to concentrate.” The scene made me feel even more light-headed than when we’d left the nautical-themed bar.

  “You’re smashed.” Marco’s lips tickled my neck. The smell of fancy beer on his breath filled my nose, as my key finally slid into the lock.

  I shoved open the door. “You don’t know me.” I whipped around and stood in the doorway, pointing my keys at him like a gun. The alcohol coursed through my bloodstream, making my confidence rise. My eyes moved from his head to his feet.

  Marco crossed his arms. “Well?” His deep-set eyes pleaded with impatience. His brown, curly hair and olive skin looked even darker in my hallway. My face flashed an evil grin, watching him wait to be invited in for the first time.

  I grabbed his front belt loop and tugged him into my apartment. His brown eyes widened, and his muscles bulged through his T-shirt and jeans. Marco always wore white cotton tees and blue jeans, both über-tight—a Fonzie-meets-Asian-teenager look. And I found his fashion incredibly attractive (in 1995). I had on a breezy, rayon-cotton sundress with a baby-blue floral print, which made my blue eyes and tanned skin pop. It was short and suggestive … perfect for the kind of night we would have.

  I tossed my purse and keys onto the counter, then slid one hand around Marco’s neck. I pulled his T-shirt until his lips landed on mine. His lips were full and soft, the kind you could get lost in. A wave of desire tumbled through my body. The salty taste of Jamaican beer lingered on his breath. We’d just finished a liquid dinner at the Coconut Grove Loggerhead: six Red Stripes and six shots. Classy.

  Marco wrapped his toned arms tighter around my waist. “What happened to the sweet girl from Kansas?” We stood in the middle of my living room in the dark; the streetlights outside my bay windows gave the entire apartment a gray glow.

  I twirled my fingers through his curls. “Oh, she’ll be back soon. She’s still at work, delivering your Piña Coladas again, you slacker.” I kissed him playfully, letting my long curls brush against his face. Marco had started waiting tables at The Cheesecake Factory two weeks before—precisely when my shape-shifting began. A substitute-teaching gig had fallen through for the New Year, so Marco went back to working at restaurants. He always smiled in the face of restaurant chaos; I assumed the stress of juggling four tables paled in comparison to coaching bilingual third graders all day. Marco had graduated from University of Miami with a degree in biology and wanted to
be a middle school teacher. I admired him for getting his degree and not losing sight of his dreams.

  He laughed. “I’m not that bad.” Marco’s service skills were as pitiful as Pauly Shore’s acting. His frozen drinks often “died” on the service bar while he played paddy cake with the little girl at table three. “You know, I was a star server at Friday’s,” he declared, brushing my hair off my shoulders. Ah, Friday’s. The land of candy cane-striped golf shirts and suspenders riddled with button flair. The corporate chain that was no longer cool, thanks to Cheesecake. I hushed my competitive thoughts as his fingers glided down my arms. My insides began churning; I was teetering on the edge of drunk and horny. Stay in control, Harley. His biceps flexed, and I watched the veins in his smooth arms bulge. Marco spent most mornings surfing off Miami Beach and had the hard body to prove it. I looked at his chiseled nose and cheekbones. His olive skin was always deeply tanned, thanks to his father’s Sicilian heritage and daily trips to the beach. A guy who was both sweet and sexy? I thought I’d won the boyfriend Powerball.

  “Friday’s isn’t Cheesecake,” I said, tugging him toward my papasan couch. The darkness helped boost my confidence even higher. He was all mine … Marco the hot surfer, but pathetic waiter. He never wrote down an order. He forgot to starch his apron. “I still have no idea how you passed the final.” I continued pulling him deeper into my living room. I’d trained him on the floor, and his laissez-faire attitude baffled me. We worked for the hottest restaurant chain on the East Coast, and he acted like we were serving milkshakes at Johnny Rocket’s.

  Marco rubbed his thumbs on my hands. “I know when to apply myself and when to slack off.” His big eyes locked mine. “All great teachers do.” I stopped and stared at his handsome face in the dark. My brain hurt trying to analyze his affirmation.

  “You’re lucky you are so fine.” My fingernails glided down his T-shirt. With both hands, I pushed him onto my papasan couch. Marco fell into the cushiony pod, laughing. I staggered over to him, grinning like a kid about to jump into the ocean. “I never get tired of picking up your slack.” The words slurred off my tongue. Marco had flipped my attraction switch the first time he’d called me “Hon.” When I’d refilled his empty bread baskets the first time, he’d brushed his thumb across my chin and said, “Thanks, Hon. You’re a doll.” I’d felt like the only girl in the restaurant. I began scurrying around his station, delivering his orphaned drinks, desserts and espressos. The urge to nurture took over my brain, just as with James. I’d raised thirty baby chickens, two rabbits, a guinea pig and one raccoon as a kid. I could handle Marco’s station and mine, no problema. A secret shopper would never tarnish my service record with a bad score, but him? I wasn’t so sure.

  I stood over Marco, twirling my hair and drinking him in. I could teach him a thing or two about anticipation.

  “Where did you learn all of this?” Marco asked, buried in my papasan. He stretched his muscular arms to both sides like a sacrificial animal.

  I shrugged, then lifted my short skirt to straddle him. “I’m just doing what comes naturally.” I could smell the lie, and the beer, on my breath. Yeah, what comes naturally after six drinks. It felt like I was wearing a Halloween costume: fearless and fake at the same time. I smiled through my nervousness. “Like they say, don’t judge a book by its cover.” I sat on his lap and anchored both of my hands on his biceps. Marco liked exotic, sensual women. Every ex-girlfriend Marco had ever mentioned was South American, a.k.a Miss Universe land. Latinas and me—we had about as much in common as Vanilla Ice and Ice Cube.

  Marco pulled up to kiss me, and I pushed my body weight against him. “I didn’t know Midwestern girls were like this.” His tongue was practically hanging out of his mouth. The dark, quiet room felt like it was closing in around me. Ummm, we’re not. Ms. Land of Oz? I was as exotic as a leather sofa from Jennifer Convertibles. I didn’t know what a Brazilian wax was, and I was too embarrassed to ask the South American waitresses at work. If it weren’t for my Columbian roommate’s divine undergarment intervention, I would have still been wearing granny panties. But put a few drinks in me, and I could transform into the tropical sex kitten Marco would find irresistible.

  I ran my fingers down the chest of his T-shirt and leaned to his ear. “Miami changes people. You know that.” Five months of cultural immersion had finally begun working its magic. The old Harley was practically a stranger and good riddance. I was determined to attract the kind of multi-cultural man that would spook my parents, and I would undergo the massive makeover necessary to nab him. I was so tired of people saying, “Wow. I’ve never met anyone from Kansas before.” Then they’d ask if I’d grown up on a farm, drove a tractor, seen a tornado, worn red slippers, owned a Harley … no, no, of course, hell nooooo, fuck no! Pegging me a country bumpkin was no longer fair. I could say chicken, pork and rice in Spanish. I drank Jamaican beer. I wore thong panties.

  “I like you like this.” Marco planted a passionate wet kiss on my lips. My heart lurched into my throat, feeling his tongue dance with mine. He pulled away, leaving me breathless.

  “Would you like anything to drink?” I asked sweetly from my perch atop him. It seemed like the right question to fill the uncomfortable silence.

  “Not if it requires you leaving me.” Marco locked his arms tighter around my waist. A big grin spread across my face. It felt so nice to be wanted again—that false sense of feeling wanted when I was too naïve to know the difference between lust and love.

  His thick hands palmed my butt. I felt my thin sundress rise up my thighs. He squeezed both of my butt cheeks and growled. My bottom lip quivered. I squealed like a teenybopper and my hands flew to my face. I felt my checks flush. Be cool, Harley. I reached around my back and grabbed his muscular hands.

  “Naughty boy,” I said with a purr before grabbing his arms and pressing them against the couch again. “Are all Latin men as handsy as you?” Marco was half-Cuban, half-Italian and 100 percent macho. He was a cultural melting pot—the perfect guy to help dip my toes in the Latino dating pool. Cubans made up about fifty-nine percent of the Miami population back then, so I’d embraced the odds that I’d end up with a Cuban boyfriend sooner or later. At work, Cuban guys whistled louder when a pretty lady bent over to pick up a napkin than they did when Dan Marino threw a touchdown pass. I found this refreshingly reassuring, post-Robert.

  Marco panted, his chest trembling under his shirt. “Absolutely.” His eyes hopped around my face. I leaned my weight into him, kissing his cheeks softly, then his lips. The alcohol kept surging through my bloodstream, helping me play the role of aggressor. “We should do this more often on our day off,” Marco whispered between kisses. He pulled my hips closer to his. “I’ll have you over to my place next time.” I caressed his face, my ego rejoicing. There was no way in hell Marco would ever switch teams like Robert. Whenever co-worker Andrew—think Ewan McGregor in Trainspotting with an addiction to rhinestone belts instead of heroin—sashayed past Marco singing ABBA, Marco scrunched his nose and shook his body from head to toe.

  I pressed his shoulders deeper into my green couch cushion, then kissed him with force. His tongue chased mine, bouncing around his mouth. He smelled of beer and cigarettes, and only a tipsy college girl would find that physically attractive. Without leaving his lips, I guided him off the couch into my adjoining bedroom. Excitement and nervousness surged through my body. Like most fiercely independent twenty-year-olds, I thought I’d finally figured out who I was—a totally different person than I was just three months before.

  Shadows of craggy Banyan trees outside the windows covered my bed. I pulled away from Marco with a grin on my face, stumbling through the dark and squealing as I bounced off every piece of furniture like a pinball.

  “I meant to do that.” I turned my back toward him in the dimly lit room. My hands tugged the mini blinds shut, sending the room into darkness. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes; the room began to spin. I am just being myself, my new self. Shedding
my Midwest inhibitions. Taking control of my sex life. Miami in the mid-1990s was a fondue fountain of sexual energy. Just add chocolate and alcohol. Boys and girls from northern states were springing “out of the closet” and moving to Miami to explore their new selves, and found hot bodies in every flavor of the rainbow. Extreme exposure to sexual energy had affected me too. I couldn’t go a day without seeing a man’s shiny chest on the street or a woman’s huge breasts popping out of her bikini at the gas station. Watching people walk around in the oppressive heat was like watching a game of strip poker. It was a special place to be young and hormonal.

  Marco stepped behind me and lifted my hair off my neck. He plunged his teeth playfully into my shoulder, making me moan. I raised my hand to his head and ran my fingernails through his thick, brown curls, before turning to face him. My fingers moved slowly over his face in the darkness like a blind person reading brail.