Elise holds back as long as she can before she explodes, her snort and guffaw of derision getting even more looks in our direction. “Then get a fucking Golden Retriever and a rabbit. The buzzing kind that uses rechargeable batteries.”
One of the ladies at the next table huffs, seemingly aghast at Elise’s outburst, and they stand to move toward the bar on the other side of the restaurant, far away from us. “Well, if this is the sort of trash that passes for dinner conversation,” the older one says as she sticks her nose far enough into the air I wonder if it’s going to be clipped by the ceiling fans, “no wonder the country’s going to hell under these Millennials!”
She storms off before Elise or I can respond, but the second lady pauses slightly and talks out of the side of her mouth. “Sweetie, you do deserve more than fine.”
With a wink, she scurries off after her friend, leaving behind a grinning Elise. “See? Even snooty old biddies know that you deserve more than meh.”
“I know. We’ve had this conversation on more than one occasion, so can we drop it?” I plead between clenched teeth before calming slightly. “I want to celebrate and catch up, not argue about my love life.”
Always needing the last word, Elise drops her voice, muttering under her breath. “What love life?”
“That’s low.”
Elise holds her hands up, and I know I’ve at least gotten a temporary reprieve. “Okay then, if we’re sticking to work, I got a new scoop that I’m running with. I’m writing a piece about a certain famous someone who got caught sending dick pics to a social media princess. Don’t ask me who because I can’t divulge that yet. But it’ll be all there in black and white by next week’s column.”
Elise is an investigative journalist, a rather fantastic one whose talents are largely being wasted on celebrity news gossip for the tabloid paper she writes for. I can’t even call it a paper, really. With the downfall of actual print news, most of her stuff ends up in cyberspace, where it’s digested, Tweeted, hashtagged, and churned out for the two-minute attention span types to gloat over for a moment before they move on to . . . well, whatever the next sound bite happens to be.
Every once in awhile, she’ll get to do something much more newsworthy, but mostly it’s fact-checking and ass-covering before the paper publishes stories celebrities would rather see disappear. I know what burns her ass even more is when she has to cover the stories where some downward-trending celebrity manufactures a scandal just to get some social media buzz going before their latest attempt at rejuvenating a career that peaked about five years ago.
This one at least sounds halfway interesting, and frankly, better than my love life, so I laugh. “Why would he send a dick pic to someone on social media? Wouldn’t he assume she’d post it? What a dumbass!”
“No, it’s usually close-ups and they’re posted anonymously,” Elise says with a snort. “Of course, she knows because she sees the user name on their direct message, but she cuts it out so that it’s posted to her page as an anonymous flash of flesh. Look.”
She pulls out her phone, clicking around to open an app, one I didn’t design but damn sure wish I had. It’s got one hell of a sweet interface, and Elise is using it to organize her web pages better than anything the normal apps have. It takes Elise only a moment to find the page she wants.
“See?” she says, showing me her phone. “People send her messages with dick pics, tit pics, whatever. If she deems them sexy enough, she posts them with little blurbs and people can comment. She also does Q-and-As with followers, shows faceless pics of herself, and gives little shows sometimes. Kinda like porn but more ‘real people’ instead of silicone-stuffed, pump-sucked, fake moan scenes.”
She scrolls through, showing me one image after another of body part close-ups. Some of them . . . well damn, I gotta say that while they might not be professionals or anything, it’s a hell of a lot hotter than anything I’m getting right now. “Wow. That’s uhh . . . quite something. I don’t get it, but I guess lots of folks are into it. Wait.”
She stops scrolling at my near-shout, smirking. “What? See something you like?”
My mouth feels dry and my voice papery. “Go back up a couple.”
She scrolls back up and I read the blurb above a collage of pics. Little titty fuck with my new boy toy today. Look at my hungry tits and his thick cock. After this, things got a little deeper, if you know what I mean. Sorry, no pics of that, but I’ll just say that he was insatiable and I definitely had a very good morning. ;)
The pictures show a close-up of her full cleavage, a guy’s dick from above, and then a few pictures of him stroking in and out of her pressed-together breasts. I’m not afraid to say the girl’s got a nice rack that would probably have most of my co-workers drooling and the blood rushing from their brains to their dicks, but that’s not what’s causing my stomach to drop through the floor.
I know that dick.
It’s the same, thick with a little curve to the right, and I can even see a sort of donut-shaped mole high on the man’s thigh, right above the shaved area above the base of his cock.
Yes, that mole seals it.
That’s Kevin.
His cock with another woman, fucking her for social media, thinking I’d probably never even know. He has barely touched me lately, but he’s willing to do it almost publicly with some social media slut?
I realize Elise is staring at me, her previous good-natured look long gone to be replaced by an expression of concern. “Kat, are you okay? You look pale.”
I point at her phone, trying my best to keep my voice level. “That post? The one right there?”
“Oh, Titty Fuck Girl?” Elise asks. “She’s on here at least once a month with a new set of pics. Apparently, she loves her rack. I still think they’re fake. Why?”
“She’s talking about Kevin. That’s him.”
She gasps, turning the phone to look closer. “Holy shit, honey. Are you sure?”
I nod, tears already pooling in my eyes. “I’m sure.”
She puts her phone down on the table and comes around the table to hug me. “Shit. Shit. Shit. I am so sorry. I told you that douchebag doesn’t deserve someone like you. You’re too fucking good for him.”
I sniffle, nodding, but deep inside, I know that this is always how it goes. Every single boyfriend I’ve ever had ended up cheating on me. I’ve tried playing hard to get. I’ve tried being the good little go-along girlfriend. I’ve even tried being myself, which seems to be somewhere in between, once I figured out who I actually was.
It’s even worse in bed, where I’ve tried being vanilla, being aggressive, and being submissive. And again, being myself, somewhere in the middle, when I figured out what I enjoyed from the experimentation.
But honestly, I’ve never been satisfied. No matter what, I just can’t seem to find that ‘sweet spot’ that makes me happy and fulfilled in a relationship. And while I’ve tried everything, depending on the guy, it never works out. The boyfriends I’ve had, while few in number considering I can count them on one hand, all eventually cheated, saying that they just wanted something different. Something that’s not me.
Apparently, Kevin’s no different. My mood shifts wildly from self-pity to anger to finally, a numb acceptance. “What a fucking jerk. I hope he likes being a boy toy for a social media slut, because he’s damn sure not my boyfriend anymore.”
“That’s the spirit,” Elise says, refilling my wine glass. “Now, how about you and I finish off this bottle, get another, and by the time you’re done, you’ll have forgotten all about that loser while we take a cab back to your place?”
“Maybe I will just get a dog, and I sure as hell already have a buzzing rabbit. Several of them, in fact,” I mutter. “You know what? They’re better than he ever was by a damn country mile.”
“Rabbits . . . they just keep going and going and going,” Elise jokes, trying to keep me in good spirits. She twirls her hands in the air like the famous commercial bunny and sig
nals for another bottle of wine.
She’s right. Fuck Kevin.
Derrick
My black leather office chair creaks, an annoying little trend it’s developed over the past six months that’s the primary reason I don’t use it in the studio. Admittedly, that’s probably for the better because if I had a chair this comfortable in the studio, I’d be too relaxed to really be on point for my shows. Still, it’s helpful to have something nice like this office since it’s a hell of a big step up from the days when my office was also the station’s break room. “All right, hit me. What’s on the agenda for today’s show?”
My co-star, Susannah, checks her papers, making little checkmarks as she goes through each item. She’s an incessant checkmarker, and I have no idea how the fuck she can read her sheets by the end of the day. “The overall theme for today is cheaters, and I’ve got several emails pulled for that so we can stay on track. We’ll field calls, of course, and some will be on topic and some off, like always. I’ll try and screen them as best I can, and we should be all set.”
I nod, trying to mentally prep myself for another three-hour stint behind the mic, offering music, advice, hope, and sometimes a swift kick in the pants to our listeners. Two years ago, I never would’ve believed that I’d be known as the ‘Love Whisperer’ on a radio talk segment called the same thing. Part Howard Stern, part Dr. Phil, part DJ Love Below, I’ve found a niche that’s just . . . unique.
I started out many years ago as a jock, playing football on my high school team with dreams of college ball. A seemingly short derailment after an injury led me to do sports reporting for my high school’s news and I fell in love.
After that, my scholarships to play football never came, but it didn’t bother me as much as I thought it would. I decided to chase after a sports broadcast degree instead, marrying my passion for football and my love of reporting.
I spent four years after graduation doing daily sports talks from three to six as the afternoon drive-home DJ. It wasn’t a big station, just one of the half-dozen stations that existed as an alternative for people who didn’t want to listen to corporate pop, hip-hop, or country. It was there I received that fateful call.
Looking back, it’s kind of crazy, but a guy had called in bitching and moaning about his wife not understanding his need to follow all these wild superstitions to help his team win.
“I’m telling you D, I went to church and asked God himself. I said, if you can bless the Bandits with a win, I’ll show myself true and wear those ugly ass socks my pastor gave me for Christmas the year before and never wash them again. You know what happened?”
Of course, everyone could figure out what happened. Still, I respectfully told him that I didn’t think his unwashed socks were doing a damn thing for his beloved team on the basketball court, but if he didn’t put those fuckers in the washing machine, they were sure going to land him in divorce court.
He sighed and eventually gave in when I told him to wash the socks, thank his wife for putting up with his shit, and full-out romance her to bed and do his damndest to make up for his selfish ways.
And that was that. A new show and a new me were born. After a few marketing tweaks, I’ve been the so-called ‘Love Whisperer’ for almost a year now, helping people who ask for advice to get the happily ever after they want.
Ironically, I’m single. Funny how that works out, but all the good advice I try to give stems from my parents who were happily married for over forty years before my mom passed. I won’t settle for less than the real thing, and I try to advise my listeners to do the same.
And then there’s the sex aspect of my job.
Talking about relationships obviously involves discussing sex with people, as that’s one of the major areas that cause problems for folks. At first, talking about all the crazy shit people want to do even made me blush a little, but eventually, it’s just gotten to be second nature.
Want to talk about how to get your wife to massage your prostate? Can do. Want to talk about how your girlfriend wants you to wear Underoos and call her Mommy? Can do. Want to talk about your husband never washing the dishes, and how you can get him to help? I can do that too.
All-in-one, real relationships at your service. Live from six to nine, five days a week, or available for download on various podcast sites and clip shows on the weekends. Hell of a lot for a guy who figured making it would involve becoming the voice of some college football team.
So I want to do a good job. And that means working well with Susannah, who is the control-freak yin to my laissez-faire yang. “Thanks. I know this week’s topics from our show planning meeting, but I spaced on tonight’s focus.”
Susannah nods, unflappable. “No problem. Do you want to scan the emails or just do your thing?”
I smile at her. She already knows the answer. “Same as always, spontaneous. You know that even though I was a Boy Scout, being prepared for this doesn’t do us any favors. I sound robotic when I read ahead. First read, real reactions work better and give the listeners knee-jerk common sense.”
She shrugs, scribbling on her papers. “I know, just checking.”
It’s probably one of the reasons we work so well together, our totally different approaches to the show. Joining me from day one, she’s the one who keeps our show running behind the scenes and keeps me on track on-air, serving as both producer and co-host. Luckily, her almost anal-retentive penchant for prep totally doesn’t come across on the air, where she’s the playful, comedic counter to my gruff, tell-it-like-it-is style.
“Then let’s rock,” I tell her. “Got your drinks ready?”
Susannah nods as we head toward the studio. Settling into my broadcast chair, a much less comfortable but totally silent one, I survey my normal spread of one water, one coffee, and one green tea, one for every hour we’re gonna be on the air. With the top of the hour news breaks and spaced out music jams, I’ve gotten used to using the exactly four minute and thirty second breaks to run next door and drain my bladder if I need to.
Everything ready, we smile and settle in for another show. “Gooooood evening! It’s your favorite ‘Love Whisperer,’ Derrick King here with my lovely assistant, Miss Susannah Jameson. We’re ready for an evening of love, sex, betrayal, and lust, if you’re willing to share. Our focus tonight is on cheaters and cheating. Are you being cheated on? Maybe you are the cheater? Call in and we’ll talk.”
The red glow from the holding calls is instant, but I traditionally go to an email first so that I can roll right in. “While Susannah is grabbing our first caller, I’ll start with an email. Here’s one from P. ‘Dear Love Whisperer,’ it says, ‘my husband travels extensively for work, leaving me home and so lonely. I don’t know if he’s cheating while he’s gone, but I always wonder. I’ve started to develop feelings for my personal trainer, and I think I’m falling in love with him. What should I do?’ ”
I tsk-tsk into the microphone, making my displeasure clear. “Well, P, first things first. Your marriage is your priority because you made a vow. For better or worse, remember? It’s simple. Talk to your husband. Maybe he’s cheating, maybe he isn’t. Maybe he’s working his ass off so his bored wife can even have a trainer and you’re looking for excuses to justify your own bad behavior. But talking to him is your first step. You need to explain your feelings and that you need him more than perhaps you need the money. Second, you need to get a life beyond your husband and trainer. I get the sense you need some attention and your trainer is giving it to you, so you think you’re in love with him. Newsflash—he’s being paid to give you attention. By your husband, it sounds like. That’s not a healthy foundation for a relationship even if he is your soulmate, which I doubt.”
I sigh and lower my voice a little. I don’t want to cut this woman’s guts out. I want to help her. “P, let’s be honest. A good trainer is going to be personable. They’re in a sales profession. They’re not going to make it in the industry without either being the best in the world at what th
ey do or having a good personality. And a lot of them have good bodies. Their bodies are their business cards. So it’s natural to feel some attraction to your trainer. But that doesn’t mean he’s going to stick by you. Here’s a challenge—tell your trainer you can’t pay him for the next three months and see how available he is to just give you his time.”
Susannah snickers and hits her mic button. “That’s why I do group yoga classes. Only thing that happens there is sweaty tantric orgies. Ohmm . . . my . . .” Her initial yoga-esque ohm dissolves into a pleasure-induced moan that she fakes exceedingly well.
I roll my eyes, knowing that she does nothing of the sort. “To the point, though, fire your trainer because of your weakness and tell him why. He’s a pro. He needs to know that his services were not the reason you’re leaving. Next, get a hobby that fulfills you beyond a man and talk to your husband.”
I click a button and a sound effect of a cheering audience plays through my headset. It goes on like this for a while, call after call, email after email of helping people.
Well, I hope I’m helping them. They seem to think I am, and I’m certainly giving it my best shot. In between, I mix in music and a hodgepodge of stuff that fits the daily themes. Tonight I’ve got some Taylor Swift, a little Carrie Underwood, some old-school TLC. I even, as a joke, worked in Bobby Brown at Susannah’s insistence.
Coming back from that last one, I see Susannah gesture from her mini-booth and give the airspace over to her, letting her introduce the next caller. “Okay, Susannah’s giving me the big foam finger, so what’ve we got?”
“You wish I had a big finger for you,” Susannah teases like she always does on air—it’s part of our act. “The next caller would like to discuss some rather incriminating photos she’s come across. Apparently, Mr. Right was Mr. Everybody?”
I click the button, taking the call live on-air. “This is the ‘Love Whisperer’, who am I speaking with?”
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