by Monica James
“So is,” he childishly chides under his breath.
I choose to ignore him and decide to talk to the adult in our group. “What’s it like for you and Heidi? I mean, does she still do it for you?” I ask Finch, who smiles at the mere mention of his wife.
“She is the sexiest woman alive, and I never have a problem making love,” he proudly replies, while Hunter gags.
“Ugh. Can you not use that word please?”
“What? Love?” Finch questions, puzzled lines furrowing his brow.
“Yes, and please refrain from using the term ‘making’ before it. It’s so…gay,” Hunter replies with revulsion.
I can’t help but laugh.
“Making love to your beautiful wife is not gay, let me tell you,” Finch says, waggling his eyebrows. “We please one another. That’s what relationships are about. Making the other person happy as well as yourself.”
“And this is why Hunter is still single,” I tease. He playfully flips me off, but I see a touch of hurt behind his usual mischievous eyes. What’s he hiding?
“Sorry to bring this up,” Finch says with reservation. “But you were engaged, Dix. I mean, surely when you and Lily were together, you felt some kind of connection?”
The mention of Lily would usually throw me, but today it doesn’t at all, and I really take Finch’s question onboard.
My “whatever” with Juliet doesn’t even compare to what I felt for Lily. I mean, I loved Lily more than life itself. And not once did I ever picture another woman other than her while we were…making…fuck. But with Juliet, I feel like a dick on demand, which is fine, as I suppose she’s my cooch on call.
Finch and Hunter are right. I was foolish to think this was anything other than sex.
“You’re right.” I sigh. Hunter clears his throat. “You’re both right,” I amend, sarcastically smiling at my friend. Deciding to be honest, I confess, “With Juliet, I feel like a dick on demand.”
Hunter sadly doesn’t appreciate my honesty, and bursts into fits of laughter. “Dr. Dixon, the Booty Call M.D.,” he says, while mimicking with his hands like he’s sign-writing on a billboard.
“Then stop seeing her,” Finch says, implying this isn’t rocket science. “You know, you’re the psychiatrist here. Shouldn’t you be the one giving out advice?”
“It’s not that simple, Finch,” I reply, fisting my hair. “Everything you’ve learned and applied to others doesn’t apply when you’re the one who needs the advice. And besides, my forte is addiction, not relationships. I’m a psychiatrist, not a damn relationship guru.”
Finch nods. “That’s understandable.”
“No, you’re just a dumbass,” Hunter pipes up, pushing his empty plate away from him. “I told you to stay away from that harpy.”
“Enough with the third degree. I don’t see you happily married to your soul mate.”
“That’s because I’m not an idiot,” he replies, but quickly corrects, “No offense, Finch.”
Finch shakes his head, not at all offended because he’s heard it all before.
“Women are trouble, and I plan on living like Hugh Hefner.”
“Old, lonely and addicted to Viagra?” I ask with a smirk.
Hunter throws a bread roll at me, and I dodge its flight path. “No. Rich, surrounded by Playmates, and happy.”
Finch and I look at Hunter and chuckle. I suppose one can dream.
“Just call me Hunter Hefner,” he jokes, eyeing a blonde waitress and making bunny ears at her.
“How about I call you Hunter Half-Wit instead?” I suggest, still chuckling.
Hunter crosses his arms across his broad chest as he leans back in his chair. “Okay, Dixon Mathews, Cock on Call. Oh, sorry.” He coughs, fist in front of his mouth. “I meant, Doc on Call.”
I can’t stop the cackle that bubbles from my throat, and as Finch and Hunter join in with the laughter, I can’t believe we’re talking about this over brunch.
15
Expiration Date
DIXON
After brunch, I come home and decide to catch up on some paperwork. But I’m soon distracted, as I can’t stop thinking about what Finch said. Do I have feelings for Madison? Surely that’s not possible. If it were, why did I choose Juliet over her? I know it’s not that clean-cut and simple, but I could have said no to Juliet the day I was meant to see Madison.
Before this morning, I immensely enjoyed sleeping with Juliet, but now, the thought isn’t as appealing as it once was.
I decide to bury my head in the sand and focus on my new research paper.
As I’m drowning in innate behavioral patterns, my phone dings. I reach for it and see it’s a text from Juliet.
I’m deliciously sore from this morning. Thank you. X
I would usually reply with a dirty comment and not-so-hidden innuendo of making her even sorer, but I don’t. I don’t even reply.
* * *
It’s 9 p.m. on a Saturday night and I’m home. I’m also alone.
I can’t remember the last time this happened, because before Juliet, I was chasing tail and about ready to seal the deal. But she’s been taking up a big hunk of my Saturday nights and up until now, I hadn’t realized how much so.
I check my cell but she hasn’t texted, but I didn’t reply to hers earlier, so the radio silence makes sense.
Goddamn—when did this become so relationship-like?
Sighing, I focus on the idiot box, hoping some mindless T.V. will occupy me.
* * *
Two Jaws movies and twelve beers later, I’m craving scotch and porn.
I guess I could jerk off, but the thought has me wondering whose body and face I would use as inspiration.
That’s definitely a mood killer, so I reach for my phone and decide to check my emails. However, for some unexplained reason, I go to my contact list instead and stop on the letter M. I really shouldn’t be contemplating what I currently am, as it’s quite late on a Saturday night/Sunday morning. I’m also semi-drunk and extremely horny. In no way should I text Madison…says no one ever.
Before I can stop myself, I’m typing out a short message and hitting send before I can talk reason to my impulsive brain. The text was harmless and I kept it clean as it is roughly
1 a.m., and I don’t want Madison to think I’m drunk-dialing her for sex.
I stare at my screen for endless minutes, but nothing. Just as I start to curse my reckless move, my screen lights up with a reply from Madison.
What? she asks, in reply to my joke of, “A man walks into a psychiatrist’s office wearing nothing but underwear made of saran wrap. What does the psychiatrist say?”
I know it’s lame, but it’s better than the alternative of “What are you wearing?”
I can clearly see your nuts, I reply.
I cringe at how stupid I sound, but it’s an icebreaker. I admit it’s a juvenile one, but at least I got her attention with my idiocy. The wait is giving me heartburn and I toss my phone onto the sofa. But the moment it chimes a second later, I dive for it, eagerly awaiting her reply.
LOL. My turn…What do you call a nurse who is waiting for someone to call?
I read the message twice to ensure I haven’t misread it, and even though it seems we’re no longer joking, I decide to humor her anyway.
What?
The wait in between replies is killing me, but thankfully I don’t have to wait too long.
Confused. Why didn’t you call?
Well, this punch line is worse than mine.
I really am an insensitive asshole to think I can just contact her after so many weeks and expect her to laugh and swoon at my lame-ass jokes. I owe her the truth, and I also owe her an apology.
I’m sorry. I’m a jerk.
She replies within seconds. Yes, you are.
Her simple reply is a clear indication of her leaving the ball in my court. Pondering on what to say, I know this is my moment of glory.
I was fucking but I quickly erase th
at and settle for, I was kind of seeing someone.
My finger hesitates over the send button, but I press it and hold my breath.
Minutes tick by and I’m just about to text her again when she replies.
Was?
I let out a relieved breath, glad that her response didn’t involve the words, “fuck you, asshat.”
Yes.
It’s too complicated to explain via text without sounding like a sick, sex-crazed maniac. So in this instance, yes will have to suffice.
Me too.
Oh? I reply quickly.
Well, seeing as I just saw him tonight.
No guessing whom.
Oh, you and Damon? I reply, not able to type his name without wanting to stab myself in the eyes.
You know his name is David, she replies, calling me out on my bluff.
And yes, she adds a second later.
My teeth clench at the thought of that giganotosaurus touching her, but I remain composed as I write back.
Congratulations, I reply, but in reality I really want to say, “I hope he catches yellow fever and dies.”
Thanks. He’s actually my Personal Trainer.
I clench my fingers around the phone as I picture David sporting serious wood while watching her work out in her skimpy tight gym clothes. But I decide to play it cool.
Explains a lot.
Was that a compliment or an insult? she replies, and I let out a chuckle.
Definitely a compliment.
I know, I know, she’s in a relationship, but a little harmless flirting won’t hurt.
Wanna elaborate?
I can just imagine her intuitive mind mulling over what I exactly mean by that comment. But she surely knows she’ll never win this mind play with me.
You can’t handle the truth! I text back, using the classic Jack Nicholson line.
But suddenly I realize she’s probably too young to know that movie, and I quickly tap out a text, not wanting her to think I’m being rude or aggressive, or just plain weird.
But before I have a chance to reply, my phone chimes.
Ooh, I love that movie. Jack Nicholson is a total hottie.
I read the message three times over, and my dick begins to stir, due to the fact she finds someone double my age “hot.” Maybe she likes older men? My dancing libido pipes up in interest, but I swiftly shut it down before I start getting stupid, or stupider ideas.
Deciding to steer this conversation in a totally different direction, I reply.
What’s your favorite movie?
I know it’s completely lame, but I find myself wanting to actually know what her favorite movie is. I also want to know what Madison’s favorite everything is.
E.T. Yours?
Wow, she knows who Jack Nicholson and E.T. are. And just like that, my lame joke wasn’t so lame after all.
* * *
Three hours and a bottle of scotch later, I found out what Madison’s favorite everything was.
We texted until the early hours of the morning, and not once did I feel bored, or want the conversion to end. I wanted to know everything there was to know about her, and by her probing questions, I dare say she felt the same way about me.
She steered clear of the topic of my father when I made it more than obvious he was a matter I was uncomfortable discussing. But there were elements to Madison’s past and present (like David the dickhead) that I sensed were also off limits, and I respected her, just as she did me.
But everything else was open for discussion, and I don’t think I’ve ever known this much about one human being.
Not even Lily.
If I had any doubts as to what I have to do in regards to Juliet and our “situation,” tonight cleared up any reservations, as I don’t think I’ve had a conversation with her that’s lasted longer than five minutes. I know all the bare essentials that separate us from being total strangers who fuck, but I don’t really know her, unlike I now know Madison.
But I don’t know how, or what to tell her. If I end things, it’s not like I can pursue Madison because she’s seeing Gigantor. Therefore, I’ll have to seek out the company of another lady friend, but mindless, faceless fucking has suddenly lost its appeal. I have Juliet, who is more than capable of satisfying all my needs, but can she? After yesterday, has our passion finally burned out? Did our “thing” come with an expiration date all along? I guess there’s only one way to find out.
But for now I’m going to sleep, and I plan on having sweet dreams about Madison and her Double Ds.
Yes, I asked her. I mean, how could I not?
16
Love is Merely a Madness
DIXON
I’ve hit the gym, gone for a run, and it’s only 9a.m. on a Sunday morning. There’s something I’ve been putting off, but today is the first day since I buried my mother that I’ve had the balls to pay her a visit.
I park my blue BMW, and taking a deep breath, I look at the gates of the Hillcrest Cemetery. I haven’t been back home since the day I admitted my father. Taking yet another deep breath, I look at my pale reflection in the rear-view mirror and tell myself to man up.
I walk through the manicured gardens, and the early June weather is bringing out some pretty flowers and plants. But no matter how visually appealing the foliage is, they can’t hide the fact there are headstones as far as the eye can see. I can’t help but feel a sense of sadness for all these souls that were once alive. Each gravestone represents a person’s life, and their life story is chipped away on stone for the world to see what a great person they once were.
I can’t help but wonder what my life story will entail. But more importantly, who will be the author behind my tale.
Shaking those thoughts aside, I give a polite smile to a woman dressed in black who, no doubt, is mourning her loved one. This place is filled with sadness, but it’s also a place for reflection. The living need to weep for the dead, and this is the place where one can do so.
When I reach my mother’s grave, I stop a few feet away, my aviators shielding my approaching tears. I can’t step any closer, and for now, this is close enough. Dropping to a squat, I stare at the marbled headstone and remember the care taken when I chose it. It had to be perfect for her because she was perfect in life, and I wanted to ensure that followed her into death.
“Ciao, Mamma,” I say, addressing her as I would if she were alive.
My parents both migrated to the USA in their teens from a small fishing village in Sicily, Italy. When they were barely adults, they met at a factory and married a year later. Two years after that, I was born.
My parents didn’t have much when they came to America, but they made it work. They worked hard and blended in as best they could, as they didn’t speak a lick of English the day they arrived. If the current generation of kids had to rough it like my parents did, they wouldn’t survive half a day without their iPods and cell phones.
In a way, back then, things were simpler. You married young, had kids, and provided for your family the best you could. It was hard labor, but family was number one, so you did anything for your loved ones.
If it wasn’t for my father and mother working their asses off, then I wouldn’t be in the position I’m in today. I thank them every day for the sacrifices they made for me.
“I miss you,” I whisper, staring at her grave. “I’m sorry it took me so long to visit. But you’re in my thoughts every day, and not a moment goes by that I don’t wish you were still here.” I hesitate before I sadly confess, “I’m sorry for what I did to Papà.” I hang my head in shame.
If my mother were alive, she would be disgusted by what I did to my father, and also how I’m living my life. She’d tell me to marry a nice girl and make her many grandbabies.
As I think about Juliet bearing my children, I realize I can’t even picture it as it’s too farfetched to even imagine.
“I’m lost,” I confess, running a hand through my hair. “I just wish I had more time with you.”
I hold onto my tears and sniff back my sorrow because life really is a bitch. When you’re younger, you don’t appreciate your parents and all that they’ve done for you. Loving your parents is seen as uncool, and all that matters is your friends, booze, and girls, girls, girls.
But the older you get, you realize that your parents are going to be there for you when your friends and girlfriends are long gone. Friendship comes and goes, but family is forever.
For today, this is enough. This is more than I expected I could handle.
“Sogni d’oro,” I say, wishing my mother sweet dreams. “I’ll see you soon. I promise,” and I stand, feeling like a tiny part of the old Dixon has returned.
Lost in thought while walking to my car, I think back to all the times Juliet and I have spent together that didn’t involve sex. Sadly, all those times can be counted on one hand.
In the words of Shakespeare, “love is merely a madness,” and that’s because in one corner, I have Juliet, who is a freak in the sack, but boring as batshit out of it. And in the other corner, I have Madison, who I bet would be as interesting in the sack as she is out of it, but who is now seeing someone else.
I knew one woman sexually, while I knew the other intellectually, and like a typical male, the pussy won out. Now look how that’s ended up.
Unlocking my car, I flip off the sky ’cause karma…can kiss my ass.
* * *
The drive back to Manhattan is long and boring, and to top things off, I’m stuck in traffic. Thanks to the wasted time spent in peak hour, I find my thoughts wandering to my father.
Marie said he’s better. I highly doubt that, but I decide to find out for myself. Going through my contacts, I find the number which taunts me every time I see it. Telling myself to grow a pair, I hit dial and wait for it to connect through my Bluetooth.
The moment it rings, I drum my fingers on the steering wheel, a sense of dread overtaking me. This is the reason I don’t go visit him. This is the reason I don’t call. Talking to my father will highlight what a failure I am, and confirm that I’ve let both my parents down.
