Sleeping With Dogs and Other Lovers

by Julia Dumont

  “Are you finished?” groaned Cynthia, suddenly regretting making the call. Making any call to her mother, ever. “I was just checking in to make sure you’re not setting anything up, because I’m telling you right now I am not interested. At all. I don’t care if your doctor is Johnny Freaking Depp, I am not dating anyone who has personal visitation rights with your privates. Period.”

  “Oh, Cindy, you’re such a prude. But you’re right, he does seem to enjoy our time together.”

  “Good god,” gasped Cynthia. “Please don’t tell me you’re pulling that fake breast lump scam again. Am I going to have to find you another new doctor? Are you a child?”

  This was something that had driven Cynthia crazy for a long time. After her father died, Margie had leaned on her too much. This dependency had taken many forms over the years——from wanting to tag along with her and her friends, to attempting to micro-manage Cynthia’s life. It’s a phenomenon that occurs as a parent ages anyway——that they switch roles with their children. It usually manifests itself as the aging parent approaches death, but this was not the case here. Margie was still far too young to start sliding into infantilism. She was acting more like a boy-crazy teenager and Cynthia hated being cast in the roll of uptight, overly concerned parent.

  “No, no, this is different,” said her mother. “Plus, that whole restraining order nonsense was just a big mistake. Dr. Wilmers is completely over it.”

  “You traumatized his entire staff.”

  “What? They’re medical professionals and they haven’t seen a half-naked woman before?”

  “All naked. And not chasing their boss around the waiting room, no.”

  “Yeah, well,” said Margie wistfully, “It’s not my fault those flimsy paper gowns rip and fall off so easily. So sue me.”

  “Well, Mom, that’s exactly what he did.” Cynthia’s car rolled up. “Hold on a sec, Mom.”

  “Okay, whatever,” said her mother. “I should have sued them.”

  “Did you hear me say hold on, Mother?”

  Out jumped the original valet, the one from ISN’T THIS THE EVENING OF THE SAME DAY?? the day before. Their eyes met. He was cuter than she remembered. He didn’t say anything and at first there was no reason to think he was thinking anything, or that he even remembered her, but then she detected just enough schoolboy smirk. When she tipped him their hands made slightly more contact than normal. They both smiled as she slid onto the seat.

  “Have a nice day,” they both said, talking over each other and smiling wider.

  “What?” squawked Margie. “You’re trying to get rid of me?”

  “Mom!” she replied, pulling away from the curb. “I wasn’t talking to you!”

  “You never talk to me,” said Margie. “Anyway, you’re free to dwell on the past. And yes, I am talking about Max. I, on the other hand, am all about the present.”

  “Two words, mother,” said Cynthia, her temper rising.

  “Two words?”

  “Good and bye,” she said.

  Margie was a serial last-word freak. “Ok, then I’ll meet you at Dr. Willowby’s office!”

  “I said goodbye.”

  “Wait, we should carpool and strategize on the way…”

  “GOODBYE!”

  “We can make a day of it!”

  Beep.

  Cynthia didn’t hear what her mother said after she hung up on her, but she imagined it was something like, “Okay, it’s a date then!” And that was exactly what Margie did say, before she realized she was talking to herself.

  Cynthia pulled out of the driveway and up the hill a little too fast, especially considering the fact that she was simultaneously inserting ear buds and locating Diego in her contact list. She screeched to a halt at the red light, startling a bearded pedestrian in a tie-dyed muumuu, clutching a bottle in a paper bag. He was stumbling south on Ocean, headed for Venice.

  “Watch where you’re going, lady! You’re gonna end up like Jayne Mansfield!” What a town. Cynthia had to think for a second before remembering that the movie star famously died in a car crash. Even the street people are well versed in Hollywood lore, especially the tragedies.

  The light turned green and Mr. Tie-dye leaped toward the sidewalk. Cynthia called to him.

  “She had a 163 IQ and spoke five languages, you know.”

  “Six!” he replied. “Wannabes like Paris Hilton and Snooki can barely speak one between them! But she let her more famous measurements define her. The girl simply could not help it.” This guy knew his Mansfield. Probably an old actor or director once. Possibly now.

  The light turned green. Diego picked up. “Cynthia, my dear, it’s been too long.”

  She loved Diego and was absolutely sure that Lolita would too. “Hi, sweetie,” she said. “Get dressed. Got anything vaguely military? Vaguely German? Except scrap the vaguely. I’ve got a hot one on the line. Tomorrow, eight o’clock, I’ll text you her address and make a reservation. Oh, you do like dogs, right?”

  “What are getting me into, Cynthia?”

  “Diego, I’m talking about actual dog dogs.”

  “Oh, definitely,” said Diego. “Woof!”

  “Woof, woof!” Cynthia replied. “Okay, gotta go.” Click.

  She was winding east along San Vicente now, entering Brentwood. Even at this time of night there were a few joggers. In the daytime she loved and hated driving this way, watching beautiful people run parallel to her along the coral-tree-lined median. Rich, young, toned bodies slinking rhythmically in perfect Lycra and cotton, sweating sweetly among those gorgeous, sinewy, trees … it seemed like foreplay. Like they were all fashionably late for an exclusive orgy in an immaculate bedroom perched on the bluff at Santa Monica Canyon…creamy skin against white sheets against the vast blue sweep of sea and sky. Maybe they were all strangers and never interacted at all. Maybe they had horrible love lives. Half of them were probably lonely and alone. The scene might be a treasure trove of potential customers. Cynthia decided she’d return one morning for jogging and trolling.

  She called Lolita to tell her about Diego picking her up at 6:45 the next day.

  “Thank god,” said Lolita. “I was about to screw the delivery guy, and, believe me, my delivery guy is not that screwable. Okay, I look forward to it. By the way, I got a pretty clear message from Max that a mystery lover has come back into your life. Name starts with an “M.” He was very clear on that.”

  “Max,” said Cynthia, hardly believing her ears.

  “Yup,” said Lolita, “Max knows everything.”

  “No, I’m talking about the ‘M’. Max is also the mystery man.”

  “Oh, well, that’s a coincidence,” said Lolita with a little chuckle, rubbing the dog’s belly with her bare foot. “So, is it serious?”

  “Yes. No. Maybe,” said Cynthia.

  Chapter 10

  Meanwhile, back at Shutters, Max waited impatiently for a table for one on the patio. He hated waiting for anything. He tapped his foot like he was sending an urgent telegram, surveying the scene for solo diners. His gaze fell upon a beautiful young African American woman perusing a menu and sipping a martini. He noticed her noticing him. He walked toward her, bending slightly, turning his head from side to side, seemingly searching for something under the tables and chairs as he passed. He arrived. She was intoxicating…far more beautiful up close.

  “Hi, sorry to bother you,” Max whispered. “I think I may have left my sunglasses around here somewhere.”

  My god. She’s Halle Berry meets Eva Mendes.

  Max was mesmerized. He embarked upon a fantasy field trip, exploring and cataloguing along the way: eyes, lips, brain, neck, ears, lips again, breasts, up skirt, under blouse, breasts again, belly, legs, ass, pussy … everything. It was like an x-rated Fantastic Voyage. He arrived back at her face. He waited for her voice. He wanted to love it. Please don’t Fran Drescher me.

  The woman smiled, lowering her own sunglasses to get a better look. “Let me think…why don
’t I believe you?” she asked, her voice sweet and sultry and smart and everything he’d hoped for. She raised an eyebrow. She seemed to be focused on his chest. Max had forgotten that he’d hooked the glasses in the collar of his shirt.

  “Oops,” he said. “Well, that’s kind of embarrassing.” Another lie. Max was beyond embarrassment. “I meant my other sunglasses. I have quite the collection. My eyes are very sensitive. Speaking of eyes, I’ve never said anything like this to a total stranger, but you have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever gotten hopelessly lost in.”

  Corny, but bold. It made Madeline laugh a little. She was absolutely positive he’d said this kind of thing before. Probably often. “Thanks, but if what you’re trying to say is that you’re tired of waiting for a table and you wonder if I’d mind if you joined me, the answer is no. No, I wouldn’t mind.”

  “Thank god,” he smiled, “because I am starving.” He reached out to take her hand. “I’m Max, by the way.”

  Max? That rang a bell.

  “I’m Madeline,” she said, handing him the menu. “You’re not in Room 14 by any chance?”

  “Why do you ask?” Where is she going with this?

  “Oh, I met someone who was visiting someone special named Max in Room 14.”

  What, thought Max, Sin is doing my PR now? Much appreciated.

  “Oh, no,” he said. “I am someone special, but I’m in Room 220.” The lies flowed like water.

  “Oh, okay,” said Madeline, not really believing him, but not really caring.

  A waiter stepped up. “Have you decided?”

  “Yes, I think we have,” said Max, who, like some kind of chess master of seduction, was already five or six moves ahead. He was no longer mentally undressing her…he was way beyond that. He slipped off his loafer and gently caressed the top of her foot with his toe … then her ankle and shin. She did not seem to mind.

  “What would you like?” asked the waiter, looking to Madeline.

  Max’s toe slowly glided up the back of her calf.

  “You know,” she said, hesitating a little, just a bit unnerved, “Maybe I’ll just skip to dessert. But you go ahead, Max.” She reached down and squeezed his foot.

  “I don’t know,” said Max. “Suddenly I’m thinking something sweet too. He turned to the waiter. “You don’t happen to have madeleines, do you?”

  Madeline rolled her eyes. She had hated references to the cookie as a child, but when she read Remembrances of Things Past in college, she too had become entranced by the madeleine and didn’t mind the association.

  Max already knew he would love repeating it. Madeline, Madeline, my madeleine. Madeline knew he would too. More than one lover had called her “My Madeleine” more than once.

  “No, I’m sorry,” said the waiter. “We do have fresh chocolate chip cookies, though.”

  “Oh, well,” said Max. He slouched down slightly in his chair and Madeline gasped ever so slightly.

  “We’ll take a plate of them,” she said, rolling the martini olive around on her tongue. Her face tilted in the general direction of the waiter, but her eyes were gently closed. “With milk. To go. And the check. Now.”

  The waiter, noticeably embarrassed, turned toward the kitchen. “I’ll be back in just a mimmit, a mimnit … a minute,” he stammered.

  Madeline finished the last sip of lukewarm martini, holding the glass over her nose for a moment like an oxygen mask…the glass fogging a bit.

  Chapter 11

  Cynthia got home just in time to catch the end of The Apartment. She loved old movies, the deeply romantic sort with happy endings that made finding true love seem possible…inevitable. In The Apartment, Shirley MacLaine was devastatingly beautiful and the sequence of her running through the streets of New York on New Year’s Eve, escaping Fred MacMurray and running to Jack Lemmon, was way up there in the pantheon of film romances. It occurred to her that that was what she needed to do … make every date for every client feel like that. She got some women’s obsession with Gone with the Wind, You’ve Got Mail, Titanic, and other quintessential chick flicks, but they didn’t vault her over the moon like this. The Apartment was the perfect blend of darkness and light, a more relevant brand of romantic transcendence. It got her every time.

  She realized she’d recorded it so she poured a glass of Cabernet and watched the ending again. And again. And one more time. Fran Kubelik: despondent, a recent suicide attempt, settling for more abuse courtesy of the despicable Sheldrake. Miss Kubelik, so incredibly lovable, backslides deep into despair. And we sink with her. But then, thank god, she makes a break for it … running for her life. It’s not so much that C.C. Baxter is the perfect man, it’s that he is her perfect getaway …someone who absolutely adores her. Everyone wants to get away and be adored. Cynthia wasn’t so sure about C.C. Baxter in the sack, though. He reminded her a bit of Walter: responsible, nice, the kind of man a woman should marry. But for Cynthia there was no sizzle. Maybe a remake of The Apartment with Ryan Gosling would do the trick.

  She poured another generous glass, got the files, and moved to the living room floor, arranging her clients’ faces in a grid on the large Chinese rug. Its gorgeous pattern of reds and purples and blues provided a perfect backdrop. She stood on the couch for a bird’s eye view.

  Cynthia had spent months preparing for this, taking time to get to know every client, listening to their stories, their dreams, and their desires. It was now up to her to know which men would adore which women? Who would save whom? Which pairs could drive each other wild with desire and drag themselves out of the swamps they’d been dwelling in and into sunlight? On the other hand, which pairs would find a mutual swamp and dwell happily there together? Sometimes a swamp feels just right. Everyone’s different. Each love story must be cast and art directed with care and attention to detail. Cynthia was a relationship auteur.

  She got down on her hands and knees and moved the faces around, trying different combinations. Some almost matched themselves…it seemed like they were already couples. It was incredibly exciting to imagine the pairs meeting, talking, laughing, eating, touching, kissing, and tumbling into lust and love. Cynthia almost felt like she could make these things happen by simply willing them so. It was like one of those vision boards, where you tack up photos and clippings to visualize your aspirations and dreams. Cynthia loved the idea of being thoroughly intertwined with their stories. It felt good to help people, but it also tapped into her undeniable voyeuristic tendencies, something she had been worried about in the past, but not here… now it was part of her job. She was able to get into other people’s hearts and heads, able to feel what they felt and know what they wanted … even if sometimes they didn’t know themselves. Empathy was her super power. There could not be a more perfect occupation for her.

  Her roster so far: Dolores (AKA Lonely in Brentwood, entrepreneur) and Robert (retired trial lawyer, dedicated surfer, Malibu beach house); Bianca (movie art director, ex-beauty queen) and Elliot (the voice of many beloved children’s cartoon characters, extremely blue comedian); Jade (singer-songwriter) and Dylan (novelist, ex-punk rock drummer); Violet (model verging on super-model verging on anorexic) and Antoinette (poet, muralist)…so far the only same-sex couple; Winona (chef, foodie) and Jack (first bassoonist of Los Angeles Symphony…very, very, very big eater); Alisa (architect) and Thaddeus (inventor, ex-drug addict, clean and sober seven years); Helena (heiress, polo player, nympho, wants at least three-ways) and Johnny (ex-poolboy, underwear model, famously well-hung, in a weird way shockingly innocent); Emma (extremely sexy writer-director-star of several badly reviewed, money-losing, spectacularly self-indulgent features) and Wilson (legally blind film producer); Sadie (photographer, ex-man, was Samuel, actually possibly still a work in progress, need to check the timeline he/she forwarded) and Ishmael (nudist, internet guru); and finally, Lolita (dog groomer extraordinaire, supposed dog psychic or whatever, a potential friend, and a probable problem) and Diego (perfect human being).

  Th
ere. They were all matched, many with more than one potential partner. The photos were arranged like an odd family tree, with number-one matches directly adjacent to each other and each person’s secondary matches located nearby and labeled as such. She could have figured out these pairings on the computer, but this more tactile experience seemed more appropriate.

  She felt like a casting director. She fantasized about them meeting. She ran through scenarios, visualizing every detail, coaching and prodding the actors along. Her mind extrapolated this movie metaphor to absurd lengths, complete with sets, locations, dramatic lighting, gala premiere, and standing ovation. The couples presented her with enormous bouquets of roses amid the cheers and applause of adoring fans echoed through a venue reminiscent of Graumann’s Chinese Theater, except alive with hearts, cupids, and Rubenesque nudes…the dizzying iconography of romance. This throng of sensuality surrounded Cynthia, lovingly embracing and stroking her body, her clothing melting away. Max swam up out of this sea of love, like some kind of sexed-up merman. He climbed aboard and entered her, and, as pleasure pulsed within, she realized that dozens of tender hands, warm tongues, and various pink body parts were caressing every inch of her in waves, creating a Busby Berkeley-like tableau of swirling hedonism, an orgasmic kaleidoscope of fantasy and flesh.

  What she didn’t realize yet, of course, was that she was fast asleep, curled up on the rug, dreaming a dream that, despite the over-the-top details, was, in spirit at least, surprisingly prophetic.

  Chapter 12

  Despite the wine, Cynthia’s eyes popped open two hours later, at dawn. It’s hard to sleep late when you’re sprawled face down on the floor anyway, but it had more to do with the mind blowing slumber-stopping climax she’d just experienced. It was the weirdest, wettest dream she’d had in a long, long time. She sat up, flushed and disoriented, and realized she had a 5 × 7 glossy of Lolita stuck to her forehead and a vivid memory of lots and lots of naked creatures hell bent on violating her in every way imaginable, plus other methods she’d never imagined. It all felt so real, she literally scanned the room——under the couch, behind the chair——to see if any of said violators remained.