Sleeping With Dogs and Other Lovers

by Julia Dumont

  She padded to the bathroom, checking calls and emails on her phone before she was even fully awake. The client list was growing exponentially. She had five new messages from Walter, but she couldn’t bring herself to listen to them. She would email him later. No, that’s way too cold. She’d call him. He more than deserved that, but she had to end it.

  Her head was still swirling a bit from the day before. She hadn’t thought about the fact that if your profession involves matchmaking and you’re focused on love and lust all day long, it’s bound to heat things up down in your tropical zone. Her encounters with Max and Madeline and even the conversations with Lolita had gotten her blood flowing in all the right places.

  She closed her eyes, aimed the shower at her slightly hung-over head, and considered the state of things. Highlights came to her like a succession of cross-dissolves in an x-rated PowerPoint presentation: the accidental girl-on-girl snatch-to-tush snuggling and fondling; the bosom-bouncing sprint through the hotel hallway; the sighing-moaning-sucking sexfest with her old friend Max … she swore she still tasted him, still felt the aftershocks; and finally the incredibly satisfying sock puppeting of his indefatigable phallus as a fond farewell to his infuriatingly boyish arrogance. All in a day’s work.

  She smiled, shook her head, and giggled a bit through the falling water. She thought about how he’d probably gone ahead and finished off that sock after she left … he would have found it irresistible. A cock in the hand is not worth two or even one in the bush, but it is definitely worth something. Come to think of it, she had watched him soloing once and wondered if maybe he loved that most of all. Her grin got wider when she remembered the time she drew a smiley face on the head of his penis with an indelible marker while he slept. She blew on it to make sure it was dry, but then continued to blow without touching at all because she loved teasing it and watching it stir as Max’s breathing began to pick up. She finally awakened him and Mr. Smiley with just a few well-placed wet kisses. One fun puppet show. That was the thing about Max. Other guys would have gotten mad. Max rolled with it, chasing her around the room, coming up with a funny high-pitched voice for Mr. Smiley and making the hard happy fellow howl with delight as he plunged deep into the warm, wet destination of her home sweet home.

  That was it … Cynthia laughed out loud. She loved this matchmaking adventure and she’d really loved being with Max again. She knew that continuing to see him would be considered by many to be a huge blunder, but it was one she was happy, make that ecstatic, to make—at least for now. Hell, on top of everything else, it was research. She could probably deduct Max-related expenses…she’d check with her accountant on that.

  She proceeded to suds up and massage every inch of her body, partially to, you know, wash, but also to relive and relish her carnal escapades in a sensual celebration of self. She calculated that the time spent with Max was approximately fifteen percent maddening and eighty-five percent fantastic. Beyond fantastic. That’s batting .850 in baseball, more than twice the average of the greatest sluggers who’d ever played the game. She simply adored Max’s bat, his swing, and the way he hit her sweet spot. Because she needed Second Acts to be her top priority, she was comfortable with their not-in-my-face arrangement.

  Of course she might have felt differently if she’d had the slightest inkling that her ravishing former intern——who she’d mistakenly pegged as all lesbian all the time——was at that very moment gently rolling Max’s balls around on her exquisite tongue, while he explored the nether regions of her blonde rock star girlfriend with his. Max and the girlfriend——who ironically was one of Cynthia’s favorite young singer-songwriters——had whispered “My Madeline” like some kind of duet mantra all night long.

  Chapter 13

  Cynthia’s shower was the kind where you sort of get lost and forget how long you’ve been in there and then feel guilty that maybe you are personally responsible for the perpetual California drought.

  Cynthia was yanked from this near-sleep state by a gruff male voice yelling in the other room. She instantly turned off the water, grabbed a towel, locked the door, and listened. The guy sounded angry and although he was very, very loud, Cynthia couldn’t understand a word of it. She realized he was speaking, no, screaming in German: “Auch Zwerge haben klein angefangen!!!” It was the TV blaring. Good god, it had to be her mother——the only person with a key. Why was she sneaking in and watching insane German television this early in the morning? Or at any time, for that matter.

  She emerged from the bathroom wearing only a towel, just sleep-deprived and flustered enough to slip on the hardwood floor as she rounded the corner. She flailed comically, losing the towel in the process, barely avoiding a fall. But it was near enough to a full-fledged accident to make her even more pissed off at her mother.

  But Margie wasn’t there. It was King, Lolita’s Great Dane. He was on the couch, sitting up with impeccable posture, watching a Werner Herzog film. Alone.

  Okay, this is weird. What’s with this dog? How the hell did he get in here?

  King was chewing on a piece of photograph and other bits were strewn about the floor below. He had destroyed Diego’s headshot. He growled softly, making Cynthia fairly nervous. She backed up a few steps and returned to the bathroom to retrieve her phone. She rang Lolita.

  “Um, Lolita? Why did you let this crazy dog in here?”

  “What dog, where?” asked Lolita, sounding genuinely perplexed.

  “Oh, come on,” replied Cynthia, checking the pantry and hallway. She was not in the mood for game playing.

  “What on Earth are you talking about?” asked Lolita.

  Cynthia was losing her patience, but when she reached the living room again, the dog was gone. Vanished. What the hell?

  “I’m talking about King. He was here watching TV, eating my clients’ headshots,” she said, not believing her eyes, “but somehow he’s gone missing. You know what, though? I don’t have time for this.” Cynthia checked the front door, which was locked. What is going on?

  “Cynthia, my dear,” explained Lolita, “Like I said, my dogs are special, but start from the beginning … what happened exactly?”

  Cynthia really wasn’t sure. In fact, she felt a bit dizzy. She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger. She didn’t even want to mention that the Diego photo was the particular headshot King chewed up. She knew Lolita would take it as a bad omen or something and Cynthia didn’t want anything to ruin the Lolita-Diego chemistry before they even met. “Oh, nothing, never mind,” she said. “Listen, Lolita, I’ve really got to go. We’ll talk about this later. Bye-bye.”

  She headed to the living room. She was fed up with crazy claims about these dogs. Lolita had obviously let King into the apartment as a prank and let him out when Cynthia went back to get her phone. Either that or Cynthia was losing her marbles or at least hallucinating. She had never heard of that happening from red wine, but she supposed anything was possible, especially with so little sleep and after that incredibly vivid dream.

  But there, at the base of the couch, lay a few small torn bits of photograph and, indeed, Diego’s portrait was missing from the grid. The dog must have been there, unless Cynthia had ripped up the picture in her sleep. Either way, it was creepy. She scooped up the mangled scraps of paper and went to the kitchen. She stepped on the pedal of the large, stainless steel trashcan and dropped them in, only to watch them flutter onto a pile of even more photo fragments inside——the rest of Diego. Had King actually chewed the photo up and deposited it in the garbage? Dogs are capable of such things, she supposed. But maybe she had done it.

  She took a deep breath. She decided she couldn’t get caught up in this absurd dog-and-photo mystery. She had back-up photos of all the clients. She had to get down to work. There were five spectacular couples on dates tonight. She opened her laptop and started making restaurant reservations furiously, buying tickets to movies and shows, sending emails with details, addresses, times,
and advice——all carefully conceived as catalysts to romance.

  She would personally be on-call for any of them, in the event that they felt the need of counsel. She would text, email, or talk to any of them. She checked the pile of color-coded cell phones——one per couple——and made sure they were all turned on and charged. She could communicate with multiple clients simultaneously.

  Ding-dong! The doorbell. This time she assumed it was Lolita, fessing up to the dog prank. Stomp, stomp, unlatch, pull——“Lolita!!!!!! I mean, Walter?”

  “Cynthia. I’ve been calling, texting, and emailing for the past two days!” He was on his lunch break from work. He was pissed.

  This was by far the most excited Walter had ever been. It made him more appealing. This was partly because Cynthia was, shall we say, on heightened sexual alert.

  “Walter, I’m so sorry. Please come in.” Her skin was still warm and glowing from the shower. He kissed her, but it was barely a kiss.

  “Cynthia, I need to get back to the office and we need to talk.”

  “Talk? What is wrong with you, anyway?” she threw up her hands, palms-out, and drew them in close——that gesture you make when you don’t want to touch or be touched.

  “Nothing, sweetie…of course I wish we had time now——oh, man, do I ever——but I am totally swamped. I have William K. Nerpin coming in at 2:30. Can you believe that? If I get this account, I’m full partner, that’s it. I’m already late. Can I just grab a sandwich or something?”

  Cynthia’s temperature dropped from equatorial to arctic. She stared at him and thought Do I look like a Subway restaurant to you? She didn’t know who William K. Nerpin was and didn’t care. It occurred to her that she didn’t even know exactly what Walter did for a living. Possibly a lawyer, but he definitely didn’t practice. It had something to do with money——other people’s money. Shuffling it maybe. She realized she had zero interest in asking him the requisite questions to find any of that out. This was one of the reasons she realized now that she needed to kill the relationship. And she knew that this was the time … a perfect case of justifiable homicide. She needed to gather her thoughts.

  “No problem, pal,” she replied, punching him softly in the shoulder. “You help yourself to anything in the fridge and I’ll be right back.”

  She headed for the bedroom and flopped onto her back on the bed. She stared at the ceiling.

  Men. Can’t live with ‘em. Period. Except Max. Actually, you can’t live with him either, but you don’t want to. You just want to be with him. He is so unabashedly, brazenly uncommitted. So true in his un-trueness. Yes, he’s an egomaniac, but a really fun egomaniac. And he deserves to be, unlike some people I know. And he gets me. And I get him. We are on the same wavelength. And then there’s the sex. She thought of those long afternoons. She had never done drugs. Tried pot, didn’t like it. So she had no idea how apt the comparison was, but somehow it seemed like an opium den might be something like that. Minutes becoming hours becoming days becoming weeks. Gladly sinking into a haze of pleasure, sealed off from the rest of the world… dedicating oneself——in league with another——to the pursuit of euphoria.

  She had lost her train of thought——her mind ran off the rails and for a moment——but she got it back. And he cares about me. And for some strange reason I care about him. It is so worth it to put up with his antics and, well, everything. I don’t need him, I just want him once in a while. I’m strong, independent, and responsible for me, myself, and what’s mine. And I’m fine with that.

  Plink. She glanced at her phone. Voicemail from Max.

  See? He goes away, but he comes back. He’s not some puppy dog, always there with his head in your lap. Who cares? Who wants that anyway? Quality, not quantity. It’s the sex, stupid. The message could not have come in at a better time. Fuck you, Walter.

  She played the message, but there was no message. Wait, no, there is something there. Oh, how funny…it’s a mistake call, like a “pocket call” or a “butt call.” Cynthia sat up in bed, thinking it would be amusing to listen in on a secret slice of Max. She didn’t know it yet, but Max’s phone had been bouncing all over the bedlike a scared frog in a wrestling match and finally got pinned under somebody’s something, and that something hit redial and the last number called had of course been hers. It was one of those incredibly long mistake messages and Cynthia, mesmerized, listened to the whole damn thing to the extremely bitter end.

  First there was Max talking. She loved his voice and she strained to make out what he was saying. Then came the lilting tones in the background of a certain young blonde rock star——Adriana Vivani——singing that great song Cynthia kept hearing everywhere. She was delighted they shared this cut on their playlists.

  But then another woman’s voice——oddly familiar——started panting something about “more” and “harder” and “Jesus” and “Oh, God…oh, God…Oh, GOD!” Someone had definitely found religion. Cynthia felt a hot surge of hurt and anger bubbling up inside. There was an interminable stretch of huffing, puffing, and serious moaning. Then the screaming began … these were certainly Olympic-level synchronized screamers. Finally, she heard Max repeating something that would bring the entire tableau into unbearably sharp focus: “My…my…my…my…my…”——it seemed like an eternity, but he probably only said “my” twenty or thirty times tops——look out … key change, two steps north, up an entire octave, falsetto, baby, to the tippy-top of his lungs: “MYYYYYYYYYYYY… MADELINE!!!!!!” It was a crisp, clear, joyous note, like the winning answer in some singing game show. Something crashed, something broke, someone shrieked. Then more laughter, then “What the fuck?!” Then beep!

  Cynthia glared at the phone like it was the devil’s own mouthpiece. Contrary to her recent soliloquy, she was most definitely not okay with this. She was pissed. How on Earth had he hooked up so fast with her ex-assistant, assuming it was the same Madeline, and it had to be. She called Max: straight to voicemail. She left him an angry message. Not that anyone was counting, but she used “fuck” twenty-three times before realizing that the young lady currently running ‘round his maypole would probably hear it and laugh her head off at her while doing it with him. How did she fall into this again? She sat, breathing through her teeth for a few minutes. Somehow the whole “Not in my face!” thing hadn’t taken accidental phone messages into account. Even though Max had not planned to broadcast it, it was still so like him. He was the king of loopholes, even inadvertent ones. Their pledge would have to be revised to include Not in my ears either! Not even by accident! I must have been nuts to think that Max and I could be in any kind of relationship. What the hell was I thinking?

  “Cynthia?” called Walter. “I’m done with lunch and I really need to get going. Helloooo?”

  Cynthia stared at the door. “Just a minute, darling!” she sing-songed in the sweetest possible way. But she felt anything but sweet. She felt hurt, betrayed, and livid. At that moment she hated all men … Walter included.

  She dropped the robe and headed for the kitchen.

  “Cynthia?” queried Walter, a tad perplexed.

  She said nothing, just grabbed a bottle of very expensive virgin olive oil and collected certain phallic fruits and vegetables from the fridge——you know the ones——and piled everything into Walter’s arms.

  She undid his pants and yanked them to his ankles, his underwear hitching a ride. Then——and she had never done this before…well, never against a man’s will——she dragged Walter to the bedroom by his penis. He shuffled along using baby steps like a prisoner in leg irons. He objected at first——late, must get back to work, William K. Nerpin, partnership … blah, blah, blah. But she didn’t let go and he instantly stopped complaining. Obviously.

  “Okay, Walter. Here’s the deal. Now this is happening: Separate Pleasures. First, you pleasure me. You must promise to do exactly what I say. Because you are currently being led around by your penis, I presume you promise?”

  Walter, ey
es closed, breathed in deeply through his nose, then exhaled spasmodically, “I promise.”

  “Okay,” she said, sitting down on the bed and unhanding him with a twang, “you can’t talk anymore.” She issued instructions like the overbearing director of a play. She leaned back onto the covers and ordered him to give her an erotic massage, using hands, lips, tongue, face, feet, fruits, vegetables, everything, and I mean everything, except his penis.

  “You will touch me where and how I tell you to. And no matter how much you beg I will not touch you back.” She thought for a second to make sure she hadn’t left any loopholes. “And you may not touch yourself. And you must stay in the room. Oh, and remain standing. Okay, I think that about covers it.”

  The game began. Put that here, put this there, faster, slower, harder, softer, in, out, ‘round about. This went on for a long time and when Cynthia was satisfied, it was finally Walter’s turn.

  But this was no democracy. She was making up the rules as she went along. She looked him over and smiled. He was clearly in a state of excruciating arousal and frustration, and Cynthia obliged him by grabbing an age-old tool of the S&M trade——a glittery hair scrunchie left behind by the tweenage daughter of a friend——and tied his hands behind his back. She took a feather from a hat in her closet——one she’d never worn, it had belonged to her grandmother and she was delighted to finally get some practical use out of it——and proceeded to tease him with it relentlessly. He writhed and moaned and groaned, pleading silently for mercy, but Cynthia did not feel all that merciful. But then she finally did and nonchalantly finished him off. He collapsed onto the floor, spent, spastic, and shuddering. She quickly untied him, helped him up, and led him to the front door. She smiled and pushed him into the hallway. “You’d better not keep Mr. Nerpin waiting.”