by Julia Dumont
Diego looked up. He wasn’t a spiritual guy, but this felt pretty damn spiritual. A warm ambient glow accentuated Lolita’s devastating hourglass figure——possibly the most dramatic hip-to-waist ratio he’d witnessed since Jessica Rabbit, his first true childhood obsession. For him this was a nostalgically, achingly, transcendently pleasurable experience. “Ziggy, zoggy.” His eyes were rolling back in his head.
And then it happened. He saw something behind Lolita. Something big. It was King, the Great Dane, but how did he get in? Diego had seen Lolita leave to lock the beast away. He had watched her shut the door. He’d heard it latch. How the hell did the monster breach the castle at all, let alone so silently … so stealthily? It was growling deeply…slightly louder than before.
“Lolita,” whispered Diego, trying to keep things moving, but decidedly uneasy and definitely no longer ziggy-zoggying, “has King here, you know, ever killed anyone?” He was craning his neck to see around his date’s writhing body, keeping one eye on her loveliness and the other on her insanely over-protective and probably murderous house pet.
“Not that I know of,” she moaned, inching ever-closer to all-out ecstasy. “Although I can’t tell you I didn’t hope for that occasionally. That’s … a.… joke. Please don’t stop.”
“Ha, ha,” he fake-laughed, shivering a little from a disorienting jumble of pleasure and fear.
Despite the circumstances, they were still riding hard toward orgasm-land. Diego was a trooper. But then King moved in closer. His huge head was suddenly right there, next to Diego’s——his dog breath blowing like a hot, smelly space heater, his growl louder, his teeth more exposed. King’s mood was getting uglier.
Suddenly, Diego froze. Even here, teetering atop this sexual apex——this unmistakable point of no return——the compulsion to survive had won out. It was pure instinct——like some evolutionary council had commanded Diego’s body to play dead before the beast. King also got quiet. All was deathly still.
“No!” shrieked Lolita, breaking the silence. “King says everything’s cool. Why are you stopping?!”
This simple query——what she said, how she said it, whatever——must have created just enough anxiety to cause a loyal, protective, and possibly bloodthirsty canine such as King some degree of concern. He must have detected a slight hint of trouble.
He roared like a T-Rex, scaring the living daylights out of Diego, who flipped off the bed like a flounder, throwing Lolita onto the floor. She hit her head on a chair on the way down and let out a high-pitched scream that drove the other dogs in the kitchen into a barking frenzy.
She was pissed, Diego was terrified, and the whole thing was over before either reached the earth-shattering zoy, zoy, zoy they’d been counting on. Diego threw on his clothes and ran out the door before you could say … well, before you could say anything, really.
Lolita picked herself up off the floor, rubbing the lump that was erupting on her head. She walked through the kitchen and shut the front door.
“Okay, family meeting!” she said, punching the red heavy bag and plopping onto the couch. She looked toward the kitchen. “Now!”
Max and Wilfredo padded their way to Lolita, then turned and sat at her feet, facing the kitchen as well. King finally trudged in and stopped in front of Lolita, looking up at her like a child who is fully aware of his crimes.
“King,” said Lolita, “you, Max, and Wilfredo will always be my family. I appreciate everything you do and have done for me all these many years. God knows I love you more than anything on Earth. But please, please stop doing that! No more transporting yourself willy-nilly all over town without clearing it with me first. We don’t want the whole world knowing.” She turned and looked directly into the Dane’s deep dark eyes. “And you, King. I know I’ve gotten into some serious scrapes over the years. And I know that you don’t want anything bad to happen to me. But, for goodness sake, you have to let me live my life!”
All three dogs whimpered simultaneously.
“Okay,” she said, “that’s it. Meeting adjourned.” Meanwhile, Diego had called Cynthia from the car and was babbling so incoherently, for the first full minute she had absolutely no idea who it was, despite caller I.D. and her ingenious color-coding. She calmed him down and said not to worry; she had someone else in mind for him. She agreed that Lolita was somewhat problematic, but before she finished the sentence she had already revised it in her head, replacing “somewhat” with “un-fucking-believably.”
Chapter 20
Overall, the night was incredibly successful, though. Other than the Lolita-Diego fiasco, all of the couples were eager to see each other again. Cynthia breathed a great sigh of satisfaction and relief. Then she remembered Max, fished her own phone out from between the cushions of the couch, and turned it back on.
Her email was exploding with Max. Her voicemail was overflowing to the Max. She had forty-seven Max texts. He took messing with Cynthia very seriously. He had texted in short spurts, almost like tweets…needling, pushing, hammering away. He was unrelenting.
Max: So sorry Sin….
I no how u feel…I don’t blame u.
Girl on phone meant nothing.
Old gf. Happened to bump into. Practically raped me.
Oh, please. He can’t even think I’d think he was serious.
You r the only one.
Darling.
Sweetie.
Honey.
i
need
2
C
u
Cynthia knew that Max wasn’t stupid enough to believe that she was stupid enough to believe a word of this. One phrase kept running through her head.
He is so lucky I don’t own a gun.
She scrolled quickly through them, they seemed to go on forever, but wait … a new one:
Max: Lets get together.
She finally replied.
Cynthia: F U
Max: Yes, F me.
Cynthia: F U x 2
Max: Yes and yes. Couldn’t agree more. I think we r reaching new point in relationship.
Cynthia: Me 2: the point where I beat you to death with a two by four.
Max: If that’s what it takes, I will go to lumber yard and purchase two by four 4 u.
I will drive nails into it first.
Please give me opportunity
2 b your piñata.
Beat me please.
How does Max do this? How does he know things? Did he somehow sense that she had spent an hour earlier in the day leveling lightweight sadism at someone for the first time in her life? It was almost like Max had bumped into Walter. Because even though she obviously had no desire whatsoever to actually follow through on anything like this piñata nonsense, the fact that he acknowledged her latent desires in that area made her smile. She could not help herself from fantasizing about being with him, slapping him a few times, and then making up.
But, NO! She was not. Going. To. See. Him.
The old expression and Pretenders song, It’s a Thin Line Between Love and Hate, never seemed so fitting. She rolled the emotions around in her head and realized, to her amazement, that no matter what the permutation, when it came to Max, the words had become completely indistinguishable, utterly interchangeable:
I love to love him.
I hate to love him.
I hate to hate him.
I love to hate him.
All true.
Cynthia was momentarily stunned. Had she just stumbled upon a profound realization? Was it profoundly sad or profoundly funny? Or both?
Cynthia was angry with Lolita for terrorizing Diego. He was such a dear friend. She was having trouble imagining continuing her relationship with Lolita, personally or professionally. She didn’t even want to call her, but she figured she had to.
Lolita picked up. “Hello, you friendly neighborhood love-life saboteur, you.”
This immediately pissed Cynthia off even further.
“You know,” she said, “you
are the only one who had a bad night. Everybody else is halfway to happily ever after. Any explanation for that?”
“Yeah, well, nobody else got stuck with Dumb-Dumb Diego.”
Cynthia’s temper flared. “Diego is not dumb. He has a PhD in semiotics.”
“Where, from the University of I Don’t Give a Fuck?”
“No, actually,” Cynthia said, trembling with anger now, “THAT’S WHERE I’M GOING NOW!” She clicked off, wondering if that would be the last time they ever spoke.
Chapter 21
Cynthia had reluctantly agreed to meet her mother for lunch on the condition that she would not “blind-date her ass with Dr. Willowby.” Her exact words. Her mother had promised “as long as you never use that expression in my presence again. Ever.” But when they got to the restaurant, the doctor was there having lunch alone.
“Oh, look,” said Margie. “It’s Dr. Willowby. Yoo-hoo, Dr. Willowby!”
Cynthia rolled her eyes. This was par for the course. Willowby was not at the next table, mind you. He was way on the other side of the very large restaurant, pretty well obscured by a gigantic aquarium. So either her mother had suddenly developed x-ray vision or clairvoyance, or this was the good doctor’s regular dining spot. Cynthia knew a set-up when she saw one.
Margie got the attention of every single diner in the place before Dr. Willowby noticed her yoo-hooing and making motions usually reserved for signaling rescue planes from desert islands. She invited him to join them and he did.
“Hello, Margerie,” he said, taking her hand, kissing it, and turning to Cynthia. “You must be Cynthia. I’ve forgotten, are you home from college?”
Okay, thought Cynthia, this guy is either blind or stupid or I look really good today. She wanted to believe the third option. She was also a little afraid that he was just trying to be funny. But he was a little older and she knew that she was completely lost when trying to peg the ages of those younger than she. Plus, his smile was so genuine, and he was so disarmingly handsome and youthful himself, she decided to take him at face value. And what a face. This was Dr. McDreamy, Dr. Whatchamacallit played by George Clooney, and all those other handsome doctor-show doctors in TV history rolled into one.
“No, no, Dr. Willowby,” she said, smiling demurely and holding out her hand to be kissed as well, “I’ve been out of school for a little while.”
“Well, I never would have guessed it,” he said, taking his seat. “Please, call me Paul.”
Cynthia’s anger with her mother quickly subsided when she realized to her amazement that she kind of liked this Dr. Willowby fellow. Her mother, as always, dominated the conversation. All through lunch, Cynthia was distracted by an avalanche of texts (mostly from Max, of course) and other assorted phone buzzes. She didn’t pick up any calls, but she was preoccupied enough to turn off the doctor a bit.
When lunch was over, he abruptly left and walked back to his office. Cynthia and her mother waited together at the valet stand.
“I hate to admit it, Mom, but I really kind of like him.”
“Yeah, well I hope you didn’t blow the whole deal with all your buzzes and bleeps. You’re like a ten-year-old boy with his stinking video games. Bleep! Blip! Deedly-deedly! There’s a man——not just a man, a tall, dark, and hot-blooded lady-parts doctor-man—in the room, and you spend the whole time making love to your phone! Well, I hope it was satisfying. What is the matter with you anyway?”
“Nothing! I need to keep up with my business, Mom. What, do you want me to fail?”
“If you married someone like Paul, you won’t even need to work.”
This really pissed her off. “Oh, forget it, Mother. And please, never try hooking me up again. Even when I like them it’s a disaster.”
“Well, I’m glad you at least admit that you like him, I mean you’d have to be deaf, dumb, and blind not to. So I suppose you won’t be too upset that I took the liberty of making you an appointment with him for tomorrow morning.”
Cynthia was equal parts annoyed and grateful. “That was incredibly presumptuous of you and I should be livid right now, but I’m willing to go. Happy to go, actually. So thanks.”
“You’re welcome, sweetie. You know, if you’d listened to me earlier, I’d have a gaggle of grandchildren by now.”
Cynthia didn’t say anything. She was afraid of making a scene. She waited silently until her car pulled up.
“You’re awfully quiet all of a sudden,” said Margie.
“Believe me,” said Cynthia, taking the keys, “it’s better this way.”
Chapter 22
Max was lounging on the beach at Shutters. He didn’t really have anywhere he needed to be. Cynthia was obviously ignoring him. Madeline and Adriana were long gone. Adriana had a gig and they had to go rehearse or something. Max was feeling very left out. Despite all his grown-up accomplishments——from business to world-class womanizing——at his core, he was a little boy. He hated, hated, hated it when there was nobody around to play with.
Unable to get to Cynthia, he decided to check out the Second Acts Dating Service website. You couldn’t get very deep into it without being a member, but there was plenty to look at. Cynthia had gotten permission from a few clients to feature them on the publicly accessible portion of the site——no names or addresses or personal information—just photos.
Max was immediately drawn to——you guessed it——Lolita. It would have been difficult not to be drawn to her. She was extremely photogenic, for one thing, but she was also wearing a too-tight, too-short, white polo shirt, graced with a tiny little running dog, in the spot where an Izod crocodile would be. Max could tell the photo was taken in a pet shop or a groomer’s or something.
He loved this kind of mystery. He was a game player. Word games, number games, sex games——any kind of games. He almost always solved movie mysteries before the third act. His mind was quick to engage and as focused as a bloodhound.
There was a window behind Lolita in the photograph. There were words painted on the glass, but you could only see a few letters——backwards, on the outside, so flip them——A R S. Bars, cars… It couldn’t be “cars.” I can’t see this extremely attractive woman——or anyone else for that matter——selling cars to dogs. Dog hotels, yes. Dog massages, yes. But no dogs driving cars. Yet. Okay … cigars, chars, dars, fars, guitars. He always rifled through the alphabet when he forgot a name or was trying to find an answer to a word puzzle. It took him 16.4 seconds to land on “STARS.” He entered keywords: DOG, STARS, PET, SHOP, GROOMER … and in 11.9 seconds he found DOG GROOMER TO THE STARS. In 3.6 seconds he found that same exact photo of Lolita, except this was the full photo that showed all of her, including some very short, very tight, lime green terrycloth shorts. He took his eyes off those shorts——really one of nature’s wonders, they were——just long enough to check out the address of the shop. He immediately returned to the photo to grab a screenshot.
In 31.6 seconds he was in Room 14, out of his swimsuit, into some clothes, and on his way to the valet. In 14.6 minutes he was on Lolita’s street, double-parked in front of her shop. 3.6 minutes after that they’d made a date——the exact time and place to be determined——for Halloween night.
Okay, what do I win? he thought, stepping back out onto the pristine Beverly Hills sidewalk. That question was answered immediately by a meter maid who had just decided to write him a parking ticket.
He, of course, talked her out of it.
Chapter 23
Next morning, in the examination room, the nurse took Cynthia’s vitals and told her to wait. The room was chilly. She was covered with goose bumps. Her nipples were bothered——in a good and bad way——by the paper gown. She looked in the mirror. Maybe blue paper gowns were a good look for her. Dr. Willowby knocked and came in. They talked for a while first.
“Paul. I’m so sorry about my rudeness at lunch. I was expecting an important call. I just started a new business and I’m probably a little on-edge.”
“Oh, don’t worry at all. I was the rude one for running out so abruptly.”
He began his examination. Cynthia felt exposed and vulnerable. She had never been to a doctor she actually liked. She was starting to understand and appreciate her mother’s M.O. a little more. Although he didn’t do anything untoward, Cynthia was a little bit thrilled in anticipation of this handsome man named Paul——she realized that she had never been on a first-name basis with any doctor——running through the standard procedures that all OBGYNs always do.
The exam was very thorough. As cold and sterile as doctor’s appointments usually are, this one was not. She really loved his touch and voice and manner. He asked if she wanted to go to dinner, which wasn’t that unusual, except that he asked while examining her breasts. He immediately stopped and apologized for the inappropriate timing of the question. It was just that he felt so comfortable around her.
Cynthia accepted his apology, but actually was not unhappy at all when she realized he hadn’t completed the procedure and resumed his probing. As far as she was concerned, everything he was doing and saying was entirely appropriate. She reached out and touched his forearm, pretending to steady herself, but really wanting the contact. She closed her eyes and imagined an entirely different setting in which this was happening. It involved softer furniture and dimmer lights.
“You, know,” she said, “tomorrow is Halloween. Maybe we should do something special.” Cynthia was a walking encyclopedia of the Los Angeles social calendar. There was a huge event called the Halloween Beach Ball Feast and Fest at the ocean. “It seems like fun: food, folks, fun, sun, sunset … what else do you need?”
