by Jen Ashton
So there I was driving back across the Heartland of America in the middle of the night with tears streaming down my face. The only thing to do was call Joe. But I couldn’t. I didn’t want to face him. I felt so stupid; stupider than Potato Bug Courtney. I made a vow to keep driving until the morning. As the sun rose and fell again, I realized I hadn’t stopped to sleep. Once in Utah, I decided to finally phone Joe and tell him I was coming home.
“Do you need a hug?” he asked.
I was relieved to find he was relatively compassionate. “That would be nice.” I told him. “I’ll be home in six hours.”
I was tired, exhausted and broken, but I drove the rest of the way home. As I pulled onto our street, Joe was standing in the driveway with his arms open wide, ready to give me my hug. “Welcome home, Monkey!” We hugged it out for what seemed like an hour.
“I’m tired,” I finally said. “Let’s go inside.”
“Hold on,” he stalled, “I need to get my things out of my truck.”
“What things?”
“My bags,” he said.
“Were you going somewhere?” I was confused.
“No, I was in Chicago when you called. I hopped on the first flight out to be here when you got home so I could give you a hug.”
The Ex Factor
Like a real idiot, I was tinkering with the idea of getting back together with my ex. We had been divorced for years and he often showed up at my doorstep drunk in the middle of the night. “I just want to be near my family,” he would confess before passing out. He knew the routine. His place was on the couch downstairs, while I closed and locked my door upstairs. I didn’t mind him staying the night or sobering up in a safe place, so long as he didn’t make any moves on me. This went on for years.
One night, I must have been feeling sentimental because I let him come up to my bedroom to watch a movie. It didn’t take long to find myself snuggled up in his arms again. We didn’t necessarily fit together anymore, but it was nice to hold him. He tried kissing me, but I wasn’t interested. I really just wanted to enjoy his company and see where that led over time. I didn’t want to rush anything. It was a delicate situation since we had a child together. Confusion would only confuse things more. I think Confucius said that.
The evening went off without a hitch and so would’ve the morning if had I told Joe of my intentions. He was protective and wanted more for me than to let my ex continue to cock-block my suitors from the sofa. When Joe woke up and saw Steve’s car in the driveway and an empty couch, he devised a plan to make sure to put a stop to any further visits or potential reunions; unbeknownst to me.
I was sleeping soundly next to Steve when my bedroom door swung open and I was awakened by the sound of a strumming guitar. I turned over quickly to find Joe in a white thong, safety vest and helmet. He proceeded to sing a song he had just written called “No Monkey Sex with the Ex,” followed by a serenade dedicated to Steve, an acoustical rendition of “Happy Trails.” Needless to say, my ex never spent the night again. Here are two snapshots of Joe that morning.
Poop
(Poop got his name because he is black. I dated Poop in my early twenties when I called him Reginald. Somehow, Reginald filtered his way back into my life in my late twenties after I had 'gone back' or seen the light as some call it. I wasn’t terribly against visiting the Dark Side again, and the promise of mind-blowing Monkey sex with him was definitely on my agenda. I loved having sex with him. That was, until Joe seared my brain with a mental image that wasn’t exactly appetizing. “What’s his penis look like, Jen? I bet it’s like fucking a piece of poop!”)
I hadn’t talked to Poop in years. One day out of the blue, I received a phone call from him.
“I’m going to be in Vegas this week. I was hoping we could meet for lunch.”
A few days later I walked into Sierra Gold and saw Poop sitting at the bar. He looked remarkably the same, except older and more distinguished. He had always been handsome. His skin was smooth like chocolate silk and his big brown doe eyes sparkled like marbles. His hair was still in dreads and pulled back into a beanie. When he smiled and waved me over, his teeth glowed brighter than the brothers at Cheshire skate. His smile melted me, and I could smell his essence even before I approached him. He smelled like licorice root and patchouli.
“Hi,” I gleamed as I hugged him and sat down.
After ordering, we caught up on all the how have you beens and what are you doing nows. He was proud of how far I’d come in my art career and I was surprised to find out that he was opening a boxing gym; in Vegas. He was in town to scout locations and meet with a commercial real estate agent. It was no wonder he looked ripped under his white tee shirt. I could almost see his rigid abs rippling like a bubbling chocolate brook down to the button fly of his jeans. I suddenly became flushed with anticipation of rekindling our amazing sex life. But then he got really serious.
“I’m sitting in front you today, to tell you I’m sorry,” he started. “I’m sorry for never believing you when you told me you loved me. I never understood how you could love me the way you said you did.”
Poop and I had always had a tumultuous relationship. We had great sex. I loved him and he loved him. For four years I tried to make him love me. On a few occasions I could completely blow his mind in the bedroom and we would find ourselves driving to The Little White Chapel to elope in the middle of the night. But we never got married. One of us always backed out; a decision I failed to make years later when I married my husband in the drive-thru. Poop continued.
“I never knew how you felt until I fell in love. I suddenly realized that what I was saying to my girlfriend was all of the things you had said to me. I finally got it. Anyway, that’s over now. It’s been two years and all I can think of is you. I want to tell you that I am here, now, and that I am ready to be the partner to you that you always knew I was capable of being. I want to be that man now.”
I was so taken back that I cried. It was sweet. He was sweet. I looked at his chocolate ripples and thought, what the hell? We finished our lunch and arranged to meet up for drinks and bowling later that evening. We got high on hookah and played a few games of makeout bowling. His kisses were as soft and succulent as ever. After seducing me with his big lips and countless strikes, I was ready to take him home. I asked him to stay with me for the rest of his visit. He went to check out of his hotel and I went home to tell Joe.
“Poop’s gonna be staying with us for a couple of days.”
“Cool,” was his response, but I knew he wasn’t happy about it.
I didn’t know Poop was going to practically move in and turn my bedroom into his music studio while he was there, but that’s what happened. Joe made no bones about the fact that he thought Poop was all wrong for me. He started by subtly mentioning that he hoped I wasn’t going to record another rap album in my room. I knew what he was getting at, but I paid no mind.
The second day, Poop had taken over the downstairs as well. Joe came home from work and stood in the kitchen. Poop was on the patio smoking a spliff and practicing his new song with his headphones on. He hadn’t heard Joe come in.
“Monkey!” he yelled.
I came running down the stairs. “What?”
Poop was still oblivious to our presence. He just kept singing at the top of his lungs and writing notes in his songbook.
“What the hell is this?” Joe asked. “He’s taken over the whole house!”
We looked around and it was true. Poops things were scattered all over the sofa, coffee table, counter and carpet. I knew I was about to get a stern talking to.
“Come here,” Joe insisted and grabbed me by the arm to escort me to the living room. “Look closely. What do you see?”
“I know, his stuff is everywhere. I’ll have him clean it up.”
“I’m not worried about the mess. It’s what’s in the mess that I want you to look at it,” Joe pointed.
I looked at the coffee table where Joe was pointing an
d examined the contents of Poop’s mess. “I see a bag of weed and watermelon juice,” I told him.
“Exactly!” Joe shouted. “Weed and watermelon juice, Jen. Is this what you want your life to resort to? Weed and watermelon juice. Really? Need I say more?”
He needn’t. I knew right then that Poop hadn’t changed at all. He was the same old pot-smoking rapper I had pined over for four years too long in my younger days. This realization didn’t require a long lecture or a smack upside my head. I got it and I got it fast. But not fast enough to avoid one sexual tryst before he left. That was a mistake. His O face was enough to make me gag. Not only did I not remember ever witnessing this disgustingly contorted expression before (most likely because he had always climaxed behind me in the past), but I had to close my eyes the whole time and try to block out the image of a big dookie pleasuring me.
T-Jax
(T-Jax was the actual name he asked me to call him. No nickname was needed here. The name was dumb enough to represent him.)
T-Jax was a self-proclaimed womanizer who traveled here from the 1980’s, otherwise known as Reno. I can’t recall what exactly attracted me to him in the first place, but somehow he ended up in my bed. For a lady’s man, he was terrible in the sack. I knew after the initial session that I wouldn’t be going back for seconds. Alex the Camel gets one hump. The only problem was that he had planned to visit for an entire week. Again, I was in trouble and had to call on Joe.
“Play sick. That worked on the last two,” Joe suggested.
“I did. He keeps trying to give me pills to cure me. I think he’s on drugs.”
“He’s wearing red Jordache jeans and cut-off gloves. Of course he’s on drugs,” Joe pointed out.
I filled Joe in on the less than satisfactory sex session and pleaded for him to save me. We quickly devised a plan to take T-Jax out on the town and introduce him to other girls, then ditch him. It sounded fabulous. All I needed to do was convince T-Jax to leave the house rather than sit around and draw pictures in his sketchbook of his ex-girlfriend who left him for heroine. He was a mess and I knew the perfect place to introduce him to other messes. We were going to Tryst nightclub.
Tryst is a hot-spot for strippers who try to hide their true identity behind bottles of vodka. The dance floor is open to the terrace outside, which overlooks a magnificent waterfall. It’s a great place to sit and watch the gold diggers on parade without catching one of their diseases. The music is a mix of rock and rap. The energy is high and I knew T-Jax wouldn’t get bored. It’s the kind of place that has a dress code, and we almost didn’t get in due to my date’s awful attire and outdated sneakers. I slipped the bouncer a twenty and asked him not to make a scene of it. He was happy to walk us in after that.
“Whoa!” T-Jax exclaimed like a spot-on impersonation of Keanu Reeves. “Look at that waterfall! I’m so swimming in that before the night is through!”
Neither Joe nor myself took him seriously. Rather, we led him to the bar and began to feed him drink after drink in hopes that he would get drunk enough to miss our sly departure. To no avail. T-Jax’s inebriation made him cling to me like a child. I drug him around all night as he hung on my leg, arm or waist; whatever he could grab onto each time I tried to slip away.
“I can’t shake him, Joe,” I whispered as the night came to a close.
“Let me try,” Joe offered. “Hey T-Jax, let’s check out that waterfall!”
We walked out onto the terrace to view the man-made lake and cascading waterfall. It wasn’t a pool. There was no swimming in this water. It was for viewing purposes only. But this didn’t stop T-Jax. We hadn’t been on the terrace for more than a minute before he had disrobed and climbed onto the railing.
“Watch my stuff,” he ordered and then dove head first into the water.
The music stopped and security surrounded us on all sides. They took T-Jax’s clothes and started yelling at him to come out of the water. He laughed at them and swam toward the waterfall instead. He mocked them by doing the backstroke and singing. I was mortified. A bouncer walked over and asked if I knew him. I nodded no and put on my best “innocent face.”
“I saw you with him earlier,” the bouncer said to Joe. “You’re friend is getting arrested tonight, I suggest you come with us and answer some questions.”
Joe shooed me off, but I followed. We walked down to the lower terrace where two police officers were already waiting for T-Jax to emerge from the water. They were patient considering he swam around for twenty minutes or so before his arms got tired. Realizing there was no way to avoid arrest, he finally swam to them and asked for a towel. That’s when he saw me.
“Jen!” he called over. “Jen!”
Security moved toward me and Joe held them off. “Run, Monkey! Just go. I’ll cover for you. Go home, I’ll meet you there.”
I ran as fast as my little heels would let me. I went home. I did not pass go. I did not collect two hundred dollars. When I arrived, I sat on the couch in silence and waited for Joe. An hour later, he walked through the door sans T-Jax.
“Well, we did it,” he announced.
“What happened?”
“Let’s just say he won’t be back any time soon,” he smiled a devilish grin.
“Do tell,” I insisted.
“After you left, I heard them asking T-Jax his name. He told them Jeremiah. When they asked for his last name, he said Bullfrog.”
“That’s actually hilarious,” I laughed aloud.
“Yeah, well I realized I didn’t even know his real name so there was nothing I could do to help him. But…I could help my Monkey!”
“How so?” I inquired, a little too excited to hear the rest.
“I saw his jeans sitting on a barstool, so I snuck over and rummaged through his pockets. I found his wallet and took it. Since he wasn’t going to give them his real name, I figured he wouldn’t want them to find it on his driver’s license. Then I slid out the emergency exit and dropped it in a flower pot on my way out. He’ll be in jail all weekend.”
“Good job, Captain Cock-block,” I praised and held up my hand for a high-five.
“Sleep well, Monkey,” he said as he gave me some skin.
Sleestack Steve
(Sleestack Steve had no eyelashes, thus earning him the name of a wide-eyed reptilian humanoid from Land of the Lost. Sleestack is also known as Salamander Steve, Stalker Steve, Salesman Steve, Cam Cameraman and EPT. Steve was your classic salesman of all things bullshit with a clingy personality and an obsession with my Facebook page. The Salamander and EPT monikers derived from his pale complexion that turned pink when the sun touched him. Cam was short for cameraman, which was one of his ten professions.)
Sleestack was a mistake from the gate. To begin, his name was Steve, the same as my ex-husband’s, and so I gave him a nickname. I was forthcoming when I told him that I could never call him Steve. I had too many negative attachments to the name and wanted to give Sleestack a clean slate to start with. Additionally, I didn’t like his last name either, so I expressed my reservations about ever marrying him. He didn’t really stand a chance from the word go.
Aside from the name dilemma, he was too short, too pale, had a funny nose, buck teeth and serious body image issues. He also had mental problems. He was desperate, clingy, obsessed, delusional and a stage five Me Monster. One might wonder how I ended up with such a train wreck. I often ponder this when I feel like beating myself up over my poor decisions; which isn’t really necessary because Joe does a pretty good job of doing it for me. The truth is this was a classic case of vagina goggles. I had been sold on Salesman Steve’s sales pitch for love because the one thing he had going for him was his giant penis. By the time I noticed his long list of deal-breakers, I was already ogling over the shiny monument inside his pants.
I had initially thought he was sort of cute. Too short, but cute, like a puppy dog. I took him home to Joe to introduce my new pet. Though cordial and conversational, I could tell Joe didn’t like him. Sle
estack wasted no time interrupting every story Joe told to thank us for not giving him a horrible nickname. “Wow,” he said, “I’m glad I got a normal name. You guys are harsh!” To the best of his knowledge, he was just Cam. He was very sadly mistaken and his comments annoyed Joe so much it warranted giving him more than one nickname as retribution.
Sleestack drank five glasses of water in the first ten minutes of their introduction. Salamanders need to stay moist and hydrated. When he excused himself to the restroom, I quickly solicited Joe’s opinion.
“So, what do you think?”
Joe looked at me with a deadpan face and said, “He has no eyelashes. You’re dating a Sleestack.”
“What the hell is a Sleestack?” I asked.
“From Land of the Lost. Sleestacks live in the Lost City and they don’t have eyelashes. Look ‘em up, Monkey.” He paused and then continued, “You’re not sleeping with him are you?”
“Kinda,” I admitted. Joe gave me a discerning parental look and I felt I needed to defend myself. “What? He has a big dick!”
“Well, you know what that means.” I waited for his answer. “Big dick means big balls.”
Joe was right. The next time I had sex with Sleestack, I noticed the unusually large testicles hanging between his legs. Joe had a way of making see things clearer no matter how unconventional his methods. I also vowed never to look into Sleestack’s eyes again for fear he may read my mind or turn me to stone. In fact, I refrained from looking at his face altogether after that. If I did, all I could focus on was his pink-rimmed eyeballs that were susceptible to dust and other particles due to their lack of protection. At that point, I was really just dating a penis. I disregarded the rest of him. The man attached to the penis was of no use to me anymore. I needed out, but I wanted to take my new toy with me. I felt I deserved a parting gift and a penis was far better than any MMA tee shirt or belt buckle I had received in the past.
