by Denise Wells
Tabatha’s face creeps in and I imagine it’s her I’m slamming into from behind.
“Get it, cowboy. Get it,” Trix cries.
But, in my mind, it’s Tabs calling me a cowboy. And it’s not creepy. She’s wearing boots, a fringe vest, and a hat. Nothing else. Her pert ass thrusts toward me. She’s not touching the toilet seat though. Because we’re fucking in a fancy unisex restroom. Against the vanity. Like civilized people.
I sigh with relief as I finally come. It’s not even a good orgasm. More a release from pressure than anything. As I still against Trix’s ass, she straightens and brings her toilet seat hands behind her head to grab my face and force my lips to hers. “You sure fucked that horse, cowboy,” she mumbles appreciatively.
Confirming, without a doubt, the role we each played in her fantasy.
“All I’m saying is, it’s never happening again,” I tell Gregor. He laughs, as though he doesn’t believe me. I don’t blame him. I’ve said the same thing before after we’ve left a double date he’s set me up on.
“Believe it when I see it, brother.”
I scowl at him, but his eyes are on the road and not me.
“Dude, I washed my face with antibacterial gel after she touched me with her toilet hands.”
“I love how the only thing that bothered you about this is that she touched the toilet seat.”
“What else should bother me?” Because if I’m missing something, I’d like to know.
He shakes his head and laughs to himself.
The girls had met us at the bowling alley in a separate car and left the same way. So now Gregor is driving my slightly drunk ass home. I yawn and lean my warm head against the cool glass of the passenger window. “Tell me how Becky was?”
“How she was? Not all of us had sex in the bowling alley bathroom, man.”
“No, I mean, as a person. As a date. How was your night?”
“It was good. Real good. I like Becky a lot, but she’s real skittish about getting into anything.”
“I thought she asked you out?”
“She did. I have a feeling that the idea of dating was more appealing than actually dating. We’re going to keep in touch and when she’s ready, I told her to give me a call.”
“You’re a good guy, Gregor. You know that?” My words slur.
“That I do, my friend. That I do.” He sighs.
“I’d date you,” I tell him impulsively. “Hell, I’d marry you even.”
“I’m touched, Pax. That means a lot. Especially coming from you,” he says drily.
“Thanks, man.” My voice is sincere even though I know he’s not serious. “Hey.” I change the subject, just not necessarily for the better. “Do you think it’s odd that I had to picture fucking Tabatha in order to finish tonight?”
He laugh/coughs. “Do I think it’s odd?”
“Yeah, like that I’m still hung up on her or something?”
“We both know you’re still hung up on her,” he says.
“No, I’m not!”
He looks at me. I do my best to hold his gaze.
“She was my first love,” I whine. “That shit sticks with you forever.”
He shrugs.
“G, you aren’t helping.”
“What would you like me to say, man? I’ll be honest. It sucks that you thought of her, absolutely. But not just for you. You were inside one woman and thinking of another. How do you think that makes Trix feel?”
“She doesn’t know.”
He glances over, one eyebrow raised.
I roll my eyes. “There is no way in hell she knew. And even if she did, in her mind I was fucking a horse, so really, who’s in the wrong here?”
Gregor chuckles. “I already forgot about that.”
“Yeah, well.” I gesture aimlessly, thinking that somehow proves my point.
He turns onto the main road leading toward my house. “You going to call her?”
“No.” I scoff. “Actually, I didn’t get her number. Come to think of it, she didn’t even offer it . . . why the fuck didn’t she offer me her number?”
“Maybe she just doesn’t like you?”
“That’s impossible. I’m a catch.”
Gregor makes a sound reflecting disbelief.
“Fuck off, man,” I tell him.
“It’s a good thing she didn’t, brother. This way, there are no false hopes or expectations on either part.”
“But how does she not realize that I’m a step up?”
“I do love your humility, P. It’s awe-inspiring.” He slows the car in front of my house.
“Appreciate the ride home, G. Talk to you later?”
“Yup.” He pulls away before the passenger door is all the way closed. I stumble to my front door, suddenly exhausted. I manage to get it unlocked on the third try, kick off my shoes and fall onto my couch, clothes and all. I’m passed out within minutes.
13
Tabatha
Hunter falls asleep shortly after we make love, as is his habit. I don’t even know if he ate dinner. But instead of worrying about it, I throw on some yoga pants and a sweatshirt and head out to the living room. As much as I hate to admit it, this is a routine that we’ve fallen into of late, where I’m wide awake after sex and he’s conked out. I enjoy sex with him, very much, but it isn’t typically an activity that will exhaust me.
I grab my favorite throw blanket and spread out on the couch, grabbing the remote to turn on the TV and flip the channel to infomercials. Between them and any sort of home shopping channel, I can occupy my mind for hours on end. The key is to not think too hard on any one thing. I suppose, in that respect, it’s almost like meditation. If I start to concentrate too much, I just switch the channel. If there’s one thing that late night television is never short of, it’s mindless marketing.
Right now, my thoughts tend to breed discontent. Which is not to say that I’m unhappy. Or maybe it is, I’m not sure. I’d be lying if I said that seeing Pax, knowing that he is lying about who he is just to participate in my wedding, doesn’t do strange things to me. And by strange, I mean those thoughts that lead to discontent.
My life with Pax was not what I would have called healthy. But there was a passion that is hard to ignore when looking back. When you’re young, or at least when I was young, it was easy to confuse passion with love. Still, I know in those deep moments when I’m honest with myself, that Pax is the great love of my life. Regardless, it doesn’t make him right for me.
Which is just one of the many gems I’ve learned in therapy. Along with just because she’s my mother doesn’t make her a good one. All it takes to become a mom is compatible eggs and sperm, along with a nice place to hang out for forty weeks or so. Which, in no way qualifies a person to take responsibility for the molding and sculpting of another human being.
According to my therapist, my mother and I have the classic representation of a co-dependent relationship. As long as you understand that I’m the co-dependent one.
I hate that diagnosis, by the way. Hate the way it sounds, hate the way it makes me feel. My therapist says that much like most things we are trying to change, acceptance is the first step. So, here I am accepting that I am co-dependent on my mother.
All of which makes my mom sound like a horrible person, and she’s not. She’s just not a good mom. She was a great business manager and motivator in my career though. If she was careful with the money I made her, she’d never have to work again. I can’t say the same for myself. With “my” money, we were more reckless. Since Hunter doesn’t really want me acting, the clothing line is a much-needed lifeline. As is the autobiography. It’s near impossible to stay relevant when you aren’t thrusting yourself into the public eye.
Since social media has become more and more prevalent, and with the upsurge of citizen journalism, you have to be one of the lucky few who are in demand just because you exist, or you work your ass off to remain interesting. And the only way to do that is to put your life on di
splay. Your very fractured and imperfect—as is everyone’s—life.
It makes me think of a very well-known actor. He was huge up until about five years ago. He’s still a box office success with everything he touches, but his personal life has gotten in the way. Mostly because of his wife, a B-list actress at best, who comes out with something near-headline worthy every couple of months to get her name back in the press. She’s addicted to porn, she’s a sex-addict, she was abused as a child, she hasn’t cried in twenty years. All of it is sad, but the near compulsion to reveal it so publicly, that’s what I can’t take anymore.
My talk show was so popular due to the stories I would share with my guests. In reality, I was a kid no matter how mature I may have acted. Because it was acting. As such, the shit that would come out of my mouth was usually honest and brutal. Whether about myself and my life or someone who I’d worked with before. It was pretty much no holds barred, all speculation and gossip to get the laughs.
So, it stands to reason that I no longer want to be on display. Hunter, however, craves it. He craves it like his next breath of air. The irony of who I picked to share my life with is not lost on me. Hence the big wedding, the media announcements, the photographic proof of the entire process, and he’s entertaining the idea of broadcasting the ceremony on the internet. Like we are royalty or reality TV stars.
Shit, I kind of am a reality TV star. Or at least I was.
I grab the remote to change the channel again. I need something a little more engaging if I’m ever to turn my brain off and fall asleep. I have sleeping pills that I use in an emergency, but I don’t like to rely on them all the time.
I find an old black-and-white movie with Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn, two of my all-time favorites, and settle back into the couch to watch it. Cary Grant plays a scientist who gets caught up in one of Hepburn’s many schemes. If I were to go back to acting, this is the type of movie I’d want to star in. Unfortunately, there isn’t a market for slapstick comedy that relies solely on dialogue any longer. Even with comedies now, special effects are key. Unless it’s raunchy. Which I don’t care to do. And it’s not like Seattle is the hub of the entertainment industry.
Sigh.
I wake with a start just as the sun starts to rise. I fold my blanket and place it back over the arm of the couch then make my way back to our bedroom. I’m not sure if Hunter realizes I sleep on the couch most nights. It’s nothing to do with him, I just can’t relax with the silence and I don’t want to disturb him.
I crawl into bed next to his prone form. It amazes me how he can fall asleep on his back and stay that way until he wakes the next morning. I will wake up thirty-seven times a night and in a different position each time. I curl on my side, tuck my pillow between my arms, with my cheek resting on the back of my left hand and somehow fall back asleep.
“Good morning, my queen.” Hunter sets a cup of coffee on my nightstand and wakes me with a kiss to the forehead. He’s dressed for his day already.
“What time is it?” I ask groggily.
“Just after eight,” he says. “I didn’t see anything pressing on your calendar and didn’t want to wake you.”
“Oh, thank you.” I smile, pleased with his thoughtfulness. I sit up and take a small sip of my coffee and sigh with happiness. Hunter makes perfect coffee.
He checks his watch and before he turns to leave, he says, “I have to go, but I will be at the Cascadian House at four-thirty.”
“I’ll see you then,” I call after him. He’s already clicking away on his phone. Today, we are viewing a venue that is large enough to accommodate seven hundred people. A number that makes me shudder. Because I’m sure if he put his mind to it, Hunter could justify inviting that many people.
It’s an older venue set atop a cliff overlooking the sound. I know from the photos that the views are absolutely breathtaking. And it’s one of the few properties with its own lighthouse. But it has some flaws. Many of the features are outdated as they are original to the time when the home was built. It tends to get a little too cool inside the buildings and the ancient elevator has been known to spontaneously stop working.
Some say it’s the ghost of the original builder, William Cascadian, and his wife trying to get people to leave so they can spend eternity in peace, relaxing in his masterpiece. As legend has it, it took Cascadian ten years to finish the property, and he went bankrupt doing so. Shortly before it was completed, he traveled to Chicago to meet with potential investors for funding to finish the project and open as a luxury hotel. On his return flight, the plane had mechanical difficulties and crash landed. It was reported there were no survivors.
Upon hearing the news, his wife was so distraught she took her own life. Days later, William appeared, having survived the crash along with a few other passengers. When he learned of his wife’s passing, he locked himself inside the main ballroom and drank himself to death. Literally. Hence the reason the ghosts yearn for peace and the chance to enjoy the fruits of their labors. Who knows if it’s true, but I like the story anyway.
So, this venue excites me just because of the history involved. That, and a number of fantastic movies have been filmed there. I would love to immerse myself in the vibe and soak up the ambiance. It’s my first pick for a venue, but I don’t want Hunter to feel as though that gives him free reign to invite twice as many people.
I finish my coffee and head to our home gym for a workout before getting ready for my day. I think about calling Crystal to see if she can come work out with me, but I know it is more hassle than it’s worth. For her, not me. I’m more than happy to section off an area for the twins to go crazy in. But it means she has to get them all packed up and ready to go, get toys and changes of clothes, snacks and drinks, diapers and wipes, and any other number of things that I’m forgetting in order for her to come over here for an hour.
She gets her workout in getting them ready to go before she even comes over for the workout. But she loves it. And I’m happy for her in the same vein that I’m jealous of her. Her life is complete, she has everything she wants. Meanwhile, I feel like I’m over here flailing to keep my head above water, plan a wedding, and convince myself it’s okay to spend my life with a really good guy.
I hit the elliptical machine and force myself up to level seven for thirty minutes. Then I sprint on the treadmill for another thirty before moving on to free weights. Yes, I know I obsess about my weight. See how you would feel if you grew up in the public eye during puberty, playing a role that required you to stay cute and small. Next, imagine adulthood when you might finally relax about it, only Hollywood prefers hipbones to show and your fiancé likes you to be rail thin. Then he decides he wants pictures and videos of the planning and wedding to be plastered everywhere.
Weight would be your primary focus as well.
14
Pax
Today’s wedding adventure has us touring the Cascadian House located on a neighboring island. The only way to get there from Seattle is by ferry. At least with some of the islands, like the one I live on, I can take Tacoma Narrows Bridge through a few neighboring towns and over to Port Orchard. It’s not super convenient, but it lets me avoid the mess that is the commuter ferries when I want to. And trying to be anywhere at four-thirty in the afternoon using the ferry, puts us at commuter times. So, it’s crazy busy.
Like right now, I’m in line to drive onto the ferry. It’s like waiting in line to get on an airplane. Everyone lines up and waits. Then sits and waits. Then travels and waits. I’m not even on the ferry yet and I already feel like this outing has taken too long. There’s still a twenty-minute ferry ride to get there after this. Good news is, I’m charging Nipplecock by the hour and that includes travel time.
Today is my first foray into the photography world as Matthew Hanhauser without my mustache. I’m fairly confident I won’t be recognized. I haven’t really been in the press since the breakup with Tabatha. And you’d have to be a hardcore photography fan to have seen
a picture of me or know what I look like anyway. But I’m still using the remainder of my disguise—the hat/wig and the glasses.
Tabatha is the only one who will know it’s me, making me wonder if she said anything to the fiancé about Matthew being me and vice versa. I can’t imagine I’d still have this job if she did, so I’m going to guess the answer to that is no. I drove my Jeep today so I can enjoy satellite music. “She’s So Cold” by the Rolling Stones is playing. I drum my hands against the steering wheel in time to the music, take a peek at the surrounding cars, then drum my hands some more. I seem to be the only person this agitated. The person behind me is just staring off to the side. I wonder if she’s asleep.
Wait a minute.
I’d know that red hair anywhere. Tabby is in line behind me.
I suppose, given the appointment time versus the ferry schedule, the chances are good that we’d be on the same one. But one in front of the other in the same lane is a surprise. I watch her for a while, but she doesn’t move or do much. She looks good. Sad, but good.
A car horn sounds from somewhere behind us, Tabatha jumps and accelerates. Her car bumps into mine, which flusters her. There can’t possibly be any damage, she wasn’t driving more than five miles per hour. I watch her put it into park and move to exit the car. The lot attendant knocks on her window, gesturing her forward. I laugh when she tries to argue with him. More honking occurs. And I notice I’m actually the problem in our line, not her. The cars in front of me have moved, and I’m still sitting here. I proceed onto the ferry and park my car, waiting for her to pull up behind me.
She gets out of her car and peers first at her front bumper, then at my back one.
“Any damage?” I ask, ignoring Tabs and looking only at the bumpers.
“I don’t think so, I’m so sorry—” She looks up. “Oh god, of course it’s you. How did you manage this one? I mean, I’m actually impressed that you somehow engineered me running into you.” She makes a pfft noise and throws her arms up. “There couldn’t possibly be any bigger pain in my ass for me to run into anywhere in the greater Pacific Northwest.”
