Hangovers & Hot Flashes

by Kim Gruenenfelder

  “I got you," he whispers, catching me as I give in to gravity.

  Well, now THAT was embarrassing.

  We hug for a minute while I regain my equilibrium. As he gently rubs my back I breathe in his cologne. It’s the same as when we dated. I like that he got ready for me: that he put on his old cologne.

  “You smell amazing," I whisper into Tom’s chest.

  He pulls way from me a little, smiling. “Thank you.” And he kisses me again, and everything in my world is perfect. “Do you want to go to my car or something?” Tom asks. “Maybe we can find somewhere secluded to park?”

  I nod, bashfully grinning like a high-schooler who just got asked to prom by her secret crush. “Sure.”

  Tom gently takes my hand, and we walk towards his car, a black Mercedes that sparkles in the sunlight.

  He walks me to the passenger’s side, beeps his car fob, then pushes me up against his car, his hands gently crawling up under my shirt. As we kiss, he strokes the small of my back. I feel like that area has a direct line right to my… you know. I realize I am breathing much louder than before.

  And so is he.

  We eventually disentangle, and he opens the door for me. I jump into the passenger’s seat, and he walks around his car to the driver’s side. The moment he sits down, I am on top of him, kissing him hungrily. We’re fully clothed, but our hands are everywhere. I slip my hands under his shirt, and realize his nipples are hard.

  Huh – hard nipples. That’s something I forgot about. I mean, one thinks about a hard penis when a man is aroused, but nipples? That is something I totally forgot about. When was the last time Carlos had hard nipples?

  Zoe, stop thinking about his hard nipples, and appreciate the moment. You are kissing the man you thought was the sexiest man on the planet twenty-five years ago. And why are you thinking about your husband? Wasn’t the whole point of this…

  Tom begins kissing my neck, and I feel like I might pass out from the head rush of it. I continue to tingle everywhere. It’s like every cell in my body is amped up and swooshing out of control. Makes me want to rip off all of his clothes, who cares who walks by?

  When was the last time Carlos kissed my neck? Maybe if I asked him to, the sex would be hotter. Of course, if I actually have to ask him to kiss my neck, doesn’t that ruin the moment? It’s one thing to say, “Uh, that feels good." Or “faster” or whatever. But to actually say, “How come your tongue is never anywhere near my neck anymore?” would seem to kill the mood.

  Tom moves his tongue to my ear. Okay, apparently that also has a direct line to my… Seriously, how do people not do this all of the time, every day?

  When was the last time I put my tongue in Carlos’s ear? He used to love having my tongue in his ear. I remember once, when we were fighting, I just leaned into him, licked his neck and blew into his ear, and we had made up and were in the bedroom in minutes. Why don’t I ever do that anymore?

  Because it wouldn’t work. Because he hasn’t moaned like that in years, and eventually I gave up.

  Speaking of moaning, I realize I’ve moved on from heavy breathing to downright moaning, so I try to quiet down as I move to Tom’s ear, and begin licking it. I watch him smile and lean back to enjoy the moment. He’s not really moaning, but he’s definitely breathing heavily.

  I forgot what a trump card the tongue in the ear was. I totally need to bring that back. Good for me!

  After a minute or two, we move back to kissing.

  Minutes pass (hours?). Everything is perfect.

  Then, with my tongue in his mouth, Tom mumbles, “Kids.”

  I pull away from him, confused. “What?”

  Tom jerks his head toward the sidewalk. “Kids.”

  I turn to see a young mom pushing a stroller past us as her four year old drives a Little Tikes pink car next to her. I jump off of Tom like I’m a babysitter whose employers just came home early from date night.

  “Maybe we should move the car," I suggest.

  “Okay,” he agrees.

  As we drive away from that neighborhood to try to find a more secluded area, I turn to Tom. “Just curious. How did you know there was a mom coming?”

  “I had my eyes open,” he answers casually.

  “You were kissing me with your eyes open?” I ask, barely masking my offense.

  “We’re in a public place in the middle of the day. Yes, I’m kissing you with my eyes open.”

  Huh. Maybe this isn’t the hot make out session I thought it was. Maybe I’m in this alone.

  Tom moves his right hand to my left thigh as he drives, and begins stroking.

  Then again, maybe not.

  We park in a secluded spot near Mulholland Drive, and make out for the next two hours.

  And I think I have found the perfect solution to all of my midlife crises.

  There is no drug that gives you the rush that comes from the first few hours of kissing. If there was, whoever invented it would be a billionaire, and people would be getting nothing done all day: farmers wouldn’t bother plowing their fields; they’d be too busy… well, plowing. Los Angeles traffic would be even worse, because everyone would be making out at every red light, then not noticing when it turned green.

  My hands have been under his shirt off and on, and his under mine. But there’s been no other foreplay. As he moves his hand down to the top button of my jeans, I whisper romantically, “Why me?”

  Tom pulls away, looking a bit startled. “What do you mean?”

  I smile with my bedroom eyes and say softly, “You could have any woman in the world. Why me?”

  “Because you,” he answers.

  I practically giggle, then kiss his neck as I rub my hand over his crotch, and move up to undo his belt.

  He leans into my ear and whispers, “Je t’aime.”

  “I love you, too,” I whisper into his ear. “I’ve always loved you.”

  Tom suddenly pulls away from me and says, “Okay. That was amazing. But I gotta get home.”

  Wait, what just happened?

  “Uh… okay," I stammer out. I sit up and move back to my seat. “I thought you had until five.”

  “Well, not exactly. I told my wife I’d pick up dog food at Petco, then pick up dinner for us. So I need to get going.” He leans down and sniffs his T-shirt. “Shit! What is that? Anais Anais?”

  “Yes. It’s what I wore back when we were dating.”

  “Crap. Now I smell like another woman. I mean, I thought you smelled good, but it didn’t occur to me I’d smell like it, too.”

  “It didn’t occur to you that you’d smell like perfume after rubbing against me for two hours?” I ask, still reeling from the whiplash of his 180 degree turn.

  “Put your seatbelt on. I got to get you back to your car. I had no idea how late it was.”

  The ride back was… frosty.

  I spent it trying to figure out how to get back the Tom I had been talking to for the past week. The fun Tom. The good listener who I could tell anything to. The one who thought I was sexy. The one who just said, “Je t’aime."

  When he pulls up behind my car, I make a move to salvage the situation. I put my hand on his knee and lightly rub his leg. “Five more minutes?” I ask sweetly.

  Tom takes my hand, kisses it lightly, then announces, “So how about if we talk in a few days?”

  “Uh… You don’t want to talk tonight?” I ask, confused.

  “We’ve been on the phone for hours every night," Tom says in a defensive tone that makes me think he’d rather chew his arm off and sneak away than continue this conversation. “I should probably pay some attention to my wife. I don’t want her to get suspicious.”

  “Suspicious of what?” I ask, a little belligerently. “I thought you guys… I mean, you said you guys were pretty much split up?”

  “We are. I just… I’m not ready to move out this very second. I need to go.”

  “Okay,” I agree, trying not to sound like a rejected puppy.

 
But I don’t want to say goodbye, and I am blindsided by his abrupt ending. I lean in to kiss Tom one more time. His kiss back is Coyote Ugly tightlipped.

  Just like the kisses he used to give me the morning after we had sex.

  Right before he would break up with me again.

  Fuck. How did I forget about all of those mornings? How did I push out of my mind that pit that weighed down my stomach a few hours after we slept together? Because I got that pit every time. I have been so focused on the drug of making out, I totally forgot about the withdrawal symptoms that come from the inevitable breakup: the nausea, stomach cramps, feelings of worthlessness, depression.

  I take the hint, and pull away from him. Then, despite myself, I force a smile. “Okay, I’ll see you soon.”

  “Okay, drive safely.”

  “Right. You, too.”

  I get out of the car, then walk around to the driver’s side of the car and motion for Tom to roll down his window. He does. “Yeah?”

  “I had a really good time today. It meant the world to me," I tell him softly, then give him a kiss through his window. “See you soon?’

  “Sure. But let’s not talk for a few days.”

  “That seems extreme," I argue.

  Yes: I argue. Good for me. When I was twentysomething, I never would have had the nerve to challenge him like that. But fuck it. I’m forty-six. Life’s too short, and he’s being a dick.

  “I just need to take a step back and think about everything," Tom tells me. “Don’t write to me. I’ll write to you.”

  I sigh loudly. “You got it," I practically spit.

  I make a point to quickly walk away, as though I’m leaving him. As though these last few hours didn’t mean shit to me.

  But, in reality, I’m right back to being that clueless, struggling girl getting rejected all over again.

  And Tom and I are right back in the same loop we’ve always been in: He’ll disappear for awhile. I’ll wallow in self-loathing for days or weeks, waiting for him to come back. Eventually, I’ll miss him, and send a quick email. He’ll take a day or two to respond. Maybe a week.

  And when I’m finally over him, when I finally realize I deserve to be treated kindly, he’ll pop back up.

  I guess I’m making progress. Twenty odd years ago, after he’d done the “Fuck me, dump me” dance, I would spend the rest of my night crying and eating everything in my fridge. At least now I’ll go home and… well, eating in a rage is better, right?

  My phone beeps a text. Hoping it’s Tom, I click on.

  Nope. Carlos.

  Can you pick up a chicken at Costco? Actually two. I want to get at least one drumstick as Hoover cleans the first bird down to a carcass.

  Sure. You want those potatoes you like, too?

  I knew I married you for a reason. Oh, and dish soap. I love you.

  Which reminds me, we also need toilet bowl cleaner and Lysol wipes. I get into my car, and head back to my real life.

  And wonder what I’ve just done to my marriage.

  Thirty-four

  Alexis

  By Tuesday night, I still hadn’t heard from John. Instead of going home right after work, I decided to stop by his house with a peace offering: a dozen red tulips and a gift.

  I walk into the Malibu Beach Complex, and make my way through the maze of grayish white condos to get to a small nondescript middle unit. I take a deep breath for courage, rock my head left to right quickly to loosen up my neck, and ring the doorbell.

  John opens the door, and he looks amazing in a pair of Levi’s, and a plain, white T-shirt. How is it some men can make middle age, even more rugged and handsome?

  “Hi!” I say, too brightly.

  He looks confused. “Kris isn’t here.”

  “I know. She’s at my house dogsitting. I’m here to see you.”

  John says nothing. Just eyes me warily. I hold up the tulips and the box. “I brought you a thank you gift. Can I come in?”

  John takes a moment to debate my question, and I use that time to push past him and let myself in like nothing’s wrong.

  His first floor is nothing like I pictured it would be. It’s tiny. I don’t know why I assumed all Malibu places were big. But his living room is modest. The living room and dining room are one medium sized room, but not in an open concept way. More in a There’s not enough space for a couch and a table for six and a wall, so pick two way.

  There is a table for four in the dining room that’s small, but charming. In the living room, the couch is a fold out bed: currently unmade, with wrinkled grey sheets and a pile of blankets dead in the center. The dresser off to the left shows me his living room is also his bedroom.

  And when I turn around to watch him close the door, he makes it clear he does not want me in his bedroom.

  “The scholarships are real," I begin.

  John stares at me, uncomprehending.

  “I know it sounded like we were lying and I was trying to help pay for Kris’s college,” I continue. “But they’re real. My company also gives a few hundred thousand dollars to charter schools every year, and money to a school for girls in Africa. Education is kind of my thing.”

  He crosses his arms. “So… you weren’t planning to just add more money to a fund and siphon it off to her?”

  “Well, it’s not really siphoning if it’s my money," I point out.

  He continues to stare at me.

  Keep swimming, Dory. “Look, I know I fucked up. Can you just tell me how and what I can do to make this right, because I like you and I like Kris and I want to move on.”

  John continues to watch me. “Move on from what?” he finally asks.

  I can’t figure out how to answer that, so I change the subject by handing him the flowers. “I know your favorite color’s green, but I couldn’t find any green flowers other than colored daisies, and I thought they looked weird, so I figured these would be nice. Do you have a vase?” I hold up the gift. “And also, you’re a dude, so I got you something… uh… more manly.”

  I hand him the white box. He opens it to see a baseball tucked inside a clear display case. “It’s a Red Sox ball, autographed by Pedro Martinez. You’re a Red Sox fan, right?”

  “Yeah…” John says, seeming completely confused.

  Which is my cue to keep babbling. “I tried to get something by Babe Ruth…”

  John raises an eyebrow. “Babe Ruth?”

  “But you’d be surprised how hard that is to find on short notice. Also, there was a guy named Denton Young who was pretty well known, but I literally could not find anything signed by him…”

  “Cy,” John says.

  “Don’t sigh, I’m trying really hard here.”

  “No. Cy. Cy Young. He’s not known as Denton.”

  “Oooohhh…" I say, suddenly feeling stupid. “Like the award?”

  “The Cy Young Award?” he asks, and I hear a tone of condescension. “Yes.”

  I would think this ball would be a bigger hit. So then I sigh, “Well, do you like it?”

  He holds the ball in his hand. “I love it. But I can’t accept it.”

  “Why not?”

  John takes a moment to collect his thoughts, then announces, “Because I’m not Connor.”

  He says it with a tinge of anger. Just a tinge – not enough for me to call him on it.

  “I know that," I say, a little under my breath.

  “No. I don’t think you do," he contends. “Look, I liked you. Kris does like you. But this isn’t going to work.”

  “Okay," I say weakly.

  We both stand there for a minute, neither one moving. I would say anything to fix this, if only I knew what to say. “Do you want me to go?” I eventually ask.

  “I think it would be a good idea,” John says.

  I sadly head for the door. John hands me the clear box. “You forgot your ball.”

  I wave it away. “Nah. Keep it. I think we’ve established I already have too many balls for my own good.”


  He continues to hold it out to me, but I insist, “Keep it. I was really grateful to you for Saturday. For all kinds of reasons. I was just trying to pay you back.”

  And his tinge of anger develops into a stain. “You don’t have to pay me.”

  “I wasn’t paying you!” I explain in frustration. “I was paying you back. By doing a nice thing! A nice thing that, by the way, I did all by myself. I spent hours looking for this thing, after spending hours Google stalking you because I was trying to be nice.”

  “Okay, well, maybe try not being so nice.”

  “That is bullshit, and you know it!”

  He shrugs. “Fine. You asked me what was bothering me and I tell you and now you tell me I’m wrong. So I think we’re at an impasse.”

  We stare at each other like a villain and a sheriff on the main street of a town in the Wild West, each waiting for the other to pull the gun.

  Trouble is, I’m not sure if I’m the sheriff or the villain. Finally, I storm off.

  At least he didn’t throw the ball at me.

  Thirty-five

  Michelle

  True to his word, Nick is waiting for me outside of the first condominium, a presentable two bedroom in Eagle Rock, at ten a.m. sharp on Wednesday. Which is a nice change of pace after all of the hours I have spent waiting for Steve to arrive late to places.

  As I pull up to the curb, my stomach does a little belly flop.

  There is nothing spectacular about Nick’s outfit. He is just wearing a dark blue button up shirt and jeans. But as Vanessa would say, “Scrumptious. With a spoon.”

  I, on the other hand, am not dressed so casually. The dress is new, the product of a six-hour shopping trip to every high-end department store in town. My makeup took almost an hour, and I had a blowout done at my favorite salon yesterday.

  Even though we’re not getting together again, so it doesn’t matter.

  And, really, aren’t women supposed to wear lingerie to make themselves feel better? I believe that’s what I told the Victoria’s Secret salesgirl yesterday when I handed her my credit card.