Authors: Daralyse Lyons
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Chapter Thirty-Nine
I’m sitting in the waiting room at Dunkin’s office, ready for him to be done with work so we can meet my friends to go to Dave & Buster’s for a night of adults behaving like children. It’s my friend Bridget’s birthday and we’ve all decided to celebrate her turning thirty by playing arcade games, binging on ice cream, and staying up past our bedtimes.
As I sit in the waiting room, leafing through the latest issue of
People Magazine
, I notice Julia, Dunkin’s receptionist, watching me intensely.
“Is everything okay?” I ask her.
“I just don’t know how you do it…” she says, fingering at the cross around her neck. “Or why.”
“How I do what?” I ask her.
“How can you lay with a man who lays with other men?”
“Excuse me?” I’m confused.
“Well, the cat’s out of the bag about what you and Dr. Wilks are into,” she says. “And I know it’s none of my business, but I just believe in monogamy. Actually, it’s all a sin in my opinion. Only married people ought to be intimate with each other but that’s just my opinion. And God’s.” She adds the last as an afterthought, as if God were just an old acquaintance of hers who happens to share her point of view.
It takes me a minute to realize that Julia is probably referring to Dunkin and my antics with Frank Peony. Should I explain? Do I clarify? If I do tell her the truth will it get back to Frank and, if so, will that end up costing the practice money? I hate that she has the wrong idea about Dunkin and me, but I don’t think it’s my place to tell her the truth. Not that I could if I wanted to.
I’m tongue-tied.
Trying, unsuccessfully, to shrug off the women’s judgment, I turn my attention back to the magazine and to more important things—like Jennifer Aniston’s killer body. Do you know that she not only follows the Zone Diet, but works out six days a week and has an intense yoga regimen? I peruse the movie star’s diet and exercise routine with interest despite the fact that I have no intention of modifying my own eating or exercise habits.
As I read, I can feel the receptionist’s eyes on me, boring into me as if she were capable of performing an exorcism simply by staring. People can be so judgmental. Of course, I can too. I mean, who am I to be sitting here casting dispersions on Lindsay Lohan’s lack of recovery or on Miley Cyrus’ proclivity for twerking. Apparently, all of Dunkin’s office thinks I’m part of a gender-ambiguous love triangle. I wonder if the rumor mill is strong enough to reach Pamela Drew who probably wouldn’t give a thought to outing me as a sexual deviant at work. I shake off the thought.
I’m being paranoid. Besides, I haven’t done anything wrong. Even if I was part of a non-traditional relationship, it’s nobody’s business. I’m not. But, still. As I sit here waiting for my boyfriend, my anger level begins to rise. Who is Julia to judge me? She claims to be Christian and loving, yet, clearly, she’s condemning me based only on idle rumor and speculation. Besides, even if I were into some unusual sexual practices, it shouldn’t be her place to condemn me. What a sanctimonious bitch! I’m so incredulous on behalf of my right to my nonexistent, swinging sexual preferences that I’m about to tell Julia off.
Thankfully, Dunkin saves me from making a fool out of myself by walking in just as I am standing up to begin launching into my diatribe.
“Hey, babe,” he greets me. “You remember Julia, right?”
“I do,” I say. “Okay. Bye, Julia. We’re heading out. Have a good night,” Dunkin says cheerily.
“You too, doctor,” she says. Do I detect the faintest hint of contempt in her tone?
When we get out of the car, I tell Dunkin what happened.
“Do you know that there are rumors circulating about me and you and Brice?” I ask. “I can’t believe we were so stupid as to pretend to be swingers and bisexual swingers at that. And now everyone at work thinks you’re a pervert.”
“I am a pervert,” he winks at me.
“This doesn’t bother you?”
“Not in the least. Anyone I like and respect either won’t care what I do in my own bedroom or will ask me about it. I can’t waste my time worrying about what someone else thinks of me, especially someone who I don’t respect and whose opinion I don’t care about.”
I am in awe of him. How can he not care? How can he not obsess about not being liked? I should learn from him. I should learn to let go of needing other people’s approval. But, with Vanity Ross as my mother, I come by my low self-esteem honestly.
I was brought up being judged. If I had a therapist, I’m sure we’d delve into this deeper. I don’t have a therapist. I have my boyfriend, my friends, the video arcade, and the promise of ice cream. And, at least for now, that seems to be enough.
Dunkin and I arrive at Dave and Buster’s a few minutes late. Mandy, Bridget, Louis, and Leslie are already there. Brice and Carlo are running late and arrive five minutes after Dunkin and I. There is much hugging and happy-birthday-ing.
Since we’re going with the “inner-child” birthday theme, when the bartender asks us for our drink orders, each one of us asks for either a root beer float or a Shirley Temple depending on our preference and we take our drinks with us to the arcade area.
“Dance, Dance, Revolution!” Mandy exclaims. “I’m the ultimate at that game.”
We follow her. True to her word, Mandy is a master at digital dancing. She hops, bops, and steps to the beat, jumps around, and wiggles her hips at all the right times. A crowd soon gathers to watch her shake what her momma gave her.
“That’s my girl,” I say proudly as I slurp up some of the ice cream from the bottom of my glass.
It seems like forever before a fatal misstep disqualifies Mandy from continuing on with her dancing. She steps red when she should’ve stepped blue and the words “Game Over” flash across the screen, taunting her for her mistake.
“Damn it,” she says. “Oh, well. I had a good run.”
Next, we all go over to skeeball, the game where you have to roll balls into numbered slots and are given tickets depending on your rolling aptitude. I’m good at skeeball. I know how to get the ball in the hole.
When I say this to Brice, he laughs at me then says suggestively to Dunkin “You better let her know that the ball isn’t the thing that goes in the hole—if you know what I mean.”
I swat at him playfully and tell him to get his mind out of the gutter. We’re having a good time. This is the best thirtieth birthday party I’ve been to in a long time. Because Bridget chose to celebrate turning the big 3-0 here, there has been no morose reflection about getting older, no sanctimonious toasting of another passing year, no mental inventorying of failed expectations or unrealized aspirations. We’re a bunch of thirty-somethings reliving our lost youths and it feels great.
“Let’s play Wack-A-Mole” Dunkin suggests. He’s impressive with a mallet, whacking and bopping as I contribute to the cause by walloping moles with my bare hands (the game only supplies one bludgeoning implement).
By the time we are all starving and ready for dinner, and dessert, we have amassed a large quantity of tickets which we can redeem for prizes. Unilaterally, the eight of us decide to bequeath our tickets to Bridget to pick out whatever she wants. It is, after all, her birthday.
We head over to the prize area, holding our bundles of tickets like newly-discovered treasure. After dumping the tickets into a bin to be weighed and counted, we are told that we have earned a total of 1,187 tickets.
“Wow!” Bridget says in awe.
Like a kid in a candy factory, she wanders around looking at the various items available and marveling at her options.
“I’ll get this lava lamp and clock radio,” she decides. “This is awesome, guys. Thank you.”
I do not point out that, for less than what we spent to play all these games, we could have bought two lava lamps and half a dozen clock radios. Why rain on her parade?
Bridget goes to pay for her selections, and, after all is said and done, still has ten tickets left.
“Can I have them?” Brice asks.
“Sure.”
He is staring intently at the candy section. Brice snags the last Twix bar from the bin and a packet of skittles which together will total exactly ten tickets.
“Hey!” an approximately eight year old kid shouts at him as Brice heads up to the register with his purchases. “I wanted that Twix bar.”
The kid is indignant.
Brice is indifferent.
“Yeah, well, I got it,” he says. “Better luck next time.”
The kid starts screaming at him. “You’re a meanie! Give me my candy! You’re too fat to eat candy anyway!”
Brice appears unperturbed. He gives his tickets in in exchange for his candy, peels open the wrapper of his candy bar, and takes a bite of chocolaty caramel with nougat.
“Mmm… delicious,” he says as the boy rushes at his legs and begins wildly attacking Brice’s shins.
Brice shoos him away unsuccessfully. I’m immobilized by my surprise, but Dunkin steps in, picks up the child, and deposits him in the corner along with a stern warning to behave. As we walk away, the child screaming obscenities at us as we go, Brice continues munching on his candy bar.
“Do you remember the episode of
Seinfeld
when the mechanic steals George’s Twix bar?” I ask.
“Who doesn’t?” Louis replies.
Then we are laughing and talking, on to new topics, smiling about the crazy, misbehaved child, and remarking aloud at the absence of a parental figure during the whole exchange. But, when we make our way to the restaurant section of D&B’s and take our seats and Brice orders only a chicken Caesar salad for dinner I know that that kid’s comments must’ve gotten to him.
Chapter Forty
When Brice tells me his date with Malcolm the Art Guy is a flop, I can’t say I’m surprised. My best friend is not at all pretentious and Malcolm seems like the kind of guy who goes antiquing and drinks only imported wine. For their first, and only, date, Malcolm insisted they go to the Opera. I’m not sure what possessed Brice to agree to attend a show in which obese women sing about love in Italian but, seeing as how he reached out to Malcolm just a few days after the Robin-tackling debacle I am guessing he wasn’t at his best. Either that or Brice has little or no self-awareness, hence the need for his own dating diet, but, when I mention that to him, he glowers at me.
We’re sitting at the diner down the street from my house eating omelets while Brice recounts his unfortunate date.
“The man knits sweaters,” he tells me.
“That’s impressive.”
“For his
cats
.”
“Okay, that’s a bit creepy.”
“And he’s ostentatious. He mentioned at least three times that he thinks it’s ‘cute’ that I’m a social worker. Cute.”
“What does he do?” I’m incensed. Brice is good at his job and really makes a difference in the world, or tries to, anyway.
“He’s a buyer for Sotheby’s. He travels internationally and has an expense account.”
“He sounds like a jerk.”
“Oh he is! No way I’m going to date him again. The only good thing about it was the goodnight kiss.”
“You
kissed
him? I thought you hated him.”
“Oh honey,” Brice laughs. “I do. But I can’t hate on those lips.”
I smile. I will never understand gay men—or straight men either for that matter. I don’t even bother to try. Instead, I change the subject.
“How’s your omelet?” I ask.
Chapter Forty-One
It’s not every day that you catch your boyfriend on the phone with a phone sex operator and, while I believe Dunkin that he accidentally dialed 1-800-sex-I-can instead of 1-800-Mexican while trying to order take-out, I can’t help but have my doubts. True, as he pointed out, the fact that he chose to make the call from my landline at a time of day when I was home combined with the fact that it was around lunchtime and, as usual, my fridge was empty of anything more enticing than yogurts and cheese strengthened his case that the call to the sex line was a misdial. Still, just the idea that Dunkin and my sex life might not be satisfying enough starts to eat away at me. It’s silly, I know.
Dunkin and I regularly “get it on” or take it off as circumstances warrant. Anyway, we have an active sex life. But, when I call Leslie to talk about it—my face beet red with embarrassment—she suggests incorporating toys into our lovemaking.
“Toys?” I’m no prude but nor am I interested in flogging my boyfriend or having random implements inserted into either one of us. “I got a boyfriend so I didn’t need a vibrator, now you want me to get a vibrator to use with my boyfriend?”
“Oh, honey,” Leslie says, “There are a world of options out there all of which can be incredibly fun. This weekend, I’m taking you shopping and I won’t take no for an answer.”
I wonder where does one shop for sex toys? I don’t have to wonder long because on Saturday afternoon I drive over to Leslie’s place then we take her car, a beat up Ford Taurus, out to Allentown. We’re two women looking for a good time—or, rather, for equipment so we can have a good time. I am mortified.
When Leslie pulls up into the Condom World parking lot, it takes me a minute to muster up enough courage to follow her inside and, when I finally do walk through the swinging glass doors, I want to turn around and walk right out.
An eclectic collection of dildos, penis pumps, edible undies, women’s lingerie, dominatrix paraphernalia, porn videos, and several items I don’t recognize and can’t even conceive of the usage for (and am not about to ask) are everywhere.
Leslie takes me by the hand. “Don’t be scared.”
“I’m not scared—exactly.”
“So what are you?”
“Overwhelmed? Embarrassed? I don’t want Dunkin to think I’m some sort of sexual deviant.”
“So we’ll go tasteful. Lingerie, a strap on, a movie or two, some edible undies.”
I feel like I’m in an episode of
The Twilight Zone
as Leslie leads me around the store while quizzing me about my sexual preferences and experiences. I’d always known she was experienced but, by comparison, I feel like the Virgin Mary. Before I met Dunkin, I was no stranger to masturbation. I even owned a vibrator and, on several occasions, I’ve tied up and been tied up by men I was dating. I’ve even used handcuffs. But, Leslie introduces me to things I’ve only heard about. Feeling out of my league, I listen as my friend extolls the virtues of one sex toy after another.
“What do you think about this?” she asks holding up a bright purple penis.
I start to giggle. Finally, I tell her that it might be best for me to defer to her judgment.
“Just pick out a few things that might spice up my sex life,” I instruct her. “And I’m looking for mildly spicy, not fiery hot.”
She smirks. “So no jalapeno-flavored edible undies?”
I roll my eyes, but I let her fill my basket with whatever she deems appropriate, minus the anal beads. I draw the line at butt stuff.
“Oh, you and Dunkin will have so much fun!” Leslie is positively giddy.
I’m cautiously optimistic myself. While the other day’s Mexican food had been delicious, the phone sex operator had mentioned several things that she was willing to do to my boyfriend that Dunkin and I haven’t ever done and, even though I was shocked and appalled at the time, upon further reflection, and a day spent with my most promiscuous friend, I’ve decided that embracing my inner freak just may be a good thing.
Leslie drives me back to her place. I put my bags in my trunk, and we drive our respective cars over to the local movie theatre where my typical crew of friends is getting together to see a movie then go get a drink. It’s been great spending more time with my nearest and dearest. I’ve missed my posse. As tends to happen when I’m with Brice, Mandy, Bridget, Louis, Leslie, and Carlo, we’re having way too much fun to call it a night.
One movie turns into a double feature, one drink turns into two and before you know it I am driving home at 2:00 a.m., crawling into my house—not drunk, just exhausted—and falling asleep on the couch. I’m too tired to even make it to my bed.
Sunday morning, I get up early, shower, shave my legs and head over to Dunkin’s house for our typical day of donuts and cuddling. When I arrive, I discover that he’s left me a note to say that he’s already gone on the donut run and will be back in a flash. He walks through the door ten minutes after I do, carrying two Boston Crèmes and two crullers. Delicious! All I have to do is open my mouth—then, later, my legs—and all is right with my world once again.