“Fine,” said Quinton, “we can go to Ruth’s Chris, Little Miss High Maintenance.”
“Oh my God.” I said, by this time exasperated. “I don’t care where we go, let’s just get it over with.”
“That’s the spirit,” Quinton said, in all seriousness.
I both dreaded and anticipated the night immediately. After all, what I saw on the first date was Quinton’s A-game. I couldn’t wait to see how he acted when he wasn’t trying to impress me.
The date was like
Groundhog Day
. It was as absurd as our first date, the only difference being that this time I expected drunken insanity. Moe’s didn’t have a full bar and only sold Corona, so it took a little longer for Quinton to get drunk, but the end result was the same. He didn’t ask me about the pregnancy, leading me to believe that he didn’t know about it or the fact that our date was a result of blackmail.
This time, however, I was also drunk by the time we swung by the Tiny Tap. I ordered a Pabst Blue Ribbon on tap, sat back, and enjoyed the mayhem. At one point Quinton stood on the bar and pissed into the trash can at the end of the bar. His buddy followed suit. All this time I had thought “pissing contest” was an expression.
I presumed, as we left the Tiny Tap, Quinton again with a roader, that we were on our way to pick up ice cream and apple pie again, which I planned to put in the freezer before tucking in Quinton on my doorstep. As I dreaded this task, a cop pulled Quinton over.
“What should I do, Jenna?”
“Get out your license and registration.”
“I mean legal advice. I can’t get another DUI.”
“Another one? Seems like you may know more than me about the subject.”
“You’ve never handled a DUI?” Quinton asked.
“No. I’m not a criminal attorney.”
“Didn’t they teach you about DUIs in law school?”
“Nope,” I said nonchalantly. “That’s one of the misunderstandings about law school. We don’t learn jack shit about avoiding a traffic ticket or DUI. I can teach you about the rule against perpetuities though.”
“What the hell is that?” Quinton asked.
“Basically it means that no interest is good unless it vests, if at all, not later than twenty-one years after some life in being at the creation of the interest. It limits a testator’s power to earmark gifts for remote descendants.” As I was explaining this, Quinton tanked his roader beer in order, as he explained it, to “avoid having an open container in the car in case the cop inspected it.” He really was dumber than I imagined.
Quinton was busy chewing an entire pack of watermelon Bubble Yum gum to disguise his breath when the officer said, “License and registration please.”
He opened his wallet as he hit the skip button on his CD player. Evidently he wanted to hear one more good song before heading to the slammer.
Quinton handed the cop a toll booth receipt along with a credit card.
“Are you paying attention to me, sir?” the cop asked.
“Yes sir, I um, it was an unconscious move. I’m a channel surfer.”
“License and registration,” the cop repeated as he handed the receipt and credit card back to Quinton.
Quinton started fishing around for his actual license and registration as the officer said, “Do you know why I pulled you over, sir?”
“Did I cross the center line?” Quinton asked, unsure of himself.
“Yes, and the line on the right side. Weaving if you will.” The cop turned to me and said, “Ma’am, has he been drinking tonight?”
As I debated the extent to which I would throw Quinton under the bus, he said, “Nope. I’ll take a Breathalyzer test to prove it.”
Quinton blew into the portable device like an innocent man, clearly under the impression that Bubble Yum disguises intoxication. After blowing a .29, far above the legal limit but far below the .36 I predicted, Quinton began a series of field sobriety exercises to prove his innocence. His balance and hand-eye coordination were actually good. His lack of focus, no doubt due to his extreme ADHD, was the reason for his miserable performance. He couldn’t seem to remember the easiest instructions regarding walking heel-to-toe or doing the one leg stand.
The cop pulled out the cuffs and started reading Quinton his rights. Quinton asked me to call Sarah, but fortunately he couldn’t remember her number. I called my brother John to pick me up, then went home and got a good night’s sleep.
Sarah was crazed the next day at work. This was her “little Tony’s” third strike. He would be in jail for at least a month, have his driver’s license suspended and it would cost a lot of money. She demanded to know how I, Jenna Rosen, insurance lawyer extraordinaire, or at least mediocre, let him get arrested?
“You did it on purpose. You never wanted to go out with him. He told me you’re the one who broke his heart all those months ago. I’m half-tempted to tell David about your little fake pregnancy.”
My heart stopped and bullshit started flowing out of my mouth. “No, Sarah. I don’t hate Quinton, or Tony, or whatever else you call him. In fact, we had a great time. We’d probably be going out again tonight if he wasn’t, you know, in the clink.”
“Really?”
I gulped hard. “Yes.”
“He’ll be out in a month or so, you know,” Sarah advised.
“Great. We can just pick up then. In the meantime, you’re not going to tell David about the pregnancy are you?”
“Of course not. You’ll need to keep this good job to support my baby when he moves in with you.”
Yeah. That’s going to happen.
* * *
My final races before maternity leave were in Clermont. Clermont boasts Sugarloaf Mountain, the highest hill in Florida. Not only is Sugarloaf the highest, but also the steepest. The center has a twenty percent incline. Granted, it’s only about a kilometer long, and the steep section is only 100 meters, but it’s tough. There are a number of professional triathletes who train in Clermont during the winter. Additionally, a number of teams trained there prior to the Atlanta Olympics. The family that lives at the summit of Sugarloaf is well aware that the property sits on the highest peak in Florida. They put a six gallon supply of fresh ice water outside their house each day of the year, and often bring food out, as well. One weekend a year, they allow their front yard to be the finish line of this race.
I love Sugarloaf Race Weekend. I had won last year and was very motivated to do so again. There were three good climbers at the race, the best a talented forty-five-pound sixteen-year-old girl. Being a lightweight is an advantage in the mountains, where the person with the strongest power to weight ratio tends to win. This applies to hills as well, though obviously bigger riders have an easier time powering over a hill than a mountain. Oddly, Brenda was there. Though she was a decent hill climber, she normally robbed me of the opportunity to kick her ass in the hills by not showing up.
The women’s race started at nine a.m. and finished at high noon. Racing a bike at midday during the Florida summer is like being in a sauna on the surface of the sun. Thirty minutes into the race, my drinking water was hot enough for a tea bag, but I kept drinking it. Disgusting, but necessary. In the draft, I was hit from sweat from the two riders ahead of me and it was delightfully refreshing. For laps one and two, I opened a huge gap on the entire field at the steepest section of the hill. However, after the hill, Brenda and two of her teammates shared the work to reel me back in. On the third and fourth laps, I conserved energy, confident that I could beat everyone up the hill for the finish without having to break away from the pack beforehand.
With a mile to go, a woman from Tallahassee attacked. She was extremely strong, but I didn’t think that at five-ten and 150 pounds, she could make it through the steep section without being caught. Accordingly, I gambled and let her go and stayed in the pack until the base of the climb, when I attacked. Two-thirds up the hill, I knew I’d won. I kept pedaling, but easier now. Fifty yards before the finish line, I glanced back and saw the closest person to me was six bike lengths away. I relaxed, took my hands off the bars, and began to coast toward the finish. With thirty meters to go, I saw something out of the corner of my eye. It was the sixteen-year-old. She drew even, then shot by me before I could put my hands back on the handlebars. That little kid had been sitting on my wheel since I’d attacked at the base of the climb and I never noticed because I couldn’t hear her over my own breathing or see her because she was tiny and in my blind spot. I accelerated and closed the gap immediately, but I ran out of road and she won by the width of a tire. I finished second as a result of user error and hated myself. I’d never take my hands off the bars and celebrate a finish again until after I crossed the line. Hell, I would never even slow down from now on until I crossed the line. “Jenna Rosen, you’re a stupid fucking dumbass,” I said to myself over and over, even as I was enthusiastically congratulating the junior on her first win.
Brenda finished fourth, but was smiling so much you’d have thought she’d won. She was clearly delighted that a high school kid beat me even though the high school kid was a very good racer.
I talked to Danny on the way, updating him about Quinton’s relation to the maniac paralegal I always talked about.
“Holy shit! Quinton’s mom is the Sarah Smith you talk about? I’ve fucked her.”
“What?”
“A long time ago, before she was Sarah Smith actually. I forget what her married name was at the time. Anyway, I was drunk at Quinton’s house after a party he had and she started hitting on me.”
“I’m going to throw up.”
“Why? She was a hot forty-year-old at the time and I was fifteen years old or maybe even younger. I raced in the junior category at the time. Anyway, she was a MILF, what can I say?”
“I think it’s a MIDF once you actually hit it.”
“What’s that?”
“Mom I Did Fuck. Seriously, you’re grossing me out. I have to go.”
The race pissed me off so much that I couldn’t eat or talk at dinner. I’m pretty sure my foul mood could have continued for days if my mom hadn’t healed it with the most memorable line ever uttered in the Rosen household.
“Hey, Jenna and Julie, do you guys squirt?” She said this in the most innocent and inquisitive voice.
Julie almost choked on her rice as John asked, “Did you just ask my wife and sister if they squirt?”
“Yeah,” Mom said. “There are no secrets with family.”
“Yeah, there are,” John, Jason and I said in unison.
“What brought this to mind?” I asked.
“My middle school kids were talking about it in the cafeteria. I never heard of it before.”
“Do you know what it is now? Have you seen it?” I asked.
“Where would I see it?” she answered.
“You really need to learn to Google anything you’re curious about. I’ll show you, it’s kind of funny.”
“I have no idea what we’re talking about,” Dad said.
“I’ll show you, too,” I said. John and Julie were dreading the awkwardness as much as I was looking forward to shocking the hell out of my parents.
I went to my parents’ computer, pulled up the Google bar, and typed in the “W” to start the phrase “women squirting.” “Women titties,” “women fucking,” “women eating women,” and “women: lesbians until graduation or ‘LUGs’ for short” appeared in the tool bar. Clearly, Jason had occasionally been using this computer. I typed in “women squirting,” and in no time up popped countless links to just that.
Unfortunately, the first video clip didn’t start with just squirting. I backspaced and clicked on the next link. Same problem. I didn’t mind watching the spectacle of squirting with the family, but a sex scene was awkward. I looked away until I heard Mom shout, “Ewwwwww.” I turned back towards the computer and saw a girl, spread eagle, squirting like a geyser into the air.
“Get the fuck outta here!” Dad shouted. “What the fuck was that? Play that again.”
I was laughing uncontrollably as I hit replay.
“Geri,” said Dad. “I can’t believe you just asked Jenna and Julie if they squirt.”
“Thank you,” John said from the corner of the room, where he was sitting and passing on porn for the first time in his life.
“I didn’t think that’s what it would look like,” said Mom, to redeem herself. “Looks like a lot of clean-up is involved.”
“It looks like trick photography is involved,” Dad responded. “What is it?”
I Googled the phrase to get a more clinical, less visual, explanation.
Female ejaculation refers to the expulsion of noticeable amounts of clear fluid by females from the paraurethral ducts and/or urethra during orgasm. The exact source of the fluid is debated, although some researches believe it originates from the Skene’s gland. There is no solid information about the source of the fluid, but chemical analysis performed on the fluid has revealed that while it sometimes contains at least traces of urine, it regularly contains chemical markers unique to the prostate (whether male or female).
“Didn’t your parents tell you about the Skene’s gland and female ejaculation during the birds and the bees chat?” I asked my parents.
“Hardly,” Dad responded.
Everyone was in a good mood as I was leaving my parents’ house, so I thought it was an opportune time to tell my parents about their upcoming dog sitting assignment. Usually I just dropped off Sonny when I was away for the weekend. I had never dropped him off for more than three days, so this was going to be a tough sell. “By the way guys, I’m going to be traveling for work for about three months starting next week, so I’m going to need you to watch Sonny.”
“Three months?” asked Mom in a high pitched voice with a stunned look on her face. “How can your office make you travel for three months? What if you had a kid?”
I smiled at the irony and said, “But I don’t.”
“But if you did.” Mom said, “what would you do with Sonny if we weren’t here?”
“But you are.”
“But if we weren’t? What are you doing for three months?” Mom asked me.
“We’re opening an office in Charlotte soon. I volunteered to help develop the subrogation department because I wanted to chill out up north for a while.”