Fade In (4 page)

Now, looking at him and realizing that in a few short months I won't be able to see-see him, he suddenly doesn't look all that great. Soon, all I will be left with is this smug bastard who was always wonders what he was going to get out of everything.

Okay, Tatum. Ass first, then ‘kiss my ass’ second.
It's perfect.

I guess I do have a Birthday Slut left in me after all.

I can see the strategy working on his face. He's trying to contrive a plan that gets him to the sex part of our evening the quickest and with the least amount of bitching.

“I'm sorry, Tatum. I didn't realize dinner was that important. How about I take a shower and make it up to you?”

Yeah, see that? One sentence to apologize and straight into what he wants out of this negotiation.

“Make it quick.”

He makes his way past the bar, dropping his keys and briefcase on the counter. Shrugging out of his designer sports coat and slinging it over a bar stool, he makes short time of getting to my master bathroom.

Making a mental note that after tonight I won't have to straighten up his messes all over my condo anymore, I smile and head to my bedroom for my parting birthday gift.

What is supposed to be my apology screw turns into his victory blowjob after flying through a quick wash-up.
Happy birthday to me.

I'm not trying to brag, but it is what it is. Fellatio is a talent of mine. I have always liked doing it, and men have always appreciated it. They appreciate them...quickly. See where I'm going with that? I'm a penis-sucking prodigy. I'm sure if they knew, my family would be very proud.

So I expect that this isn't going to take long. Besides that, I know what he likes and I decide that this is as good a time as any to dump him. At least I have his attention.

I take the length of him in my mouth to the base and gently do my classic Tatum head shake, which always gets a reaction. Predictably, he moans the word
fuck
like a prayer.

Working my hand in my mouth's absence, I pull completely off him. Asking, “Kurt, baby?” I want him to listen to me. “You are so hot.”
That's true enough.

“Yeah? You like that cock, don't you? Keep going, babe. I'm really close.”

I oblige and take him deep again. “This...mmm...isn't working for...mmmm...me anymore.” I punctuate every few words with my mouth all the way down the length of him. I even cup his balls for good measure. If I'm going to do something, I'm going to do it right—hummers included.

“Huh? Is your jaw sore or something? Just hang in there a few more seconds.” What a sweet guy.

I quicken my pace and feel him working up to a pretty decent climax. His stomach tightens and he leans forward like he always does.

I pull away just before my big finish and whisper, “We are over,” before waxing that dick for the last time. His hand taps my head—like usual—warning me of the explosion about to happen.

Some guys will only spooge a little. Not Kurt. His dick could be compared to the likes of a summer fire hydrant in Harlem after the neighbor kids rig it to spray them.

I know what's coming. It's about to be Kurt.

“What, Tatum? Oh, shit,” he pants as his orgasm begins to rock him. The tapping is striking me funny tonight. It's like he is tapping out Morse Code.

I'm a douche. Tap, tap, tap.

I'm an ass. Tap, tap, tap.

And at the exact moment I feel the first pump go off, I pull his cock from my mouth and aim the head of it right at his face.

“I said we are over, you selfish prick.” Then I get up and walk towards my bathroom. Of course I ram my toe into the dresser on the way and quickly turn the light in the bathroom on.

“What the fuck, Tate? Are you out of your mind? God, get me a towel. Shit!” You could say that the message I sent to him isn't well received.

“You heard me. I'm over this.” I motion with both hands between where I am in the bathroom doorway and where he stands, naked and hunched over, swiping at the come all over his face and chest. “This isn't going anywhere and I'm really not that into you anymore. How about you go home?”

With that, I turn, grab the washcloth he annoyingly threw over the shower door, and fling it at his face.

“Clean up and get out, babe.” I close my bathroom door and wait until I hear him leave.

Was I expecting pleading? I'm really not sure. You would have thought after years of dating and almost living together that he would have at least put up a small fight. He certainly could have asked why, right?

Nothing. Not. A. Word.

That probably bothers me the most. He doesn't want me anymore either. Now I'm wondering if he has been such an ass so that he didn’t have to break up with the blind girl.

I suppose choosing to be an all-out asshat sort of hammered the final nail in our relationship's coffin for him. He's even too selfish to just break up with me.

Now I sit here alone on my toilet with a banged-up toe and a contusion on my head, and the Birthday Slut didn't even get laid.

“That is the best fucking dump in history!” cackles Winnie the next morning while we’re sitting at my table, drinking our coffee, and planning our day of shopping. Scaling down the enthusiasm a little, she asks, “Are you sure you feel up to doing this today? We can do something else, or I can leave if you just want to be alone for a while? Coop and I can bring dinner over tonight, or we could cook for you?”

I hold my hand up to put the brakes on my friend.

“Winnie, I'm fine. Actually, before I did it, I was thinking about how awesome it was going to be not having to clean up after his pretentious ass. I'm feeling a little relieved. Maybe I will be sad later, but I'm just not right now.”

And that was the truth.

“It's like I was finally sick of shuffling the expired milk around in the fridge and just dumped it. I knew that it was bad and just kept working around it anyway. Why? Because having spoiled milk isn't exactly the same as no milk, Winnie. If anything, I can ironically still see my hindsight clearly.”

Her pretty brown hair sways as she shakes her head at my stupid comparison. Since Winnie has a shit-ton of wedding things to get done and I'm such a good friend, we decide to skip the cry-fest and we nurse my broken ego the mature way—with retail therapy.

“We're not getting much done. We at least have to work on the cake,” she tells me as she pulls me into the bakery.

She's not too particular. We eat some cake. We like it, and she's ready to order. After they confirm that they can deliver it to Martha's Vineyard in August for their wedding, she signs the contract and boom it's off the list.

She and I do a little more shopping and she finds some small gift things for people in the wedding party. We talk about my breakup a little more. It isn't a complete waste for her.

I cuss her out for agreeing with Dr. Know-It-All and his ideas of me getting a shrink. Honestly, I'm starting to think I'm crazier than blind by the way everyone's pushing it.

“I don't think you're crazy. I have a psychiatrist. Does that make me crazy?”

She's not going to win this game with me. I went to see a psychologist—or a therapist or a psychiatrist or whatever—right after I was diagnosed. It was dumb. She said that I was depressed and made me take so many fucking pills that I wasn't myself.

I think that depression is natural when there's something to be depressed about. I was fourteen. I was just told that it was very likely that I'd lose my sight at a young age, so yeah, I was a little bummed for a while.

The quack job wrote me a prescription after my first visit and then I was basically a lump of a girl for a few months. I didn't go anywhere. I was always tired. I didn't give a shit.

My parents knew that the medicine wasn't the solution, and neither was that therapist. They took me out and didn't refill the prescription.

So that's my big shrink story. They're just not for me. I know that lots of people get what they need from them and it is possible that the one I saw when I was younger just wasn't that good. I can't discount a whole medical profession because of my shortcomings resulting from a single experience. Again, it's just not for me. But I can tease Winnie about it.

“Yes. You, my dear, are a lunatic. I'm surprised they let you wander freely.”

We walk down the street to the store I've been waiting for—the shoe store.

“You're a bitch. You should get help. Even your brother thinks so.” She points at me with a pretty, red acrylic nail to articulate her crass. “Eat shit, Tatum.”

I buy not one, but two pairs of Jimmy Choos and the wallet that matches my new Kate bag. So I'd call that a pretty fucking decent day.

Deciding to forgo the “are you really okays” from Coop, I tell Winnie that I'm planning on a night of writing and suggest that they go out without me. Winnie can read me like the paper though, and I think she can see that I'm, even if just superficially, actually doing well with the whole thing.

I catch up on some ridiculous gossip magazines, watch some reality television, and read Page Six. Those three things alone can get my sarcastic writing voice to rear its ever lucrative head. Staying current on the un-news is a huge part of my job. If someone shows a tit on a carpet, I want to know. If someone gets drunk and does something unfortunate, we bring light to it in a silly way.

Our show also has original characters that we have developed over the past few years, and we are always trying new ones. It's the relevant segments that make the biggest splashes. Without being bullies, we like to think that we just point out that everyone is human. That is what makes it funny.

So for a few hours I dive into that world. As I'm wrapping up for the night, I decide that I will hire a new personal assistant. Not a work PA, but a life PA.

Lots of people have them. Why not me? I quickly make a note in my phone to talk with Neil, my work assistant, and see if he can help can me sniff out where to find one.

My phone vibrates with an incoming text and I'll be a son of a bitch if it isn't Kurt.

Kurt
: Did you really break up with me?

I look at the clock on the corner of the screen. It is almost one thirty in the morning. I bet he's drunk-dialing.

Me
: I did. I'm sorry. I'm just looking for something else.

That was the truth, and just because he is a major jerk from time to time doesn't mean we didn't have a few nice moments when I saw his personality underneath. So I feel like we are even, considering the hole self-bukake thing I did to him. We broke up. There's no need to argue about it now.

Kurt
: I'm sorry, too. I was a prick.

Is this really happening? Has his phone been stolen by a...a man?

Me
: Are you drunk? What's with the late night texts?

Kurt
: No. I was just making sure that you were sticking by this thing. I thought maybe you were mad and that you would call me today after cooling off and then you didn't.

Now, I feel a touch bad. Just a touch though. Maybe he should have given more of a shit about it before. I'm a clean-break kind of girl. I won't go back.

Kurt
: Have breakfast with me? To make up for your birthday.

I'm so surprised by this news that I decide to go.

Me
: Well, I do like breakfast. I can meet you around nine. You pick the place.

Kurt
: I'll meet you at our place around the corner.

Our place?
Okay. He's being weird. You know how sometimes people sound different in text messages? Without the inflection in their voice? You can't really understand if it's sarcasm or sincerity. Well, not without a smiley face or a winky face, which equally appall me. I won't be caught dead winking in a message. I don't wink at people normally. Why would I do it in a text? I'd prefer a middle finger emoticon, but those are hard to find.

Me
: Okay, see you there in the morning.

Kurt
: Okay. Love you.

I just look at the screen for a long minute. What in the fuck is this all about? Someone really has stolen his phone. This can't be the same Kurt.

My cell again buzzes.

Kurt
: Shit. Sorry.

Me
: Are you alright?

I feel a little more than sorry now, and I'm not sure for whom.

Kurt
: Probably. I'm just realizing some things is all. I really am sorry for being such an ass. That isn't who I want to be. See you at nine. Goodnight, Tate.

Kurt has a conscience? Who would have known? I sort of like him more post breakup than I did before. However, I will stand by my decision. Maybe we will be friends. This could be interesting or really fucking weird.