Turds in the Punch Bowl (A Story of No Ordinary Friendship) (15 page)

“Omigosh, Joe, just tell me.”

“Look Monkey, he’s not tall. He’s only an inch taller than me, but he’s proportional. I’m not trying to be gay by saying this, but he’s handsome. You’ll like him. Just don’t tell me I came all the way out here to sit and listen to his dumb ass stories to have you back out.”

“Would I have sex with him?”

“Yes. Yes you would. So get your ass in your car and drive out here.”

And that’s just what I did. While I drove through snow and ice storms across the northern plains, Joe flew back to Vegas and waited for me to report home once I arrived. He was right. Roger was short for my taste, but he was sexy. The first three days of my five day visit were a whirlwind of romance. We couldn’t leave his house because of his ankle bracelet, so we stayed in and had lots of sex. While the snowflakes fell outside and winter settled in on Minnesota, Roger and I hibernated under blankets in his basement and made out over and over and over again. That was, until he looked at me on the third night and said, “I think you should leave. This isn’t really working out.”

What
…the fuck? The guy who was too short, too young, on house arrest, lived with twelve roommates and punched people for a living was dumping me? I was floored. I felt like such an ass. More like a fool, really. The first thought that crossed my mind was the heyday that Joe was going to have at my expense once he found out. It wasn’t a broken heart that made me cry, it was knowing that I would never live this down as long as Joe and I remained friends. I was going to have to “break up” with Joe when I got home if I ever wanted inner peace again.

It was bad enough the weather wasn’t going to permit a safe trip home, but to add, my car was stuck in Roger’s driveway. No amount of salt or roommates was able to dig it out in time for me to depart during daylight hours. And to boot, Roger took his “work leave” that day so that he didn’t have to say goodbye. I was the discarded cougar from Las Vegas whose ass got hit with the door on her way out. The roommates tried to console me, but after six hours of hard labor to dislodge my car from the snow, they were happy to see me off as well. It was a nightmare.

So there I was driving back across the Heartland of America in the middle of the night with tears streaming down my face. The only thing to do was call Joe. But I couldn’t. I didn’t want to face him. I felt so stupid; stupider than Potato Bug Courtney. I made a vow to keep driving until the morning. As the sun rose and fell again, I realized I hadn’t stopped to sleep. Once in Utah, I decided to finally phone Joe and tell him I was coming home.

“Do you need a hug?” he asked.

I was relieved to find he was relatively compassionate. “That would be nice.” I told him. “I’ll be home in six hours.”

I was tired, exhausted and broken, but I drove the rest of the way home. As I pulled onto our street, Joe was standing in the driveway with his arms open wide, ready to give me my hug. “Welcome home, Monkey!” We hugged it out for what seemed like an hour.

“I’m tired,” I finally said. “Let’s go inside.”

“Hold on,” he stalled, “I need to get my things out of my truck.”

“What things?”

“My bags,” he said.

“Were you going somewhere?” I was confused.

“No, I was in Chicago when you called. I hopped on the first flight out to be here when you got home so I could give you a hug.”

Like a real idiot, I was tinkering with the idea of getting back together with my ex. We had been divorced for years and he often showed up at my doorstep drunk in the middle of the night. “I just want to be near my family,” he would confess before passing out. He knew the routine. His place was on the couch downstairs, while I closed and locked my door upstairs. I didn’t mind him staying the night or sobering up in a safe place, so long as he didn’t make any moves on me. This went on for years.

One night, I must have been feeling sentimental because I let him come up to my bedroom to watch a movie. It didn’t take long to find myself snuggled up in his arms again. We didn’t necessarily fit together anymore, but it was nice to hold him. He tried kissing me, but I wasn’t interested. I really just wanted to enjoy his company and see where that led over time. I didn’t want to rush anything. It was a delicate situation since we had a child together. Confusion would only confuse things more. I think Confucius said that.

The evening went off without a hitch and so would’ve the morning if had I told Joe of my intentions. He was protective and wanted more for me than to let my ex continue to cock-block my suitors from the sofa. When Joe woke up and saw Steve’s car in the driveway and an empty couch, he devised a plan to make sure to put a stop to any further visits or potential reunions; unbeknownst to me.

I was sleeping soundly next to Steve when my bedroom door swung open and I was awakened by the sound of a strumming guitar. I turned over quickly to find Joe in a white thong, safety vest and helmet. He proceeded to sing a song he had just written called “No Monkey Sex with the Ex,” followed by a serenade dedicated to Steve, an acoustical rendition of “Happy Trails.” Needless to say, my ex never spent the night again. Here are two snapshots of Joe that morning.

(Poop got his name because he is black. I dated Poop in my early twenties when I called him Reginald. Somehow, Reginald filtered his way back into my life in my late twenties after I had 'gone back' or seen the light as some call it. I wasn’t terribly against visiting the Dark Side again, and the promise of mind-blowing Monkey sex with him was definitely on my agenda. I loved having sex with him. That was, until Joe seared my brain with a mental image that wasn’t exactly appetizing. “What’s his penis look like, Jen? I bet it’s like fucking a piece of poop!”)

I hadn’t talked to Poop in years. One day out of the blue, I received a phone call from him.

“I’m going to be in Vegas this week. I was hoping we could meet for lunch.”

A few days later I walked into Sierra Gold and saw Poop sitting at the bar. He looked remarkably the same, except older and more distinguished. He had always been handsome. His skin was smooth like chocolate silk and his big brown doe eyes sparkled like marbles. His hair was still in dreads and pulled back into a beanie. When he smiled and waved me over, his teeth glowed brighter than the brothers at Cheshire skate. His smile melted me, and I could smell his essence even before I approached him. He smelled like licorice root and patchouli.

“Hi,” I gleamed as I hugged him and sat down.

After ordering, we caught up on all the
how have you beens
and
what are you doing nows
. He was proud of how far I’d come in my art career and I was surprised to find out that he was opening a boxing gym; in Vegas. He was in town to scout locations and meet with a commercial real estate agent. It was no wonder he looked ripped under his white tee shirt. I could almost see his rigid abs rippling like a bubbling chocolate brook down to the button fly of his jeans. I suddenly became flushed with anticipation of rekindling our amazing sex life. But then he got really serious.

“I’m sitting in front you today, to tell you I’m sorry,” he started. “I’m sorry for never believing you when you told me you loved me. I never understood how you could love me the way you said you did.”

Poop and I had always had a tumultuous relationship. We had great sex. I loved him and
he
loved him. For four years I tried to make him love me. On a few occasions I could completely blow his mind in the bedroom and we would find ourselves driving to The Little White Chapel to elope in the middle of the night. But we never got married. One of us always backed out; a decision I failed to make years later when I married my husband in the drive-thru. Poop continued.

“I never knew how you felt until I fell in love. I suddenly realized that what I was saying to my girlfriend was all of the things you had said to me. I finally got it. Anyway, that’s over now. It’s been two years and all I can think of is you. I want to tell you that I am here, now, and that I am ready to be the partner to you that you always knew I was capable of being. I want to be that man now.”

I was so taken back that I cried. It was sweet. He was sweet. I looked at his chocolate ripples and thought,
what the hell?
We finished our lunch and arranged to meet up for drinks and bowling later that evening. We got high on hookah and played a few games of makeout bowling. His kisses were as soft and succulent as ever. After seducing me with his big lips and countless strikes, I was ready to take him home. I asked him to stay with me for the rest of his visit. He went to check out of his hotel and I went home to tell Joe.

“Poop’s gonna be staying with us for a couple of days.”

“Cool,” was his response, but I knew he wasn’t happy about it.

I didn’t know Poop was going to practically move in and turn my bedroom into his music studio while he was there, but that’s what happened. Joe made no bones about the fact that he thought Poop was all wrong for me. He started by subtly mentioning that he hoped I wasn’t going to record another rap album in my room. I knew what he was getting at, but I paid no mind.

The second day, Poop had taken over the downstairs as well. Joe came home from work and stood in the kitchen. Poop was on the patio smoking a spliff and practicing his new song with his headphones on. He hadn’t heard Joe come in.

“Monkey!” he yelled.

I came running down the stairs. “What?”

Poop was still oblivious to our presence. He just kept singing at the top of his lungs and writing notes in his songbook.

“What the hell is this?” Joe asked. “He’s taken over the whole house!”

We looked around and it was true. Poops things were scattered all over the sofa, coffee table, counter and carpet. I knew I was about to get a stern talking to.

“Come here,” Joe insisted and grabbed me by the arm to escort me to the living room. “Look closely. What do you see?”

“I know, his stuff is everywhere. I’ll have him clean it up.”

“I’m not worried about the mess. It’s what’s in the mess that I want you to look at it,” Joe pointed.

I looked at the coffee table where Joe was pointing and examined the contents of Poop’s mess. “I see a bag of weed and watermelon juice,” I told him.

“Exactly!” Joe shouted. “Weed and watermelon juice, Jen. Is this what you want your life to resort to? Weed and watermelon juice. Really? Need I say more?”

He needn’t. I knew right then that Poop hadn’t changed at all. He was the same old pot-smoking rapper I had pined over for four years too long in my younger days. This realization didn’t require a long lecture or a smack upside my head. I got it and I got it fast. But not fast enough to avoid one sexual tryst before he left. That was a mistake. His O face was enough to make me gag. Not only did I not remember ever witnessing this disgustingly contorted expression before (most likely because he had always climaxed behind me in the past), but I had to close my eyes the whole time and try to block out the image of a big dookie pleasuring me.

(T-Jax was the actual name he asked me to call him. No nickname was needed here. The name was dumb enough to represent him.)

T-Jax was a self-proclaimed womanizer who traveled here from the 1980’s, otherwise known as Reno. I can’t recall what exactly attracted me to him in the first place, but somehow he ended up in my bed. For a lady’s man, he was terrible in the sack. I knew after the initial session that I wouldn’t be going back for seconds. Alex the Camel gets one hump. The only problem was that he had planned to visit for an entire week. Again, I was in trouble and had to call on Joe.

“Play sick. That worked on the last two,” Joe suggested.

“I did. He keeps trying to give me pills to cure me. I think he’s on drugs.”

“He’s wearing red Jordache jeans and cut-off gloves. Of course he’s on drugs,” Joe pointed out.

I filled Joe in on the less than satisfactory sex session and pleaded for him to save me. We quickly devised a plan to take T-Jax out on the town and introduce him to other girls, then ditch him. It sounded fabulous. All I needed to do was convince T-Jax to leave the house rather than sit around and draw pictures in his sketchbook of his ex-girlfriend who left him for heroine. He was a mess and I knew the perfect place to introduce him to other messes. We were going to Tryst nightclub.