Sex Shop Valentine: A Short Story

Okay, I just wrote another short story, just for fun, in honor of last week's plasticine holiday. Sometimes the day meanders by uneventfully, and sometimes it's a make-or-break celebration. It all depends, I guess, on the status of your romantic relationship(s) or lack thereof!

So here it is :

Sex Shop Valentine

By: Terri L. Weiss

So I’m always the one who changes the toilet paper roll. Always. Because two or three little sheets are stuck to the cardboard on, like, every roll, after my boyfriend’s done. Sorry, but I’m definitely not a guy. I need more than that to get clean, you know? And another thing? I don’t understand why he thinks bottle caps need to be screwed on so tight I need a pair of pliers to open them. I mean, peanut butter doesn’t evaporate. And omigod, can’t he stick with watching one show from start to finish? I wish he’d hand over the remote to me, cuz at least I know how to be decisive. I think the only reason we’re still dating after a whole year is, well, you know. Some things make us more tolerant.

I have to admit, I’ve been feeling a little guilty about something I did two weeks ago. Okay, it was 

pretty bad. Not like he didn’t deserve it. He’d dropped his clean laundry basket on the floor, right near the bed, a week earlier. Then, instead of putting his things away, he used the basket like a dresser. Because his actual dresser is a disaster. I know, I know, more typical guy behavior, right? But an entire week? Really?

Maybe I went a teeny bit far when I dumped the cat box in the remaining pile of clean underwear and socks in the basket. I told him, “Slob doesn’t work for me, dude. Next time, put your laundry away like the rest of the world.” The thing is, the rest of the world was hanging out in our apartment at that moment, watching the Superbowl. Awkward. Not for me, but definitely for him. I suspect his friends were embarrassed for him, too, even though they know what I’m like. Hell, I've dated half of them, which is how I met him in the first place. All the tech guys at Slate.com get take-out from the deli where I work.

As I said, slob doesn’t work for me, but full-out psycho isn't gonna work for my boyfriend once he stops thinking with his dick. Cuz, to be honest, I’d crawl into a hole and never come out if he dumped me. He might be The One, as dumb as that sounds.

With Valentine’s Day looming, I decide it’s time for me to turn over a new leaf before it’s too late. I don’t want to hear it’s a Hallmark holiday, blah blah blah. For me, Valentine’s Day is gonna be Terminator Salvation Day. The big question is, exactly what do I do? A sudden burst of supercali sweetness would make my boyfriend suspicious, like I’m insincere or up to no good. Plus I don’t know if I could live with myself if I OD on sugar. On the other hand, gradual reform would test my resolve to the breaking point, and he might be long gone by the time my transformation from the Dark Side is complete.

No, I need to do something übercool, and make it count. How ‘bout Yankees tickets on Opening Day? Nah, his boss would never let him take time off work. Besides, that’s over two months away. Suppose I cook him an amazing meal? Boringggg. I do that already. Umm, take him to the zoo, cuz he loves animals? It’s February in New York. Fuggedaboudit.

I have a brain flash, unoriginal but totally appealing: buy a great sex toy online to make Valentine’s Day something special. Then, after an incredible night, I’ll stay motivated to behave myself, and he’ll be so blown away by our tremendous feats of magic that he’ll never realize I've been kinda over the top. To keep it a surprise, I’ll do my sex toy research when he’s working late or asleep.

Life between the Superbowl kitty poo event and Valentine’s Day goes on as usual. Work, dinner, tv, sex, sleep, rinse, repeat. Then Thursday rolls around a week earlier than I’d expected. Don’t ask me why I thought I had more time. It must be from slicing all that meat and cheese. One too many ham-and-swiss-on-rye, hold-the-mustard, sandwiches. Cuz here it is, Valentine’s Day, and, except for a bunch of e-cards, I’m empty-handed after I finish work. I’m actually terrified that my boyfriend will come home with flowers when I have nothing for him.

Talk about feeling like a total loser. It’s too late to order something on the Internet. Unless it’s an instant download, like a video stream, or movie tickets, or an e-book, none of which is exactly übercool. I want to give him something amazing that he can hold in his hands, besides me, of course.

There’s only one thing I can do now: Go to an actual sex store -- for the first time since I turned 18 and thought I was so badass -- and buy something for tonight. As per my original plan. So I Google ‘sex shops New York’ and add my county. In an Adobe flash, three stores pop up. One is only eight miles away. I vaguely remember commercials for the place on a local cable station.

          Okay, even with my navi on, I have to do two u-turns to find True Blue Rendezvous. So how weird is it that a shop could be right on an entrance ramp to the highway? There it is, along a little squiggly bypass road. Easy off, easy on, for the horny people who go to these stores. Buy a dildo, throw it in the car, head to the Super 8 motel at the next exit. Damn. I can’t believe I’m pulling into the parking lot to join the Super 8 crowd.

I wait in my car for a few minutes to check out the customers. The other cars could’ve been parked at Dunkin' Donuts. Nothing skanky. A Camry, a Civic, a Wrangler. One beaten-up Econoline with an NRA sticker --  well, there’s always somebody like that around. Although, in all fairness, if I were in Tennessee with my New York plates and my ‘First Amendment First’ decal, the locals would think I was a flaming crazy. But this is New York -- who says I gotta be fair? 

An average-looking blonde in average-looking clothes wanders out of the store. She disappears into the Civic, and drives off. Hopefully I won't be the only woman in the store now. I’m in the middle of zipping up my jacket when a black car pulls into the lot. Two swarthy guys, probably in their late 20’s, like me, pop out. They laugh as they go into the store, Clickkk, off goes the engine. I grab my handbag and slam the door behind me.

There’s a bzzzz when I climb the stoop, push open the door and step inside the store. Behind the front counter is an array of bongs and pipes. A surly-looking Indian guy slouches by the cash register.

“Excuse me,” I say. My voice sounds squeaky. “Can I ask you a few questions?” What am I, an undercover cop?

The Indian guy points at the door. “No questions, no answers. Get this clam, then maybe. You leave now.”

Huh? C‘mon, I need help, give me a break, I think. “This clam?” I ask.

“This clam-UH’” he says. “No liability that way.” For a guy who’s English-challenged, he sure knows how to turn a legal phrase or two.

“Disclaimer?” I ask. “I’m not suing anyone.”

He shrugs and turns his back to me.

“Lookit,” I say. “I want to buy something for my boyfriend, that’s all.”

He busies himself with the bong display. Hell with him. I march toward the center of the store where I spot the two guys from the black car.

“Nothin’ good left,” says the taller one. He points to an empty metal rack. “Fatty Patty’s gone.” There’s a blow up display doll above the rack. She’s obese and red-cheeked, say, two feet tall and just as wide. Taped to her belly, a torn strip of paper proclaims, 'Love my fat.' Right next to her dangles a single pair of plus-sized crotchless fishnets. The tall dude pulls the fishnets off the rack and frowns. “Wrong color.”

The shorter dude hands him a package. “Think she’ll like this?” he asks.

"Absolutely." Mr. Tall grins, and tucks a plus-sized schoolgirl costume under his arm. “See anything else?”

I edge past the big girl teddy rack -- also empty, I’m afraid. I want to tell Mr. Tall there are plenty of Judy inflatables, but Judy is an average white girl, probably unappealing to a dude like him. Maybe he’d like a blow-up Guidette, The Whore From The Jersey Shore. There are two packaged Guidettes left on the rack, with a logo that says: ‘I want your friggin’ sausage.’

Wait a sec, who am I shopping for?

I pass the video department. Why would anyone buy videos in this day and age, with free porn all over the Internet? An old guy, that’s who. A grey-haired guy in a suit looks frazzled in front of the ‘Big Tits’ section. He flags down a girl with a nametag on her sweatshirt. “Miss? Do you have a searchable database?” he asks.

I don't hang around for the answer. In the near-empty BDSM section, a lonely pair of panties with an attached leash lies in a heap on the floor. I hurry past the handcuff shelf. There's a rhinestones studded pair that catches my eye. Nah, I'm not into that stuff anymore. In the back of the store, the dildo aisle beckons. I‘m hoping to find something there, even if it’s just for laughs. Lots of six-inch white-guy ‘American Topper’ dildos stand nice and perky, all in a row. Labels for ‘Antonio,’ ‘Juan’ and ‘Leroy’ are taped above empty shelves. Sold out. I glance at the photos: Seven, eight and nine-inch Hispanic and Af-Ams. Plain vanilla is definitely lameass at True Blue Rendezvous.

The girl with the nametag dashes over to me. “We had a run on these for Valentine’s Day, sorry. But I just found one Suavé at the register, if he'll do.” She pronounces it ‘Swah-vay’ with an authoritative accent, and hands me a twelve-inch Hispanic model.

“Not quite what I was looking for.” I head toward what I think is a locked jewelry case with a side-mounted spotlight. ‘Vibrators, $199.99 And Up.’

“I know, they're expensive, right?” I jump, because I didn’t see the girl following me. “How 'bout these? They start at $99.99, made in the USA and guaranteed safe.” She tugs a sealed plastic box from a metal rod. It looks like it contains purple jumper cables. ‘Vibrating Nipple Clamps.’ The purple control box has a red, heart-shaped button. 

The plastic casing looks strong enough to house a rocket-launcher. I mean, it would take so long to break open the package, my nipples would fall off. I guess that's where pliers, aka bottle-opener, would come in handy again.

“Um, thanks. I think I’ll need to come back here with my boyfriend.” This isn’t working out like I planned. I’m not buying anything, just wasting my time. When I don't have time to waste. I hear the same bzzzz as I push through the front door and unlock my car.

What the hell am I gonna do?

On the way back to my apartment complex, I pass a Barnes & Noble. I make a U and head in. Even though the store is deserted, I hope I’ll find a cute card or something. Most of the Valentine’s Day cards at B&N are gone, so it won’t take me long to scour the leftovers.

A cue-ball dude with a soul patch appears by my side. The green apron he’s wearing looks pretty silly, but I know it’s not his choice. I mean, my yellow-and-white uniform is totally idiotic, but that’s what all the deli clerks wear. So who am I to judge, right?

“Can I help you, miss?”

“Just browsing,” I answer. “Looks like you’re pretty cleaned out.”

“Who are you shopping for?” he asks. “Boyfriend, husband?”

“Boyfriend.” Lucky for him I’m not a lesbian.

“Follow me.” He crosses the store and stops in front of a table stacked with glossy, all-black books. No writing on the black covers, just thin blue lines along the inside edge. He hands me one of the books, and when I flip it over, I see the back is solid black, too. As well as the spine. There’s nothing on the book flaps, either. No title, no author, no description. “We just got these in,” he says. “They’ll be sold out by tomorrow night. Can’t keep ‘em in stock.”

“What is it?” I ask. I flip the pages, expecting it to be a sex manual, but all I see are words. I peer at one of the pages. The first sentence has big words I don’t understand. Except for the word ‘cock,’ which shows up like twenty times. Mmm-hmm, must be a sex book.

“Bestseller," he says, "There are seven books in the set. One blue line is Book One, two blue lines for 

Book Two, and so on. You can read them separately, or pick one or two. It all works, no matter how many you have. You choose to read them whatever way you want, in whatever order you want.” He opens one of the books to the title page. ‘Book One. Military Confusion.’

“What’s the book about?”

“Nothing, really. Absurdist flash fiction is the best way for me to explain it. It appeals to men much more than women, which is why I’m suggesting it to you."

I rummage through the stack of black covers for two, three, four blue lines, for each of the books.

‘Book Three. Family Inclusion.’ I flip to a random page toward the middle of the book. Besides having a penis obsession, whoever wrote this has a sick vocabulary. Sick as in unbelievable. Like “lissotrichous,” I mean, is that even a word? And “a quasi-compendium of flaggelating paramecium illuminated by phosphorescent lampyridae…” This stuff’s way over my head.

There’s ‘Book Two. Criminal Delusion.’ On page 3, I read, “Busted piston and all, the cannibal rattled south on his 1979 Honda CBX six-cylinder superbike, with a large order of McDonald’s fries wedged in his pocket.” Kinda cool, I could understand this one, I think. I find ‘Book Six. Literary Seclusion.’ Another stack teeters on the edge of the table: ‘Book Five. Cerebral Occlusion.’ The hell? What’s with all the ‘shuns?’ There are only three books left in this pile: ‘Book Four. ‘Sexual Intrusion.’ Ah, finally, there’s a sentence I can figure out, even if I don’t understand every word: “Entry from behind increased my erection to quadrinomial proportions, but the sound of ‘Macarena’ blasting from the kitchen perniciously pounded ten minutes of pump and hump into a Sisyphean waste of energy.”

I can’t find Book Seven.

“Here you go, miss.” The clerk hands me a black book with seven thin lines along the side. The title is ‘Book Seven. Attribution.’

“I don’t get it,” I say. But my boyfriend, who’s a whole lot smarter than me, might. At least I’m coming home with something. I buy the lot and have them gift-wrapped.

The apartment is a ten-minute drive away. When I pull up to our building and pop the keys in the front door, my boyfriend is already home.

“Got out of work early, baby,” he says, and gives me a hungry kiss. “Happy Valentine’s Day.” He presents a dozen long-stemmed roses to me with a flourish.

I pass him my Barnes & Noble bag. “I hope you like it. I didn’t know what to get you,” I say. As I put my roses in a vase, I hear him tearing off the giftwrap.

“Shit!”

My heart sinks. I should’ve gotten the electric nipple clamps. Or twelve-inch-long Suavé.

“Baby, you outdid yourself this time, you know that?” He runs over to hug me, and relief washes over me.

“I did good?” I ask, smiling.

He gives me a kiss so deep I can hardly breathe. When he releases me, he says, “The guy’s a fucking rock star. We’re trying to land an interview with him, but he’s booked solid for the next month.”

“I didn’t think people read books anymore.” Oops.

He raises his eyebrows at me. “People read this. When they can get their hands on it.” Then he points to charcoal gray letters on the back cover. So dark I never noticed them: Caliban.

I still don’t get it. “Wasn’t that the name of some metal song?”

“Metalcore, lust, and Shakespeare.” He leads me into the bedroom. “Power of words, baby. It means there’s hope for the world.”

We peel off each other’s clothes. Even without vibrating nipples and Suavé, I guess there's hope for me, too. Although those rhinestone handcuffs did look pretty nice.

What Happens When The Media Leaves?

It's been about two months since General Petraeus's sad love life hit the airwaves.

I've seen virtually nothing since then about it, reinforcing the precept that only the most gory, upsetting and titillating stay in the public limelight.

Who will follow up with the sad parents in Newtown, CT a year from now to see how they're faring? Or send a kind word to the wrecked families of 9/11 victims? Etc etc...

On the Patreaus matter, I've found this excellent article from Foreign Policy that deals with the fallout that few others have addressed (http://www.foreignpolicy.com/articles/2012/12/13/david_petraeus_paula_broadwell_affair?page=0,1 ), including this well-written conclusion:

"When people are caught in an extramarital affair, and the imaginary world they have been avidly constructing abruptly implodes, leaving them flailing to right themselves amid the sharp-edged rubble, their first instinct is often to try to salvage something, anything. So perhaps Petraeus's energetic spinning in the days following his exposure was to be expected -- especially given his trademark practice of working aggressively to control messages that reflected on him. In this case, the effort was particularly transparent, since quotes from various friends and former staff members kept featuring the same vocabulary.
"What was most disappointing was the absence in these statements by surrogates of any expression of remorse for the impact the pair's actions had on the institution that made them: the U.S. military. While a jolt of schadenfreude may have traversed some at news of the scandal, for others it has been deeply troubling. Troops -- whose bravery both Petraeus and Broadwell have often applauded -- are in the line of fire right now, many with their worldview badly dented. Two senior officers I know have spoken of their conversations with rattled company and battalion commanders. Many looked up to Petraeus as the ultimate role model. Others have seen their careers wrecked for much smaller lapses. Damage may be particularly great at the pair's alma mater, West Point. There and in our other military academies, young cadets or midshipmen are struggling, with perhaps more difficulty than before, to absorb lessons on the responsibility that goes with public service.

"Repair after a personal crisis of these dimensions can lead to profound growth, but it requires a realization of what went wrong. For the moment, I don't see that either Petraeus or Broadwell, or members of the community that cosseted them, have made that realization. None has yet quite understood that this drama is not all about them."

Yet Another Powerful Man Thinks With HIs...

Sex and powerful men.

It's a repeat topic on this blog because it's a constant issue in the real world. That potent - ha! - combination of power and alpha male, the possibility of taming it, the headiness of proximity to it.

Understandable on the part of women (or men) who find these characteristics irresistible. (Who wouldn't?) And equally so for the alpha male, who constantly believes he can get away with sexual gratification on the sly -- that is, until the media or some whistleblower is nipping at his heels, ready to expose him.

But seriously, won't these guys ever learn? How many of them will crash and burn, just from their inability to keep their pants on? My opinion: they'll never learn, and it'll happen as long as humans populate this planet.

General Petraeus is a true American hero. He's an awesome guy, no question about it. Squared-away, career military, four-star general, CENTCOM commander, director of the CIA, and totally respected in all circles of all political stripes. (You can check out his bio on Wiki -- I always thought it was kinda neat that he grew up in my neck of the woods, right here in the Hudson Valley.)

So why -WHY? - would a straight-shooter, high-roller, man who has everything risk it all for a beautiful, brilliant woman? Did he honestly think no one would EVER know? Did he think it wouldn't matter (like, not even to his now publicly humiliated, and fairly homely, but loyal, überadmirable wife?) if he compromised himself like this?

Or did he just think with his --? Well, you know. Yeah. He did.

And what about his partner? The other woman? Was she too intoxicated by his magnetism as the alpha male to consider the 'what if?' What if her husband found out? What if her two young kids were exposed to her extra-curricular activities? What was in it for her? Instant gratification, without regard for the consequences to herself, and to her family.

A powerful man is once again toppled by sex. Again.

Ode to My Doggie

Okay, this is indirectly related to this blog.  My writing buddy - my Golden Retriever,  who always  kept me company, even during my 36-hour writing marathons -- is no longer part of the living. Her suffering and passing caused me much sorrow, and a serious slowdown in all my writing.

Jenna, my beloved Golden Retriever, after valiantly battling a slow-growing brain tumor for 14 months, finally succumbed on Thursday, August 18, 2012. At age 15, the tumor ruptured a few days earlier. Sweet and loving companion to the end, it was only in her last 48 hours that she became completely immobile and disoriented, and ultimately, just ... tired.  It was her time, much as it broke my heart.



Jenna was a devoted member of my family, providing unconditional love, sweet retriever smiles, wagging tail, and soft warm eyes that glowed with affection and kindness. She played with my children as they grew from being toddlers to college-bound young adults, ran steadily with my husband on 5-mile jaunts until she was 11, stayed by my side as multiple sclerosis stole my mobility and shoved me into a wheelchair shortly after her rescue.
  


I adopted her, sight unseen, at 11 months of age, in May 1998 -- the best Internet purchase I ever made, the best money I ever spent. Jenna came into this world with a proud lineage that included Topbrass Kennels in her background, surrendered by some fool who had no clue about the treasure s/he had. Thank goodness, because that's how she entered our lives.

While I had always been an avid advocate for neglected and abandoned animals (my kitty is a rescue also), Jenna proved even more strongly that rescuing a dog not only provides the gift of a new life to the dog, but provides a treasured addition to the recipient family.

She even rescued me, when an adverse reaction to one of many (ineffective) MS drugs caused me to go into a seizure - she barked frantically, racing up and down the stairs to summon help. Little did I know that 9 years later, I would be nurturing her through her own seizures as a brain tumor silently and slowly wrecked havoc on her brain.



Incredible dog, more human than most humans.



I was lucky to have her -- happy, healthy and wonderful -- for so long. Even in her last year of life, when she was presented with so many struggles, she faced them with the valor and intelligence of her breed, and with the love and trust for us, her family, that makes her passing so unbearably sad. There is a huge void in my life now.

**

Addendum:

I just got a puppy: a Golden Retriever/Great Pyrenees rescued from a Georgia kill shelter when she was maybe a few weeks old. The peepee poopy accidents and constant chewing are distracting me from my writing, but the breath of babyhood is wonderful.




Are Divorce Judges REALLY that mean?

Ummmm...Yeah.  They tend to be hot-headed.

You could say they max out from hearing sordid, petty, nasty personal battles, day in, day out.  Or that they get fed up with how divorcing parties often make things up (okay, LIE) to try to get an advantage in their cases. Or that they tend to be judges on the bottom of the totem pole who get assigned to matrimonial cases until they work their way up the judicial ladder over the years.

Or maybe - maybe - some people have no damn business being judges at all.

Regardless of the reasons, matrimonial judges do tend to be heavy-handed -- sometimes downright nasty. And this judge in West Virginia is, unfortunately, not an anomaly.

http://www.wvrecord.com/news/244992-video-shows-family-judge-yelling-at-pastor

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=APD4a347bPQ&feature=youtu.be 

I've Been A Bad Blogger

I have so many ideas for posts, but no time to write 'em. Instead, as my novel, Client Relations lumbers past its fourth year of existence, I've been alternatively leaping and slogging through revisions, up all night and then some. Hoping THIS will be my year... But I can't keep ignoring Bedroom to Courtroom like this, not when so much stuff is happening. From the John Edwards trial to the London Whale; from the latest craziness in the practice of law, to the insanity of Fifty Shades of Shit making it to the top of the bestseller list. Time to take a break from Client Relations soon, I think, or be forever dumping on myself as the world's crappiest blogger!