There Are No Men

by Carol Maloney Scott

  “I had some silk boxers in the car so I thought I would get more comfortable. You don’t mind, do you?” He pats the space on the couch beside him.

  My brain is so fuzzy, and there are conflicting thoughts in my head. Drunk Claire still thinks he’s cute and Sober Claire is trying to scream that this is all wrong. Unfortunately, I don’t listen to her. She sounds pesky, like a mosquito. I eventually tell her to shut up, even though I have never known a man to bring silk boxers on a date. Or keep them in his car, like jumper cables or a spare tire. I guess if he gets stuck on the side of the road at least he can get comfortable.

  “I opened some wine. Would you like some?” He must have brought that, too.

  “No, I should probably eat something.” I put my hands on my stomach.

  “Why don’t you just sit a minute? You look so tired, and you must still be cold.”

  In a moment, I am on the couch and he is all over me. It’s not entirely unpleasant, and isn’t this what I wanted? I need to get this out of the way and end all of this frustration. Daniel is the first cute guy I have been out with in a long time, and so what if he isn’t relationship material? I am a modern woman and all the better that it’s casual. I watched Sex and the City. This will help prepare me for my next real prospect.

  Now he has his shirt off and my reality has shifted. With clothes on, he is in decent shape. He isn’t pregnant, like some of the men at work, but he has the body of a hairless cat or a ten-year-old boy. He has absolutely no hair on his body. I am suddenly repulsed and want him off of me.

  His hands have multiplied and he now has lots of them, like an octopus, and they are attached to long gangly arms—isn’t there a super hero or a comic book villain like that? Rubber Band Man? My nose rubs against his neck and I almost gag. Do I smell a hint of bug spray in his hair?

  “Claire, you’re so tense. You need to breathe, Babe. Keep your body relaxed and your mind clear of the mundane, so your inner goddess can be fully present.”

  “What are you talking about?” I pull away and try to extricate myself from his many arms, but I actually lose my balance and pull us off the couch onto the floor. A wave of nausea comes over me.

  “You need to open up all your chakras and let the pleasure in. Come on, breathe with me and awaken your senses.” He starts taking off the boxers and I start to say something—but then I see what he’s wearing underneath is even worse than if he wasn’t wearing anything.

  “Do you have any aromatherapy oil? Let’s create a sacred space for our orgasm to unfold.” He’s now standing with his legs apart, wearing a BLACK LEATHER THONG! His whole body is shaking and he looks like he’s having a seizure. I do not want to explain this to the volunteer ambulance crew.

  My inebriation is clearing up now as I stare at Daniel, in shock. I clearly missed some important details in our earlier conversation if he thinks I am on board with—whatever this is. While I’m wishing I could make him disappear, Dixie runs into the room, growling and on a mission. Whatever he’s doing must be freaking her out, too.

  He manages to dodge her and falls over. Laughing, he says, “I don’t think your little doggie should be here for our…sensual experience. Come sit on my lap.” He reaches for me and I roll away. I jump up to my feet and stumble as I try to straighten out my clothes. This is when I notice my shirt is off—damn it! While looking around for my top, I start to gag.

  “Uh oh, Babe—get to the bathroom quick—no throwing up in here. Bad vibes.”

  As he continues to dodge a snapping, barking wiener dog, I run to the powder room and throw up everything in my system, and what feels like several internal organs. I stay in the bathroom a few minutes, hoping he’ll leave. Dixie is quiet and that’s a bit alarming.

  “Claire?” He sounds a bit worried now.

  “Just a minute.” The first words I have uttered in a while come out weak and hoarse.

  I swing open the bathroom door and Daniel says, “Oh, you don’t look so good.”

  “Really? I don’t look so good?” I catch a glimpse of my mascara stained face in the hall mirror as I am poking him in the chest with my long red lacquered finger nail. I suddenly remember Dixie. “WHERE IS MY DOG?”

  “I put her outside—she was biting me!”

  “WHAT? You can’t do that! Wiener dogs can’t go outside off leash.” I open the front door and I thank God she’s sitting there waiting for me. So much for assuming she would run away if left outside unattended. She probably wants to get back inside and have round two with Daniel. I let her back in, and go into the living room to find his clothes and car keys. I throw them at him as I pick Dixie up and put her in the bathroom with the door closed, to keep her under control until I get rid of this fool.

  “Get out of my house!”

  He instinctively puts his hands up to protect his face since I’m pointing at him with my enormous talon. “I thought you were into it. I even blew mini golf to let you win, and I bought you all those drinks. You seemed so eager when I was telling you about tantric sex at the bar! I thought we shared a connection, Claire.”

  “You asshole! I don’t know what you’re talking about. I could have beaten you with my eyes closed, and what kind of a whack-job keeps alternate underwear in his car!”

  “You’re crazy. We were having a good time. You shouldn’t drink and take off your shirt if you’re going to behave like this. You are most definitely not in touch with your spirituality.”

  As I stand there in my bra (thank God I don’t take the bra top concept literally), I push him towards the door and swing it open. “Get out! And if you ever come back here, I will call the police, you bug killing freak!”

  As he runs down my front steps in a thong, holding his clothes, his keys, and amazingly enough—the bottle of wine—I look up and see my neighbor across the street standing on his porch staring straight at me. Shit.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Jane, I am not going over there. You are insane! The flashing episode was bad enough but at least that was an innocent dog walking mishap. Now he has seen me standing in my doorway, in my bra, throwing an almost naked man out of my house and calling him a bug killing freak!”

  “I agree it’s not ideal, but you’re overreacting. Maybe he didn’t hear anything. It was far away and dark out. He may not have put the whole thing together.”

  “No, he heard and saw everything. Now it is possible he was concerned for my well-being and thought there was a domestic disturbance going down, but even if that is the case, that’s the best case scenario. And to top it all off I feel like total shit.”

  I woke up about seven this morning and it felt like little men with hammers were pounding the inside of my head. They have not quit working despite drinking a gallon of water and taking four aspirin. It’s like they’re in the union and they get double time on Saturday. I need to medicate before I go to bed. Clearly I have a lot to learn—I will add this to my ever growing list, right after don’t bring home strange men and pay for my own fucking food if I’m hungry.

  “Claire, I have bought about five pounds of healthy snack foods to bring this man and we are bringing it over there! I can’t do this alone. I am a married woman and it will be inappropriate.”

  “And bringing me will legitimize the whole operation. I couldn’t agree more.”

  “Pleaaaase? We’ll just drop the stuff off and go home. It’s sunny—you can wear sunglasses without it looking odd. Just please get up and get ready. You’ll be glad you did this.”

  “Alright! I’ll go. Give me half an hour to make myself presentable.”

  “Yay! I will take you to get your car after. I’m assuming it’s still at the bar?”

  “Shit, yes. I forgot all about that.”

  “I’m sure it’s still there. Meet me outside in thirty minutes. I will even give you forty. Put on lipstick. You aren’t that hung-over. Now get going!”

  Jane’s insistence that I meet this guy is so absurd. She’s trying to help, but meeting a guy who is a) to
o young, b) my neighbor, and c) has seen me in various stages of undress not once but twice, is not going to positively influence my dating life.

  I’ll pull myself together and go to Lorenzo’s tonight to see that band, and focus more on dancing and socializing than drinking. And I’ll eat a big meal before I go, in case I decide to drink again—but just a little. When I mix alcohol with an empty stomach I get as sick as an unsupervised four-year-old who finishes off all the booze left in the plastic cups at a family barbecue.

  Forty-five minutes later I emerge from my house into the brightest sunlight I have ever seen. It’s like I am staring directly into the eye of the sun (if there is such a thing as the eye of the sun—I am not good with astronomy).

  Jane spots me and starts laughing.

  I stick my tongue out at her as I descend the porch steps and meet her in the cul-de-sac. She’s carrying a big basket of food. “Shut up…sunglasses aren’t even enough for this. I need the goggles OSHA requires for people who work with lasers.”

  I reach Jane in time to see her rolling her eyes, which don’t appear to have any problem adjusting to this blazing illumination.

  “Seriously, do you feel any better?” she asks.

  “A little bit, but I need to eat something. Let’s ring the bell and get this over with, before he sees us standing here having a meeting in the street, like a couple of freaks.”

  We walk up his porch steps and I ring the bell, since Jane is laden down with heavy organic fruit and nuts.

  I still maintain that this is a stupid idea. Can’t Mike stop her from doing these things? Or actually, why couldn’t he come with her? I glance over at her house and see him in his pajama bottoms and no shirt. His hair is sticking up all over the place and he’s putting a ladder up to the side of the house. I point towards him. “What the hell is he doing?”

  “He’s going to try to clean the gutters. I hope he doesn’t fall off that ladder. He is so bad at these man chores—”

  The door suddenly opens. Before us stands the famous new neighbor. He is even cuter up close, with sandy hair and bright blue eyes (thank God I’m wearing sunglasses—the intensity would knock me over), and a little bit of stubble on an otherwise baby face. He is not that tall, probably only about 5’8”, and even up close he has the slim build of a teenager. I am wondering if he is hairless too, but I can see a little bit of fur sticking out of the top of his olive green Henley shirt, which is unbuttoned and loosely revealing a good amount of skin. Grey sweat pants complete his Saturday lounging outfit.

  “Hi, ladies,” he says pleasantly and leans against the doorframe. Maybe I’m paranoid, but I already see the beginning of an amused grin forming in the corners of his mouth, which is perfect, with full lips and rows of straight white teeth.

  Jane takes charge. “Hi there, we’re your neighbors. I’m Jane. I live over there.” She points to her house and the goofball hanging onto the side of it. “You met my husband, Mike, and this is Claire. She lives across the street with the little wiener dog.”

  I’m waiting for her to shut up long enough to get a word in, but our new friend beats me to it. “Brandon.” He reaches out and shakes Jane’s hand first, then mine. His hands are slightly rough, and I shudder at the jolt of masculine energy.

  Jane is still standing there smiling while struggling to hold on to the basket, which she finally hands over to Brandon. “Welcome to the neighborhood! We know bachelors don’t like to cook or shop.” Why is she giggling like a thirteen-year-old girl meeting the new high school varsity football player?

  He takes the basket from her and puts it on the floor in the foyer behind him. “Thanks so much, ladies. Everyone has been so friendly, and yes I did have a good chat with Mike while your little ones were playing the other day. I also met a lady up the street—Mrs. O’Brien?”

  As if he doesn’t already have enough negative information on me, now he was talking to that nosy old bag. They probably discussed how I’m bringing down the property values. He looks at me and I feel the heat rising on my face. Maybe it’s just the alcohol poisoning, or the combination of dehydration and starvation.

  “Mike told me…he said you were a writer? That’s so interesting. Claire works at the publishing—”

  Jane is interrupted by a loud crash and subsequent scream. We turn to see Mike sprawled out in the yard with the ladder on top of him.

  “MIKE!” Jane runs to his aid while Brandon and I just stare.

  “Should we call someone? 911?” he asks.

  “No, he’s always doing things like this. He needs to hire people to do man jobs!”

  Jane yells out, “He’s okay! He didn’t fall far!” Mike gets up and waves, as he leans forward with his hands on his knees and his head between his legs.

  “What was he doing?” Brandon and I wave back to acknowledge that we will call off the ambulance and rescue helicopter.

  “Cleaning the gutters. God love him, but he is such a bad handyman. But who am I to talk? My gutters haven’t been cleaned in years—there’s a little tree growing out of my roof.” I point to the spot on my house.

  Brandon doesn’t seem sure if he should laugh or not. “So…thanks again, for the food. That was nice.” He runs his hand through his hair while the other one rests casually in his pocket. I am trying not to stare, but I’m wearing sunglasses so he can’t see my eyes. “Jane was saying something about you working in publishing?”

  “Yes, I work at Bella Donna Press. We specialize in mostly women’s titles in various genres, but of course women can read whatever they want, so I hate that label. I’m in HR though, so I don’t have much say about what we put out there. What type of writing do you do?” Stop rambling.

  “Literary fiction. I have several self-published novels that have done okay on Amazon. I am still looking for a publisher, though.” He smiles expectantly.

  “We are looking for some new talent, and I stress the talent. I’m embarrassed to say we are publishing some pretty awful stuff lately to stay in the black. If you’re interested, I could read some of your work, and submit it to our acquisitions editor for review.”

  “That would be awesome. Thanks. Did you want to come in and talk about it?” He gestures towards his house beyond the entryway.

  “No, thanks. I’m not feeling so well. Why don’t you grab your phone and I can give you my contact info at work?”

  Brandon looks disappointed but recovers quickly. While he’s in the house looking for his phone, I experience another wave of nausea. I really need to eat something soon.

  He comes back out with his phone, I find mine, and we exchange information. He agrees to send me a manuscript later today, and I promise to read it and pass it on.

  “Hey, Claire?” Uh oh. He stops me as I am turning to leave.

  I turn back around and take off my sunglasses. “Yes?”

  “Never mind…none of my business. Thanks for the food basket, and for this.” He holds his phone up as a symbol of my willingness to help his writing career.

  “It’s my pleasure. I can’t wait to read your work.” I awkwardly lower my head and make my way down the steps. “Have a good rest of the weekend.”

  “You too. Stay safe!” He waves the same way he did when he saw me in the yard.

  I make it to my house and collapse on the couch. Dixie jumps, runs and spins, like she always does. Stay safe? He wanted to ask me about what happened last night. I wanted to tell him it was nothing, and there is no need to worry about me or the state of the neighborhood, but it’s too much to explain and it’s mortifying. I don’t have any desire to bond with Brandon, or make a bigger fool of myself. I have Justin at work to fill my “young guy crush” humiliation quota. Brandon seems nice enough and he may be a good writer. I’ll read his manuscript tomorrow, but first I need to eat, take a nap and call Rebecca. I need a night out of pure fun without worrying about men.

  Rebecca was “super excited” (her words) that I decided to come out tonight and see the band. I did not join the Mee
tup group first because it’s absurd to do that in order to go to an event at a public place. I figured this would be a good way to scope out the people who go to these things, and get out and do some dancing. I can shake it, too! I told her about my date and as always she assured me that there are normal men in the “real” world, and I need to get out of cyberspace and interact with people.

  I was told not to wear high heels because my feet will bleed, but I ordered the hottest shoes last week and the UPS man brought them yesterday. They are four-inch black suede sandals with a two-inch platform. The strap wraps around my ankle and there are two bands of fabric across the front—one is covered with silver glitter and the other with purple. I am wearing them with tight jeans with bling on the pockets, and a lavender cold shoulder top (the style with the shoulder cutouts). It’s a short-sleeved bra top from Victoria’s Secret (I went crazy shopping online a few weeks ago—just click and pay!). This time I am doing something totally zany and not wearing a bra (there is no way to hide the straps with this style). My eyes are extra made up—lined in black with my sparkly purple eye shadow palette from MAC, and my lips are shiny eggplant.

  I am feeling much better than I did this morning. I ate soup and some bread, and took a few more aspirin, and I have been loading up on water. I have cut back in the past hour or so because I have a forty-minute drive to this place and I may pee my pants. When I drink the recommended amount of water, I might as well spend my whole day in the bathroom.

  Jane also took me back to the bar to get my car. Thank God it was still there and in one piece. I was worried Daniel may have vandalized it after he left my house, but I suppose I sufficiently scared him with my police threats to deter any further incidents.

  I am slightly wobbly in the shoes, but I’ve been practicing walking all over the house. I am shocked because I can normally jog in heels. Maybe not jog, but certainly walk, even briskly. I have always prided myself on the durability of my feet. When I was in college I worked in a shoe store, and I stood on my feet for hours in spike heels and never had a problem. Ironically, I was forced to listen to women telling me about their bunions and flat arches—all day every day. I don’t know where these women come from. I was taught that shoes need to look good and match your outfit. Comfort is for men, toddlers learning to walk and the disabled. Therefore it’s a bit disconcerting that I am not entirely stable in these fabulous shoes.