It’s possible I have issues with feeling like luck is not on my side.
“Fuck … fuck … fuck … fuck,” she whisper chants as she releases her skirt and grabs my hair again, jerking it in the direction she wants me to go like my head is an Xbox controller. “Do you know where my G-spot is at?” Her eyes open as she gives me a pointed look.
I nod, keeping my tongue moving.
“Then find it.”
Mayhem synonyms: chaos, havoc, madness, trouble, disorder, pandemonium.
Yep. All of those fit Dorothy.
I slide two fingers inside her—nothing like being put on the spot, or having to find it. A real-life oral pop quiz. For ten extra credit points, find the G-spot.
“Mmm!” She bites her lips together and nods repeatedly as her eyes pinch shut. “Mmm hmm …” Her right hand tears at my hair until I coax an orgasm from her. Then she loses all control of her legs.
I pull my fingers out so I can grab her hips to keep her from collapsing while my mouth stays between her legs. Our gazes meet. Her eyelids are heavy, and her fingers stroke my hair, a silent thank-you.
I slowly climb to my feet.
“No!” Dorothy jerks her head to the side when I lean in to kiss her. “I don’t want to taste myself. Yuck … nope. No way.” She peeks open one eye.
“But you wanted me to do that to you.”
“Yes. But I don’t want to do it to myself.”
I step back, adjusting my cock before it pokes a small child in the eye. “Okay then.”
“Are you mad?”
“No. Painfully turned on? Yes. But that’s why God made cold showers and three-year-olds.”
“Okay. Well …” She shrugs. “Thanks.”
I shake my head on a small laugh while using the back of my hand to wipe Dorothy’s “yuck” from around my mouth. “Anytime.”
“We can hug.”
I laugh again. A hug—the ugly stepsister to the French kiss and the blowjob.
“Okay.” I try to wrap my arms around her, but it’s like we’re two people trying to get past each other instead of hugging. She can’t decide which way to move her head. If she were my height, we would bonk heads.
It’s an odd hug. I can’t explain it. Before, when I’d held her to me and kissed her passionately, she grabbed my arms or my shirt, sometimes even the back of my neck, and pulled me to her with such need and desire. We had doggy style sex earlier today. And I just went down on her for about four and a half minutes including a successful conquer of her G-spot.
But after all that, the one thing Dorothy Mayhem truly sucks at is hugging. So I hug her to me like I do to Roman when he doesn’t want to be hugged. And she gives my back a very awkward series of pats.
Pat pat. Pat-pat-pat-pat.
It doesn’t even feel like a hug, more like two strangers forced to move together in a tight space to let someone else by.
“We’d better go.”
“Yep.” She quickly releases me, not that she was really holding on to me. “I’ll get him off the Xbox while you wash your hands.”
For the record, I planned on slipping into the bathroom to wash my hands before getting Roman. I swear. But the fact that Dorothy insists on it before I have the chance to do it, only magnifies the huge difference in the women I’ve chosen to be in my life.
During the end of our marriage, when Julie was evidently experimenting with her new personality, the one she tested a few times with me (unbeknownst to me), she sat naked in bed, back against the headboard, legs spread wide, and she masturbated in front of me. Then she stuck her wet fingers into my mouth and told me to taste her. But never did she suggest either one of us go wash our hands.
“Great. Thanks.” I grin as Dorothy opens the door.
“Sure. No problem.”
I love this. It fills me to the brim with happiness—the way that Dorothy shifts from a vixen telling me to find her G-spot to a polite “no problem,” like I just spilled a few drips of coffee on my shirt and she’s going to watch Roman while I slip into the bathroom to pretreat the stains.
As much as I want to believe I know Dorothy Mayhem, I’ve only caught tiny glimpses of her. Each one so luminous, I know she’s too bright for anyone to ever truly see all of her.
After I wash my hands, I make Roman go to the bathroom before the car ride. Dorothy waits outside for us, already changed into yoga pants and Nikes that match her burnt orange T-shirt.
“Bye, Dorfee. We … we will be back. I will play EssBoss.”
“Bye, Romeo.” She hunches down in front of him and gives him a wrinkled-nosed smile.
Roman tackles her with a hug. She falls backward, lying stiffly on the ground with Roman’s arms encircling her neck.
“Whoa, buddy. That’s enough hugging.” I peel him from her body and hold out my hand to help her up.
She brushes off her backside and laughs. “He’s quite the little hugger. I’ll be ready next time.”
I bite my tongue as the words “you could learn a few things” sit idle between my pursed lips. But she said she’d be ready next time, and that means she welcomes more hugs from my son.
“Have a great walk.”
“Okay. Thanks.” She holds up her hand in an awkward wave as I carry Roman to the car. “All these leftovers sat in my car.”
“Oh … shoot. Can’t eat them if they haven’t been refrigerated.” She shrugs.
“Sorry. I know you were really wanting them.” I smirk.
She returns a tight smile, her weak version of lying.
Chapter seventeen
Gleaning 101
I make it three days before pressing SEND on my phone to call Dorothy. Aside from her random sexual demands, which happen with a moment’s notice, she qualifies as the world’s least needy girlfriend.
Girlfriend.
That’s a weird word for me to have in my thirty-eight-year-old head. Is she my girlfriend? I’m nearly two decades behind on the dating scene, so maybe girlfriend is an outdated term.
She doesn’t answer my call, even though it’s past her scheduled time at the car and dog wash. Maybe she’s still walking. Before I can speculate anymore, my phone vibrates with a text from her.
Dorothy: What do you need?
* * *
Me: I need to talk to you.
* * *
Dorothy: Texting not work for you?
I chuckle.
Me: I like the sound of your voice.
* * *
Dorothy: “What do you want?”
She sends a voice text. I mean … of course she does.
That makes me laugh more. It makes that infinite happiness bubble to the surface again.
I return a voice text. “I need a babysitter for Roman tomorrow night.”
Not a lie.
Granted, my parents or either one of my sisters will happily watch him, but that won’t give me a chance to see Dorothy again before work on Friday.
Dorothy: Sure! (beaming emoji with smiling eyes) What time? I get back from gleaning around eight. (high-five emoji)
* * *
Me: I have an appointment at seven. (thinking emoji)
* * *
Dorothy: Oh. Bummer. Sorry. (slightly frowning emoji)
* * *
Me: What do you have going on at seven?
* * *
Dorothy: Gleaning. (apple emoji, cookie emoji)
* * *
Me: Could you skip it one night?
* * *
Dorothy: Sure, I’ll let the poor, homeless, hungry people know I can’t help feed them because you need me. What is your appointment?
* * *
Me: Massage.
* * *
Dorothy: Oh! Yes, sounds super duper important.
* * *
Me: Calling you now. PICK UP YOUR PHONE!
I call her and she answers on the first ring.
“What is your deal? Texting was invented so people wouldn’t have to actually have verbal conversations.”
“Hi, Dorothy. I’ve missed you too. Have you had a good week so far?”
“Sure, make me sound insensitive.”
“What is your aversion to phone conversations?”
“Ugh! It’s just a time thing. Small talk. Chitchat shit that drives me crazy.”
“So talking to me drives you crazy?”
“No. Not yet, but if you refuse to text with me, it might get to that point. And emojis give context to words better than I can do with inflection. So when you take away my emojis, there’s a good chance of you misinterpreting the true meaning behind my words.”
“I’ll do anything if you skip one night of gleaning to watch Roman for me.”
That is code for I’d do anything to see her Thursday night.
“Um … again, no emojis makes this hard for me, but your anything sounds sexual. Are you pimping yourself out for a babysitter for your son? Gosh, what kind of massage is this that you’re getting?”
“Please.”
“You sound desperate.”
“Pretty please.”
“Yeah, that’s better. Not near as desperate. Eye roll emoji.”
I laugh. “Did you just verbal emoji me on the phone?”
“Yes. High-five emoji.”
“Enough emojis. The inflection of your voice is just fine for me. Just so you know, the please and pretty please is Roman. He’s begging to spend time with you again.”
“Wow, and I thought I sucked at lying. I know it’s past his bedtime.”
“He told me everything he wanted to say to you before he went to bed.”
“Okay.”
I choke on my next breath filled with more begging. Okay. She said okay. “Okay, yes you’ll watch him?”
“Yes.”
“He’ll be so excited.”
“Okay.”
Yeah, a few emojis with that monotone okay wouldn’t be the worst thing. I mentally insert my own smiley face and high-five emoji after her okay.
“Can you be here by six-thirty?”
“Okay.”
“Great! Goodnight, Dorothy. You’re the best.”
“Okay …”
I wait for the line to disconnect.
“Goodnight, Eli.”
Yes! High-five emoji.
Dorothy arrives by six and sits in her car until six-thirty. I let her because I think maybe she needs that thirty minutes alone in her car. It feels good to nudge her toward her limit without completely pushing her over the cliff. Great things happen when she allows herself to venture out of her daily norm—like doggy style sex and oral sex.
Yes, I’m still thinking about that. I’m certain I will think about that day every day for the rest of my life.
“Dorfee!” Roman tackle hugs her again, only she’s ready for it this time and stays on her feet.
“Little Romeo! Are you excited to hang with me tonight?”
“Yes!” As quickly as his excitement starts, he runs off to play, much like a dog greeting someone then running off when they realize no one brought them treats.
“Hey.” I take in her jeans, floral shirt, and green Nikes that match the stems on the shirt. It’s my first time seeing her in jeans. They’re not as inviting as her very accessible skirts, but she looks hot as hell just the same.
“Hey. So are you leaving his car seat … for emergencies?”
“9-1-1 is the best choice for emergencies.”
“Yes, but if you get in an accident or my mom or dad choke on something and die, I wouldn’t want to wait until you got home. And 9-1-1 is not a taxi service.” She shoves her hands into her front pockets, then her back pockets, then she folds them over her chest. Very odd for her.
“Yes. I’ll put his car seat in your car right now. Just don’t forget to have me get it out when I get back.”
“Cool.” She brushes past me and slips off her shoes.
Something feels a little off about Dorothy tonight, but I can’t quite figure it out. And I need to get to my appointment, so I switch the car seat and give her last minute instructions.
“There’s a list of numbers on the counter. He’s already had dinner, but there’s also a list of snacks he can have, but don’t give him anything later than seven-thirty. Bedtime is eight. There’s a list of that routine as well. Going pee is at the top of the list. Make him go first thing and again one more time before you actually put him in bed.
“Eli, I can read. And this is not my first time babysitting. Go.” She glances at her watch.
Again, I feel like something is not right with her. She gives off a nervous vibe that’s different than her other vibes.
With Roman in the other room, I move in on her, hoping to erase the weird vibe with a kiss. She stiffens at first. Then she grabs my shirt and lets me kiss her, allowing her tongue to slide against mine.
Fuck the massage. I want to put Roman in his bed and get Dorothy naked in mine. When I release her mouth, my nose rubs against hers as I whisper. “Maybe when I get back you can kiss me … lower.”
She rubs her lips together and lifts her gaze to mine. A few seconds later, they widen a fraction as my intentions must make their connection in her brain.
“Oh …” She shakes her head. “No. I’m good.”
I chuckle, stepping back, feeling the burn of rejection. Maybe I should have texted that to her. Maybe she might have inserted a winking face emoji. Maybe the one with the tongue sticking out. Maybe an eggplant emoji.
Maybe … my blowjob days are over.
I sigh. “Well, thanks. See you in a while.”
She glances at her watch again, chewing on her lower lip, and nods. “Okay.”
“Bye, Roman. Keep an eye on Dorothy.” I slip into the living room where he’s surrounded by Duplo Legos and give him a kiss on the top of his head. When I get into my car, I whisper on a laugh, “Oh … No. I’m good.” My ego-crushing laughter continues as I pull out of the driveway. “You’ve lost your game, man. It’s just … gone.”
After my massage, I have a string of missed calls, messages, and texts on my phone from Julie.
Why does the hospital transporter have our child at the farmer’s market?
* * *
Where are you?
* * *
Why aren’t you answering your phone?
* * *
Why didn’t she know where you’re at?
* * *
Did she have a car seat for him?
* * *
I’m taking him with me since he’s on my watch again tomorrow anyway.
* * *
Dammit, Eli! Why did MY child have a fit when I tried to take him with me? OMFG, I’m so embarrassed that he threw a tantrum because he wanted to stay with her. A police officer asked HER if everything was OK, like I was trying to abduct my own child!
* * *
WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?
I call her on my way to my car.
“Jesus! Where are you, Elijah?”
I rub my forehead. “I had an appointment. Calm down. What’s going on?”
“Are you fucking the transporter girl? Is that why she was at brunch on Sunday and at the farmer’s market with Roman tonight?”
“If only that were your business. Do you have another question for me?”
“That’s my son. You can’t leave him with just anyone. She had no fucking clue where you were.”
“She said that?”
“She said you had an appointment. I asked where, and after a few minutes of this deer in the headlight look, she shrugged. How is she supposed to get ahold of you in an emergency if she has no clue where you are? How would she get ahold of me or—”
“I got a massage. I tweaked my back on my hike the other day. And for the record, Dorothy has a full list of names and numbers, including yours, to call in the event of an emergency. Roman and I have been spending time with Dorothy for almost six weeks now. She’s not a random stranger. She’s a nursing student and an EMT. I’m completely confident in her ability to keep our
son safe and act appropriately in an emergency.”
“Are you dating her?”
“So we’re done here. Good. Thanks for calling, Jules.”
I back out of the parking spot and drive home, organizing my thoughts to tactfully find out why the hell Dorothy had Roman at the farmer’s market. When I pull into the garage, the car seat is next to the back door.
I stop at the car seat, bending down to inspect it closer. The straps look dirty. And when I feel them, they’re sticky with white smudges like adhesive.
“What the hell?” I mumble before going into the house.
Dorothy looks up from the sofa and holds a finger to her lips. “He’s asleep,” she whispers.
But he isn’t asleep in his bed. And he isn’t in his pajamas. He’s asleep on the sofa with his head on her lap, food on his face, and a pile of books around him.
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