by Phil Stern
“But no husband!”
“And that is by choice. As you know I was engaged once, but I called off the wedding. I’ve had more offers of marriage than I care to remember.”
“No.” Emphatically, Reny shook her head. “I love you Sophia. You are my sister! But I cry for you too. I have all this!” Theatrically, she waved her arms about. “And you have nothing! No husband. No future! No…no…” Overcome with emotion, Reny fled the room.
Some twenty minutes later Michael and I stood in his driveway. It was a pleasant evening, the stars just beginning to shine.
“Sophie, I do know someone. For you, I mean,” he awkwardly began. “He’s a partner in my firm. Perhaps you’d like to meet…”
“Michael, for God’s sake!” Sighing, I leaned back against my car. “I’ve dated your stockbroker friends before. They’re all pricks.”
“I know.” Laughing, he was suddenly the happy, carefree older brother I remembered from our childhood. “Jake Fisher still talks about you.”
“Well, I’m hard to forget.” Smiling, I punched him on the arm.
“Yeah. Anyway…” He shrugged. “I’m sorry about what happened in there. Reny was out of line.”
Carefully, I gauged the mood. “You know, Michael, that I’d love you no matter what.”
“Yeah. Sure.” Michael kicked aside some pebbles. “Of course. Me too.”
“Even if…if you were gay.”
This was, perhaps, the fourth time I’d addressed the matter directly. As with each previous occasion a wall flared up between us.
“Come on, Sophie, stop being ridiculous,” he mumbled. “I’m not gay.”
Lifting my head, I let the cool evening breeze course across my face. “All right. So why do I feel you’re trapped in some horrible situation you can’t get out of?”
“What?” He tried again to smile, but it was very different from just a moment ago. “No. Look, I love Reny, okay? She’s just different, that’s all.”
“Just know that I’ll love you, no matter what.”
“Fine. Look, thanks for coming. And I’m…I’m sorry.” Leaning over, he kissed my cheek. “See you later.” Michael walked back into the house.
I’d been planning to stay with a guy who lives in Ridgefield, a man I’d known on and off for several years. But leaving my brother’s estate I called and cancelled, saying I wasn’t feeling well.
Instead I just stopped at an overpriced hotel, charging it to my expense account. You know what? Sometimes the best nights in the world are spent by yourself.
STEVE LEVINE
Look, I’m in one of my moods again, and there’s something I have to say. And since I don’t know how to say this politely, I’m just going to say it.
There is no such thing as a “Big Beautiful Woman.” There are, however, thousands of obese girls masquerading as sexpots all over the internet. They put up long, irritating profiles (“I like ice cream, and Ding Dongs, and lots of butter on my potatoes!”) along with “sexy” pictures of themselves, implying every guy out there would be so lucky to get a date with them! Just send them your picture and, well, who knows? They might reply! Just think of it. You could actually go out with some clueless, fat, annoying chick! Hey, it just doesn’t get any better than that, does it?
Now, don’t tell me that some guys like fat chicks. I’m sure some do. There are also guys who fuck farm animals and dream of marrying an albino zebra named Teddy they saw on some nature documentary last year. Teddy, however, lives in some shit hole African village where he’s revered as a water god. Tribes women actually blow Teddy during growing season every day at the stroke of noon, hoping to spur more rain for the crops. As the saying goes, “When Teddy cum, rain come.” Or something like that.
So short of some freak intent on stealing a well-serviced zebra, it’s hard to imagine who actually wants to date a Big Beautiful Woman.
The fake pride of these girls, the naked hutzpa, is simply outrageous. “I’m 5'5" and 220 pounds, so if you don’t like BBW, don’t reply!”
Thanks for the tip, honey. Otherwise I would have felt all kinds of obligated to e-mail you immediately, relating how sexy all that jiggling fat really is! Oh, and that sweet pic of you in the negligee by the refrigerator, where you obviously spend a majority of your time? Sexy! Please, let me rub one out right now, quickly, before the screen saver kicks in and denies me those millions of pixels of potbellied mental patient!
So, for the benefit of those who don’t appreciate sarcasm, let me state the obvious. Maybe, just maybe, these girls should lose some fucking weight before trolling for a date? Just a thought, mind you.
Ah, but they’d say, they suffer from a medical condition. They’ve tried to lose weight, and just can’t! It’s sooooooooo frustrating! There’s nothing they can do!
Short of a few rare issues, there’s no medical condition that causes obesity, other than eating too much and exercising too little. Anybody can lose weight with a little will power. It’s just a matter of perspective.
For example, no one can lose fifty pounds. The idea itself is daunting. But everybody can lose one pound a week. Just one pound. Cut the snacks, hit the gym three times a week, maybe mix in a salad or two…easiest thing in the world.
And guess what? After a year of losing one pound a week, YOU’VE LOST FIFTY POUNDS! Holy shit, Batman, this guy’s a genius! No more fat chicks. The world’s been saved again!
So here’s what I propose. We pass a law giving all these girls a year to lose the weight, while removing every obnoxious fat picture of themselves from the internet. For those who resist, we set up a federal agency whose sole purpose is to find all these recalcitrant BBW and haul them off to some special camp in Montana. Once safely interned they would be forced to go on a diet, denied all internet access, and reprogrammed to understand normal standards of weight and height. Only after they’ve been cleared by a team of physical therapists and mental health specialists could they return to their communities.
Otherwise, all of society will suffer. Young boys will wander the streets, confused, not sure if they should be fucking Playboy models or hippos! Rioting will soon break out. Forget global warming. It’s all these BBW’s we should be worried about! Life as we know it will end, our demise the subject of scholarly studies by alien cultures in the far future. That is our fate, and it isn’t pretty to think about.
Hey, speaking of the internet, this whole Life Project got me thinking about what happened to all the people I went to high school with. So I went on Facebook to check them out.
This, by the way, is the closest we’ll ever come to a time machine. I remember all these people as unformed 18-year-olds, and now I’m seeing them at 39. It’s like someone gave me a crystal ball on graduation day where I could magically see everyone’s future.
But look, here’s the thing. Why do so many of the women put up pictures of their children as their primary portrait photo? It’s like they want to be wholly subsumed by their own kids, almost as if there is no “me” anymore, only “mother.” It’s kind of creepy.
Hey, and while I’m on the subject, is there anything worse than sitting next to a group of young mothers in a restaurant? Believe me, if I did have any interest in a detailed description of the dump your kid shitted out last night, I sure wouldn’t want to hear about it while eating. And here’s a news flash. The other women don’t care, either, they’re just being polite. It’s life’s ultimate joke. You think having kids would make you a superstar, but now you’re just another tool.
Same thing with nurses. For Christ’s sake, talk about bed pans and the contents of Mrs. Smith’s spleen back at the hospital. It’s not restaurant conversation.
DAVE MILLER
The day I decided to cheat on Jen started off like any other. Getting up at five o’clock, I was on a work site by seven. Around five we packed it in, all the guys heading home.
Except me. By this point I was finding all kinds of reasons not to go back to the house. I didn’t feel sa
fe there. Whatever connection Jen and I once had was now completely gone. We were still going through the motions, but even that seemed like more effort than it was worth.
So I took a long walk around Rockland Lake. The roller bladders whizzed by, weaving among the pedestrians enjoying the evening air.
Lost in my own thoughts, I idly read “Because I Have The Vagina, That’s Why!” emblazoned on the shirt of a middle-aged woman walking past me. Stunned, I stupidly stood in the middle of the paved path, staring at the retreating woman.
The moment was nothing short of an epiphany. In an instant, it all made sense. Ripping a notebook and pencil stub from my back pocket, I busily scratched out a rambling manifesto about how women brainwashed men with their bodies, comparing the fairer sex to vampires, war criminals, and those pesky seagulls constantly trying to raid picnic baskets on the beach.
You have to understand, by this point I was going a little crazy. Four-and-a-half years of marriage had by now pushed me firmly down the path leading to a secluded room, daily ping pong privileges, and listening to lunatics masturbating in large jugs of rice pudding stolen from the kitchen while the cooks were smoking out back.
But back to Rockland Lake. Engrossed in my writing, I unwisely took a step backwards, crashing into a passing roller bladder. Instantly I was slammed to the pavement, a stranger crunching down beside me.
“Jesus!” I yelled, sitting up. “What the hell are you…”
Sprawled next to me, her roller wheels still spinning, was a gorgeous brunette, around 20 or so, in ripped jean shorts and a tight pink shirt. She was good to go, I’ll tell you that. Easing herself up, the girl flashed me a model’s smile.
“I’m so sorry!” she gushed, touching my arm. “Are you all right?”
My preposterous screed still in hand, I nevertheless felt all feminine hostility fading away. “Yeah, sure. I’m fine.”
“You shouldn’t back up like that, you know,” the girl gently chided, awkwardly standing on her skates. “You can’t make sudden stops on these things.”
“No, of course not,” I mumbled, suitably chastened by her rebuke. “By the way, I’m Dave Miller.”
“Kayla Meade,” she replied. “Look, I’m really sorry about this. I hope I didn’t hurt you.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Somehow I felt oddly emboldened by our bizarre encounter. “And it was really my fault. So you need to let me make it up to you. The least I could do is to take you out to dinner sometime. As long as you don’t wear those skates, that is.”
Raising an eyebrow, Kayla studied me. “They’re roller blades, not skates.”
“I stand corrected.”
Laughing, Kayla shrugged. “Why not? Here, let me give you my number.” And so saying, the skater chick took my notebook, writing her number underneath my anti-feminine manifesto. She polished it off with a heart over the final “a” in Kayla.
By the way, before you think me a complete shit, Jen had been cheating on me for several months. She thought I didn’t know, but it was pretty obvious. The phone calls at all hours of the evening, strange events that kept her out until the early hours of the morning, supposed nights at her parents about which the Cantons knew nothing…I mean, I wasn’t stupid.
I even had a pretty good idea who it was. Jensen Daniels, some old acquaintance from high school, who stood to inherit his father’s jewelry business. “Nine locations in three states,” Jen proudly stated every time Jensen’s name came up. As if I gave a fuck.
And you know what the funny thing was? I didn’t really care all that much. Incredible as it may sound, I was actually pleased when Jen blurted out her latest excuse to be away from home. I liked it better that way, just Mandy and myself in the house. It was peaceful.
Unfortunately Jen often came home tipsy or worse, but I pretended not to notice, even when she banged around the bedroom in an obvious effort to wake me up.
And to be honest I’d begun thinking of someone much like Kayla. I knew what I was doing. Like I said, it just didn’t seem to matter anymore.
It didn’t take long. Kayla and I met for coffee a few times after work. Telling her of my rocker past on our first date, the second time around she excitedly pulled out a promotional cassette we’d been passing out at concerts several years before.
“Is this you, Dave?” Kayla breathlessly asked, eyes wide with excitement. “My friend sent this to me last year. I love you guys! Why didn’t you ever get a record deal?”
Of course, I just had to go over to Kayla’s apartment and play for her in person. Half-an-hour later our impromptu concert reached a crashing crescendo, a good, hard Dave Bone tucked firmly inside her sweet velvet instrument case.
In retrospect I guess I hadn’t grown up very much, because Kayla was exactly like Jen in college. Young, sexy, crazy…very crazy, actually. For example, Kayla liked doing it in strange places. Department store dressing rooms, campus classrooms, and the like. But most of all Kayla loved outdoor sex.
There was this star gazing site near Pomona, a wooden platform on top of a hill that Kayla simply adored. She loved driving over there, leading me a quarter-mile through the woods, and then fucking on the platform.
I can still remember, like it was yesterday, coming inside of Kayla, rolling off to the side, and staring up at the clear night sky. By this time it was an unusually warm mid-October, the sky clear and close, the soft sounds of the northern woods all around us. Once a deer even came to check on us, alarmed by Kayla’s wild screaming.
“Wow,” Kayla would usually gasp, panting beside me. “You have one hard, Rocker Cock, Dave.” She liked Rocker Cock better than Dave Bone, which slightly annoyed me for some reason.
My marriage and child didn’t bother Kayla in the slightest. She actually liked talking about Mandy, and even gave me a present for her once. Girls Kayla’s age can be a trip.
But look, I’ll spare you the details. It lasted for about three months, then Kayla got bored and dumped me for some businessman. Last I heard they went off on a trip to the Far East. She simply abandoned her apartment, leaving a note for the landlord to sell her furniture for the last two months rent.
So I cried, and moped, and tried to console myself with my music. One night, after a raucous session in the basement that virtually left my fingers bleeding, I encountered Jen in the kitchen.
It was very late, about midnight, and I had to get up in five hours. Jen was just tripping in from her latest rendevous. By now, I believe, she had moved on to another guy, this one the son of a family that owned a minor department store chain.
“Hi, Dave.” Coolly looking me up and down, Jen smiled. “Have a good time tonight?”
“Yeah. Great.” Sweaty and out of breath, I took a long drink of water. “How about you, dear?”
“Great. The…uh…girls and I had a good time.”
I laughed. “I’m sure you did.” I mean, by this point it was just all so ridiculous.
And then there was this strange pause, right there in the kitchen, myself in old jeans and a t-shirt, my wife attired in a slinky black dress.
“So,” she finally said. “I guess I’ll be going to bed.”
“Fine.”
“Don’t stay up too late, now. You have work in the morning.” Almost giggling, she waltzed by me into the living room, her steps receding as she mounted the stairs towards our bedroom.
I slept on the couch that night, still in my jeans and shirt, tossing and turning, dreaming of wild sex on our hilltop platform. When Kayla and I were done, however, an owl came to land on the wooden railing, staring down at me in grim reproach.
HAYLEY SYKES
I had the dream again last night.
As usual, I was putting my tenth grade Honors English class on a rickety old school bus in the middle of the desert. It was early dawn, with just a glow of morning sunlight on the horizon.
They were all there. Angel, with his stupid hats and untied sneakers, flashing the Nixon victory sign over his dirty “I’m A Pimp, D
eal With It!” tee shirt. Marissa was her typical trashy mess, with her crazy, fake nails and shirt so tight you could clearly see her outlined nipples. Of course, Marissa was regaling the other girls, yet again, with stories of her latest modeling assignment and all the photographers who wanted to fuck her. What else is new.
Sweet, stupid Dyson perched uncomfortably in the front seat, notebook in hand, understanding absolutely nothing of what anybody said. Samantha was in her typical twitchy/bitchy state.
Yes, in this most painfully vivid of dreams they were all there, giggling, laughing, popping pills, and sexting nude pictures about with reckless abandon. Several of my teenage scholars were hung over, scratching irritably at their piercings and raw tattoos from the weekend. In the back I thought I saw one girl unzip a guy’s pants and bend down in his lap, but I wasn’t sure.
Just as I was sat down in the driver’s seat, someone flung a paper airplane towards the front of the bus. Unfolding it, I saw the airplane had originally been last night’s homework assignment, on which my student had printed, in bright red letters, “FUCK THIS SHIT!” Beside this clever notation was a crude drawing of the male genitalia, gushing merrily onto some woman’s face. Perhaps that was a depiction of me. One could never be sure.
So I started driving the bus, slowly at first, studying my insidious charges in that wacky angled overhead mirror. “Shakespeare is bullshit, Miss S!” one scholar shrieked. Another cried out “This is boring, Miss S. I don’t care!” More bursts of laughter.
I put my foot down on the accelerator. The bus picked up speed, bounding and bucking over the rough terrain. Now their derision turned to fear, yelling for me to slow down, to help them even. Ah, but it was too late for that! Applying even more gas, the bus verily blasted forward, racing into the future.
At the last moment I opened the front door, leaping from the bus, rolling effortlessly on the soft, comforting sand back into a standing position. Then I watched the bus rumble on, screams of fear quickly lost in the morning breeze. With a final lurch the bus then ran right over a cliff, the rear briefly flipping up, Titanic-style, before the whole thing disappeared over the edge.