by Mabie, M.
I turn to look at him from the couch where I'm sitting. Waiting. Stewing. Seething.
“We just had a few drinks and then came back here. They were busy and changing our table made our wait longer. We had Jose's and margaritas.”
The sight of him reignites my hostility from before the head trauma.
“Listen, I am a little pissed about earlier.” I try to begin calmly. “It was my birthday dinner, and I understand how juvenile that sounds, but I was looking forward to it. You didn't ask, you just told me that you invited clients. You didn't tell me happy birthday. You didn't ask how my doctor's visit went.” My voice is ramping up to a volume close to yelling. “Now you're here for what can only be described as a birthday booty call? I'm not really sure how to take all of this. So why don't you help me understand what the fuck you think this relationship is, okay?”
He just stands there. Handsome and a little drunk. Kurt is a classic white-collar man, just like his father and grandfather before him. Ivy League educated, entitled, and rightfully confident. To top it all off, he is striking to look at. That's the icing on the asshole cake standing before me.
Chiseled abs, perfectly sculpted dark brown hair, hazel eyes, perfect tan—which usually means he is easy to forgive most of the time, based on his exterior qualities alone.
Inside, he's seems more greedy and selfish lately. Cold and distant at times, especially in the last couple of months.
I decided to accept his booty call after my brother and Winnie had left. I'm not sure when I'll get my next lay, and it is better than just breaking it off over the phone. Right?
Maybe he needs closure on these kinds of things? I'm such a giver.
Now, looking at him and realizing that in a few short months I won't be able to see-see him, he suddenly doesn't look all that great. Soon, all I will be left with is this smug bastard who was always wonders what he was going to get out of everything.
Okay, Tatum. Ass first, then ‘kiss my ass’ second. It's perfect.
I guess I do have a Birthday Slut left in me after all.
I can see the strategy working on his face. He's trying to contrive a plan that gets him to the sex part of our evening the quickest and with the least amount of bitching.
“I'm sorry, Tatum. I didn't realize dinner was that important. How about I take a shower and make it up to you?”
Yeah, see that? One sentence to apologize and straight into what he wants out of this negotiation.
“Make it quick.”
He makes his way past the bar, dropping his keys and briefcase on the counter. Shrugging out of his designer sports coat and slinging it over a bar stool, he makes short time of getting to my master bathroom.
Making a mental note that after tonight I won't have to straighten up his messes all over my condo anymore, I smile and head to my bedroom for my parting birthday gift.
What is supposed to be my apology screw turns into his victory blowjob after flying through a quick wash-up. Happy birthday to me.
I'm not trying to brag, but it is what it is. Fellatio is a talent of mine. I have always liked doing it, and men have always appreciated it. They appreciate them...quickly. See where I'm going with that? I'm a penis-sucking prodigy. I'm sure if they knew, my family would be very proud.
So I expect that this isn't going to take long. Besides that, I know what he likes and I decide that this is as good a time as any to dump him. At least I have his attention.
I take the length of him in my mouth to the base and gently do my classic Tatum head shake, which always gets a reaction. Predictably, he moans the word fuck like a prayer.
Working my hand in my mouth's absence, I pull completely off him. Asking, “Kurt, baby?” I want him to listen to me. “You are so hot.” That's true enough.
“Yeah? You like that cock, don't you? Keep going, babe. I'm really close.”
I oblige and take him deep again. “This...mmm...isn't working for...mmmm...me anymore.” I punctuate every few words with my mouth all the way down the length of him. I even cup his balls for good measure. If I'm going to do something, I'm going to do it right—hummers included.
“Huh? Is your jaw sore or something? Just hang in there a few more seconds.” What a sweet guy.
I quicken my pace and feel him working up to a pretty decent climax. His stomach tightens and he leans forward like he always does.
I pull away just before my big finish and whisper, “We are over,” before waxing that dick for the last time. His hand taps my head—like usual—warning me of the explosion about to happen.
Some guys will only spooge a little. Not Kurt. His dick could be compared to the likes of a summer fire hydrant in Harlem after the neighbor kids rig it to spray them.
I know what's coming. It's about to be Kurt.
“What, Tatum? Oh, shit,” he pants as his orgasm begins to rock him. The tapping is striking me funny tonight. It's like he is tapping out Morse Code.
I'm a douche. Tap, tap, tap.
I'm an ass. Tap, tap, tap.
And at the exact moment I feel the first pump go off, I pull his cock from my mouth and aim the head of it right at his face.
“I said we are over, you selfish prick.” Then I get up and walk towards my bathroom. Of course I ram my toe into the dresser on the way and quickly turn the light in the bathroom on.
“What the fuck, Tate? Are you out of your mind? God, get me a towel. Shit!” You could say that the message I sent to him isn't well received.
“You heard me. I'm over this.” I motion with both hands between where I am in the bathroom doorway and where he stands, naked and hunched over, swiping at the come all over his face and chest. “This isn't going anywhere and I'm really not that into you anymore. How about you go home?”
With that, I turn, grab the washcloth he annoyingly threw over the shower door, and fling it at his face.
“Clean up and get out, babe.” I close my bathroom door and wait until I hear him leave.
Was I expecting pleading? I'm really not sure. You would have thought after years of dating and almost living together that he would have at least put up a small fight. He certainly could have asked why, right?
Nothing. Not. A. Word.
That probably bothers me the most. He doesn't want me anymore either. Now I'm wondering if he has been such an ass so that he didn’t have to break up with the blind girl.
I suppose choosing to be an all-out asshat sort of hammered the final nail in our relationship's coffin for him. He's even too selfish to just break up with me.
Now I sit here alone on my toilet with a banged-up toe and a contusion on my head, and the Birthday Slut didn't even get laid.
“That is the best fucking dump in history!” cackles Winnie the next morning while we’re sitting at my table, drinking our coffee, and planning our day of shopping. Scaling down the enthusiasm a little, she asks, “Are you sure you feel up to doing this today? We can do something else, or I can leave if you just want to be alone for a while? Coop and I can bring dinner over tonight, or we could cook for you?”
I hold my hand up to put the brakes on my friend.
“Winnie, I'm fine. Actually, before I did it, I was thinking about how awesome it was going to be not having to clean up after his pretentious ass. I'm feeling a little relieved. Maybe I will be sad later, but I'm just not right now.”
And that was the truth.
“It's like I was finally sick of shuffling the expired milk around in the fridge and just dumped it. I knew that it was bad and just kept working around it anyway. Why? Because having spoiled milk isn't exactly the same as no milk, Winnie. If anything, I can ironically still see my hindsight clearly.”
Her pretty brown hair sways as she shakes her head at my stupid comparison. Since Winnie has a shit-ton of wedding things to get done and I'm such a good friend, we decide to skip the cry-fest and we nurse my broken ego the mature way—with retail therapy.
“We're not getting much done. We at least have to work on t
he cake,” she tells me as she pulls me into the bakery.
She's not too particular. We eat some cake. We like it, and she's ready to order. After they confirm that they can deliver it to Martha's Vineyard in August for their wedding, she signs the contract and boom it's off the list.
She and I do a little more shopping and she finds some small gift things for people in the wedding party. We talk about my breakup a little more. It isn't a complete waste for her.
I cuss her out for agreeing with Dr. Know-It-All and his ideas of me getting a shrink. Honestly, I'm starting to think I'm crazier than blind by the way everyone's pushing it.
“I don't think you're crazy. I have a psychiatrist. Does that make me crazy?”
She's not going to win this game with me. I went to see a psychologist—or a therapist or a psychiatrist or whatever—right after I was diagnosed. It was dumb. She said that I was depressed and made me take so many fucking pills that I wasn't myself.
I think that depression is natural when there's something to be depressed about. I was fourteen. I was just told that it was very likely that I'd lose my sight at a young age, so yeah, I was a little bummed for a while.
The quack job wrote me a prescription after my first visit and then I was basically a lump of a girl for a few months. I didn't go anywhere. I was always tired. I didn't give a shit.
My parents knew that the medicine wasn't the solution, and neither was that therapist. They took me out and didn't refill the prescription.
So that's my big shrink story. They're just not for me. I know that lots of people get what they need from them and it is possible that the one I saw when I was younger just wasn't that good. I can't discount a whole medical profession because of my shortcomings resulting from a single experience. Again, it's just not for me. But I can tease Winnie about it.
“Yes. You, my dear, are a lunatic. I'm surprised they let you wander freely.”
We walk down the street to the store I've been waiting for—the shoe store.
“You're a bitch. You should get help. Even your brother thinks so.” She points at me with a pretty, red acrylic nail to articulate her crass. “Eat shit, Tatum.”
I buy not one, but two pairs of Jimmy Choos and the wallet that matches my new Kate bag. So I'd call that a pretty fucking decent day.
Deciding to forgo the “are you really okays” from Coop, I tell Winnie that I'm planning on a night of writing and suggest that they go out without me. Winnie can read me like the paper though, and I think she can see that I'm, even if just superficially, actually doing well with the whole thing.
I catch up on some ridiculous gossip magazines, watch some reality television, and read Page Six. Those three things alone can get my sarcastic writing voice to rear its ever lucrative head. Staying current on the un-news is a huge part of my job. If someone shows a tit on a carpet, I want to know. If someone gets drunk and does something unfortunate, we bring light to it in a silly way.
Our show also has original characters that we have developed over the past few years, and we are always trying new ones. It's the relevant segments that make the biggest splashes. Without being bullies, we like to think that we just point out that everyone is human. That is what makes it funny.
So for a few hours I dive into that world. As I'm wrapping up for the night, I decide that I will hire a new personal assistant. Not a work PA, but a life PA.
Lots of people have them. Why not me? I quickly make a note in my phone to talk with Neil, my work assistant, and see if he can help can me sniff out where to find one.
My phone vibrates with an incoming text and I'll be a son of a bitch if it isn't Kurt.
Kurt: Did you really break up with me?
I look at the clock on the corner of the screen. It is almost one thirty in the morning. I bet he's drunk-dialing.
Me: I did. I'm sorry. I'm just looking for something else.
That was the truth, and just because he is a major jerk from time to time doesn't mean we didn't have a few nice moments when I saw his personality underneath. So I feel like we are even, considering the hole self-bukake thing I did to him. We broke up. There's no need to argue about it now.
Kurt: I'm sorry, too. I was a prick.
Is this really happening? Has his phone been stolen by a...a man?
Me: Are you drunk? What's with the late night texts?
Kurt: No. I was just making sure that you were sticking by this thing. I thought maybe you were mad and that you would call me today after cooling off and then you didn't.
Now, I feel a touch bad. Just a touch though. Maybe he should have given more of a shit about it before. I'm a clean-break kind of girl. I won't go back.
Kurt: Have breakfast with me? To make up for your birthday.
I'm so surprised by this news that I decide to go.
Me: Well, I do like breakfast. I can meet you around nine. You pick the place.
Kurt: I'll meet you at our place around the corner.
Our place? Okay. He's being weird. You know how sometimes people sound different in text messages? Without the inflection in their voice? You can't really understand if it's sarcasm or sincerity. Well, not without a smiley face or a winky face, which equally appall me. I won't be caught dead winking in a message. I don't wink at people normally. Why would I do it in a text? I'd prefer a middle finger emoticon, but those are hard to find.
Me: Okay, see you there in the morning.
Kurt: Okay. Love you.
I just look at the screen for a long minute. What in the fuck is this all about? Someone really has stolen his phone. This can't be the same Kurt.
My cell again buzzes.
Kurt: Shit. Sorry.
Me: Are you alright?
I feel a little more than sorry now, and I'm not sure for whom.
Kurt: Probably. I'm just realizing some things is all. I really am sorry for being such an ass. That isn't who I want to be. See you at nine. Goodnight, Tate.
Kurt has a conscience? Who would have known? I sort of like him more post breakup than I did before. However, I will stand by my decision. Maybe we will be friends. This could be interesting or really fucking weird.
The next morning, I shower and dress quickly. Around seven, I'm strapping on my new shoes and wearing a simple slip dress with my favorite scarf. I decide to take my tablet with me and just people watch for a while out the window of the little diner Kurt thinks is ours.
I get there, find that the booth I want is open, and take it. I order coffee and watch out the impeccably clean window.
This is the time of day that I love the city most. Everything feels clean and new.
A couple walks past pushing a stroller and each drinking back their coffees as fast as they can. I make up a little story in my head about how they haven't slept in days and the only way their baby stops crying is on walks.
I make up stories about lots of the passersby. Let's see. There's the nun with white earbuds in who's listening to erotica on her way to confession.
Oh and there's a pair of girls doing the walk of shame after their threesome with the musician they met at the bar last night.
I spend the next hour or so blissfully scandalizing strangers and probably martyring others. I take notes when worth it—funny things for the show or new characters.
Taking advantage of seeing it first hand, I watch the sun start to make its way down the street and shops open up. Dog walkers triumphantly handle multiple breeds on webs of leashes.
It's like long soak in a warm tub for my brain.
Then I watch a man walk across the street about a block down. His shoulders are slumped and he looks tired. Running a hand through his hair, he stops and looks behind him like he's changing his mind about something. He just stands there for a minute with people walking by him. I can see him take a few large breaths. As if filling his lungs with just the something he needs to put his feet back into motion, he starts this way again.
Shit. It's Kurt, and he looks bad. I wasn't expecting thi
s. Walking into the diner and scanning the room for me, he taps his hand on the side of his leg. Maybe his tapping is a nervous tick and not just his silent gesture for “I'm going to come.”
He smiles and walks to the booth we will share for maybe the last time. Leaning over, he kisses my cheek before taking his seat across from me.
“Happy late birthday. You look great,” he says to me before turning to the waitress who’s come to get his drink preference. “I'll have coffee, black. Thanks.” His posture is different.
“Do you feel all right, Kurt? You don't look like yourself.”
“I feel fine. I'm just tired and…I don't know. Shit, sad?” I can tell he's being truthful. This tiny conversation is more than either of us have openly committed to for over a year.
“I didn't expect you to be so upset about this. If I'm being honest. It just seemed like you weren't really invested in us.”
“Me?” He looks down at his hands, which are playing with the paper that one held the napkin around the silverware. He's wrapping it around alternating fingers. “You know, that's probably true, but I wasn't the only one like that.”
“What? When did I ever—”
“Tatum, all I heard was, ‘I don't need you for this’ and, ‘I'm doing this.’ At first, it was nice. You're a knockout”—he lowers his head—”great in bed, and you're successful. It wasn't like you needed me showering you with things, because you can just buy whatever the hell you want. I think it was after the first year that I just got settled into that role. The guy you spend time with on the weekends, go to events with, and fuck.”
I'm speechless. It takes everything in me to blink.
“I'm sorry, Tatum. I have been thinking about this since I left your apartment the other night. I was a complete jerk. I deserved what you did. I'm sorry that I didn't just talk to you about this in the beginning when I felt like that. Instead, I just took advantage of the situation and rode it out. It made me an asshole. I turned into a fucking asshole!” He lets out a long breath. “I don't want to be like that. I want someone who needs me. I want to feel like the other person would be crushed without me. You look fine. Hell, you look fucking hot!”