Futures and Frosting

by Tara Sivec

  Now it’s Candy? Do I look like a fucking stripper?

  “Thank you, that means a lot to me,” I tell her, pasting on a smile.

  “You’re looking a little tired today, Claire. Did my son keep you out late last night?” she asks.

  Carter tries to cover up a snort from behind me, and my elbow meets his stomach, much in the same way his mother’s just had with his father.

  I’m pretty sure his mom doesn’t want me to tell her my late night involved sex in public, back door begging, sperm demanding, wine drinking debauchery. Although with my luck, those things could be somewhere on Facebook and she’ll find out soon enough.

  Someone calls Madelyn’s name and while she looks away, I pull Liz’s phone out from behind my back and furiously pull Facebook back up so I can begin the deletion process. Before I can even get to Madelyn’s page, the phone is seized from me.

  “Ah-ah-ah! This is a no cell phone zone! And we have a surprise for both of you,” Madelyn exclaims with a huge smile as she drops Liz’s phone in the front pocket of her dress pants and I try not to whimper. “I’ll be right back with your surprise.”

  She quickly turns and walks away from us, her heels clicking on the wood floor as she exits the party room.

  “She’s probably going to get her gun. At least she’s giving you a head start,” my dad whispers.

  Carter’s father stays with our group and attempts to start up a conversation with my dad while I try to figure out a way to sneak my hand into Madelyn’s pants pocket when she comes back without her thinking I'm trying to get to second base.

  My dad looks blankly at Charles while he yammers on and on about the stock market and their last vacation to France. The first time he had smacked my dad on the arm trying to be all buddy-buddy with him, I feared for Charles’, life. My dad looks down at the spot where Charles’ hand connected and then back up at him before walking away without another word. Charles doesn’t seem phased by it since Liz bends over the table to set her purse down right then and he has something else to occupy his mind.

  Drew and Jim are in a deep discussion about having another bachelor party, this time with strippers, when Liz suddenly latches tightly onto my arm and jerks me towards her.

  “Oh my God! Who is that?” she whispers in horror as Carter and I turn to see who she is pointing at.

  “That’s my grandmother,” Carter replied with a huge smile as we watch his mom escort an older version of herself into the room. “This must be our surprise. I had no idea she was going to be in town.”

  At that moment, Drew turns around and spits out the mouthful of water he was drinking. Something about the woman is a little familiar, but I have never met Carter’s grandmother. He talks about her all the time and I know that Carter’s mother does whatever she asks. Thank God she doesn’t do Facebook, at least I don’t have that to worry about. She’d tell Madelyn to put a hit out on me.

  By now, Drew is bent over at the waist with his hands on his knees choking on the water he managed to swallow, and I'm wondering what the fuck his problem is. Jenny smacks him on the back and is making weird head gestures at me and Carter’s grandmother like she has some sort of neck tick.

  What the hell is going on with everyone?

  I'm clearly looking at her with annoyance and put my hands up in the air in a “what the fuck?” gesture. She opens her mouth but before she can say anything, Liz grabs onto my arm with both hands now and is trying to drag me away from everyone. She’s alternating between giggles and repeatedly whispering, “Oh sweet Jesus.” I'm starting to wonder if everyone around me has been roofied.

  I yank my arm out of her clutches and turn around, coming face-to-face with Carter’s grandmother. I put a big smile on my face and began to introduce myself when she cuts me off.

  “You,” is all she says as she looks me up and down.

  The look in her eyes and the tilt of her head as she scrutinizes me suddenly forces a memory from last night to surface from the depths of my subconscious.

  “She’s going to take our cab. Are you kidding me with this shit?” Drew yells indignantly. “I’ve been standing here trying to hail a cab for like three years and this skank just waltzes in and takes the one that stopped for us.”

  “Dude, we came in a limo bus. It’s parked over there,” Jim tells him.

  “I don’t care if we came here on a magic carpet. That was OUR cab!” I pipe up indignantly.

  I stumble over to the back door of the taxi that is still open while the old woman gets situated and stick my head in.

  “You’re a dick. Go fuck your face,” I yell drunkenly before I’m yanked back out by my friends so my head doesn’t get mangled by the shutting of the door.

  “Dude, you just say that to a seventy-year-old woman!” Emmett yells while patting me on the back.

  And here that seventy-year-old woman stands with a cocky smile on her face when she sees that I have made the connection to who she is.

  The entire room is silent as they watch the exchange between us. I look horrified and Carter’s grandmother looks like she's going to throw her little arthritic fists of fury in the air and beat my ass.

  There will never ever be another moment in my entire life that is more embarrassing than this one right here. Mark my words.

  Madelyn interrupts the stare-down Grandma is giving me, and I suddenly wish there was a hole in the floor that would swallow me up when I see Liz’s cell phone in her hand.

  “What does ‘gigantic, stinkotic, vaginastic, clitoral, liptistic whore dizzle’ mean?”

  8. The Incredible Shrinking Penis

  “No, Drew, a trip to the strip club will not make everything better,” I say for the third time. “Claire is completely mortified after brunch last weekend and thinks my family hates her. She’s also pissed at me because according to her, my number one rule as her boyfriend is to stop her from doing anything remotely stupid while she’s drunk.”

  I let out a huge sigh and lift my arms in a “T” so the store owner could measure the length of my chest. While the girls are over with Liz getting a last minute fitting for their dresses, I meet the guys across the street at the mall with Gavin so we can get measured for our tuxes. This might come as a shock, but I’ve never been measured for a tux or a suit before. When I tell you this is the most awkward moment you will ever have with another person, I’m not lying. It’s right up there with prostate exams.

  Some strange man named Steve who barely mutters a greeting when we walk in, immediately pushes me in front of a set of mirrors and then gets down on his knees and sticks his hands in the general vicinity of my balls.

  Where exactly are you supposed to look when there is a man between your legs cupping your nut sack and he isn’t a doctor asking you to bend over and cough? His head? Deep into his eyes when he glances up at you to yell at you for squirming? I’m sorry but I can’t stand still when there is all this unwelcome ball-handling going on.

  I really don’t see why it’s necessary to take four measurements that go from where my balls hang to my ankles. My balls haven’t moved; you’re going to get the same number each time so just write the fucking number down and move on - preferably to a spot away from my nuggets.

  Is a store owner even qualified to do this shit? Doesn’t he need some type of degree or something before he can just go off wielding a measuring tape and sticking pins in people?

  I glance over at Drew and he is looking up at the ceiling and whistling like it's no big deal, like he always has strange people with their hands all over him while they are eye-level with his junk. Wait, look who I’m talking about! It probably had just happened to him at the gas station a half hour before we got here.

  “Claire needs to chill. If your parents don’t hate me by now, they don’t hate her. I’ve done much worse things to them over the years, believe me,” Drew says.

  “Yeah. I know. My mom still brings up what you did to her parakeet back in high school.”

  Drew rolls his eyes.
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  “That wasn’t even my fault.”

  “Uh, you opened the cage and it flew straight into the glass door and died,” I remind him.

  “Is it my fault that thing was stupid?” he argues. “I thought it would just fly around the room, maybe shit on the carpet. How was I supposed to know it was suicidal? It’s your mom’s fault really. She should have known her bird was depressed. And frankly, what I did to her Mynah bird was way worse.”

  Steve spends a few minutes pinning the legs of my pants and gives me a reprieve from ball cupping.

  “That bird is still saying ‘Where my ho’s at, bitch?’ whenever my dad whistles. My mom couldn’t get the bird to stop so she put a ban on whistling in the house,” I tell him.

  “I really thought she’d be more pissed about the ‘Jesus loves me’ one. It was just boring every time your mom said that and it replied, ‘This I know.’ ‘Jesus loves me, fuck a ho’ is much more entertaining,” Drew explains.

  The person measuring him tells him to turn around so his back is to me.

  “Anyway, back to the subject of strippers,” he yells over his shoulder. “You are drastically underestimating the power of naked women dancing on poles. That shit could cure cancer or put an end to war if people would open their eyes. Give pole dancers a chance!” Drew shouts with a fist in the air.

  “I think you mean ‘Give peace a chance.' And watching strange women gyrate on stage is not going to make Claire less angry with me. I’m pretty sure that is the exact definition of something that is guaranteed to piss off your girlfriend,” I tell him, flinching when a measuring tape is spread across my ass and then as hands glide up and down my legs.

  My penis is shrinking. MY PENIS IS SHRINKING!

  “Sylvia, come here and make sure you have everything you need,” the owner yells in the general direction of the back storage room as he stands up and wipes his hands on the front of his pants like being in that close proximity to my manhood made him feel dirty. Shouldn’t it be the other way around? I feel violated. I’M THE VICTIM HERE. I just want a tux, not go to second base with Steve, the handsy man who sews.

  “I think I have what she needs,” Drew leans in and whispers conspiratorially. I glanced up to see a blonde Amazon with a measuring tape draped around her neck walking towards us. You’re probably thinking, “Okay, he has nothing to complain about now. Some hot chick is going to get on her hands and knees and touch him!”

  False.

  Sylvia the Seamstress is stalking towards me, and I suddenly realize just how many people are in this store with nothing better to do than stare at me while they wait for their turn. The lights shining down from above are making me hot and now that I know everyone is watching me, I’m getting the ball sweats. I want to pull the dress pants and my boxers away from my junk but I have to just stand here like an idiot with my arms out to the side because Sylvia is already in front of me...on her knees...reaching for my penis.

  I know she’s not actually reaching for my penis, but my penis doesn’t know that. He’s a simple creature and all he knows is that there is a hot woman assuming the position and reaching for him.

  I know this is going to be hard for you to comprehend, my friend, but this does not mean she wants to have sex with us. I know it’s crazy. I know it doesn’t make sense but there it is. Stay strong little buddy, stay strong.

  Stop judging me. All men talk to their penises.

  Wait! Is the plural of penis, penises? Or is it like the word deer and it’s just penis? I have five penis. No, that’s not right. Maybe it’s peni, long “I” like, “There are too many peni in this porno.”

  “Could you stand still please?” Sylvia says in an irritated voice.

  If she had sweaty balls and an almost-boner she wouldn’t be so judgmental. Am I right, or am I right?

  “Gavin, you almost dressed?” I call into the dressing room, momentarily forgoing my penis grammar lesson to realize my son had gone in there ten minutes ago, claiming he was a big boy and didn’t need any help trying on his tux. I begin to wonder about the brilliance of that decision when I don’t hear a reply. Part of me secretly hopes he lit something on fire in there so we can finally put an end to this trauma. At least it forces Sylvia to finish the hell up and move on to the next victim so I can stop giving my penis pep talks.

  “Gavin, are you okay in there?” I yell as I take a few steps in that direction. Gavin steps out of the room then in a crisp, brand new toddler tuxedo. Lucky little shit doesn’t have to worry about Sylvia or touchy-feely Steve. The suit fits him to perfection and I have to say, he is one handsome little boy.

  “Wow, Gav. That looks really good on you,” I tell him as I squat down in front of him and fix the buttons he fastened wrong.

  “I know. I’m a bad ass, man,” he replies as he turns away from me and looks at himself in the mirror. He holds onto the lapels of the suit coat like he is James Bond the Toddler Years and twists from right to left to get a better look.

  “Gavin, don’t talk like that,” I scold.

  “Nice suit, little dude,” Drew says as he walks up behind Gavin and ruffles his hair. “Mine looks better though.”

  Gavin turns around and looks up at Drew with an angry look on his face.

  “I’m going to put corn and hot sauce on your wiener, and then I’ll hit you in the face with it. Hit you in the face with your corny wiener.”

  “Dude, you are an angry little man,” Drew tells him as he shakes his head.

  “You’re a juice bag!” Gavin yells.

  “Okay, time-out. Both of you. Gavin, go put your other clothes back on.”

  Gavin sticks his tongue out at Drew and turns to run back into the dressing room. I stand up to face Drew and fold my arms in front of me.

  “What? He threatened my wiener. He’s lucky I didn’t throw down fisticuffs with him. And just because he said ‘juice bag’ doesn’t mean we don’t both know what he was really thinking. That kid is an evil, evil genius, and I never want to be left alone with him. So, strip club, yea or nay?”

  ~

  “It needs to be tomantic…tmotmantic…ramtantic…dude, it needs to be all loving and shit,” Jim states as he goes to sit down next to me on the couch, missing the cushions by about six inches and landing on his ass on the floor.

  After all of the fittings are over, the girls take Gavin up to the shop so they can help Claire with some last minute orders, and Drew and Jim decide to stick around our place until they are done. Somehow the topic of my proposal to Claire is brought up and after rehashing the debacle from the Indians game, we all need copious amounts of liquor.

  Since Drew’s proposal during a ball game idea has gone straight to the shitter, Jim decides it is his turn to try and make this thing work.

  “WHY IS THERE A DR. SEUSS CONTACT IN MY CELL PHONE?” Drew yells from his spot sitting Indian-style in the middle of our kitchen table.

  “You need candles and you need a violin and you need your shoes shined and a guy in a tux with a white towel thing over his arm and OOHHHH! You need a piano. Chicks dig a guy that can play piano. Can you play the piano, Carter?” Jim asks, finding his way back up to the couch and sprawling across the cushions, kicking me repeatedly in the process.

  “Yes! I can play the piano!” I shout.

  Why am I shouting?

  “I’m not talking about your little Casio keyboard where all you have to do is press the “demo” button and then pretend you’re really a piano prodigy,” Jim says with a roll of his eyes.

  “Whatever, asshole. I can fake-play the SHIT out of “Cherish the Love” by Kool and the Gang. You don’t even know. You DON’T. EVEN. KNOW.”

  I rest my head on the back of the couch and stare up at the ceiling wondering why it's moving.

  Ceilings shouldn’t move, should they? If ceilings moved, floors would be moving. We’d never be still like broccoli. We’d constantly be moving like in a funhouse. Funhouses are creepy. Funhouses have clowns. Clowns are always moving because they’re
out to get you and eat your face while you sleep. I wonder if a moving ceiling could kill a clown.

  “I DON’T EVEN FUCKING LIKE GREEN EGGS!” Drew shouts from the kitchen, still staring at his phone in anger.

  “On my keyboard I used to know how to play “London Bridge is Falling Down” and “Chop Suey”.

  Heh heh. I said Chop Suey when I meant Chopsticks.

  “Chop sueeeeeeeeey, chop sueeeeeeeeey!” I sing.

  “London Bridge is a SWEET song! Wait, I know! You should take her to Paris and propose. That’s where London Bridge is, right?” Jim asks, grabbing the bottle of tequila off of the coffee table and taking a swig.

  “I don’t know. Carmela went to Paris and was all depressed and shit. I don’t want Claire to be depressed when I propose.”

  Jim stared at me blankly.

  “Who the fuck is this Carmela person? Are you cheating on Claire? I will FUCK YOU UP!” Jim yells.

  “Dude, simmer down. Carmela Soprano. Remember? Tony sent her to Paris with her friend Ro so she could ‘find herself’. It really was a beautiful gesture on his part since he was banging the Russian chick with one leg,” I state.

  “Hey, fuck face. You know these people only live in your television, right? THEY. AREN’T. REAL,” Jim argues.

  “Take it back,” I whisper menacingly. “Take it back right now.”

  “FUCK YOU, SAM I AM!” Drew screams at his phone, holding it up in front of his face.

  “And anyway, I think they moved London Bridge. It’s in Arizona or some shit like that now,” I explain as I took the bottle back from him and rest it on my thigh.

  “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU SAYING?” Jim yells right in my ear. “London Bridge is in Arizona? When the fuck did this happen? Does London know about this? The queen has got to be pissed.”

  “It was on ‘Real Housewives’ so you know it’s true,” I state.

  “Orange County or Atlanta?” Jim asks.

  “Orange County, what the fuck is wrong with you? Does anyone even watch Atlanta?” I argue.

  “YOU AND YOUR STUPID RED AND WHITE STRIPED HAT! FUCKING CATS DON’T WEAR HATS!” Drew screams in frustration before throwing his phone against the wall.