I tried to lie, but messed that all up.
I told Em about it during my first chemo. Together we concocted a wild story that sounded airtight. Em came over, mugging it up, arm around my waist, acting all puffed up. I couldn’t be with him any longer, so sorry, but now I’m with Em and she’s super possessive. We even sat with our arms around each other. At one point, Em’s hand was on my boob as we tried to let him down, give him an out.
He didn’t buy it. Knew I liked guys too much, him too much. Long story short, I backed away, which only fueled his instincts to chase. Following me right to the oncology center. Walked right in and refused to leave till I told him what he wanted to know.
“I’m sick, and I’m not going to get any better.”
It was awful. Agony. Begging of the most embarrassing levels.
I was ridiculous.
In the end, we agreed to disagree and I’m no longer his girlfriend. In case he meets the next love of his life, which he swears up and down won’t happen, but when it does, he is free to go. No questions asked. No excuses desired. All returns final.
He doesn’t take hints very well; it might be the language barrier. Or…
We still meet up on the regular for booty calls—the only contact I’ll allow. Twice a week. No talk of what could-have-beens—just angry, scratches-down-your-back, hair-pulling, butt-slapping, yelling, desperately clingy sex. The best kind.
Plus, he supplies my pills. And weed. Both top notch. The best my Prince of Mexico can get his hands on. And his reach is long. I know he’s not a real prince…but a girl can dream, can’t she?
I don’t even know what the pills are for, but I take them religiously. I mean, at this point, does it really matter?
All the inserts—ready for shady, stuffed-into-sandwich-baggies-full-of-pills—are written in Spanish. Right after he found out, he wanted another opinion and sent his father’s physician to my house. The baggies started after the house call.
I recognize Morfina on one of the inserts, but that’s about it. If I cared, I could type the names of the rest into Google to find out what I already suspect. They’re experimental drugs. Straight outta Mexico. Despite my best efforts, he’s still holding out hope that my situation will change. Me too, Don Paulo, me too.
I’ve been taking them for months, whatever he brings over in his guitar case, starting new ones, stopping old ones, just as he and his father’s pharmacist recommend. His dad’s legit. He really has a pharmacist and a doctor on his payroll. The doctor’s been by to check on me more than the one time. Four months and I haven’t grown a tail yet.
But I haven’t spared a moment to look into my illegal drugs. I trust Paul with my life. I open my computer under the guise of looking up my illegal drugs, which I ingest every day and really should look up…
…But I type in the name I’ve been wondering about since last week. It’s research, I think—for what, I don’t know—but my interest is definitely piqued. Even though he’s stiff, and after watching the interview of him where he looked like an absolute tool—and not the Sears brand. No, more like the Harbor Freight special. Some cheap knockoff, I still need to know more.
Mason Fucking Dixon. Or more like Mason F#ckit Dixon. I will not go to my grave without finding out more about him.
I lied earlier. Ronny was right. I saw the ads on my cancer support group site a week ago I don’t think anyone else did. At least, no one ever mentioned them. Intent on finding answers to their questions, I guess they never really looked at the ad bars at the bottom of the page. The way the site that gives free help pays for itself, was the last thing on their minds. But not mine.
I was looking, hoping I could find the ad for the miracle shampoo that stops hair loss. I was almost out and needed to order more, but couldn’t be bothered to walk into the bathroom and read the name. No, instead I went to the last site I’d seen it on, and there it was. The F#ck It List. Shampoo forgotten, I read the entire ad, even the disclaimers and went to Ronny, who I thought was in the Marines with him or something like that. But it turned out they were in college together. My memories not at its finest.
Images of a southern gentleman with a twinkle in his eye pop up. Now that he’s outed, side images of the F#ck It List banner pop up everywhere. By each of his images, there’s a split-screen with F#ck It List ads. Some have memes—him with gold teeth, arms held wide. “I am not a pimp!”
There’s a shirtless Mason, very hot, with the caption, I just want to talk about sex.
Ronny wasn’t kidding. There was more. I missed a lot of the interview. Not only was his tie pristine, but he changed clothes and interviewers. I watch the whole interview twice, and it becomes more and more apparent that he’s not as stiff as he first came off. No, Mr. Mason looks like he’s a player. The chemistry between him and the interviewer is making me hot.
Total tool, but my interest is definitely piqued. Where is the guy that Courtney gushed over? Where is that considerate and giving guy?
I don’t know why, but I can’t get enough of him. It’s like I’ve eaten one chip, and before I know it, the bag’s gone!
I read every article, look at every picture. My eyes burn with fatigue, but I don’t stop.
He has the look of a guy fucking his way across America. Making the trek on good looks alone.
Blue eyes with flecks of ice, hooded, like he holds a lot to the vest. Secretive, maybe doesn’t give too much up too early, or maybe I’m reading too much into a grainy picture.
He looks like the kind of guy that would break your heart and then blame you for it.
He looks like the kind of guy that knocks up your maid of honor, and you throw the baby shower.
He looks like the kind of guy that gives you an STD and you thank him, with an edible arrangement. Okay, maybe not that good, but still.
More like the kind of guy that never has to pay for hot sex. So why for the love of Pete does he operate a pay-for-sex-fantasy website?
He looks like trouble with a capital T…but looks can be deceiving.
Like the kind of guy all other guys strive to be. Without even trying. What was it that Ronny had said about him? That he was perfect in everything else. Why so buttoned up, Mason?
He looks like the kind of guy I want, no, need to get to know better…if only for research purposes. “There’s a purpose for you yet, Mason!”
I’m just fascinated by him. A whiskey heir born into wealth, really never has to work a day in his life. And what does he do? Turns his back on the family business to peddle smut? Refuses to talk about his father but runs a business with him?
What am I missing? I know his mother died; I read the obituary. That’s old news.
I pore over pictures of him.
He looks like the kind of guy that gets valedictorian but doesn’t show up to the graduation. My brother verified that fact. I didn’t need Wikipedia to tell me that.
But he came to my brother’s party. Not at some ritzy hotel, but in my parents’ middle-class backyard, with a fruit punch bowl and egg salad sandwiches. And supplied enough alcohol to get an entire student body drunk.
I can’t stand that I’ve met him, accosted him with hors d’oeuvres, and don’t remember. I’m missing that whole night from my memory bank. “Pssha,” I mutter, but there seems to be a ring of truth to it. It does sound like something I would do.
How did I block all of that out? I check the date of the obituary. Just over a year ago, and it all starts to makes sense. I can remember my first day of kindergarten, but nothing from last year. The malignant year.
Once I got diagnosed, everything around me seemed to lose meaning. Same time I was bopping into the doctor’s hoping for a pulled muscle and getting the cancer card instead. That’s how. I don’t even remember what I wore to my brother’s graduation—something peach? Whatever color it was, I’m sure it complemented my pasted-on smile. It’s not that farfetched to believe I allegedly met a deep and complex individual, who happens to be filthy rich, and proceeded to
make a mess of the whole thing. Who, me?
Did cancer steal my memory as well as my healthy cells? The nurses mentioned chemo brain. I thought they were joking. Anyway, that’s what happens when old people get cancer, not twenty-four-year-olds, right?
I don’t know, but I know how to find out. My obsessive searching zeroes in on chemo brain and every article I can find about it. I pore over research and testimonials for the next hour, and all the symptoms start running together.
Yes, I’ve been walking around in a fog. I just thought it was the stress of my secret. No, I don’t have dementia, I’m just a little scattered, nothing new. And since I’m the absent-minded artist to begin with, it’s a wonder I haven’t forgotten how to draw by now. Add in the healthy dose of pot I’ve been partaking of on the regular, I’m surprised I still remember my own name.
After reading what seems like a laundry list of all the bad things cancer’s doing to my Swiss-cheesed brain, I’m thoroughly depressed and in need of some sleep. By all accounts, I had chemo brain way before I was even diagnosed.
……
I wake up feeling achy, sore, and sick to death of eating ice cream. Besides, I’ve cleared every last container out of the freezer, unless I missed one frozen in the sheet of ice in the back. I even ate the leftover ice-cream cake from Lola’s Christmas party. I already feel tired as I change and head out to the store. It’s hard to shop when you have no appetite. Even worse, no ability to taste anything. The chemo killed my taste buds, too. That’s why I’ve been eating ice cream. I can’t taste, but I can still sense temperature. It breaks up the monotony.
I uncurl and tear off a green bag from my wrist holder without even thinking about it. As I peruse the baked isle, my mouth fills with saliva. The smell of baking, which I used to love, now makes me gag.
I try to get away, maybe to the meat section. The blood, ugh, I gag again. I make a dash for the bathroom, retching in my puppy poop bag the whole way, and almost make it. I can see the sign, and I stand, with everyone waiting in line staring at me as I hurl as quietly as I can.
When I’m done, I twist the top shut and look around. Yep. Everyone still accounted for. I leave my halfhearted cart in the middle of the store, deposit my barf bag in the trash on the way out, and think fuck it, shopping’s overrated anyway.
I stop at the drive-thru on the way home, but the cough in the speaker makes me think about the masks in my purse. Courtney had explained the nadir period to me when she handed me a box on the first cycle. “You won’t be able to fight off germs. It usually happens between the fifth and seventh day post-chemo, so I would suggest wearing these on day five if you must go out. And avoid anyone with flu symptoms like the plague.”
“Forget it!” I yell as I tear by the befuddled cougher at the drive-thru window. I must have looked like I was going to rob the place with the damn surgical mask held in place.
Once I’m cloistered away, back with my known germs, I’m not prepared. I’ve got no supplies. I didn’t even pick up any movies at Redbox after my regurgitation display, so I’m basically fucked. The house is a mess. I don’t feel like cleaning, drawing, sleeping. The sun hasn’t even set on day one and I’m already going nuts.
I end up where I should’ve started in the first place, his website. It’s what I wanted to know about anyway, and if, by an off chance, I get listed as a pervert on some government site, fuck it, they can take me to court. They’ve got all the time in the world.
It feels like one of those underground clubs where you can never have a conversation because the damn music’s too loud.
Where you’re afraid to shake hands and leave your drink uncovered. Like you might get pregnant on the dance floor.
Where you always leave oilier and with more glitter than when you came in.
You can’t really see the male model you always seem to get lucky enough to talk to…till the lights come on at last call and you realize you’ve been flirting with somebody’s grandpa. I’m a little skeeved just clicking around. I feel like I need hand sanitizer. As with any new relationship, it’s divided down the middle into a giver and taker side.
Low background music—I want to fuck you like an animal—plays and I burst out laughing. It’s just so…not sexy. It’s Apatow sexy. It looks like a website trying to be sexy in a flannel nightgown.
In order to go any further, I need a handle, and it better be good. According to the popup, security reasons mean I can never ever change it.
CancerChlo, that’s me. I will be her until the end. I take another hit off of my peace pipe, blowing out sweet smoke as I fill in the rest of the information. Basics, really. Pretty straightforward. Once I hit enter, a questionnaire pops up.
Never have I ever….
Without thinking, I complete the sentence.
…thought my family would treat me differently.
Fuck it, that’s my wish. I delete it. I don’t want to be the Debbie Downer huddled in the corner of this rave.
As I click around, I begin reading some of the others. I start on the taker side. It’s the most interesting. Things like:
Never have I ever…. had a blowjob.
There’re 257 hearts next to his name. I hope that means that guy’s getting some tonight. Because how is that even possible? In this day and age of Tinder and escort services? Hell, if you buy a girl a nice dinner and don’t smell too bad, you’ll probably get some courtesy head.
Which makes me think of Lola and her belief that men keep their germs bottled in their penises. She’s not a fan of complimentary blowjobs.
Never have I ever had a threesome.
Never have I ever had anal sex.
Never have I ever given a girl a facial.
Never have I ever been with another dude.
Never have I ever had a finger up my butt. Still laughing about that one.
Never have I ever given a girl an orgasm.
The takers, aka dudes. This is the total guy side, for sure. A pattern begins to emerge. They all want the same thing: blowjobs, anal, threesomes, with a little homoeroticism sprinkled in, just a taste, not too much.
Sure there’s the usual.
Never have I ever been spanked. This one shows up quite often.
The ones I am sure were written by women are…
Never have I ever kissed a girl.
Never have I ever had anal sex.
Never have I ever given a blow job to completion.
Never have I ever had sex on my period.
Never have I ever had an orgasm.
Never have I ever been in a ménage à trois. The females and their flowery phrases.
It doesn’t take a valedictorian to see the majority of either side all want the same thing. Over and over. Not as common, but still there, are the requests for a daddy, voyeur sex and bondage.
In the giver column, they have a different take on never have I ever.
Never have I ever not finished a blow job to completion.
Never have I ever not loved threesomes.
Never have I ever not had an orgasm.
Never have I ever not given an orgasm.
Never have I ever had sex without anal.
Never have I ever not been tied up during sex.
A lot of the double negatives going on, which equals a positive, I think?
Oh, I would fuck this up so bad.
Mostly it’s boring, not even the ones with the sugar on top, generic cornflakes sex stuff. What’s the problem with that? But I can already see how the program works. It’s a virtual singles club with a slightly different pick-up line. My girls need to hear about this. You’d never have to wonder if you’re getting lucky or not.
It’s then that I notice the curled pink ribbon icon on the bottom. There’s an official looking stamp…Proud Supporter, and I think, of course a sex site would support a cause dedicated to saving boobs.
I click it and am taken to the real F#CKIT LIST, hidden under the tawdry sex stuff. The first thing I do is send a message that
’s just for Mason.
Mason
For the next week, I throw myself into work. When my final interview airs—I look like an idiot, by the way: grinning, leaning too far back in my chair, it’s a wonder she saw enough in me to follow me back to my room—I almost forget to watch. I get a reminder alert just in time.
I end up staring at myself and thinking of my mom. She would have loved all of this. Even the threatened lawsuit—now with fewer protestors, thanks to her, my guardian angel. I’m a firm believer that love doesn’t stop just because you’ve left this Earth.
I think about my mom, maybe up on a cloud with a great vantage point, watching over me. Her only son, who’s found a way to put the whiskey money to good use. Sending housewives off on first class rides of their lives, complete with pocket money.
Then there’s my accountants. Who should all be fired for this tax exemption bullshit.
They just asked me if I could maybe give less of the whiskey money to the cancer foundation and fund some of these whirlwind last wishes with F#ck it revenue instead.
I refused. And Gram knew why without me having to explain. What if one of those dollars that I didn’t send was the dollar that would have been used to cure cancer? And some other family loses a mother? Just so we can save a buck?
My Mom would’ve worn the shit out of that story around the office if she were here. As it was, Gram told everyone from the distillery workers to the UPS delivery guy.
It would’ve tickled my mom to know that I could pick up the phone, day or night, and call an NFL quarterback to join in, handing out sold-out seats like candy. I hope…no, she knows.
This whole week, from hearing that there was a boycott in the works that planned to shut down my website, to getting through that interview—even the unplanned but highly pleasurable sex with Mia—all of it is too much. I feel overloaded and wish she were here.
I see her, young and healthy, then sick and finally passing in that hospital bed. Memories, buried under the thinnest layer of day-to-day tasks, just waiting for a wind to blow, unplanned stressors to come in and knock down my guard and there they are. I go willingly to where she is. My mother. She lives in my mind as I fall asleep. I miss her more now, if that’s possible. Even though she died when I was an adult, I wasn’t grown. I still needed her. Now I have the experience to know just how truly valuable she was in my life.
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