“Interesting analogy,” I said. “Thank you.”
“Absolutely.”
“Back to something you said a moment ago. You’re a war veteran. When most of us think of combat, things like death, destruction, and other atrocities associated with war come to mind. In hope of changing the viewer’s outlook on war in general, can you share your fondest memory of your time in combat?”
“Sure.” His gaze fell out of the camera’s view. He exhaled a long, slow breath. After a moment, he looked up. “Can you give me a moment to put everything together?”
“Absolutely,” I replied. “We can come back to this question if you’d like.”
“Let’s do that.”
I thought the question might persuade him to recall one good thing from a sea of what was bad. In doing so, I hoped he’d see that current matters weren’t as bleak as they seemed to be. I now felt like a heel for asking.
I did my best to mask my disappointment with myself. “Moving on,” I said with a smile. “Your life’s biggest regret, Braxton. What is it?”
“I don’t have any regrets.”
“Not one?”
“Nope.”
“A car you didn’t buy?” I asked. “An investment you didn’t make? A wave you failed to ride? Nothing?”
“Nope.”
I scowled. “I find that hard to believe.”
“My actions and decisions, be them good or be them bad, have formed me into the man I am today. To harbor regrets is to wish I could go back and change something. To make changes to my life would potentially alter the man I am. That’s not something I’m comfortable doing.”
“So, you’re completely satisfied that there’s no room for improvement when it comes to the life of Braxton Rourke?”
“I didn’t say that,” he replied. “I have faults. I’m not willing, however, to make changes to the person I am.”
“Your response leads right into the next question.” I twirled my pen between my fingers while studying the look on his whiskered face. “It’s common knowledge that you’re a promiscuous man. You’ve admitted it. I have two questions along that line. One, how has the lockdown challenged your promiscuity? And two, what are you doing to keep that licentious boat afloat during this time of trouble?”
He glared.
I leaned away from the camera and crossed my arms. “Would you like me to repeat the question?”
“Licentious?” he said. “Really?”
“Licentious.” I raised my index finger and cleared my throat. “Lustful or shameless,” I said in a low man-like voice. “I thought we agreed it’s big word day?”
“I know what the motherfucker means,” he snarled.
“Let’s try to keep the expletives to a bare minimum, shall we?”
“Sure,” he said snidely. “I’ll refrain from saying things like fuck and cocksucker.”
I smiled. “Thank you.”
He rolled his eyes. “Although I may be described as promiscuous, I’m not an addict when it comes to sex. Therefore, the lockdown hasn’t caused any problems in my sexual life. It’s—”
“Are you’re saying that you can abstain from having sex?”
His brows pinched together. “Absolutely.”
“For what length of time?”
“I don’t know,” he replied. “A month?”
“A month?” I coughed. “I’m sure many in our audience would view a month without sex as standard relationship protocol. A normal breather between lovemaking sessions, if you will.”
He stared blankly at the camera. “A one-month dry spell is considered a breather?”
“For some?” I shrugged. “Sure.”
“I disagree. Let’s take a look at you for instance. You once went two years without sex. By my guess, you were pissed off at the male population in general. That wasn’t a breather.”
My face went flush. I’d forgotten that I shared that tidbit of information with him. My line of questioning was now off-course, and I’d become the butt of the joke. I was ready to end the interview and start talking about what we should order from Grubhub for lunch.
Discussing our favorite sushi sounded much better than delving into the reasons behind my 2-year hiatus from sex. I exhaled a breath of frustration and began to tell the condensed version.
“I wasn’t angry at the male population, in general,” I explained. “Just one of them, really. The subsequent ‘dry spell’ wasn’t a breather. It was a conscious decision I made not to have sex. My body, my decision.”
He twirled his index finger in a circular motion. “Moving on...”
It must not have been the answer he was hoping for. Based on his reluctance to attack me when he had an open door, I decided to continue with the interview.
“Starting the clock on your nineteenth birthday, what’s the longest period of time you’ve ever gone without masturbating?” I asked.
His face quickly filled the screen. “Say again?”
“Self-administered sexual gratification,” I said. “Masturbation. Pulling the proverbial pud. What’s the longest period of time you’ve gone without doing it?”
He leaned away from the camera. A serious look covered his face. “Thirteen weeks, I suppose.”
“Your response came without much thought,” I replied. “Is that a common period of abstinence for you?”
“That period of time was during basic training for the Marine Corps. It’s an easy one for me to remember.”
“What would an average period of abstinence be?”
“From masturbating?”
“Yes, we’re still on that subject.”
“9-1/2 hours,” he said flatly.
“Nine point five?” I chuckled. “That’s an interesting number. Care to elaborate?”
“Usually I do it before bed, and then again before I start my day. That’s two times during a period of 19 hours a day that I’m awake. As I can’t do it while sleeping, I’d say the average must come from the waking hours. 19 waking hours divided by 2 sessions equates to a nine- and one-half hour average.”
“You only sleep for 5 hours a night?”
“I never sleep more than 5 hours.”
“Why?”
“It’s all that’s needed.”
“And then you wake up and whack off?” I asked, laughing. “Like clockwork?”
“Yes. When I wake up and before I go to bed,” he replied. “What’s your average?”
“Sleep, or my average period of abstinence?”
“Abstinence. We’re still on that subject,” he replied mockingly.
“My average is going to hell.” I let out a sigh. “I’ve been too distracted, lately.”
“When is the last time you masturbated?” he asked.
“Truth or a lie?”
He chuckled. “The studio audience prefers the truth.”
“Let’s see.” I twisted my mouth to the side and glanced at the time. “I’d say, roughly 43 minutes ago.”
“Is an eleven o’clock diddle pretty common?”
I laughed. “Diddle?”
“That’s what it’s called when women do it.”
“What’s it called when men do it?” I asked.
“Whacking off,” he replied as if he were answering a question on Jeopardy!
“In response to your question,” I said. “The time of day isn’t important for me. I’m partial to events. Showering, for instance. I do the dirty little diddle when I shower.”
“Before or after you wash yourself?”
“During,” I replied. “It’s like an intermission. Have you ever been to a hockey game?”
“I have.”
“Then you know the importance of the intermission. That’s the way a shower is for me. I need a little break between washing my body and washing my hair.”
“It gets pretty boring, otherwise?”
“The diddle breaks up the monotony of showering.”
“Is it an ‘every time you shower’ type of affair?” he asked
.
“That’s affirmative.”
“How many times a day do you shower?”
“Normally, at least once.” I laughed at the thought of how filthy I’d become a week prior. “A week ago? Once a week, maybe.”
His face contorted. “Once a week?”
“I was going through an adjustment period. A confinement meltdown.”
“No shower, no diddle?” he asked. “Is that the rule.”
“That is correct. Dirtiness deprived me of the diddle.”
“Is showering the only time you do the diddle?”
“No, no, no, no, no.” I shook my head in protest. “Not at all.”
“How often do you partake?”
“Whenever the opportunity presents itself.”
He rested his chin in the web of his hand and rubbed his stubble with his thumb and forefinger. “What qualifies as an opportunity?”
“Generally speaking? Five or ten minutes of solitude. I’ve done it at a stoplight and in the drive-thru at Taco Bell, once. There was a van from the old folk’s home in front of me, so the line was moving really slowly.”
“What gets your mind headed in the right direction? Are you a partaker of porn?”
“No, no, no,” I said. “A memory, the right song, or the smell of certain colognes set me off. Often, the slightest suggestive comment is enough. It doesn’t take much, as long as I’m not in a funk.”
He lowered his hand. “Interesting.”
“What’s your weirdest story?”
“In general, or masturbating?” he asked.
“Let’s go with masturbating.”
“The combat jack.”
I stared. “The com-what?”
“The combat jack,” he replied. “It’s jacking off while in combat.”
“Wait…how can—” I waited for him to laugh or say he was joking, but he stared back at me stone-faced. “When you’re in combat?” I asked. “Like, at war?”
“Right in the middle of it,” he replied. “We had contests. To see who could be the most creative. One of the guys did it while he was firing his machinegun.”
I couldn’t come close to reaching climax unless I was completely relaxed. Getting the job done while bullets whizzed past would be impossible.
“That’s just weird,” I said. “I need music and serenity. If there’s a horn honking in the distance I’ve got to throw in the towel.”
“You said you did it at a traffic light,” he argued. “And at a Taco Bell drive-thru.”
“I had the stereo playing and my eyes were closed.”
He looked at me like I was nuts. “You close your eyes?”
“Always,” I replied. “You don’t?”
He laughed. “Nope. I like to watch myself ejaculate.” He smirked. “The cum shoots out of the tip of my dick like a rocket. It’s really something to see.”
I swallowed a ball of desire as it climbed up my throat. “I think this interview’s over.”
“You were right.” He laughed. “It doesn’t take much, does it?”
With the right man, it didn’t.
As much as I wanted Braxton to be nothing more than a friend, he continued to inch his way closer to my heart each time we saw each other.
Even if it was through the lens of a cell phone’s camera.
* * *
Marge was on the top step of a three-foot step ladder, washing her windows. The day’s attire was a pair of bluish green pants that came to mid-calf, and a royal blue top. I would have never thought to put them together, but they looked remarkable.
I stepped into the street and shook my head. “You’re going to fall if you’re not careful.”
“I’ve been washing these windows like this for longer than I care to admit,” she said over her shoulder. “I’m just about done.”
“You’re making me nervous.”
She wiped the window with the towel she held, laughing all the while. “Well, you’re making me nervous.”
I cringed as she swayed back and forth, rubbing like her life depended on it. “Sorry.”
She leaned her head from side to side, looking for streaks. When she found them, she wiped the glass vigorously until they were gone.
She took one last look at the window, and then began her journey down the ladder. “Have you ever struggled with something you wanted to say but couldn’t decide if there was enough value in mentioning it to go ahead and mention it?”
“I suppose.”
She leaned the ladder against the side of the house and draped her rag over the top rung. She walked to the curb and then turned and came up the street almost even with where I stood, but across the street.
She brushed the wrinkles from her top. “I can’t decide whether or not to bring something up. There’s a part of me wants to mention it, but the part of me that’s reserved tells me to keep my mouth shut.” She looked up. “The part of me that’s reserved is a small part.”
I shrugged. “I say mention it.”
She smiled. “Alright, I will.” She nodded toward Braxton’s house, which was right behind me. “The other night you were standing on your porch talking to Braxton, and you pulled your shirt over your head. It looked to me like something that was deliberately flirtatious. Has there been progress made since we last spoke of him?”
My face went flush. “Uhhm. You saw that, huh?”
“Honey, I think the entire neighborhood saw it.”
“I was trying to cheer him up.”
“Did it work?” she asked.
I was so embarrassed. “he seemed to enjoy it, yes.”
“Well, I suppose that’s all that matters.” She touched the sides of her snow-white curls as if to make sure they were still there. “Are you two seeing one another now?”
“I wouldn’t say that, no.”
Her brows raised. “What would you say then?”
“Well, we had a virtual dinner the other night. It was fun. We did it over our telephones on a video call. Have you even seen one of those?”
“I have them with my sister all the time.”
“Well, we cooked dinner together on a video chat. Then, we ate together. We’ve been doing something together each day over video chat.”
“Sounds like you two are sweet on one another.”
“He’s nice,” I said. “Or, maybe I should say he can be nice.”
“Men are like watermelons,” she said. “It’s what’s inside that counts.”
I laughed. “I like that.”
“Braxton’s a good man on the inside. He’s just got a really tough rind that you’ve got to get through. He gave someone his heart and they didn’t take care of it, remember?”
“I remember.”
“Give him every reason in the world to believe you’ll never hurt him. That’s all you can do. I guess you could flash him from time to time.” She giggled. “That wouldn’t hurt matters.”
“I don’t know where we stand right now,” I said. “We’re really just friends.”
Her face scrunched up. “Honey. This is Marge you’re talking to. When you talk about him your eyes light up like a Fourth of July fireworks display. You can tell that old busybody, Fred, that lives north of you whatever you want. You should stick with telling me the truth.”
“I like him, but I don’t know if he likes me,” I said. “In the same way, that is.”
“Give him time, and he’ll come around,” she said.
“I hope you’re right.”
“I’m sure of it,” she said with a smile. “Because you’re an easy one to like.”
Braxton
Day 6
When I was deployed, there was one thing that helped me escape the reality of war. The exercise—although for only for a few hours at a time—was crucial to maintaining my sanity. Keeping a level head allowed me to remain in combat for roughly a decade without ever losing touch with my true self.
When my unit finally left the Middle East, many of my fellow Marines were already suf
fering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Once removed from the war, their minds were incapable of processing the atrocities they had been exposed to. Sadly, they would likely live the remainder of their lives fighting a new battle.
With themselves.
Fortunately, I was one of the few who would recall every battle, each loss of life, and all the combat-related mistakes I felt I’d made without allowing those things to become controlling of my mind or my life.
The difference, I was convinced, was how I spent my idle time while at war.
What was my saving grace?
Reading.
When the war was over, I cast my books aside. Over the years, I wondered if I associated reading with the war, and therefore chose not to risk resurrecting those memories by cracking the cover of a book.
Feeling I needed a means of escape once again, I was willing to determine if the risk of opening a book was worth the reward of peace of mind.
I joined Amazon Prime and ordered two copies of my three favorites, Mark Haddon’s The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, Nicole Krauss’ The History of Love, and Frank McCourt’s Angela’s Ashes.
I anxiously waited all day for them to arrive. Disappointed somewhat with their midafternoon arrival, I unpackaged the books and looked them over. I removed one set for myself. After disinfecting the other three books, I placed them in the box with gloved hands, and then added a hand-written note. I carried the box to Anna’s door and rang the doorbell.
I walked to the middle of her yard, paused, and faced her door.
It swung open. Waves of caramel-colored curls cascaded over her shoulders. She was wearing a cotton mask over her mouth. Dressed in khaki shorts, a sleeveless leopard-print silk top and leather sandals, she looked adorable.
“I like your outfit,” I said. “You look cute.”
“Thank you,” she replied, her voice muffled slightly from the mask. “I like yours, too.”
I was wearing a pair of sweatpants, a ribbed tank top, and house slippers. Normally, I reserved such outfits for my Sunday morning cups of coffee in my kitchen. Now, things were different. There were only three days to be concerned with. Today, tomorrow, and yesterday.
The Man I Hate Page 14