by Meghan Quinn
Meerkats, Pads, and Yetis
ROSIE
“That dress is perfect, Rosie. You have to get it. Henry will die when he sees you in it.”
“You think?” I asked, checking out my reflection in the mirror. The dress was black and tight, clinging to every inch of my body. It wasn’t something I would normally wear, something Lucille Ball would never even consider. That was how I judged my apparel . . . if Lucille Ball would wear it, then so would I. But desperate times called for desperate measures in this case. “I need a better bra to wear with this dress, though.” I stared at my flattened boobs in disgust.
“Yes, well, one would think you wouldn’t wear a sports bra when going to pick out a dress, but you do prove norms wrong,” Delaney mocked.
I felt my boobs and rubbed them in a circular pattern. “They’ve been super sore lately. A bra with underwire didn’t seem appealing. I have a strapless bra with a front clasp that will work, though, super heavy underwire in it. With that, I really think I can get some lift with these puppies.” I pulled up my boobs, but cringed when they ached in my hands.
Boobs weren’t supposed to ache in my hands, they were supposed to ache with need for Henry’s hands.
“I’m sure you have a great bra. If you’re going to get that dress, you better get it now. Don’t you have that date with Wolf Fleece Wendy?”
I checked the time on my phone and squeaked. “Ahh, I’m going to be late.” I shut the dressing room door, took the dress off as quickly as possible, and put on my outfit for the day . . . yoga pants again. I did some Pinterest searches recently and found some cute ways to dress up yoga pants and leggings. Who knew scarves could make you look fancy?
My workout routine didn’t feel like it was doing anything. I went to many spin classes with Delaney, and all it did was eat up my vagina . . . and not in a good way. I thought my crotch was sore before, I didn’t think I could even sit down without a pad on if I wanted to.
Yes, I’d started wearing a pad every day to protect my area from hard benches and wooden chairs. That was why I started doing some Pinterest research. I wound up making an entire board full of ways to look cute in leggings. And yes . . . they are pants!
I tossed the dress at Delaney when I exited the dressing room and said, “Purchase that for me. I’ll pay you back.”
“You better! I’m saving my money for the stripper. I plan on showering him with ones, especially if he has big balls like I expect.”
I zipped up my boots and adjusted my scarf. “You promise that dress is good? You don’t think the fabric is too thin? It felt a little thin for a dress that’s so tight.”
“It’s perfect. I will pick you up some Spanx so they provide an extra layer under the dress.”
“Get me a large,” I called out, while waving and taking off toward the exit.
I was meeting Wolf Fleece Wendy at the Park Hyatt right across from Central Park. She had a surprise for me; I just hoped it wasn’t some kind of freaky sex party she was inviting me to.
If I was honest, I was also very nervous because I finished my book the other day and sent her the last chapter. She was going to be giving me feedback, and after the last serious critique I had, I felt like I was going to throw up.
Since the hotel was only a couple blocks away, I hoofed it across the streets of New York City, bumping into strangers as I tried to text Henry. It was a Saturday, and once again, he was at work. He was working so much that Sir Licks-a-Lot had started to whine at night; it was a real treat while writing, having a horrible screech ring through your ears every minute.
He said to give him one week, but I didn’t think I could. He still wouldn’t touch me, except going down on me before his shower, but that was it. He wouldn’t even let me touch him. I tried not to let it bother me. I tried to convince myself that he needed a week . . . for God knows what. I could make it through a week.
Typing out a text, I quickly sent it before I stepped into the extravagant hotel.
Rosie: Miss you. Can we have a date night? Maybe a little cuddle on the couch with some curry?
I put my phone in my purse, just as it buzzed back with a text message. I searched the entryway for Wolf Fleece Wendy, but didn’t see her, so I quickly read the text back from Henry.
Henry: Hopefully I can get out of here on time. Love you.
I refrained from throwing my phone at the man next to me, who found scratching his crotch something to perform for the elegant customers of the Park Hyatt.
What was I thinking? Of course Henry wouldn’t be home later. I didn’t text him back because if I did, I would lose it on him. Instead of freaking out like my entire body itched to do, I took calming breaths and looked around for Wendy.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her approaching, wearing another wolf fleece. Her collection was impressive, and I think subliminally, she was turning me onto wolf wear. When I was pinning the other day, I came across some wolf T-shirts that I was tempted to check out, but refrained. Wolves were Wendy’s things. I didn’t think it would be polite to copy her, even though the wolves looked so powerful, so . . . sexual with their fangs and howling. I wondered what wolf sex was like; did they have spiky penises like cats? I made a mental note to do some research, but then checked the crazy at the door and realized what I was telling myself.
No, I would not research wolf sex. I was losing my mind, but not that much.
“Rosie, I’m so glad you’re here!” Wendy pulled me into a hug, and I didn’t balk at the new development in our relationship. I embraced it.
“Hi, Wendy. What are we doing here?” I looked around, taking in the exuberance of the hotel.
“Well, since you finished your book, I thought I would bring you to your first book signing, as a fan. You can meet some fellow authors and get an idea of what it’s like to be in this world, because believe it or not, you were born to be a part of this community.”
Emotions took over me as my tears welled up. “You really think so?”
“I do,” Wendy nodded. “I loved your book. It was unique, relatable, and sweet. It was a little crass at times, but then again, that’s comedy.”
“You didn’t think it was too much?”
Wendy nodded her head. “At times, yes, but then again, it’s fiction comedy. The way I see it, you have to look at other forms of comedy. For instance, take Friends as an example. The antics, the experiences they face wouldn’t normally happen to people like you and me every day, but if we wrote about our everyday lives, would it really be that humorous?”
“No, it would be kind of boring at times, but there are some instances in the book that are real life experiences.”
“Yes, exactly, and as an author of comedy, it’s your job to take that funny experience and embellish it. You did that in your book, you embellished and pushed the limits of ‘is this really possible.’ My favorite example to use is the episode of Friends when Ross makes himself a pair of paste pants out of lotion and baby powder. No one in their right mind would ever do that, but if the writers just said he wrapped a blanket around him and went home, it wouldn’t be nearly as funny. Instead, they turned an awful situation into one that is so funny, you can’t help but laugh and feel for the man. As writers, that’s what we need to do. In comedy, we need to make the readers laugh, we need to make them feel awkward and uncomfortable, and we need to make them relate in some way. If we are making readers experience emotion, good or bad, then we did our job at the end of the day. They might not agree with our humor, but if we made them feel, that’s all that matters.”
I felt like kissing Wolf Fleece Wendy. She was so empowering. She made me feel like I could tackle anything. She was a mentor I couldn’t have even dreamt of.
“Thank you so much, Wendy. You’ve been such an inspiration to me. I don’t know what I would do without you.”
Wendy cupped my cheeks and spoke with sincerity. “You’re a beautiful young woman with a huge future in front of you. Now, tell me, what is the title of your book?”
&nb
sp; “I’m not sure yet. I’m still trying to figure it out. I want something unique. I was thinking of something like, The Chronicles of Meghan. What do you think?”
“Hate it,” Wendy laughed. “It doesn’t speak of the book. Let’s keep working on it. In the meantime, let’s go meet some authors.”
I couldn’t contain my smile. I linked my arm with Wendy’s, and I let her lead me to the elevators and the ballroom. The entire ride, we spoke of Wendy’s favorite parts in the book, the waxing scene being one of her favorites.
“Where did you even come up with the idea of the redbrick road?”
“I didn’t have to come up with the idea,” I chuckled. “That was all from experience. I itched for days!”
Wolf Shirt Wendy tossed her head back and let out a giant guffaw. “That is fantastic. I’m glad I’m old enough not to have to even worry about getting waxed.”
When the elevator doors opened, we were greeted by giant signs for the event: Authors in the Big Apple. There were hundreds of women walking around, carrying books, stacked up in carts and tucked under their arms. There were tables after tables of authors signing books with their banners up next to them, displaying their logos.
I was in book euphoria. Swag was everywhere and my little paws itched to scoop it all into my purse. Chap Stick, condoms, pens, bookmarks, bracelets, and pins. I wanted it all. I wanted to wear every single pin, I wanted to apply every Chap Stick, and I wanted to decorate my fingers with condoms.
“This. Is. AMAZING!” I cried, holding my heart while looking around, not really sure where to start. “Who’s here? Anyone I might have read?”
“Probably. This is a fantastic lineup of authors. Tickets have been sold out for a while, but thankfully I know the event coordinator and was able to secure two tickets for us. Are you ready for this?”
“Do they take credit cards?” I asked, holding up my debit card I’d magically extracted from my wallet without even knowing.
“Oh, they do. This is your lucky day!”
I fist pumped the air, nearly crushing my card with my super human book love power.
“Then let’s spend some money!”
Like a giddy little schoolgirl, I skipped along from table to table, meeting authors, grabbing every piece of swag I could find, cherishing them as my very own treasures, and buying paperbacks that I either had read, or wanted to read.
I made sure to go to every table, to introduce myself, and shake hands with some of the nicest people I had ever met. Even if I didn’t buy a paperback, they still wanted to talk to me, they wanted to know about my book, and they told me to write them if I had any questions about the process.
I had never felt so accepted in my life. On Facebook, the book groups gave me a small glimpse of what this community was like, but now, I fully understood.
Books didn’t just expand your imagination and take you into another world where reality was a far off memory. Books connected souls. Books created a common ground for everyone to walk on, no matter your background, your fortunes or misgivings, books brought readers and authors together to form an unyielding and beautiful bond.
Women could be catty at times, they could be backstabbing, and they could be straight-up trolls if they were in the mood. Not here, not in this world. This community was about empowering women and seeing your friends succeed at a daunting task: writing a book.
I never really thought about the notion until I talked to some of the authors at the signing. Writing a book wasn’t just typing out words onto your computer that twisted into a plot. It was taking a little piece of your soul and letting it bleed out for everyone to read and judge. To write a book was like capturing a moment in your life and exposing it for prying and curious eyes.
I understood that very clearly.
What I accomplished only a few days ago was a feat on its own: writing a novel. I poured my heart and soul into it, exposing my flaws, my insecurities, and some of my most embarrassing moments.
And once I published my book, I wouldn’t sit there and look at the sales page, trying to figure out if this would be a future I could pursue. Instead, I would sit back and be proud of my accomplishment.
I wrote a book.
Even if only one person bought it, I would still consider myself an author.
“Are you okay?” Wendy asked, coming up to me from behind.
I wiped my tears away and nodded. “Yeah, I’ve just been emotional lately. A lot’s been going on. I needed this day. I feel refreshed, I feel welcomed, I feel like I’m a part of something.”
“You are,” Wendy smiled at me. “You are very much a part of this world. I actually have a couple of ladies I want to introduce to you.” Wendy turned me around to two authors I couldn’t even fathom meeting.
Debra Anastasia and Helena Hunting.
They didn’t know it, but I stalked them. I stalked them hard.
I stood there, frozen, unable to speak. All that flew through my head was yeti’s and pads, yeti’s and pads.
“Debra, Helena, I want you to meet my friend, Rosie Bloom. She’s an aspiring author and just finished her first romantic comedy. I’ve had the privilege of reading it, and I’m going to tell you right now, this girl is going places.”
I held out my hand and started to babble, cutting them both off before they could introduce themselves. “I want a pad; can I have a pad? I need a sanitary napkin with your signature on it. I actually have one; will you sign it, Debra?” Without even looking, I reached into my purse and pulled out one of the pads I kept on hold for my bruised vagina. I didn’t care if my pubic bone had to sit on hard wood today, I would be getting these ladies to sign my spare pussel pad. “And Helena, sign my boob, or my armpit. Yes! Sign my armpit! I haven’t shaved in two days so it resembles a yeti…in a way. Will you sign my armpit?” My arm flew straight up in the air—the one holding the sanitary napkin—and I pulled down my sleeve with the other, exposing my hairy armpit to Debra and Helena . . . the book world’s salt and pepper. I had zero shame and my self-respect flew out the window the minute I stepped into the room.
Kindly, they both looked at each other and then laughed. Debra stepped forward and pet my armpit hair. She turned to Helena and said, “I think this one is a dirty slut.”
“I cuncur, Pepper!” Helena reached out and gave my pit a pat. “That’s some serious armpit hair you’ve got going on. Soon you’ll be able to braid it like you’re on a tropical vacation.”
“I heard that if you like to swallow semen that the hair around your erogenous zones grows faster. It’s a hold over from the dinosaur years.” Debra pulled down my arm and pushed my face in her bosom.
“Is that a fact? I suppose it makes sense, seeing as body hair would’ve been integral to the whole staying warm business back then, eh?” Helena strokes my hair affectionately, while Debra continues with the forced boob nuzzles. I’m unsure if I’m supposed to motorboat.
Helena didn’t end up signing my armpit, but they both did sign the sanitary napkin I toted around with me. We talked about my book briefly and the romantic comedy genre, what books I should read, and the authors I should get to know better. They encouraged me to start thinking about a website and a Facebook page, as well as how to go about spreading the news about my book. I stood there mesmerized, trying to soak up every little fact they gave me.
We talked for a good ten minutes before Tara Sivec and Katherine Stevens came running up behind them, interrupting our conversation in the most perfect way possible. Slapping both their asses, Tara said, “What’s up, sluts? I’ve got a bottle of vodka with Helena’s beaver wrapped around it calling our names. I say we put on my meerkat suit, Katherine has her sloth pants on, and we scare people in the hallways. You in? Jimmy’s got the camera all ready.”
Debra shook her head and laughed. “Why not? It will make a great post for the Backdoor Comedy Club. Rosie, it was a pleasure meeting you. Good luck, and if you need anything, don’t be afraid to email me.”
We said our good
byes and I watched in awe as they walked away. I wondered if one day, I would be able to be the one whose ass Tara slapped.
One could only hope.
Chapter Thirteen
Pillow Beating Beelzebub
HENRY
Rosie: Are you coming home soon? You were going to help me with these bachelorette party bags.
I was letting her down left and right. Every chance she gave me, I wasn’t there to help. I felt like the biggest ass ever, but I was so close to closing in on this account, I kept working late night after late night to guarantee a run at the position.
This campaign hadn’t been the easiest one to work on, especially since Derk predicted Rosie was pregnant. It was so obvious to me now, all her emotions, her erratic behavior, they all made sense. It was like the puzzle pieces of a crazy person finally came together. Now I just needed to secure this job so I could provide for the three of us.
Since I had to create a campaign for condoms—ones that failed me—I decided not to focus on their ability to be a solid form of birth control, but instead, focused on their “luxury.” I developed two separate campaigns, one to cater toward men and one toward women. They were vastly different, but had the same effect.
With the men, I focused on a slogan, “The Man, The Legacy.” I hated everything about it; it read like an ad for a massive tool bag. It actually was the slogan for Freddy, who inspired it all for me, but Eric and, so far, the board loved it. I just had to fine-tune my campaign geared toward women. I could have gone the route of talking about the different kinds of ribbing on each condom or special lubricants, but I didn’t. Instead, I focused on the “quality” (snorts) and how each woman only deserved the best. No vagina should settle for less.
Talking to the design team, I had them create the condom brand into a luxury item by developing mock-ups using black, gold, and silver. The font I chose screamed exuberance and the images we used all revolved around luxurious pillows and silk.