Juggernaut

by K. S. Adkins

  “Sorry?”

  “You wouldn’t be beating yourself up if a woman had been rubbing you down. You men seem to think tits and soft hands are the sole cause of erections. You also wouldn’t be telling me in the first place if he was a she.”

  “I wouldn’t –”

  “Van,” she grins. “You were relaxed, it happens.”

  “But –”

  “What were you thinking about when it sprung?”

  “You.” Duh.

  “Then why is it weird?”

  “Because he didn’t have tits, his hands weren’t soft, and he wasn’t my wife!”

  And here it is, the reaction.

  Bending at the waist, she holds her hand up, asking for a moment, when they all showed up.

  “What’s her deal?” Hillary asks.

  “Uh…”

  “She’s not breathing,” Mo says looking her over.

  “She just needs –”

  “Is this about me pooping?” Hillary asks.

  “What?”

  “Evander, seriously she looks –” India starts when my mom announces, “I’m certain this has something to do with my son’s unwanted erection.”

  With that, I lose all the color in my face and my hard on.

  I was still holding onto my vacation buzz when Sugar announced her holy shit idea.

  She made us promise to say yes before even knowing what it was.

  The only details we have to go on are dress comfortable, remove our jewelry (which I didn’t like), bring a towel, and booze.

  Now, cruising down I-94 in India’s mini-van The Shit is headed to parts unknown on a Sunday.

  Handing me the bottle, Sugar insists, “We need to start drinking.”

  Taking a swig, I pass it to Hillary and ask, “What about India?”

  Taking her own pull, Sugar promises, “She can catch up.”

  “Are you sure I’m going the right way?” India asks Sugar.

  “Yep,” she nods, opening a bag of cheese Combos.

  Not a fan of Combos, I dip into my bag and pull out a Slim Jim.

  Because if you’re going to day drink, protein is important.

  Munching on that while taking sips at my turn, we get off the freeway, and are now navigating back roads.

  “I’m freaking out,” I admit. “What in the hell are we doing that brings us to Kalamazoo?”

  “Something you’d rather do out here in the middle of nowhere rather than at home where the odds of you knowing someone would be considerably higher.” Sugar replies.

  “Outside of getting naked, there isn’t anything I wouldn’t –” Oh, fuck me… “Sugar, you didn’t…”

  “Keep drinking, Juggernaut,” she grins.

  “Taylor’s getting naked?” Hillary asks.

  “I knew it!” India yells out in panic. “And no. Taylor isn’t getting naked. We all are.”

  “Come again?” Hillary asks.

  “Ugh,” Sugar moans. “Fine, you bunch of pussies. We’re getting naked for art. So much for the surprise!”

  Snagging the bottle back, I chug hard and ask, “Explain art.”

  “It’s called The Human Spectrum. Basically, this guy Aaron covers you in paint and then hits you with a fireman’s hose.”

  “A fireman’s hose?” Hillary asks. “Sounds kinda painful.”

  “Probably is,” she shrugs.

  “Okay,” I say slowly. “But what’s the paint represent?”

  “Oh,” she chirps. “Equality. By covering us with paint he’s removing social status, race, religion, culture, and sexual preference.”

  “I like it,” I say, taking another chug.

  “Question,” Hillary chimes in. “Is it just the four of us?”

  “Umm…” Sugar hedges.

  “I just had a baby!” India cries out.

  “Naked,” I whisper. “With strangers.” Fuck.

  “Still like it?” Sugar asks.

  “Yes?”

  “Fuck,” India groans. “We’re here.”

  With fifteen minutes to spare, the four of us slam wine as if our lives depend on it.

  Chowing one last Slim Jim, I grab my bag following the girls to a make shift tent set up in a residential back yard.

  “Yeah, this looks legit,” India whispers.

  “I don’t think I can do this,” I say, attempting to turn away.

  “Yes, you can,” Sugar encourages. “Come on, we’ve all seen each other naked.”

  “Us, sure,” Hillary weighs in. “But this is crazy even for The Shit.”

  India surprisingly gets all puffed up and announces, “We’re forty, we’re fabulous, and we are getting naked!”

  “Motherfucking Teresa is pumped!” Sugar claps.

  “Pretty sure she’s drunk,” Hillary adds.

  And just as I am about to run for it, a naked woman covered in paint steps through the flap. “Come in!”

  Bringing up the rear, I follow the girls inside when the woman explains, “This is the safe room.”

  “—and where you die,” Hillary mumbles.

  “Here you’ll shed all your symbols of consumer society. Leave your items in your bags and when ready, step into the next tent. From there, we’ll do an introduction and get started!”

  That very moment I decide if I’m doing this, my ring stays on.

  Naked with my clothes off is one thing.

  Naked without my ring is another.

  Staring at each other, not one of us has anything to say. But Sugar drops her sweats first and says, “Let’s do this!”

  “Why do you have a landing strip?” Hillary points.

  “Mo loves it,” she shrugs before removing her top.

  Following suit, we all strip and in seconds are buck naked.

  “This is going to be a blast!” India cheers.

  “Here’s hoping,” I shrug, unconvinced because If I’m naked I’m either bathing, getting laid, or preparing to get laid. Naked for art with no happy ending seems very un-American.

  “I have to pee,” Hillary whispers.

  “One last round,” Sugar says passing the bottle.

  Finishing it off and tossing it, each of us hold our breath and with our hands together, step into the unknown…

  “—on their way back,” I’m explaining to Scott and Ethan.

  “Did Taylor say where they went?” Scott asks.

  “No. Did India or Hillary?”

  No’s are given in unison.

  Their ETA is about another hour, so we turn on the game to kill time until they get here.

  When the door beeps, we watch our women walk in, looking like they’ve played paintball and lost.

  “Oh, fuck,” Scott coughs into his hand.

  “This looks bad,” Ethan mumbles.

  “Who’s going first?” I ask the group.

  “Don’t look at me,” Taylor snaps. “This is your fault, Sugar. You tell him.”

  And once Sugar is finished, she says, “Wanna see the video?”

  We men waste no time nodding.

  “It’s on video?” Taylor wails then falls into my lap.

  “Did something happen?” I ask concerned.

  “You could say that…” Taylor says, biting her lip.

  “Hang on,” Sugar says, grabbing my tablet.

  Propping it up, she hits play, and takes the seat next to us.

  Leaning forward, I see the girls are naked, covered in paint and sharing a bench.

  Arm in arm, eyes closed, and in pose, I thought it beyond beautiful.

  When Scott asks, “Who painted your genitals?”

  Hillary says, “We painted each other’s.”

  “That’s pretty hot,” Ethan grins.

  “Its what friends do,” Sugar reminds him.

  As the video played, we watch the photographer mix paint and reapply it as needed on the girls.

  “This is amazing,” I say earnestly.

  “Wait for it,” Sugar coughs out.

  “Wait for what?” Sc
ott asks and wondering what we’re looking for all get closer.

  And that’s when it happened.

  The photographer is pouring more paint over Taylor’s head when she projectile vomits all over him.

  “There it is!” India roars.

  “God bless technology!” Sugar laughs, falling over.

  “And gas station snacks!” Hillary laughs doing the same.

  “Are you okay?” I ask through my own laughter.

  “Does that look okay to you?” Taylor groans.

  “Maybe I need to watch it again to be sure?” I tease.

  “Rewind it,” Ethan begs. “Once isn’t enough.”

  “Right?” Hillary agrees.

  As for Taylor, she’s mortified. This was not the juggernaut’s doing.

  “What made you sick?” I ask, hugging her.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” India chuckles. “Could have been the wine she mainlined.”

  “Or the Xanax she took,” Sugar giggles.

  “Pretty sure the three Slim Jims she inhaled were the kiss of the death though…” Hillary says while biting her lip.

  “I was fine until I had to close my eyes,” she pouts adorably. “Then I got…woozy.”

  When the video played again, I can’t hold back. Because Taylor didn’t just vomit; she covered the poor guy.

  “And the juggernaut strikes again!” Sugar cheers. “Not even marriage slows her down!”

  “Congrats, Tay! You’re now a cautionary tale!” Hillary fist bumps.

  “—careful or you’ll pull a Taylor,” India teases.

  Unable to stop laughing and finally getting my wife to join in, I point to the video and announce, “Did you see how many views you have?”

  Leaning forward, Taylor looks, sits up straight and yells out, “I’m fucking famous!”

  “Legendary even,” India agrees.

  “Boss status,” Hillary praises.

  “True playa for real!” Sugar declares.

  As only my wife can do, she snatches my phone. “I gotta call Mom and Pop! Forward it to me!”

  While I’ve never claimed to know it all, I do know that some women weren’t meant to be tamed.

  Some need to run free.

  That kind of woman needs a man just as wild to run beside her.

  That woman is Taylor.

  And that man is me.

  Life approaching forty isn’t easy.

  And I won’t bullshit and say forty is a breeze either.

  Getting older may be a beautiful thing, but that doesn’t mean shapewear isn’t a necessity. (It is.)

  I still have days where I’m was angry at my clothes.

  That I feel so self-conscious the only way to pull me down from the ledge is box wine.

  However, the people who love me always remind of what’s important.

  And it isn’t cellulite.

  It‘s them.

  So, sitting on India’s patio while my niece, Carly, shredded the paper keeping her from her present, I decide this kind of party is the best. Sure, we still have the occasional banger but these days, family comes first.

  Especially when my family keeps growing.

  Sugar and Mo will be moms soon via surrogate.

  Hillary and Ethan plan to marry next year and brings two sons into the union.

  Sons that test Hillary.

  Sons Hillary uses positive reinforcement on in return.

  As for Van and I, we’ve talked a puppy.

  Neither of us want kids.

  But we love being an aunt and uncle.

  “—shots at a toddler’s birthday?” Van asks raising his glass.

  “Totally normal,” I say raising mine.

  Together, we slam them back and embrace the chaos around us.

  Once Carly passes out, The Shit is lounging on India’s outdoor sectional pleasantly buzzed when Sugar says, “You’re the wind beneath my wings.”

  “You had me at hello,” India slurs.

  “You complete me,” I add.

  “Do you understand the words that are coming out of my mouth?” Sugar yells.

  “We only carry sizes one, three, and five. You could try Sears,” Hillary giggles.

  “I’m also just a girl standing in front of a boy asking him to love her,” India whispers.

  “That’s why her hair is so big,” Sugar deadpans. “It’s full of secrets.”

  “Show me the money!” Hillary shouts.

  “You can’t handle the truth!” I scream.

  “A census taker once tried to test me,” Hillary burps. “I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice chianti.”

  And then I bring it home with, “Oh, and this one time, at band camp, I stuck a flute in my pussy.”

  “God, I fucking loved the nineties,” Sugar sighs.

  “My daughter will never know the beauty that was grunge or wearing men’s boxers over your thermal leggings,” India nearly cries. “She’ll never rat her hair or grasp Hammer Time. The only time our history will come up is for throwbacks and Halloween! What kind of world are we leaving her?”

  “India, relax,” I smile. “That’s why you’ve got us.”

  “Promise,” she growls. “Promise me we’ll raise her right.”

  “She’s already on her way,” I promise in return. “Just last week she stuck her fingers in my margarita. She’s going to be fine, honey.”

  “You’re right,” she says softly. “I just worry.”

  “Well, don’t,” Sugar says snuggling into India. “She’s got two gorgeous lesbians aunts to teach her fashion.”

  “A gorgeous aunt to lean on when she’s sad,” Hillary offers.

  “A really gorgeous aunt to guide her properly into the art of acting out,” I finish.

  “My wish is that she has her own version of The Shit,” India wipes her eyes, not realizing what she’s said.

  “She will,” I vow.

  And I mean it.

  When it comes to those I loved, no wish goes un-granted.

  My wish for you, dear reader, is that you know the power of sisterhood.

  That you have women at your back who bring out your very best and compliment your very worst.

  Sisters that would share their booze, a shoulder and a jail cell with you.

  Find your fairy tale and live it.

  And never grow up, it’s a life sentence.

  Most of all, always let your juggernaut out to play.

  The end.

  Sunday brunch

  Next weekend marks Hillary and Ethan’s one year family-versary.

  It’s sweet when the subject of marriage comes up because she doesn’t just say, I’m married.

  She explains; I have a wonderful husband and two amazing boys.

  Ethan’s first wife sadly passed from breast cancer when the kids were just babies.

  Sadder still, is that they don’t remember their mother outside of photos.

  But Hillary makes it a point to talk about her, include her memory and remind them that she loved them very much.

  What I find beautiful about it all, is that not too long ago Miss Misery truly believed love would never find her. However, as The Shit’s dynamic changed, so had she. Gone was the woman who could find fault and negativity in anything.

  And in her place was a confident woman who did, in fact, find love.

  True love.

  And not just in her husband, but in their sons too.

  Hillary took to motherhood like I took to chaos.

  Effortlessly.

  She admitted to me shortly after my wedding that she had made a wish.

  When she introduced Ethan to Van and I, I realized it had come true.

  While Hillary did indeed get her happily ever after, I had to wonder what drove her to what has me speechless.

  As I’m currently sharing a table with her unable to tear my eyes from her face.

  India was currently finding a parking spot and Sugar was a few minutes out.

  Keeping my mouth busy by fil
ling it with booze, I waited for her to explain this to me because quite frankly, there was a story here. “I just wanted to be pretty,” she says softly.

  While I got that, she needed to get, “You’re already pretty, Hillary.”

  “Fine,” she says on a sigh. “I wanted to be prettier.”

  “And you thought this was the way to go?”

  “Everyone does it,” she insists.

  “I don’t,” I say trying hard not to laugh. “India doesn’t, Sugar doesn’t.”

  “What don’t I do?” India asks taking the seat to my left. And once she zeros in on Hillary wheezes out, “Fuck my face.”

  “Nice,” Hillary snaps. “Real mature, India.”

  “Why?” India asks biting her lip. “Why would you do this to yourself?”

  “I wanted to be pretty, God dammit!”

  “You’re already pretty,” she says mirroring my response.

  “Ethan…” Hillary starts.

  “No way he’s on board with this,” I say refilling my glass.

  “No,” she says hiding her eyes. “He’s not. He thinks I’m perfect the way I am.”

  Just then, Sugar clears the door, spots us and was about to sit when she saw it too.

  “Hey, Carrot Top, is your show sold out?”

  “You’re a dick,” Hillary grunts.

  “Clearly, you’ve been busy since the last time I saw you two days go,” she chuckles. “Let’s ease into this.”

  “Oh God,” Hillary mumbles in shame.

  “Explain your mouth,” I begin.

  “I was going for pouty.”

  “How’d that work out for you?” Sugar teases.

  “Fuck off,” Hillary groans. “I had a small reaction, okay?”

  “Actually, you look like you’ve been sucking a vacuum hose for forty-eight hours straight,” Sugar adds.

  “Your face shows no emotion, Hillary,” India says softly. “I can’t tell how you’re feeling.”

  “I’m embarrassed and sore, how’s that for emotion?”

  “So, what did Ethan have to say?” I ask subtly.

  Sniffling twice, (I think), Hillary says, “That he loves me no matter what and that it’s a good thing it’s temporary.”

  “Ha!” Sugar yelps. “I know who you look like now!”

  “Sugar –” India tries.