#TripleX

by Christine Zolendz

  “What!” he roared into the phone.

  “Jake Ryan, I have to go,” I whispered into the phone.

  “Wait! Where are you going?”

  “‘I have a dance to go to - at school. It’s a very important dance… uhhh we’re being graded on it… for Gym.’” I pressed end before he could say anything else. I knew how pathetic it was that I could quote lines from Sixteen Candles, but truthfully it was Ang’s brother. It wasn’t like he was a real guy, or anything.

  Ang slid her bottom up onto the stool next to me and smiled.

  “So what happened? Fall in?” I asked, jokingly.

  I looked closer at her and narrowed my eyes. She had put on a full face of makeup. She shrugged, “I always try to look my best.” She looked around and winked “Think we could get one of these guys to buy us a drink? I feel dead sexy after that yoga hell.”

  “I just feel dead. And I lost all knowledge of how to get a guy to buy me drinks right around the time I had my second kid,” I announced.

  “I have a tip for that ladies,” a voice interrupted from behind the bar. Angelisa and I swiveled around on our barstools at the same time, meeting the eyes of an Amazon bartender of a woman. She winked down at us and smiled, “Just mention your vagina.”

  The moment I stopped my side of the story the judge leans over her little desk enrapt. Her eyes dart back and forth between Ang and me. I could tell her butt was at the edge of her seat. “So what did you do?”

  Twitter: What happens in Indiana should be posted all over the Internet. #VaginaCheers #BodySurfing #BladesofSanta #LesbianLove

  No sooner had the Amazonian bartender mentioned the word “vagina,” but Christine was on her barstool screaming.

  “Gimme a ‘V’,” she bellowed, as all eyes turned to her.

  “V,” mumbled a few drunkards from the back.

  Yelling she said, “Yeah, you gals are right. These men here all like dick. They ain’t into no vagina.” I’d never heard her use incorrect grammar, and it made me laugh. She was relating to the clientele—rather well, I might add. “Now, let’s try this again, boys—that is if you really are men.”

  Climbing up onto the actual bar, her stool wobbled. I grabbed it and held her other hand to help balance her. “If you like wet, hot vagina, gimme a V.”

  Every man in the joint stood up and bellowed “V,” thrusting their fists in the air for emphasis. Chris’ eyes widened in surprise. She finished the chant with every dude screaming letters and confirming their love of the woman’s hot box. Then, to all of our surprise, the men just started chanting “Vagina! Vagina!” over and over again, closing in on Christine while I was being swallowed up by their appraising words and glances. They surrounded her, boxing me out. The intense, belly-twitching laughter hurt my torn and tattered, yoga-destroyed abs. I dodged myself out of the way, watching in full hilarity as the scene unfolded in front of me.

  With every guy on his feet, cheering beneath her, Christine shrugged her shoulders, bent her knees, and sprung face-first into the air. Instinctively, all arms and hands went up into the air, catching her and guiding her as she surfed through the grungy, old man crowd of waves.

  The rest of the evening was spent with the two of us, engulfed in a pool of bearded, toothless men, explaining to them how to specifically and perfectly please their women. Neither Christine, nor I, dropped one cent on alcohol. Every drink was bought for us as each man tried desperately to get our attention and our expertise on how exactly to spice up his marriage.

  Christine even went to the car and gave four of the guys copies of her dirtiest book and told them to make sure they read and memorized everything that happened, starting on page 246, and they were guaranteed to have happy, healthy, and satisfied wives.

  “Why? What happens on page 246?” the judge interrupts, eyes wide and curious.

  “Oh, that’s when Kade owns—I mean really owns—Samantha,” Christine says, as I nod in agreement.

  “Yep, that’s a good one all right,” I confirm.

  “Now, you both said that you’re authors. What kind of authors are you exactly?” the judge eyes us suspiciously, taking careful notes.

  “Ummm, the kind where you keep our books next to your bed, ya know, just in case the hubby just isn’t getting it done, if you know what I’m saying—”

  “So you write smut.”

  “Uh, no! Smut is such an ugly, derogatory word. Ang and I write steamy romances and erotica,” Christine announces, proudly. “Rather well, I might add.” Christine winks at me. I smile confidently, nodding my head eagerly.

  “Well, I’m going to need the titles of your books—all of them,” the judge states. Clearing her voice, she adds, “You know, to corroborate your story, of course.”

  “Yeah, we’ve heard that before,” Christine mumbles under her breath. “Anyway, Ang, go on.”

  After we closed the bar and helped our new best friend, Amazonia, sweep and lock up, we said our “goodbyes” and left her with an armful of new steamy reads. Walking back to the hotel, we had our first official argument of the trip.

  “No Ang, we are not going anywhere,” Christine declared, as we approached my brother’s car in the hotel’s lot. “We both have had too much to drink—which is why we went to some dive bar within walking distance.” At least, that’s what I thought she said; it all came out as a slurred, angry mess.

  “We have had one banana today. That’s it. Nothing else. That is not a diet. That is pure stupidity,” I complained, fighting the urge to beat her ass. “One taco won’t kill us.”

  “Yes it will. One taco leads to six burritos,” she argued. “We’re going in and going to bed.”

  “You suck! I hate you,” I groaned, trying to get to the door of the Jag. “You’re not the boss of me.” Holy crap, I just morphed into Evan. Shit. But really, she wasn’t the boss of me.

  “I swear to Christ, if you get in that car, I will call the cops and tell them about a drunk driver in a Jag with Ohio plates,” Christine threatened.

  “You wouldn’t,” I glared at her.

  “Try me!” she promised. “Now get your ass into that hotel.” I stared at her and suddenly realized that I was kind of afraid of her.

  Yeah, I’d spent months and months talking to her on the phone and emailing her, but I didn’t really know her from Adam. Actually, I didn’t know any Adams. I bet Adam would let me get in the car and get some nachos with extra cheese. Nachos are so good—especially with hot, spicy salsa. Adam is a way better friend than this psychopath is. She tried to kill me today at that yoga class. She probably paid that Yoga Nazi to make it harder than it usually is. I bet she brought me here on this trip to kill me. Authors are so competitive. She wants to take me out of the running—so she can make best sellers’ lists and I don’t. I bet she wants to take me out in the middle of the desert and drop me with her glock. Glock. I like the word glock. Glock. I wonder if Adam has a glock?

  “Are you done?” she asked, staring at me.

  “What?” I asked, looking around.

  “Do you know you just said all that out loud?’ she wondered, raising an eyebrow at me.

  “No, I didn’t,” I stated mortified.

  “Yes, you did. Now, go to our room before I ‘drop you with my glock,’ whatever the Hell that means,” she said, shoving me toward the steps.

  Oh my God.

  Oh my God.

  Oh my God.

  “Christine, help! I can’t move,” I cried from my bed.

  “I know, me too. I put some aspirin on the nightstand,” she groaned from her bed. “How many times have I promised not to drink and then I still drink and drink and drink…”

  “Shut up, that’s not what I mean,” I yelled frantically. “I freaking have Polio or something. I swear to God. I’m like… like… paralyzed.”

  “What are you even talking about?”

  “I. CAN’T. MOVE.” I screamed, feeling nothing but excruciating pain. “I’m in pain. So much pain! Something’s wrong
!”

  “You asshole! You don’t have pain with Polio—or with paralysis,” Christine mumbled. “It’s your muscles—from working out.”

  “Are you serious? I barely did anything besides sit there and bitch about how hard it was,” I marveled.

  “Well that’s all it takes. I tried to lift the water glass to take some aspirin for my headache. I ended up just sticking my head in the shower for a drink from the showerhead.” I looked over and noticed that she was soaking wet.

  “What are we going to do? I can’t move. We’re going to die here in this room,” I panicked.

  “We’re going to do what all people do when they get sore from working out,” she said. “We’re going to work out some more.”

  “The Hell I am,” I argued, rolling onto my stomach and trying to push myself off the mattress. My arms shook and gave out under my weight. “I’m going to lie right here until the agony subsides—then I’m going to lie here even longer just to be sure.”

  “There’s a workout room in the hotel. We’ll take it slow,” Christine offered, rolling over on her bed to face me. “Besides, this was all your idea, anyway.”

  “Remember, when I wanted to write a book about a girl who sex-trained her uncle and her grandpa?” I asked her.

  “Yeah.”

  “Who talked me out of it?” I prodded.

  “I did,” she mumbled.

  “That book was a better idea than giving up food for life and exercising like maniacs,” I countered.

  “That book would’ve gotten you killed—by reviewers. This diet and exercise is going to save your life—and mine,” Christine said, sitting up and clapping her hands. “Now, let’s go. Here’s the plan. We’re going to do twenty minutes—just twenty—on the treadmill and then get egg white and spinach omelets… at that scary greasy spoon down the street.”

  “Oh my God, my stomach just had an orgasm. Food. We’re going to eat today? Thank the Lord… and I don’t even like eggs… or spinach. But Hell, I can’t wait.” I tried to hop out of the bed, but nothing moved. I used the curtains to hike myself up off the bed, bending the curtain rod and knocking two screws out of the wall. Staring up at the damage, I added, “I think we should keep driving today. Maybe drive straight to Illinois and stay in Chicago… it’s a only a little bit out of the way… maybe stay there for a week… or even two.”

  Noticing the bent rod, Christine added, “I think you’re right.”

  “Best sex you ever had?” Christine asked, while playing Trivia Crack on her phone.

  We’d been driving for four straight hours, listening to music, telling stories, sharing secrets, and even plotting out new and crazy book ideas. We left the restaurant right after we inhaled our breakfast and started a new day’s adventure. If you could actually call what we ate breakfast. Give me sausage, gravy, and hashbrowns any day over that crap that I just ingested. Granted, I devoured it like I might never get to eat again.

  “Easy… once when Matt and I broke up, I went to his apartment for ‘goodbye sex.’ It was more like ‘Hello—come to papa’ sex. Before then, it was pretty straight, vanilla stuff, but that day, he didn’t hold anything back… ice cubes, neckties, everything was game.”

  “Seriously? The best sex you’ve ever had was with your husband? Boring!”

  “Sorry to disappoint. It was, though. I still use it for the ‘archives;’ that’s how good it was,” I explained. Christine pounded her head a few times against her headrest.

  “You fantasize about your own husband when you’re ‘knicking the nugget’?” she asked, frowning at me.

  “How many phrases do you have for masturbating?” I asked, incredulously.

  “Tons, I do it so much, I figure I have to make it new and exciting,” Christine joked, still looking down at her phone. “Holy crap! Colleen Hoover just tweeted that she’s bringing her pig to Vegas.”

  “Nuh-huh!” I squealed, pretty similar to how a pig would squeal.

  “I’m so stealing that thing,” Christine promised. “I’ve been wanting a pig forever! Can you imagine how epic it would be if I stole Colleen Hoover’s pig?”

  “You are not touching her pig! The last thing we need is to make enemies,” I stated.

  “You’re probably right. Okay, so I won’t steal it. I’ll just covet it,” Christine resolved. “Much like I covet your damn husband.”

  Laughing, I shook my head at her and rolled my eyes. “Okay, so what was the best sex you’ve ever had?” I asked, feeling guilty for talking about Matt so much. It had to be hard on her to hear about him so much—especially when he really was a great husband. If only I were a great wife…

  “I was on vacation with a bunch of girlfriends in college. We spent a week in Tahiti,” she explained.

  “Tahiti? You went to Tahiti for spring break? I only ever went to Panama City,” I said, feeling like I missed out on so much.

  “We were all trust fund kids—money was given instead of attention and praise,” she admitted. “Anyway, I was 20, and met this 33-year-old man who was there on business. Basically, I was his for the week—to do with whatever he wanted—whatever he wanted.”

  “No way! That did not happen. You’re lying,” I accused.

  “Where do you think I get all my ideas for my books? I don’t have that great of an imagination. Cash made my fantasies come to life,” she wriggled her brows, grinning ear-to-ear. “I told you I have a money sign tattoo on my bikini line… well, what used to be my bikini line. It’s more like a granny-panty line now,” she joked.

  Christine unbuckled her seatbelt and lifted her ass off the seat. “Here, I’ll show you.” She tried to shimmy her pants down, but the tiny car, her sore muscles, and the tightness of her pants all made it too difficult.

  “Don’t worry about it. I believe you. You can show me your dollar sign some other time,” I said.

  “Anyway, he wanted me to never forget him, so he made sure that I never forgot him—and that every guy who ‘comes’ after him knows who was there first. Let’s just say that Cash staked his claim.”

  “So this old guy was your first?” I asked.

  “Not really, I’d screwed around and had sex before, but nothing like the things Cash did to me… and could make me do to him. So, I consider him my real first,” she explained.

  “So where is this Cash now?” I asked, curiously.

  “I’m not sure,” she said, grinning.

  “Liar! You know you cyber-stalked him,” I yelled.

  Laughing, she caved, “Fine, Cash lives in London with his wife, Svetlana. They have two sons, Money and Stock.”

  “No way, he did not name his sons, Money and Stock,” I said, shaking my head. “You’re screwing with me.”

  “No, I’m not. They’re hot as Hell too.”

  “His kids? Gross!”

  “No, not gross! Remember, he was thirteen years older than me. He’s in his fifties. The boys are in their late twenties or thirties now—and hot as all get out.”

  “If we ever go to London, we’ll have to look them up,” I promised. “Maybe you can get a currency four-way going, ya know with Cash, Money, and Stock.”

  “Very funny,” she said, turning up the radio and going back to her game.

  Just then my phone rang, I looked down and saw Kevin’s face on my screen. Picking it up, I answered, “Hey buddy, how’re you? How’s Michigan?”

  “Mom, I can’t get ahold of Dad at work. He’s in a meeting, and his secretary won’t interrupt him--”

  “Alright, slow down, what’s going on?”

  “Bryce is chasing Evan around with one of Dad’s knives, because Evan told Bryce that there’s no Santa,” Kevin explained. “I don’t know how to get it away from him without tackling him… and I’m afraid if I tackle him while he has a knife—”

  “Why the Hell would Evan tell him that there’s no Santa?” I asked.

  I needed the Santa Claus leverage to get him to behave from October to Christmas. Why would Evan do that to me? Wh
at am I going to use now? Son of bitch.

  “I don’t know! Mom, what should I do?” Kevin yelled. “Evan’s locked in the bathroom now, so B can’t stab him. I still need to get the knife away.” Hell, let him stab the big-mouthed bastard. I cannot believe he ruined this for me. Still panicked with worry, Kevin added, “Every time I get even a little bit close to him, he holds up the knife, glaring at me, and says ‘don’t make me kill you too.’ Mom, he’s freaking me out.”

  I wanted to just hang up. Let Matt deal with it. But really, I couldn’t let my son stab my other son. Could I? No! That would make me look like a really bad mother. The worst. So, I did what any good mother would’ve done. I told Kevin to line apples up outside on Matt’s little patio. Then, I told him to tell Bryce he made up a game. Kevin grabbed a knife of his own and together, they threw knives at the apples. Once Bryce threw his knife, Kevin ran to the knife and got it. See! Easy-peasy. Mom saved the day—again. Granted, I probably could have told Kevin to put Bryce on the phone and screamed like a freak at my idiot son for trying to stab his brother, but where was the creativity in that?

  “Kevin, tell your dad I want to talk to him. Have him call me tonight,” I stated, my anger festering. What if Kevin wouldn’t have been able to reach me? If Matt was going to have the boys all summer long, then he needed to be available at all times.

  “Ummm yeah, okay,” Kevin said, sadly. “Hey mom, do you think it can be tomorrow? We’re going to some baseball game with dad’s friend from work and her son tonight.”

  Her?

  Her?

  Her?

  “No Kevin, I don’t,” I sighed, reeling in my rage. “I need to talk to your father. I’ll call him now and leave him a message,” I snipped. “Honey, I’ll call you tomorrow. Tell the boys I love them. And Kev, I’m proud of you. I love you, buddy.” I disconnected the call, growling with fury.