Single, Cool, and Fine: How to Get Laid as an Ex-Teen Idol

by Lux Zakari

  CLAUDIA: Jesus, what’s wrong with you?

  E.Y.: You don’t understand. These days, it’s like the late ‘90s all over again and my thirteen-year-old self is awakening, full of teeny needs, dreams, and desires. In truth, my interest in James Venora and his boring life was dwindling. There were times I even contemplated telling you I was sick of doing this blog; there was nothing new to say. But now, it’s like he’s my ex-boyfriend, and he’s just strut into the American Bandstand dance, looking hot as hell with Cha Cha Digregorio on his arm. Yes, he’s a total weirdo, but he’s fucking hot. I bet he’d even look hot murdering old ladies.

  CLAUDIA: Wow. You need to take a few deep breaths and try purifying yourself with the following horrific images:

  • James with a home perm

  • James wearing a rainbow-striped tube top, yellow short shorts, and roller skates

  • James scratching his ass and padding to the fridge in women’s panties post-sex

  • James decked out in hunting gear (e.g., a camo jumpsuit, a shotgun, orange safety vest, and a fuzzy hat with ear flaps)

  • James all fratted out in frayed khaki cargo shorts and a pink polo shirt with the collar up and carrying a red plastic party cup on his way to date rape somebody

  E.Y.: It’s no use. I can’t see him as anything but fine anymore. I tried. I even tried imagining him doing gay porn to see if that would gross me out, but then I remembered I’m the kind of girl who’s into that sort of thing.

  CLAUDIA: What about him running a Klan meeting or nuking the Middle East or taking advantage of cancer patients? I got it—picture his balls close up, under a microscope.

  E.Y.: But I can’t wait until I know the intimate details of his sac.

  CLAUDIA: This is useless. We’re done here.

  Chapter Seven

  James awoke in his own bed in Albany the following Saturday at nine a.m., but he stayed where he was for a half hour more until he managed to excite himself into being a better man. Even when his feet touched the floor, it was a hard sell.

  He staggered to the kitchen and ransacked the cabinets looking for the coffee, preferably in a little one-shot, instant packet. Instead, he found a can of the ground stuff, and he looked from it to the coffee maker and back again before heaving a sigh of frustration and incomprehension. How had he made it to twenty-seven without knowing anything? He was by no means a functional member of society and couldn’t explain how he managed to survive even this long without Greer. He didn’t even know how to mail a package without her.

  He told himself not to go there. At least not before ten in the morning.

  His cell phone rang, and he snatched it off the dining room table with a groan upon seeing that it was E.Y. calling. “Yeah?”

  “So rude already? It’s not even lunch time,” E.Y. said. “You act like Bijou Light is writing bitter, passive-aggressive things about someone vaguely resembling you on her Twitter or something.”

  He heaved a sigh, one more resembling a growl. “Do you have, like, a Russia-U.S. Cold War hotline that rings every time someone breathes a word about me?”

  “Yes, and now that you’re back in town, I want details. What did you do to her?” Her voice was full of wonder. “After your Nashville stop, why did she write, ‘It’s so refreshing when deluded ex-heartthrobs drop the polite charade and show you what sick, disgusting monsters they really are’? That has to be about you, considering all the pictures there were of you two looking cozy at her party. What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know, E.Y. I don’t even know why you’re asking me, because according to you, I don’t know anything, remember?”

  “Of course I remember, James.” She had the audacity to sound offended. “Look, if you’re going to be so touchy, I’ll just see you later at your mom’s b-day bash. You’re going, right?”

  Right. His mother was celebrating her fiftieth birthday today and inviting roughly twelve thousand of her favorite people. That included E.Y., who’d always been like a daughter to her, and probably Greer, her only daughter-in-law. Needless to say, he was not looking forward to attending the party. “Yeah, I’ll be there.”

  “Great, I’ll annoy you there instead of wasting my minutes.” She hung up.

  Reminders of his last encounter with Bijou Light hit him hard as he set the phone back on the table. He felt horrible about everything that had happened with her. He’d thought about sending her flowers to say he was sorry, but come on, really? Considering what he would be apologizing for, a bouquet of daisies had all the makings of worsening a bad situation. It was probably best to just let her think he was a scumbag. He certainly did, at any rate.

  However, he’d woken up the morning after his night with Bijou with renewed conviction. When he’d first met her, she’d been so vibrant, bright, and wholesome. But the Bijou he’d seen in Nashville hadn’t been any of those things. Gone was her vivacity after a few handfuls of whatever those pills were, and her only remaining light had been in her name.

  Yet her sad, disturbing change had strengthened his own resolve, ambitions, and cause. Championing against drugs no longer seemed a misguided and unfocused attempt to do some good. He’d seen firsthand how their abuse destroyed a good girl to the point where he’d no longer seen her as a good girl and chosen to destroy her further. He had a reason now, and legs to stand on.

  He drummed his fingers on the kitchen countertop, sucking on his lower lip in thought. It was time to shift gears a bit. No more halfhearted demonstrations, no more spouting off statistics, no more showboating. It was time to be real with people, time to help people who needed to be helped. He made a mental note to contact his manager and good ol’ Zeke Kelly, his intern, to do further research.

  It was then he saw the glossy white canister on the counter labeled Tea, and when he lifted the lid, he saw it was accurately marked. There were a variety of flavors and types, most caffeinated. A smile found his lips. Taking into account the life he’d been living lately, small wins like this helped make the days a tiny bit less awful. And Lord knew he could use as many wins as the universe would give him.

  James slunk up the winding cobblestone walk to his parents’ home, a gingerbread-reminiscent affair surrounded by weeping willows and flower beds overflowing with geraniums and marigolds. A goldfish pond nested in a rock garden on the side of the house, and various birdbaths and ladybug houses dotted the property. His mother’s love for landscaping made gift-giving easy; he had a trunk full of decorations to aid in the beautification of her yard that were sure to make her happy.

  “Sweetie!” His mother ensnared him in her arms the moment she spotted him on the patio. “I’m so glad you’re here. How was the tour? Tell me everything.”

  “Oh, you know. Same old, same old.” Only part of that was a lie. It definitely hadn’t been the same, but it had gotten old. It had all gotten old, actually. He returned his mother’s embrace and forced aside the childish urge to beg her to make everything okay like she would when he was young.

  “James.” His father, wielding a metal spatula, left his guard by the grill and the men exchanged one of the brief, awkward half-hugs they’d always had. “Good to have you back. How is everything?”

  “Good,” James lied, and his father gave a nod of approval at the all-encompassing, noninvolved answer.

  Frank Venora was the opposite of what his wife was. Where she was tall, light-haired, and rail-thin, he was short, balding, and stout, with a black T-shirt stretched tight over his bulging stomach. But their differences stretched beyond the physical. When James was growing up, his mother had always been the one to ask him a million questions about his life; take him and Wade to fairs, shows, and contests to perform; and know all his hopes and dreams. Meanwhile, his father had been vaguely aware of some little people running underfoot. That was just how it’d always been in his family: the women were caretakers, the men were providers, and everyone understood that, accepted it, and got along fine.

  So where had he gone wrong? He
’d done all the right things, the only way he knew them to be done, the way he knew worked—for everyone but him.

  James engaged in some more small talk with his parents, well aware that his looming divorce was on everyone’s minds. He sensed his mother was dying to discuss it and that his father would do anything to avoid it. Then he caught sight of his daughter, playing with another girl on the bright yellow Slip ‘n’ Slide. The two of them flung themselves on the wet plastic, groaning “ow” when they landed and slid, then got up to do it all over again.

  After another round or two more of that, Amie finally noticed him. “Dad, Dad, Dad!” She raced toward him wearing a heart-print one piece, her long hair streaming behind her in slightly damp waves.

  “Hey, pea.” He knelt and scooped her in his arms before she could crash into him. “Oh, great. You’re all wet.”

  “She’s seven years old and in a bathing suit, and there’s a pool within a fifty-foot radius,” his mother said. “You expect her to stay dry?”

  “The pool!” Amie wriggled away from him with a toothy grin, leaving a wet splotch on his shirt. “Dad, will you swim with me?”

  “In a minute, pea. Let me say hi to Grandma and Grandpa first.”

  “Well, hurry!” She tore off toward the pool, flailing her arms.

  James stood and rubbed the damp spot his daughter’s bathing suit had left behind. “So I guess this means Greer’s here, too,” he said, his pulse quickening.

  “Of course.” His mother narrowed her eyes at him. “Greer’s family and always will be.”

  His father coughed. “I’m gonna check on the burgers.” He shot James’ mother a pointed look as he took his leave.

  “What about Pierce?” James asked his mother, trying to keep his voice light but failing. “Do we get the pleasure of calling him family, too?”

  “Who? What are you even talking about?” He didn’t think it was possible for her to look more confused. “Stop talking in riddles and go play with your brother. He and Ellie are over there.” She gestured vaguely around the yard and disappeared inside the house, mumbling something about artichoke dip.

  Twenty-seven years old and still being told to go play with his brother—fantastic. At least Greer was still nowhere in sight. He kept an eye out for her as he made his way toward Wade and E.Y., who were slumped in lounge chairs on the fringe of the party in the shade of a giant sun umbrella. Wade was clad in his usual baggy attire paired with Ray-Bans, while E.Y. smoked a clove and wore a blue halter top swimsuit, boy shorts, and heart-shaped Lolita sunglasses.

  “There he is.” E.Y. moved her feet so James could sit at the edge of her chair. “Our resident stud. It’s nice of you to give your dick a break and come hang out with us.”

  “Shut up.” James looked over both his shoulders. “This is a family event, not your stupid blog.”

  “Stupid blog? I’ll have you know we have more readers than ever thanks to you sticking it to the ladies.”

  “Oh God.” James pressed his face into his hands. “I don’t wanna know.”

  “Don’t worry. We’re not the ones going on about your exploits. I don’t want to completely sicken Sleeping Beauty here.” She pointed her thumb at Wade, who snored softly in response. “I’m just saying. Interest is up, although I don’t know why, when you come rolling into a family party wearing a beige suit coat, cream jeans, and fucking pirate boots. You look like the biggest weirdo to ever grace this earth. Who the hell are you?”

  “Someone who isn’t talking to you anymore.” James glanced around, going for a casual, surveying look, but it was hard to deny he sought Greer, even though he was terrified to see her.

  “Greer’s by the pool,” E.Y. said, as if she could read his mind. Hell, maybe she could, for all she knew about him. “You should say hi. It’d be rude not to.”

  “I guess.” He stood with half-feigned reluctance, hoping E.Y. didn’t notice his legs trembling. “It beats hanging out with you.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” E.Y. reclined and looked away, like James was most uninteresting person in the world.

  He headed toward the pool, part of him wanting to run the other way. The other part of him—the one that surprised him—wanted nothing more than to see her and have some kind of conversation, for better or worse.

  Lounging poolside in a plastic lounge chair, Greer wore white-rimmed sunglasses and a 1940s-inspired white one piece with black polka dots. Her skin was pale, pink in places where she must’ve misjudged the amount of sunscreen to use. The sun made fire of the red highlights in her auburn hair as she tossed pool toys to the swimming children. She looked so pretty, James went shy at the sight of her. Gone was the confidence he’d reaped when with the other women. Now he was nervous around the person he’d been married to for a decade.

  He took a seat beside her. “So what’s a nice girl doing at a place like this?”

  Greer gave him a queer look then a small, reluctant smile. “I wonder if that line ever worked on anyone.”

  “Of course, it’s a cliché. Everyone knows clichés have facts for hearts.”

  She arched a brow. “Did you learn that bit of wisdom on the road?”

  “No, the School of Hard Knocks.”

  Greer laughed. “Right.”

  He looked around the yard, waiting for her to nag him about the status of his signature on the divorce papers, which remained unsigned in his studio and created all sorts of bad juju. He knew he needed to sign them, but for whatever reason, he couldn’t bring himself to do it yet.

  “So,” she said, “how was the tour?”

  He shrugged, instantly even more uncomfortable. “It was okay.” In retrospect, there really wasn’t any other word for it. He didn’t elaborate further, but the air between them turned tense, like maybe she already knew. How could she not? Surely she’d seen the dumb bits of gossip on the internet, or even Wade and E.Y.’s blog.

  Not only was he suddenly embarrassed, he also felt boring. How was that possible? He’d been on tour, banging perfect tens, playing shows, and appearing in magazines. Sure, he wasn’t A-list—a fact that plagued him every day—but he was successful by many people’s standards. Still, at that moment, he really didn’t believe he had anything of interest to say to anyone. There was no one to relate to, no one who’d be impressed by anything he did. Even he wasn’t impressed with himself. Right then, he wished he could trade the small fame he’d acquired for some genuinely great stories.

  Amie tore him from his self-pity by commanding his full attention. She sat on a round inflatable raft, singing at the top of her lungs, “Just keep peeing! Just keep pooping! Right in the middle of class!”

  Noah, giggling, paddled in front of her, tugging her around the pool by the decorative ropes hanging from the raft. “Just keep peeing, just keep pooping,” he echoed his sister.

  James shot Greer a bewildered look and she laughed.

  “I’m sure they’ll thank you in the liner notes for all the talent they’ve inherited,” she said.

  “Who let the butts out? Woof, woof!” Noah added. “Who let the naked people out? Woof, woof!”

  “God, I hope not,” James said. “Do we blame the public school system for this?”

  “Just keep peeing! Just keep pooping! Don’t ever wipe your butt!” Amie sang.

  “You should be thrilled,” Greer said to James. “They’re being musical. And what’s more, you’re witnessing a very momentous rite of passage today. This is the first time Amie’s swimming without floaties.”

  “No way. That’s awesome.” His daughter learning how to swim—what if he’d missed it? What other stuff was he missing? He had a feeling it was quite a lot.

  “And your son’s become quite the Romeo.” Greer cupped a hand over her mouth and leaned toward him, speaking in an exaggerated whisper. “We took him to the water park the other day, and the second he saw some girls, he asked me if he could take his shirt off so ‘it wouldn’t get dirty’ and I wouldn’t have to wash it. But I think he was really just imp
ressed with his pecs.”

  “Man, we’re going to have to start calling him The Situation now.” He paused. “‘We’? You and Pierce?”

  Before Greer could answer, Noah swam to the ladder and scrambled out of the water, panting like a puppy. “Mom, I have to go to the bathroom.”

  Greer sat up and beckoned him. “All right, well, come here and let me get your swimmies off so you can.”

  He stretched out an arm and tilted his head at James while Greer tugged off one of the orange flotation devices. “Can I go outside? Like Dad does?”

  “No, buddy, not here.” Greer shook her head. “This isn’t our house and there are too many people around.”

  “No one will see me over there.” Noah pointed to a shrub around the side of the pool that didn’t see a lot of traffic or sun. He bounced his pleading, brown-eyed gaze between his parents, grabbing fistfuls of his swim trunks with great urgency. “Please? I can’t make it inside.”

  “Okay, okay, fine.” Greer yanked off the second floatation device and waved him to the private shrub. “Just be super quick. And don’t let your grandma catch you.”

  “Okay!” Noah zipped off, all but leaving a cartoonish cloud of dust in his wake.

  Greer turned to James with an unexpectedly warm smile. “Hear that? ‘Like Dad does.’ You can’t say you never made an impression on him.”

  James blew out a puff of air, remembering all the times he’d taken a leak in the bushes behind his studio. “And I’m so happy it’s the impression of me taking a piss outside. You must be so proud.”

  “Of course I’m proud. You can’t seriously think that’s the only way he aspires to be like you. Your son adores you. You’re his hero.”

  “Oh.” Noah’s admiration of him rode lightly on his shoulders yet weighted his heart. He dropped his gaze to the deck. “I didn’t know that.”

  “It’s true.” After a pause, she nudged his knee with her bare foot, a surprise touch that left his body tingling. “Just because you’re a goof sometimes doesn’t mean you’re not worth thinking highly of or respecting.”