Crossing the Line

by Lauren Landish

  But honestly, I’ve never been satisfied. No matter what, I just can’t seem to find that ‘sweet spot’ that makes me happy and fulfilled in a relationship. And while I’ve tried everything, depending on the guy, it never works out. The boyfriends I’ve had, while few in number considering I can count them on one hand, all eventually cheated, saying that they just wanted something different. Something that’s not me.

  Apparently, Kevin’s no different. My mood shifts wildly from self-pity to anger to finally, a numb acceptance. “What a fucking jerk. I hope he likes being a boy toy for a social media slut, because he’s damn sure not my boyfriend anymore.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Elise says, refilling my wine glass. “Now, how about you and I finish off this bottle, get another, and by the time you’re done, you’ll have forgotten all about that loser while we take a cab back to your place?”

  “Maybe I will just get a dog, and I sure as hell already have a buzzing rabbit. Several of them, in fact,” I mutter. “You know what? They’re better than he ever was by a damn country mile.”

  “Rabbits . . . they just keep going and going and going,” Elise jokes, trying to keep me in good spirits. She twirls her hands in the air like the famous commercial bunny and signals for another bottle of wine.

  She’s right. Fuck Kevin.

  Derrick

  My black leather office chair creaks, an annoying little trend it’s developed over the past six months that’s the primary reason I don’t use it in the studio. Admittedly, that’s probably for the better because if I had a chair this comfortable in the studio, I’d be too relaxed to really be on point for my shows. Still, it’s helpful to have something nice like this office since it’s a hell of a big step up from the days when my office was also the station’s break room. “All right, hit me. What’s on the agenda for today’s show?”

  My co-star, Susannah, checks her papers, making little checkmarks as she goes through each item. She’s an incessant checkmarker, and I have no idea how the fuck she can read her sheets by the end of the day. “The overall theme for today is cheaters, and I’ve got several emails pulled for that so we can stay on track. We’ll field calls, of course, and some will be on topic and some off, like always. I’ll try and screen them as best I can, and we should be all set.”

  I nod, trying to mentally prep myself for another three-hour stint behind the mic, offering music, advice, hope, and sometimes a swift kick in the pants to our listeners. Two years ago, I never would’ve believed that I’d be known as the ‘Love Whisperer’ on a radio talk segment called the same thing. Part Howard Stern, part Dr. Phil, part DJ Love Below, I’ve found a niche that’s just . . . unique.

  I started out many years ago as a jock, playing football on my high school team with dreams of college ball. A seemingly short derailment after an injury led me to do sports reporting for my high school’s news and I fell in love.

  After that, my scholarships to play football never came, but it didn’t bother me as much as I thought it would. I decided to chase after a sports broadcast degree instead, marrying my passion for football and my love of reporting.

  I spent four years after graduation doing daily sports talks from three to six as the afternoon drive-home DJ. It wasn’t a big station, just one of the half-dozen stations that existed as an alternative for people who didn’t want to listen to corporate pop, hip-hop, or country. It was there I received that fateful call.

  Looking back, it’s kind of crazy, but a guy had called in bitching and moaning about his wife not understanding his need to follow all these wild superstitions to help his team win.

  “I’m telling you D, I went to church and asked God himself. I said, if you can bless the Bandits with a win, I’ll show myself true and wear those ugly ass socks my pastor gave me for Christmas the year before and never wash them again. You know what happened?”

  Of course, everyone could figure out what happened. Still, I respectfully told him that I didn’t think his unwashed socks were doing a damn thing for his beloved team on the basketball court, but if he didn’t put those fuckers in the washing machine, they were sure going to land him in divorce court.

  He sighed and eventually gave in when I told him to wash the socks, thank his wife for putting up with his shit, and full-out romance her to bed and do his damndest to make up for his selfish ways.

  And that was that. A new show and a new me were born. After a few marketing tweaks, I’ve been the so-called ‘Love Whisperer’ for almost a year now, helping people who ask for advice to get the happily ever after they want.

  Ironically, I’m single. Funny how that works out, but all the good advice I try to give stems from my parents who were happily married for over forty years before my mom passed. I won’t settle for less than the real thing, and I try to advise my listeners to do the same.

  And then there’s the sex aspect of my job.

  Talking about relationships obviously involves discussing sex with people, as that’s one of the major areas that cause problems for folks. At first, talking about all the crazy shit people want to do even made me blush a little, but eventually, it’s just gotten to be second nature.

  Want to talk about how to get your wife to massage your prostate? Can do. Want to talk about how your girlfriend wants you to wear Underoos and call her Mommy? Can do. Want to talk about your husband never washing the dishes, and how you can get him to help? I can do that too.

  All-in-one, real relationships at your service. Live from six to nine, five days a week, or available for download on various podcast sites and clip shows on the weekends. Hell of a lot for a guy who figured making it would involve becoming the voice of some college football team.

  So I want to do a good job. And that means working well with Susannah, who is the control-freak yin to my laissez-faire yang. “Thanks. I know this week’s topics from our show planning meeting, but I spaced on tonight’s focus.”

  Susannah nods, unflappable. “No problem. Do you want to scan the emails or just do your thing?”

  I smile at her. She already knows the answer. “Same as always, spontaneous. You know that even though I was a Boy Scout, being prepared for this doesn’t do us any favors. I sound robotic when I read ahead. First read, real reactions work better and give the listeners knee-jerk common sense.”

  She shrugs, scribbling on her papers. “I know, just checking.”

  It’s probably one of the reasons we work so well together, our totally different approaches to the show. Joining me from day one, she’s the one who keeps our show running behind the scenes and keeps me on track on-air, serving as both producer and co-host. Luckily, her almost anal-retentive penchant for prep totally doesn’t come across on the air, where she’s the playful, comedic counter to my gruff, tell-it-like-it-is style.

  “Then let’s rock,” I tell her. “Got your drinks ready?”

  Susannah nods as we head toward the studio. Settling into my broadcast chair, a much less comfortable but totally silent one, I survey my normal spread of one water, one coffee, and one green tea, one for every hour we’re gonna be on the air. With the top of the hour news breaks and spaced out music jams, I’ve gotten used to using the exactly four minute and thirty second breaks to run next door and drain my bladder if I need to.

  Everything ready, we smile and settle in for another show. “Gooooood evening! It’s your favorite ‘Love Whisperer,’ Derrick King here with my lovely assistant, Miss Susannah Jameson. We’re ready for an evening of love, sex, betrayal, and lust, if you’re willing to share. Our focus tonight is on cheaters and cheating. Are you being cheated on? Maybe you are the cheater? Call in and we’ll talk.”

  The red glow from the holding calls is instant, but I traditionally go to an email first so that I can roll right in. “While Susannah is grabbing our first caller, I’ll start with an email. Here’s one from P. ‘Dear Love Whisperer,’ it says, ‘my husband travels extensively for work, leaving me home and so lonely. I don’t know if he’s cheating while
he’s gone, but I always wonder. I’ve started to develop feelings for my personal trainer, and I think I’m falling in love with him. What should I do?’ ”

  I tsk-tsk into the microphone, making my displeasure clear. “Well, P, first things first. Your marriage is your priority because you made a vow. For better or worse, remember? It’s simple. Talk to your husband. Maybe he’s cheating, maybe he isn’t. Maybe he’s working his ass off so his bored wife can even have a trainer and you’re looking for excuses to justify your own bad behavior. But talking to him is your first step. You need to explain your feelings and that you need him more than perhaps you need the money. Second, you need to get a life beyond your husband and trainer. I get the sense you need some attention and your trainer is giving it to you, so you think you’re in love with him. Newsflash—he’s being paid to give you attention. By your husband, it sounds like. That’s not a healthy foundation for a relationship even if he is your soulmate, which I doubt.”

  I sigh and lower my voice a little. I don’t want to cut this woman’s guts out. I want to help her. “P, let’s be honest. A good trainer is going to be personable. They’re in a sales profession. They’re not going to make it in the industry without either being the best in the world at what they do or having a good personality. And a lot of them have good bodies. Their bodies are their business cards. So it’s natural to feel some attraction to your trainer. But that doesn’t mean he’s going to stick by you. Here’s a challenge—tell your trainer you can’t pay him for the next three months and see how available he is to just give you his time.”

  Susannah snickers and hits her mic button. “That’s why I do group yoga classes. Only thing that happens there is sweaty tantric orgies. Ohmm . . . my . . .” Her initial yoga-esque ohm dissolves into a pleasure-induced moan that she fakes exceedingly well.

  I roll my eyes, knowing that she does nothing of the sort. “To the point, though, fire your trainer because of your weakness and tell him why. He’s a pro. He needs to know that his services were not the reason you’re leaving. Next, get a hobby that fulfills you beyond a man and talk to your husband.”

  I click a button and a sound effect of a cheering audience plays through my headset. It goes on like this for a while, call after call, email after email of helping people.

  Well, I hope I’m helping them. They seem to think I am, and I’m certainly giving it my best shot. In between, I mix in music and a hodgepodge of stuff that fits the daily themes. Tonight I’ve got some Taylor Swift, a little Carrie Underwood, some old-school TLC. I even, as a joke, worked in Bobby Brown at Susannah’s insistence.

  Coming back from that last one, I see Susannah gesture from her mini-booth and give the airspace over to her, letting her introduce the next caller. “Okay, Susannah’s giving me the big foam finger, so what’ve we got?”

  “You wish I had a big finger for you,” Susannah teases like she always does on air—it’s part of our act. “The next caller would like to discuss some rather incriminating photos she’s come across. Apparently, Mr. Right was Mr. Everybody?”

  I click the button, taking the call live on-air. “This is the ‘Love Whisperer’, who am I speaking with?”

  The caller stutters, obviously nervous, and in my mind I know I have to treat this one gently. Some of the callers just want to laugh, maybe have their fifteen seconds of fame or get their pound of proverbial flesh by exposing their partner’s misdeeds. But there are also callers like this, who I suspect really needs help. “This is Katrina . . . Kat.”

  Whoa, a first name. And from the sound of it, a real one. She’s not making a thing up. I need to lighten the mood a little, or else she’s gonna clam up and freak out on me. “Hello, Kitty Kat. What seems to be the problem today?”

  I hear her sigh, and it touches me for some reason. “Well . . . I can’t believe I actually got through, first of all. I worked up the nerve to dial the numbers but didn’t expect an answer. I’m just . . . I don’t even know what I am. I’m just a little lost and in need of some advice, I guess.” She huffs out a humorless laugh.

  I can hear the pain in her voice, mixed with nerves. “Advice? That I can do. That’s what I’m here for, in fact. What’s going on, Kat?”

  “It’s my boyfriend, or my soon-to-be ex-boyfriend, I guess. I found out today that he slept with someone else.” She sounds like she’s found a bit of steel as she speaks this time, and it makes her previous vulnerability all the more touching.

  “Ouch,” I say, truly wincing at the fresh wound. A day of cheat call? I’m sure the advertisers are rubbing their hands in glee, but I’m feeling for this girl. “I’m so sorry. I know that hurts and it’s wrong no matter what. I heard something about compromising pics. Please tell me he didn’t send you pics of him screwing someone else?”

  She laughs but it’s not in humor. “No, I guess that would’ve been worse, but he had sex with someone kind of Internet famous and she posted faceless pics of them together. But I recognized his . . . uhm . . . his . . .”

  Let’s just get the schlong out in the open, why don’t we? “You recognized his penis? Is that the word you’re looking for?”

  “Yeah, I guess so,” Kat says, her voice cutting through the gap created by the phone line. “He has a mole, so I know it’s him.”

  There’s something about her voice, all sweet and breathy that stirs me inside like I rarely have happen. It’s not just her tone, either. She’s in pain, but she’s mad as fuck too, and I want to help her, protect her. She seems innocent, and something deep inside me wants to make her a little bit dirty.

  “Okay, first, repeat after me. Penis, dick, cock.” I wait, unsure if she’ll do it but holding my breath in the hopes that she will.

  “Uh, what?”

  I feel a small smile come to my lips, and it’s my turn to be a little playful. “Penis, dick, cock. Trust me, this is important for you. You can do it, Kitty Kat.”

  I hear her intake of breath, but she does what I demanded, more clearly than the shyness I expected. “Penis, dick, cock.”

  “Good girl,” I growl into the mic, and through the window connecting our booths, I can see Susannah giving me a raised eyebrow. “Now say . . . I recognized his cock fucking her.”

  I say a silent prayer of thanks that my radio show is on satellite. I can say whatever I want and the FCC doesn’t care.

  I can tell Kat is with me now, and her voice is stronger, still sexy as fuck but without the lost kitten loneliness to it. “I recognized his cock fucking her tits.”

  My own cock twitches a little, and I lean in, smirking. “Ah, so the plot thickens. So Kat, how does it feel to say that?”

  She sighs, pulling me back a little. “The words don’t bother me. I’m just not used to being on the radio. But saying that about my boyfriend pisses me off. I can’t believe he’d do that.”

  “So, what do you think you should do about it?” I ask, leaning back in my chair and pulling my mic toward me. “Is this a ‘talk it through and our relationship will be stronger on the other side of this’ type situation, or is this a ‘hit the road, motherfucker, and take Miss Slippy-Grippy Tits with you?’ Do you want my opinion or do you already know?”

  “You’re right,” Kat says, chuckling and sounding stronger again. “I already know I’m done. He’s been a wham-bam-doesn’t even say thank you, ma’am guy all along, and I’ve been hanging on because I didn’t think I deserved better. But I don’t deserve this. I’m better off alone.”

  Whoa, now, only half right there, Kat with the sexy voice. “You don’t deserve this. You should have someone who treats you so well you never question their love, their commitment to you. Everyone deserves that. Hey, Kitty Kat? One more thing. Can you say ‘cock’ for me one more time? Just for . . . entertainment.”

  I’m pushing the line here, both for her and for the show, but I ask her to do it anyway because I want, no need, to hear her say it.

  She laughs, her voice lighter even as I know the serious conversation had to hurt. �
��Of course, Love Whisperer. Anything for you. You ready? Cock.” She draws the word out, the k a bit harsher, and I can hear the sass, almost an invitation, as she speaks.

  “Ooh, thanks so much, Kitty Kat. Hold on the line just a second.” My cock is now fully hard in my pants, and I’m not sure if my upcoming bathroom break is going to be to piss or to take care of that.

  I click some buttons, sending the show to a song, Shaggy’s It Wasn’t Me coming over the airwaves to keep the cheating theme rolling. “Susannah?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Handle the next call or so after the commercial break,” I tell her. “Pick something . . . funny after that one.”

  “Gotcha,” Susannah says, and I’m glad she’s able to handle things like that. It’s part of our system too that when I get a call that needs more than on-air can handle, she fills the gap. Usually with less serious questions or listener stories that always make for great laughs.

  Checking my board, I click the line back, glad that Susannah can’t hear me now. “Kat? You still there?”

  “Yes?” she says, and I feel another little thrill go down my cock just at her word. God, this woman’s got a sexy voice, soft and sweet with a little undercurrent of sassiness . . . or maybe I really, really need to get laid.

  “Hey, it’s Derrick. I just wanted to say thanks for being such a good sport with all of that.”

  “No problem,” she says as I make a picture in my head of her. I can’t fill in the details, but I definitely want to. “Thanks for helping me realize I need to walk away. I already knew it, but some inspiration never hurts.”

  “I really would like to hear the rest of the story if you don’t mind calling me back. I want to hear how he grovels when he finds out what he’s lost. Would you call me?”

  I don’t know what I’m doing. This is so not like me. I never talk to the callers after they’re on air unless I think they’re going to hurt themselves or others, and I certainly never invite them to call back. But something about her voice calls to me like a siren. I just hope she’s not pulling me into the rocky shore to crash.