by Phoebe Fox
Even the dog wasn’t that interested in my company.
By the time my Saturday-morning group session rolled around, I was more than ready to focus on someone else’s problems, as Sherman Schmidt held the claw.
“I can’t help the way I feel,” he was telling the group. “Feet smell so good, I just want to touch them and tickle them and hold them in my mouth.”
Well, that certainly commanded my full attention.
A couple of people tittered, and I glanced over to make sure no one was slinging judgment—especially Dina—but Sherman didn’t seem to mind. He dipped his head and gave a bashful smile.
“Yeah, I know—I hear it too; it sounds weird, right? I just got to the point a few years ago where I could say it out loud like that and not feel like there’s something wrong with me. Everyone’s sexuality is unique—you just have to find someone who gets yours.” His face clouded as he slumped back in the red plastic chair. “That’s why I’m never going to get over Ruby. She’s the one who helped me accept myself. And she...God.”
He bent in half, elbows on knees and head in hands. He’d moved so fast I worried he’d put an eye out on the claw prongs-up in his lap, but he just sat curled over himself.
Elisa Rodriguez, beside him, reached over and patted his shoulder, and after a moment Sherman angled a look over to her and nodded gratefully, straightening. His silvering hair poked up at the sides of his head where he’d driven his fingers through it.
Sherman looked around at everyone in the group, and I was proud to note that most met his eyes, offered a smile, or gave an encouraging nod. But despite their silent support, Sherman’s brown eyes were red at the edges, his face drawn with pain.
“Where’m I ever going to find someone else who doesn’t think I’m a freak?” he asked in a voice quiet with despair. “Who else is ever going to accept me?”
No one answered him.
After a moment Sherman shook his head, reached into his lap, and pushed to his feet, walking the claw back to the center of the circle and then dropping heavily back into his chair.
“Sherman,” I said into the shifting of bodies and whisper of the HVAC system that were the only other sounds in the otherwise silent room. “Did you mean it when you said a moment ago that you had learned to accept yourself? And all of your...preferences?”
One shoulder rose in a half shrug.
“Yeah, I guess. No, I did. I do accept it. I know it’s a little strange, but...Ruby used to say it’s like, everyone likes chocolate cake. Not a lot of people like lima beans. But some people love lima beans. And no one thinks that’s deviant.”
“Dude, liking lima beans is a little deviant,” Antonio Moretti said. “Nasty little fuckers.”
Rebecca Forster cackled, and Elisa elbowed her, but she was grinning too. Everybody liked Antonio, and he frequently played to his audience.
Angling a warning glance to the rowdy side of the circle, I went on: “As Antonio has pointed out, liking lima beans might seem odd to some. But you just said some people love them. Do you think feet are worse than lima beans?”
Sherman gave the one-shouldered shrug again. “No. Feet are nothing like lima beans.”
“This is a weird conversation,” Dina said, but her tone lacked its usual combative edge.
“How do you mean?” I asked Sherman.
His forehead wrinkled with concentration. “Well, I mean, a lot of people like feet. You can look online—there’s groups and stuff. There’s no lima bean fetish sites online. That I know of.”
“Amen to that,” Antonio piped up.
“So it’s not that unusual to like feet—to be turned on by them?” I asked, making sure the question didn’t sound rhetorical.
Sherman said, “Not if you judge by that stuff, no. But online stuff is one thing, Brook. You can find just about anything online. I mean, really, anything—as dirty as you want.”
“And amen to that.” Antonio was grinning.
“But those are outliers,” Sherman went on as if he hadn’t heard. “You walk into a party in real life and say you like furries or something, most people are going to back away from you. You guys all know how hard dating is already, finding someone you like, you can trust, you click with.” Nods and grunts of agreement rippled around the circle. “If your sexuality is...you know, atypical, it’s a million times harder. Your dating pool is so much smaller. Ruby was perfect for me. And I don’t think I’m ever going to find someone else like that.”
This time I let the silence fill the room. I wanted Sherman to hear his own words and dispute them. I could tell him all day long that that kind of global, absolute thinking was flawed, but if he was ever going to believe it, it had to come from him.
But it wasn’t Sherman who spoke up.
“I hate chocolate cake,” Sheila said.
Every head swiveled to her.
“Did you just talk?” Antonio asked disbelievingly.
Sheila’s face had gone so deeply red it was almost purple, but she went on. “I hate it. My mom always made it for my birthday, and she never asked me, never once—” She stopped, swallowing. “She just made it over and over, and I hated it. And I don’t know about lima beans. I’ve never had one. But I’d try them. Why not?”
Antonio was still gaping at her as she finished. Everyone was, I realized—including me—and Sheila dipped her head so the fall of dishwater hair covered her eyes again.
Beside her, Dina Jones was staring intently at Sheila, eyes narrowed, and I prepared to jump in if she went on the attack. Sheila wouldn’t hold up to a full-on Dina strike.
Sherman was looking at Sheila too, but his expression was inquisitive. “Seriously? You don’t think there’s something wrong with lima beans?”
Sheila colored further—who could have thought that was possible?—but shook her head, her long bangs dancing across her eyes. “I’m not saying I’m into them…”
“No, I know—I just...Thanks, Sheila. Thanks for saying that.”
She gave a single nod—and the tiniest of smiles.
“I would try them too,” Carolyn Hendry said, and Betty bobbed her head, adding, “Yeah, me too.”
“I hate the fuckers,” Antonio boomed. He looked directly at Sherman. “But I wouldn’t judge someone if they liked lima beans.”
“I know a girl at work who loves lima beans,” Rebecca put in. “And by lima beans right now I’m talking about feet. I could introduce you two.” She shot a grin over at Sherman, who was full-on grinning back now, and I felt an answering smile creep over my own face.
That night Ben and I had dinner on the patio at Doc’s, the restaurant’s light and music spilling out toward the gulf behind it. We ate fish sticks and French fries and drank cold Anchor Steam beers, and Jake had a plain kids’ hamburger that Ben stripped the bun from. A hot breeze danced through my hair and ruffled the hem of my sundress, but at least the movement offered some relief from the warm, humid summer air. Afterward we sat at the wooden picnic table to finish our beers, still talking, Jake contentedly stretched out underneath it between us.
“…and when I walk into what’s going to be the master bedroom, one of the drywall guys is crouched between two joists, and I’m pretty sure his pants are down.”
“No,” I said. “Please tell me he wasn’t—”
“Taking a dump before the plywood goes up so he can wall it into the house? I wish I could.”
“Oh, my God. Oh, my God! What’s wrong with people?” I said, covering my mouth. It felt wrong to be laughing—Ben had had to fire the guy—but I couldn’t help it. “Why was he doing that in their house?”
“He said Mr. Tannenbaum—the owner—came by earlier that day and really laid into him about plaster drips outside the garage. We fix stuff like that before the owner even has a final walk-through, so I get why Turk
might have been pissed off. But honest to God. Was what he did worth losing his job over?”
“That has to be some serious kind of health code violation, doesn’t it?”
“It would certainly not endear me to the building inspector. Or the client,” he said, and our soft laughter floated up and out to sea, where the full moon made a path of silvery white across the gentle waves.
The music had turned off as we talked, the night growing abruptly darker as Doc’s turned off some of the outside lights.
“Looks like they’re getting ready to close,” Ben said. “You up for a walk on the beach?”
“Only always.”
We walked hand in hand along the shore, Jake loping along beside us on his leash, stopping periodically to sniff the water, a sandcastle, seaweed, shells, the air. I couldn’t blame him—the earthy, salty, alive scents of the sea always wrapped around me like a second skin, settling into my soul and making me feel like my lungs had opened up. The gentle sounds of water lapping at the shore mixed with Jake’s occasional barking to alert us to dangerous sand crabs and the incoming minuscule waves of the gentle gulf.
After a while we stopped and watched him stalk coquina: Jake stared down intently at the water when a wave came in, and then as soon as it retreated plunged his nose into the sand as the little creatures burrowed back in from where the water had revealed them. When he finally looked up at us, sand caked his nose and a puzzled expression rode his face, turning wounded as our laughter sailed down the shore.
“Jakie, come here, buddy. We’re laughing with you, not at you,” Ben said, rubbing the dog’s shaggy side as he leaned his sandy body against Ben’s leg.
I bent to look Jake in the eye. “I’ve got to be honest with you, Jake,” I said seriously. “I was laughing at you. I’m sorry I hurt your feelings.” I took his giant damp head between my hands and rubbed his ears, and Jake lifted his head to give me better access. “Between the two of us I think he’s finally getting enough love for once,” I said to Ben, watching Jake’s eyes close in contentment.
Our heads were almost touching, and Ben’s face was inches from mine. His teeth glinted in the moonlight as he scratched the dog’s side. “There’s never enough love for you, pal, is there?” he said. “He’s a high-maintenance dog. Lucky he makes up for it by being so sweet.”
I straightened, watching him with Jake—so easy and relaxed, so comfortable showing affection, even when the dog was dirty and wet and a rubbery string of saliva hung out of his mouth. It was so much who Ben was—straightforward and genuine and real.
“Ben...let’s go back to my place,” I heard myself say. My voice sounded unintentionally husky, and between that and the cheesy way my words had come out, I felt a blush crawl up my cheeks.
He stopped petting abruptly, straightening to look at me. “What?”
“I...I want you to come home with me.” Agh. Why was this coming out like a bad seventies porn film? What was next? Pointing out where Jake had dampened his jeans and suggesting we get him out of those wet things?
Ben was staring intently at me now, his eyes reflecting the moon. “Brook, do you...Are you sure?”
I nodded, holding his gaze. “This isn’t the beer talking. Or even the beach or the gulf or the moonlight. I mean...just so you know...” We’d waited too long. Now it was awkward.
But Ben, as he always seemed to, made it okay. A smile started in his eyes and moved down to curve his lips, and he reached for my hand, pulling me into a soft kiss with Jake squirming delightedly between us.
We walked back to the car hand in hand, Jake bouncing excitedly along, and kept them clasped the whole way back to my house, only the low music from an Amos Lee CD filling the silence of the car. My heart was pounding the whole way.
My hands shook as I opened the front door. Why was I so nervous? Like a virgin bride on her wedding night.
I set my purse on the table in the entryway, and heard Ben follow me inside and shut the door behind him. I’d forgotten to leave a light on, and the only illumination was the glow from a streetlight spilling through the slats of the living room blinds. Jake shot by me, beelining for my bedroom, where I kept his dog bed.
Ben showed restraint his dog lacked, staying near the door a few feet away—giving me space, I thought. Room to change my mind.
I was tongue-tied. The only words crawling idiotically through my head were the lyrics of a Barry White song—“Take off your brassiere, my dear”—and I was afraid that it was what would spill out of my mouth if I opened it.
Cowgirl up.
This wasn’t the moment I wanted my mother in my head, but her tough-love advice resonated. I didn’t have to do this perfectly. I just wanted to do it.
My heart still thudding, I moved closer to Ben—a step...two. He just waited, gaze transfixed on me, and that was the sexiest thing I could imagine.
When I got close enough to touch, he did, putting his hands on my waist and then pulling me to him, and I pressed myself along the length of his body, feeling that he wanted me too.
We’d made out before. We’d even gotten hotter-and-heavier than this. But when his mouth came over mine, his hands pressing against the small of my back, pulling me into him, something let loose in me—maybe just knowing that this time I wasn’t going to stop. I clutched his shoulders, pushed myself even closer into him, and let desire wash through me, take me over.
We never made it past the sofa.
The first time was quick.
In our defense, the tension had been building for an awfully long time, and I’m sure neither Ben nor I wanted the other one to judge based on the long-deferred release of all that pent-up desire.
But the second time...Holy mama. Not to mention the third, when John Mayer had nothing on our long, leisurely exploration of each other’s wonderlands.
Now we lay on my bed in the dark, spent, Jake infiltrating the two inches of space between us to lie with his giant body pressed tight against us both.
“I think he was taken from his mother too young,” I said, digging my fingers into the thick fur ringing his neck.
“He’s a little needy,” Ben agreed, stroking Jake’s back. “But if I’d wanted aloof I guess I’d have gotten a cat.”
Jake thrust his head into the crook of my neck as if to illustrate, then let out a long, groaning sigh. I wrapped an arm around him, laughing. “He’s a hard creature not to love,” I said.
I heard the bed shift as Ben rolled onto his side facing me, and then almost inaudibly, “So are you.”
My heart slammed into my ribs.
Had I heard him right? I lay straining to hear something more over the pounding of my heartbeat in my ears. My mind raced. Had Ben just said he loved me? And if he had...was I ready to hear that?
Did I love him?
How did you know? I thought I’d loved Kendall, and yet now that I’d broken free of the crazy state of mind his abrupt departure had put me in, and since I’d been seeing Ben, I rarely even thought of him (except once every six weeks, of course, when I went in for tattoo removal). But at the time...at the time it had felt real. Hadn’t it?
This felt real too. I knew that I loved Ben’s company. I missed him when he was gone. Now I knew making love to him was wonderful. I felt happy when we were together, never with that constricted-chest feeling I’d had with Michael—as if my entire being would implode if he were to disappear from my life (exactly as he ended up doing)—or the comfortable contentment I’d felt with Kendall, but just happy and easy and safe.
Was that love?
Jake made a piggy-sounding noise on my chest as he settled more weight onto me—which I wouldn’t have thought possible—and blinked up adoringly at my face as if to say, Yes, Brook. That is exactly what love is.
But a boyfriend wasn’t a dog.
And I was thin
king myself in circles.
By then, of course, I’d let a long, awkward pause follow what might have been a very important declaration.
Or might have been a trick of the night.
My heartbeat still drumming in my ears, I stroked Jake’s fur, my hand occasionally brushing Ben’s as he did the same. I waited, barely breathing, for him to say something else, or repeat himself, or do something to let me know for sure whether I’d heard what I thought I’d heard. Because the only thing worse than not responding to what Ben might have just said would be responding...only to find out he’d never said it.
But after a few silent minutes he simply wrapped his warm hand over mine and we lay there, looking up at the lazy wobbling circles my ancient fan made. And I realized that if we had had a moment, I’d missed it.
Gradually my heart settled back into its normal pace, the soothing sounds of Jake’s heavy breathing like a lullaby.
“I haven’t done this in so long,” I said into the darkness after a long while.
“What, lie naked with a dog?”
“No. Just...relaxed. It feels good.”
When I heard Ben call my name, I realized I’d drifted off.
“You’re exhausted, Brook. You need to sleep.”
“God, sorry—was I snoring?” I said groggily.
“I’m pretty sure it was Jake.” I felt his hand stroke my arm. “Mom told me you came to see her again this past week. That’s really nice of you.”