Pieces from The Show: Bad Romance 2-22

INNER MONOLOGUES XXIX: BAD ROMANCE February 22, 2010


“Sex With My Dog”
By Alexis




Ernest’s voyage into our bed didn’t happen overnight. And before you wonder how my husband and I decided to have a threesome with someone named Ernest I’ll let you know that Ernest is a very fluffy long-haired Havanese puppy. Havanese as in, Havana Cuba. I like to picture him lounging on a beach with a cigar in his mouth. He is about nine pounds in the morning, with short legs, a long body, and gray, white and black coloring. He has big black eyes, floppy ears, and somewhat resembles a dust mop. Ernest, or Ernie as we call him when he is being good, is of course, cuter than your dog. He is also, very manipulative and very smart.

Which brings me back to the bed. Ernie started out sleeping on his own little puppy bed in a room adjacent to ours. Jesse and I had planned on being non-dog-in-the-bed type pet owners. Unlike the couch, the nice carpet, the chairs, and the bathtub, this was the one spot that Ernie hadn’t claimed as his. Dogs are outdoor pets. The outdoors and my nice bed with its white comforter—they just didn’t go together.

We’d kiss him goodnight and pat him on the head between the bars of his cage. Jesse and I would crawl into bed and keep the door to our room open so Ernie could see that Mama and Dada were right there.
This was the arrangement the dog and we had agreed to and it was just fine until one night, we awoke to the saddest noise on Earth. Whimpering.

“What do we do?” Jesse asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Wait it out?”

We stared at each other for five minutes, which felt like hours. Because unlike the sound of a baby crying, which to me just sounds annoying, puppy whimpering makes me think of angels dying, kittens with big round, sad eyes, and children starving in third world countries.

Finally Jesse got up and brought him to the foot of our bed.

“What are you doing?” I hissed.

“Do you want him to go on like this all night?” Jesse asked.

“Fine,” I said.

He curled up in a ball and immediately stopped crying. Now that I’m looking back on this scenario, I’m pretty sure this is when Ernie was thinking “I’ve got them now!” We thought this was a one-time thing, but of course--like the time I thought I could feed Ernie part of my tuna sandwich and expected him to never beg for food again--Ernie knew better.

We tried to fight it the next night, but when the puppy whines turned into all out barks, and our downstairs neighbor started hitting our floor with a broomstick, we had no choice but to acquiesce. In the bed Ernie went.

“He isn’t leaving the foot of the bed,” I declared.

“Absolutely,” Jesse agreed.

People say that having a kid is a total buzz kill to your sex life. Well, no one ever warned me about what getting a puppy would do to it.

One night soon after the whimpering incident, Jesse had gone to bed and fallen asleep before me. By the time I got to bed, I’d found that Ernie had decided to mosey onto my side of the bed, and lie on my pillow.

“Oh, hey Erns. Make yourself comfortable.”

Either this was his way of telling me he wanted some alone time with my husband, or that, you know, a down pillow would be nice. I moved him back to his spot but was having none of that. He wormed his way in between Jess and I and slept with his body stretched out in between us like a barrier. It was cute, and warmer than just our comforter, so I decided against my better judgment not to move him. Big mistake.

“This is romantic,” I said to Jess, putting my arm over Ernie so I could hug my husband. I leaned in to kiss Jesse and before I knew it, I was kissing something wet and cold. Never one to be left out, Ernie had stuck his nose in between our faces like,

“Oh, hi guys, is this what we’re doing? Can I play? I like this game!”

“See you in the morning,” I whispered to Jesse, who was snoring beside me.

Ernie let out a deep sigh and stared soulfully into my eyes.

“What?” I asked him.

He yawned and demanded a belly rub.

Over the next few days, Jess and I tried to attempt “relations”, but to no avail. Apparently, our dog had a sixth sense for nookie. No sooner would we reach for each other than we would feel those puppy paws making their way towards our heads. And there Ernie would be, shoving his nose into our faces kind of like “Break it off guys, break it off!” Then he’d furiously lick each of our faces individually.

“Ernie no!” became one word.

We couldn’t decide if he was a sex referee, or a voyeur.

We found ourselves trying to make out “secretly”, so that Ernie wouldn’t notice. Which is just about the dumbest thing, because dogs have a keen sense of hearing, and the slightest twitch would awaken The Beast. He’d come charging up to the top of the bed, where he would flop down next to my head. On the worst nights, he’d stick his tail in my face so I was nose to butt hole. Very sexy.

It became quite clear that there was no avoiding it. We’d just have to try to have sex despite our dog.

Well that was a major fail.

It’s really difficult to stay in the mood when every few seconds the cutest, most innocent looking thing in the world keeps literally popping his head in the middle of things. Maybe its different for men, but for women, sex is very intellectual. We have to concentrate. I’d be trying to think sexy thoughts, and then all of a sudden…heeeere’s Puppy Face!
But it probably wasn’t easy for Jesse either. Imagine you’re doing your thing, and any time you open your eyes, you see a cute little puppy with floppy ears smiling back at you. Maybe breathing in your face with doggie breath.

Like, “Hey Dad! What’s up? Whatchu doin? Wanna play catch?”

We realized that Puppy needed a distraction. Ernie loves rawhide bones, so the next time we attempted to do the deed, we gave Ernie one to chew on. Which we thought was so smart on our part, until, we were overcome by its smell of rotten fish and garbage, mixed with dead body. Otherwise known as the perfect aphrodisiac.

Sometimes, in the middle of sex, Ernie I’m quite sure purposely, would drop a toy on the floor and then go after it. We’d think we’d be in the clear for a few minutes—the whole bed to ourselves—what a thrill! And then we’d hear “Ruff! Ruff!” as Ernie’s face appeared intermittently at eye-level, as he jumped in the air, asking to be let back into the bed. This is a game I affectionately called “Canine Interruptus.”

We soon discovered to our dismay that Ernie’s favorite position is fellatio. Ours, of course. It seemed he wanted to know what exactly his owners were looking for down there.

“Hey, is there a treat there? I wanna see!”

One morning I woke up to the feeling of my boob being licked. It took me a moment to realize that it was not, in fact, Jesse doing the licking. Then it took me another moment because I was like, “Honey, get the camera! This is hilarious!” but then I came to my senses and pushed him away. “Ernie, gross! Drop it! Drop it!”

Things had gotten way out of hand.

The next night we tried to reinstate Ernie’s old sleeping arrangements. Ernie looked shocked at first, then humbled. We got into bed as stealthily as possible, thinking that if we moved really slowly, maybe Ernie wouldn’t notice this change in his routine.

Within a minute the whimpering began. And then it quickly morphed into a sharp, piercing bark. Which or course, is what you want to hear at 12:30 at night.

“Let’s just ignore it,” Jesse suggested.

We stared at the ceiling as Ernie’s barks became more insistent and desperate,

That’s when the scraping sounds started. He had started moving his cage across the living room floor by pushing against its walls. I could just imagine what the downstairs neighbors would do now. I’d once gotten a complaint from them about “moving furniture at 1 in the morning” when all I’d been doing was pulling out a kitchen chair from under the table.

When I couldn’t take it anymore, I got the stupid dog and put him in the bed. He stopped barking of course. And then he sat on my head.

We’d finally realized there was no avoiding it. Ernie was in our bed for keeps, and that was that.

The three of us have since come to an arrangement, Ernie, Jesse and I. Most nights now, he lets us do our thing, as long as he has something to chew on. He doesn’t throw the bone on the floor that often anymore. Though he does make an occasional nosedive for an inappropriate body part, we’re safe as long as one of us keeps our eyes open. The important thing is, he’s always in a better mood afterwards, too. And so are we.

Sometimes I wonder if I should offer him a cigarette. Or a Cuban.

“Ernie, was it good for you?” I asked him the other day.

He yawned, and licked his balls.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


OH YEAH, ITS JESSICA DELFINO!


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Deal Breaker"
By Elicia Berger

I signed up with a free online dating site called OkCupid. I was recently broken up with my boyfriend of three years, at least half of which was long distance. All I really wanted to do was to go out on a date with a cute guy...and maybe have a make-out session if it went well. Everybody knows that you gotta trust in that age-old adage which says: “The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.” So there began my foray into the online dating world.

One morning I’m browsing around the site when I get my first Instant Message from a guy, let’s call him Zack. I check out his profile and he is established in the medical field, used to run an animal rescue center, and is Jewish, which wouldn’t hurt with my parents should we reach that point. “Helping people” is his number one passion and he is a classically trained musician. And finally, Zack is age appropriate, which for me means that he was born in the seventies.

We IM for a bit and then he asks if we can chat on the phone.
One of the first things he says is, “Thank god you have a normal voice.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, you never know how someone is going to sound.”
“So have you done this a lot?” I ask.
“Well, a fair bit. I’d like to be in a relationship, you know. I’m tired of dating, but I have to do it to be in a relationship!”

We make some more small talk and then he says next, “You should know, I am really affectionate.”
We haven’t even met yet, I think, how do you even know if you like me? A little closeness is okay by me; I just want to make sure that “affection” isn’t code for finger banging in the corner of the bar.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“Well, it means that when we meet I’ll give you a hug and kiss on cheek, link arms with you, put my hand on the small of your back, sit close, let my hand rest on your knee, then maybe the small of your back again...Wow, I can’t believe I’m laying out my whole game.”

I can already tell that this guy is kind of quirky but I also think it’s kind of sweet, the way he is so open. My ex and I hadn’t even seen each other during the last 10 months of our three-year relationship, so to be honest, I needed some affection.

We decide to meet up for a drink that night. I head to Zack’s neighborhood after dinner, and wait for him near the subway stop. After a few minutes, he walks up and I can see that he has a cute face, but is balding. When you get to be over thirty, you’ve got to make some concessions. He takes me to a neighborhood wine bar and we drink, then drink some more. He puts all his moves (as outlined above) on me and we are having a good time.

“I am really affectionate,” he tells me again. “It’s my number one requirement in a relationship. Do you have it in you?”
“Am I affectionate? Yes, I think I am. I mean, I am not really keen on PDA, but cuddling at home and stuff—I love that.”
“Would you make out in a bar?”
“After a few drinks, I would.”

And at that, we start kissing. He is a good kisser—a very good kisser.
I go to the bathroom and when I come out, Zack has his coat on and is grabbing mine. He does not look at me or say anything.
“Uh, are you not talking now?” is all I can think to say.
“Yes, I am,” and helps me with my coat.
“Okayyyyy,” I say, thinking that I am enjoying this date and that I would like to make out longer. We walk out silently, and I am confused.
“I’ll walk you to the train,” he says, after we’ve gone about two blocks.
“Okay. Is this the way to the subway?” It wasn’t a long walk to the bar, but I’m a little more than tipsy and unless he is taking me to another subway entrance, I don’t remember this route.
“No, it’s the way to my apartment. I’ll walk you to the subway…later.”
“Oh. Okay.” Now I see. While feeling somewhat tricked, I want to make out some more. A small voice in my head says “Craigslist killer” but I push that to the back.

“I like your place,” I say, looking around. We fall onto his couch and make out for a while. Some flesh gets exposed as we toss each other around and kiss.
“I think we have great sexual chemistry, don’t you think?”
I nod but am thinking, “Is that something that people actually say out loud?” Then I realize that this guy says a lot of things that I think are odd to say out loud.
Then he asks me, “Can I lick your tattoo?”
I knew he had a tattoo from one of his profile pictures and I’d mentioned that I had one, too. His idea is original, I guess you could say, so I tell him yes.
As it turns out, it’s much better in theory than in practice. I should mention that my tattoo is over a foot long and so it feels like a cat is cleaning me. While he’s keeping busy with that, I blurt out, “You know, I don’t normally do this. I’ve only had one one-night stand, like, ever. I just want you to know.”
He stops in his tracks. “You know, that’s not what I want, right? I’m established in my career, and I don’t want to date anymore. I want to find the person that I am going to be with. I’m looking for a wife.“

”Okayyyy. Well, a lot of people want that. I mean, I think I’m looking for a relationship, too. I don’t know if I want to get married, though. I’m still kind of on the fence about that and if I do, I’m probably not going to change my last name. You know, I’m 32 already, it’s not like I’m 18. My name is such a big part of me.”
He says, “What?! Oh no, that is a deal breaker for me.”
I’m thinking, A “deal breaker”? What is this, Thirty Rock? Okay, so, is this the end of the date?
“I think a family has to have the same last name. Having the same last name shows that you are committed. Also, there are tax benefits in getting married. How do you like to sleep?”
“How do I like to sleep? Well, falling asleep, it’s nice cuddle but then I need to have space to really sleep.”
“Oh, that’s a deal breaker. I have to be cuddling while falling asleep and I have to be held all night. And I have to wake up cuddling.”
“I like to sleep on my side of the bed,” I reiterate.
“’Your side’? What’s ‘your side’? What does that mean?”
“You know, the side I sleep on. I have a side.”
“Well, that says a lot about you as a person.” He not-so-silently judges me.
“Maybe it does,” I say.
“You want to have kids, though, right?”
“Yeah, I want to have kids.”
“How many?”
“How many kids? Well, I think it’d be cool to have two—a girl and a boy.”
That seems to quiet him for a while and we keep making out. I feel like I’m arguing about issues I’d address in a two or three-year-long relationship, and meanwhile we met less than two hours ago.

What makes me feel better about this whole thing is that he seems generally harmless and he is a damn good kisser, and I know I’m not going to call him after this date but my hormones are happy that I’m there.

“You’re a really good kisser,” I tell him.
“I just kiss the way you like.”
“I guess you’re right.” We kiss some more but he’s being kind of quiet.
“What are you thinking right now?” I ask him, thinking—as an afterthought—that this is just the kind of question someone like him likes.
“I’m thinking that you kiss like your ex-boyfriend.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“Well,” he says, “you kiss like someone. The last person you kissed was him so you’ve got to be kissing like he does.”
He has a point. A disturbing, but valid, one.

I get up to go to the bathroom.
“Wait, wait, give me a kiss.”
“I’ll be right back. I’m just going to the bathroom.”
“But what, I can’t just get a kiss?”
“I’m coming back, though.”
I give up and give him a kiss.
I guess he is hung up on the affection thing because he brings it up again when I get back from the bathroom.
“Like I said, affection is my number one requirement in a relationship. When I go home, for example, to visit my mom, when I wake up on a Saturday morning, my mom will come into my bedroom and get into bed with me and cuddle.”
I am speechless.
“I’m a momma’s boy.”
“I see that,” I say.

That pretty much seals the deal that I’m not going to contact him ever again. I am drunk and so I think, “Could he have possibly said that?” And I know the answer is yes. But I’m having fun (I think) and I can’t help but think that going home with someone is one step closer to getting over my ex.

He leads my head back to the pillow by wrapping his fingers around my neck and then smacks me three fast times on the cheek, like someone trying to wake up a football player after he’s been knocked out cold. What the...? So I smack him back, angrily, and none of this seems to faze him.
“Tell me you want me to fuck you up the ass,” he says, which is not only shocking on its own, but even more odd because we are nowhere near doing this.
“No,” I say, thinking, is it really a surprise that I’d refuse?
“Tell me.”
“No.”
“Tell me you want me to.”
“But I don’t want you to.”
“But isn’t it sexier if you say it? It doesn’t mean it has to happen.”
“So, I can tell you I want it but it’s not going to happen?”
“Right.”
“Okay.”
“Tell me.”
And so, with about as much enthusiasm as the teacher in Ferris Bueller’s day off, I say, “I want you to fuck me up the ass.”
“Tell me again.”
“I want you to fuck me up the ass.”
“Good girl,” he says, and I shudder, thinking that he is now playing the cuddly daddy role.

At this point I am sobered up and ready to get out of there, like, hours ago, so I say “I have to go.”
“Right in the middle of hooking up? That’s tacky.” Well, I think, I hadn’t been planning on still hooking up at this point. Plus, who tells a girl that they like she is “tacky”?
“Why do you need to go? Just stay the night here.”
“I really want to wake up in my bed, I have things to do in the morning.”

This isn’t flying with him. He wants to cuddle all night. He wants me hold him while he falls asleep and hold him as he wakes up. This just isn’t going to happen, and I get dressed. He looks at me, from where he is lying on his couch, with only boxers on. I realize that with his protruding belly and balding head, he looks exactly like that Seinfeld poster of George Costanza. It’s amazing how different some guys look without their clothes on.
“C’mon, just stay,” he says. “I’m really horny.”
I really need to get out of here.

It’s about 3:00 a.m. and as I am getting ready to leave I say, “Hey, you said you’d walk me to the subway.”
Silence.
“You don’t have to. I can take care of myself, it’s all good.”
He exhales loudly. “I’m damned if I do and I’m damned if I don’t! I have to wake up at 7:30 tomorrow and it’s going to take me twenty minutes round trip if I walk you to the subway.”
“It’s alright. It’s fine,” I say, and see myself out.

That night I found out why the website is called “OkCupid” and not “AwesomeCupid”.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Cherry Bomb"
By Rachel Khona


It started off innocently enough. I'm just going to look.

The semi-annual Stella McCartney sample sale was going on once again. In case you're unaware, this is the MOTHER of all sample sales. Shoes that retail for $1000 are being sold for $200. It's like Christmas, my birthday, and my yet-to-happen Vegas elopment all rolled into 2 glorious days.

The only problem was ever since the economy took a nose dive, work was hardly as good as it used to be. When I first moved to New York, bonuses were a plenty, I got a fresh mani and pedi every week, I belonged to a fab yoga studio, and after shopping I still had money left over to put into my 401K.

Now our bonuses had all but disappeared and we had gotten across the board pay cuts. So I was forced to make some seriously scary changes. I started doing my own mani and pedis (and if you want to know how bad that is, imagine Helen Keller doing your nails.), I cancelled my cable, I started stealing internet from my neighbors, and the only workout I got was the yoga I streamed from my computer.

I had begrudgingly accepted this temporary setback of pauper-like living. I wasn’t thrilled, but I mean at least I had a job right? Nonetheless my lack of purchasing power had started to get to me. What was the point of working in fashion if I couldn’t even afford the lifestyle I was promoting?

I could do without buying new clothes because I could usually weasel some freebies from clients at work. But shoes were another story. Free shoes were much harder to come by. And I loathed wearing sneakers, flats or anything that did not highlight my calves. High heels made me feel like I could conquer the world, twirl guys around my finger, and be a flowing vision of gorgeousness.

Which brings me back to the Stella sale. I was just going to look.

After waiting in line to get inside for fifteen minutes, I made a beeline for the shoe section. I inhaled the sweet smell of faux-leather and plastic. There were orange fishnet kitten heels, lime platforms with acrylic, nude satin peep-toe pumps, pink and black criss-cross sandals, and gray basket weave heels.

Nothing could be better than this. I felt like a starving Ethiopian seeing food for the first time. Just because I hadn’t planned on buying anything didn’t mean I couldn’t try on a few pairs of shoes. I started grabbing at any box that was marked size 36, regardless of whether or not I even liked the shoes or knew what was in the box. In my frenzy for shoes, I accidentally knocked down an entire stack causing shoes to tumble everywhere and one shoe to knock a girl on the shoulder.

I looked over at my fellow shopper who glared at me irritably. "Oops, my bad!" I said. I picked up my 6th box of shoes and sat down.

I tried on one pair after another but none of them seemed right. Then I put THEM on. It was like magic. Like love at first sight. They were 4 inch wood t-strap platforms in a denim blue color. But what really made them was the cherry appliqué. I stared down at my feet, which were now glowing. I named the shoes Cherry Bomb.

I walked over to the mirror to get a better look. As I stared at my reflection, my mind started to drift off. I began to imagine all the fabulous outfits that would now be complete with the purchase of the Cherry Bomb shoes. I pictured myself walking to work while rainbows beamed out of me like rays to the sun. People would stop in their tracks and ask themselves who that fabulous vision was. Men would fall at my feet. Girls would want to be me. Word of my amazing shoes would travel wide and far across the land. Even to places like New Jersey and Oklahoma.

I snapped out of my reverie. Carrie Bradshaw didn't have shit on me. I was going to look amazing in these shoes. The only problem is they were a 7 and I was a size 6 tops (usually a 5.5 if we're going to get technical). I'm sure I could put a shoe pad inside each shoe and have ankle straps adjusted.

"Excuse me" I said to the woman standing next to me, "Do you think these are too big for me? They don't have my size and I was hoping I could fudge it.”

She examined then for a second before replying. "Hmmm no I think they are fine. You just have to take them to the cobbler to get fixed."

"Oh thanks, that's just what I wanted to hear."

I knew I shouldn’t buy them but they were so cute! $500 is a steal! Besides I did have a fashion week party to go to. I decided to look at the shoes as an investment. Surely these gems would only go up in value so in reality I was actually making money.

Fuck it, I’m going to buy these shoes. I scampered over to the line, eager to buy the shoes so I could put them on immediately. I banished all negative thoughts from my head.

That's when it started. The VOICES. They were everywhere.

"Um.... you can't really afford this. Even if it is on sale."

"Don't you still owe the IRS money?"

"It's people like you that are responsible for this shitty economy!"

"Bitch you got a mortgage!"

"What the fuck are you thinking?"

“Ahhhh!!! SHUTUP!!!" It was no doubt the work of the devil. My palms started to sweat. I didn't want to give them up. I loved my Cherry Bomb shoes. We had bonded. Like the time in first grade when I picked out my Dressy Bessy doll from Kmart. How could I have given her back after I picked her? It would have been like giving a child up for adoption.

But then again the voices had a point. How could I get the shoes at such dire times? I watched my 401K plummet to obscenely low levels and unemployment levels skyrocket, so it hardly seemed prudent to buy designer shoes even if they are from the God that is Stella. What was I going to do??? This could be one of the hardest decisions I ever made. I wondered if this is what druggies went through when trying to decide whether or not to take that hit of crack.

I began to feel like I was in some sort of chick lit novel. Like Confessions of a Shopholic. Next thing you know I wouldn't be able to pay my bills and I would be out on the streets. I would start tap dancing in the subway to make some extra cash. I would be too embarrassed to use food stamps, so I would only eat once a day, allowing me to lose that last 5 lbs I've always wanted to lose. I would do OK, but it would still be hard to make ends meet for myself and the pet bunny I was going to get and name Uncle Boomer.

The line moved forward. I gulped. First there were five people in front of me. Now there were three. I took a deep breath and ducked out of the line.

"Oh I'm just getting another pair!" I would shout out in case anyone asked. I couldn't let anyone know I actually couldn't afford the shoes. I glanced around furtively and then pretended to walk confidently back to the shoe section. Were the salespeople looking at me? What about that security guard? When the coast was clear I quickly put the shoes back. I hurried out of there shamefully. I felt like a teenage mother leaving her baby at the hospital because she doesn't want her parents to know she got knocked up and accidentally gave birth at prom.

I thought I was going to feel better, but as I walked away the aching in my heart grew.

"Fuck you economy!!!!" I shouted at the heavens.

When I got home, I knew I needed to drown my sorrows ASAP. I pulled out a tub of low-carb sugar free ice cream with my zero carb caramel spread. I didn't even measure the serving size this time. I'll show that damn economy. When everything turns around I'm going to buy those shoes at full price. Or at least on half price eBay. In the meantime, I still had my ice cream.