By C. F. Roberts
Photo © Michael Dent
Maggie was in heaven…tres heureux, as she would have said in her French Class. Merrill’s enormous dick was swelling in her mouth and she knew she was in the place where she ought to be, between that man’s legs, with that dick in her hungry craw.
The only thing that might make the evening better would be if he had her strung up, preferably upside down and was flogging her artfully while Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons” played in the background. Ah, well…there was always the weekend.
In the meantime, there was no place better than where she was right this minute. She supposed her rhythm had gone off mid-reverie…the dead giveaway was a light smack upside the head from Merrill followed by a soft, sluggish “what’s your problem, bitch? Keep sucking!”
As Maggie dutifully reestablished her rhythm a tear formed in her eye and her heart swelled in unison with that big penis that was now gorged with blood—this was the best she had ever had it, she truly felt loved, and this was a real man, a man who could go all night, shoot his wad a couple of times and just keep going. She knew she could look forward to a good long fucking and then still enjoy the power of Merrill filling her ass before the sun came up.
A flash of fantasy happened upon her mind and she imagined herself naked in an endless field of erect penises—all various shapes and sizes and colors, all stretching toward the sun like skin flowers, all on the verge of exploding with their sweet, pearly pollen—-for a moment she wanted to grab every blessed one of them and jerk them until the come sprayed out and coated her whole body—
Of course, fantasies were just fantasies and you had to remember that that was what they were…you had to stay monogamous and take precautions against disease, but as long as the fantasies stayed in the realm of the fantastic, it was all—
Smack! “Bitch, what the hell is with you tonight?! Are you not into it, or what? ‘Cause if you’re not, I’m turnin’ on ‘O’Reilly!’ “
She pulled his dick out of her mouth with an audible “schlup” and snapped, “I am getting very tired of you!”
Merrill changed his tone to one of pleading. “Baby….what’s wrong?!”
“Not you, him!” She said, nodding toward me. The fourth wall always seems to break at the most deeply personal, humiliating moments. I try to keep typing, but I’m busted. I’m not getting out of this easily. Maggie has zeroed in on me and has no intention of letting up. “Hey! Remember, all those years ago, when you stalked me like a pathetic little puppydog? Huh? Remember when you wrote me all the sad letters, and the bad poetry? Remember when you left all the awkward messages on my answering machine? Remember?”
I don’t answer, but of course I remember. You can play the game of Denial all day long, but it’s hard to ever erase the times in your life when you hit bottom—the times in your life when you’re so transcendently desperate and stupid you hit the absolute nadir of existence—when you cry and you plead and you tank so badly that you debase yourself on levels you never dreamed possible.
Maggie’s got the hook in my craw, now, and she’s not going to be showing me any mercy. “Remember how, back at the time, I suggested you might benefit from Therapy?”
I sure do—and I always kept it in the back of my mind that Maggie is the daughter of a Psychotherapist—-so at the end of the day she’s his schill—she will look to psychotherapy as the be-all end-all because it’s part of the family tapestry.
She presses onward. “You need therapy. You’ve got problems…a lot of problems.”
I shrug and laugh nervously. “Nobody’s perfect…”
But Maggie is not placated, and she keeps pressing forward. “A lot of problems.” I’m reminded of one of Maggie’s least endearing traits—the one where she’ll take a phrase that hurts and bludgeon you with it again and again beyond rhyme or reason.
Merrill has sat up at this point. “Yeah! You need therapy, you pussy!” He chuckles .
“Oh—one more thing,” says Maggie, “you never met Merrill. It just so happens he was always kind and considerate and intelligent.”
“Yeah, I am,” says Merrill, looking suddenly optimistic.
“We also broke up a decade and a half ago,” she adds, and I see him deflate a little bit behind her. “But that’s neither here nor there. What is it—what is it with you—what the hell is wrong with you—where you have to assume that every guy you get jilted in favor of is an abusive imbecile?”
I feel like a deer in the headlights. “I guess you could bust it down to ego, “I tell her, “but let’s face it—nine times out of ten that is the case…”
Maggie is livid. “Nine times out of ten, nine times out of ten, what does that even mean?! You’re rationalizing the fact that you’re sick!”
“Yeah, dude,” helps Merrill. “And there are times when I think I’m pathetic!”
Maggie shoots him a look and his stalwart willy shrinks in shame. “You are pathetic,” she says. She turns her attention back to me. “But you—-oh my God—such issues—-such an inability to let go….and you and I—we never even fucked. We never even kissed!”
That was what always got stuck in my craw—not that I’m telling her that. It was never the girls I fucked—-it was the girls I didn’t get to fuck. But I’m not revealing such a chink in my armor….not me….nosiree Bob…..
“Have you ever gotten a life? Has this little point in your existence haunted you so much that you can’t get past it???”
“I’ve got a life,” I offer, “but it’s all about art for me….it’s all about good material.”
She chortles out loud. “This is what you call ‘good material’, huh?”
Merrill pipes on board for a piece of me. “I’ve got a few bones to pick,” he says. “Dude. What is it with you? There are so many times in stuff you’ve written…”
“Like you ever cracked a book,” sneers Maggie.
“Shut up,” he returns. “Inasmuch as I’m not a real person but a function of his writerly psyche, I can ‘read’ him and as such, cross examine him! “
Maggie rolls her eyes. “Oh, how fucking ‘Meta’…”
“That’s his fault,” whines Merrill. “He’s ‘Meta’, not me, okay?”
“Fine.” She sighs. “Get on with your two cents.”
“He,” he says—then he awkwardly turns to me, “you, buddy.” He points a finger at me, just to emphasize the point, “You like a good red-blooded, all-American blowjob, just like anyone else!”
“And…?” Maggie goads him.
“And so why is it you always write this stuff where a girl giving a guy head is part of some mis—“
“Sound it out, babe,” helps Maggie.
“Misogynistic power struggle,” he finishes, earning his Gold Star. “Dude,” he repeats, shaking his head. He looks over to Maggie, who nods with approval. “Dude,” he says again and I know it’s as proud as he will ever be.
Shrugging my helpless shoulders, “it’s symbolic,” I offer. He grins like a goddamned chimp. This is bad—I don’t want to be bested by some spud.
“Symbolic, shit,” Maggie sneers. “Now who’s ‘Meta’?”
“Tolja so,” smirks Merrill.
Maggie returns to her mantra. “You’re sick,” she says. “You need a therapist!”
“Says the therapist’s daughter,” I throw back.
“My lineage doesn’t make up for the fact that, on a very basic level, you’re sexually retarded,” she says in an I-know-you-are-but-what-am-I tone. “It’s very sad. Very sad.”
“Whatever,” I say.
“Very sad,” she repeats again, continuing with that trend I just fucking love. “And pretentious to boot. All this ‘symbolism’ and this …’Meta’ nonsense doesn’t do a thing to cover the fact that, deep down, you’re a sad, scared, dysfunctional boy-man with some serious woman-issues…and I want you to think good and hard about that.”
“Don’t talk to me about Pretense, Miss ‘Tres Heureux…’ “
“Hey! You’re putting words in my mouth,” she snaps. “And the fact that I took French in college is pretty innocuous up against your laundry list of problems…get a therapist!” As she’s speaking she’s thrown a wooly coat over her lingerie and has seized her purse. Elvis is leaving the building. “Oh! By the way—considering the way you’ve gussied me up and made great presumptions about how I conduct myself in the bedroom, my sex life is still none of your business!” Maggie artfully ducks the fact that it was she who volunteered hints about her “healthy” lifestyle—I don’t bother bringing this up, knowing she’ll be out of my hair momentarily—still, these convenient omissions tend to get on my nerves.
“It must really eat you up, huh?” She’s smiling like a vicious animal, now. “What I do in the privacy of my own home. What I look like without these clothes.”
“Yeah, dude,” helps Merrill, “you missed the birthmark on her—“
“Don’t give him any ideas!” She barks. She shoots another look at me. “You need to get a therapist.”
I smile back. “Don’t let the front door hit you on the backside!”
I get the deadliest scowl in return. “You can kiss my backside, Mister!” Then it softens just a little. “Oh—wait—that’s right—you can’t!” Her mouth twists into half a smile. “Get a therapist!”
She heads for the door. Behind her, Merrill is struggling to get his pants on. “Hey, wait!!!” He’s still struggling to buckle his belt as he chases her out. “Can I catch a ride with you???”
“Oh, God, I suppose so,” she grumps. The door swings shut behind them. I hear testy chatter and then the sound of an engine starting. I peek through the blinds and they’re driving off in that same Toyota Corolla I remember her driving back in the day. Function of memory, I guess.
After a while of beating your brains out against a wall you learn to put these things behind you and it is just all about the art. Maggie was one of a seemingly endless string of Frankensteins from an era when I had the self esteem of a flatworm and any woman, whether she wanted me or not, had me at “Hello.” Who wants such a gift, and who, in their right minds, would give it?
There might be a cutthroat territory involved with jilting a writer, but I like to think of myself as a bigger man than that. For instance, I could write that the Corolla’s brake cuts out on a dangerous stretch of two-lane highway known for its fatal automobile accidents and that’d be a jim-dandy little coda, wouldn’t it? But I’m not that petty.
Okay, okay, this last is another conceit on my part—I am that petty.