My Last Red
A short story about sex, sleeping pills, and unconditional love
"Come here, Kitty Kat!" he hollers into the yard.
A yellow lab comes running through the front door.
"That's a good girl," he says, ruffling the fur behind her ears. "There, Kitty Kat."
At that moment, I knew I would regret sleeping with him. He was the type who was proud that he bore an uncanny resemblance to his dog. My best friend Faith has a dog. She tells me I’m too judgemental of the men I sleep with. I asked her if she thought they’d be happier if I spoke nicer but did not sleep with them.
He says, "I've just gotta feed Kitty Kat."
He wants me to acknowledge the name. People want to feel unique—in any stupid way. I don't want to give him the satisfaction but fuck it, this is what he needs.
"Like the Anne Toole book?" I ask.
"What?"
"Dog named cat?”
Surrender—a glass-half-full word I employ when justifying my fruitless endeavors. A system, if you will. And I most certainly will.
“Never mind. Do you have anything to drink?"
"How about wine?" He asks.
The truth is I need water to level my blood sugar after the daiquiris at Playa Del Sol. But teasing him with my deficiency on a first date isn't the foreplay we deserve. I place my purse on the counter, knowing I will be rushing into the bathroom at some point before midnight to take my insulin shot, barely escaping another episode. Tantalizing, I know.
"Red or white?" he insists.
"It truly could not matter less."
"Good. All I've got is red." He smiles and pours what's left of his Carlos Rossi Sweet Red into a plastic cup.
When I look at the giant vat of fermented sugar water, I contemplate how many not-as-young-as-they-once-were women have glowered into this same jug, cursing their depreciated standards. I imagine a horny genie flying out of it and granting me three wishes.
I pray to you, Genie Christ…
That he punishes me for this decision with at least an average to slightly above-average-sized penis.
That he cum quickly but not too quickly. Though I'll have him do most of the work, it would be nice to justify the indiscretion with a bit of 'cardio'—as I did not get my steps in today.
That he text me tomorrow. Not because I'll want to speak to him again but because a modicum of self-doubt attaches itself to one participant in these endeavors. I'd prefer it be him when I do not respond.
He hands me the cup of scarlet amnesia juice. Nodding at the wine, he adds, "Red your mind?"
Ugh, Fuck me.
"What was that?" He asks.
I hadn't realized I said it out loud.
I purse my lips and simper before downing the Rossi. It goes straight to my temples.
A palm frond rakes against the window screen, shaking its head at me. After drinking from the jug, he says he has an idea. Wine pools around his teeth as he whips out a baggie with little pills and shakes them like doggie treats.
"I think it's a little late for a bean."
"Ambien!"
"What?"
"Have you ever fucked on Ambien?" He asks.
I don't bother correcting his assumption we'd be fucking.
He says, "It's like a wet dream—that's really happening."
Dammit. I don't want to explain my condition--not the one where I limit myself to fruitless physical entanglements to avoid substance. Not that one. The blood sugar one.
I choose discretion and the sleeping pill. I pretend to take it but lob it over my shoulder. Kitty Kat fetches and licks it off the ground.
"Oh, shit."
"What happened?" He asks, nearly choking on his Ambien.
"Anticipation, I suppose."
"So you’re as excited as I am?" He asks and pulls me close to him.
"Probably the best night's sleep I'll have in years."
He laughs and points at me, genuinely surprised a woman he’s about to sleep with is capable of humor.
He sings, "Sweet dreams are made of these," wiggling the baggie. Then, wearing a sinister grin, he retrieves a small key from his pocket.
Fuck me.
~~~
And so he is. Fucking me, reasonably well. Slightly below-average penis--not that I deserve more. Points for his sense of adventure, though—the key was to a pair of handcuffs already attached to his headboard. His lack of concern for the Lothario optics of this whole schtick is almost a turn-on. And he does seem present—happy I'm here!
His pace is slowing with each thrust. His eyes heavy from the Ambien. Then he is still.
I moan loudly, startling him back to consciousness, and he goes right back to it.
As he plows away, I focus on his Adam's Apple. Pronounced—as if the talisman of Charlemagne had become lodged in his esophagus and, with every thrust, gets closer to bursting through his throat.
"Is this not the best fucking dream you've ever had?" He pants.
I take it rhetorically. Studying the way his traps bulge as he lunges further inside of me. Sex is awfully primal, I think. Then I wonder if cavewomen thought the same thing when being mounted by their hunter-gatherers. Or maybe I was a hunter-gatherer in a past life—with no vitamin deficiencies.
He asks again.
"Is this not the best fucking dream you've ever had?"
I play along. "DON'T WAKE ME UP!"
He comes inside of me. Great, now I need to trade one of my wishes.
"What did you say?" he drools.
Again, I hadn't realized I said this out loud. I must need my shot.
"Okay, your turn," he mumbles and passes out—still inside of me. His body's weight pressing upon me makes it hard to breathe.
~~~
An hour later, I feel, well, alarmed. I see my plastic insulin kit poking out of my purse that sits across the room. I'm quite dizzy.
A healthier girl could chalk this up to another egregious sexual exploit. Tough it out till the morning--vacillate between panicked squirming and exasperated rest underneath sleeping beauty and his seventh dwarf, limp and cozy inside me.
But I am not a healthier girl.
No matter how loud I yell in his ear, he doesn't budge. In my head, I hear the climax of my Dateline interview.
"At what point did you realize you'd have to eat the man's flesh to stay alive?"
I bite his shoulder hard but barely leave a blemish. Okay, this is not good. Don't panic. I clench down again, screaming into the bite with all I have. He twitches a little—a dream ushered in a new direction.
Well, shit. How do people do this? Is my will to live so much less than all those who have eaten their frozen friends on Mount Everest?
Hints of my eternal demise color my thoughts, and in an odd twist of emotion, I actually feel sad that I may never sleep with this man again. I even whimper a little when I think about the passable sex we'd have before I would inevitably drive him away with my avoidant-detachment commitment style.
All because I won't snack on his soft tissue.
God, I'm getting lightheaded.
His dog lurches in the corner, staring at me through heavy eyes. The Ambien is taking hold of the dog with the stupid name. How many times has she watched her master sleep peacefully atop an unsatisfied lay? We must look like a pile of leftover pasta.
Sleeping Beauty will wake up to a very rested dog and a very dead date. His tomorrow may actually be worse than my today.
"Come here, girl," I say. The dog doesn't acknowledge this. I won't say it. I won't say her stupid name. Ugh, I'm going to have to say it.
"Kitty Kat!"
She lifts her head in my direction.
"Come here, Kitty Kat."
She drags herself over to me.
Kitty Kat appears to be floating next to me, glowing. Angelic.
I whisper to her, "It's not your fault that your name is Kitty Kat."
She licks my face, realizing it's not her fault. What a gift to be seen.
I whisper, "This is not our fault, Kitty Kat."
She licks ravenously, and I forget why I called her over. I wonder if this is the best fucking dream she's ever had too. A feast of sweat, wine, and Santal #5. It tickles a little. I think I'm laughing—though I can't tell if I'm making noise.
Everything feels like it's happening from inside of me now. I start to cry, but I'm unsure why; it all feels so funny. The tongue bath is terrific. It is pure, and I feel no resentment about how fervently it is being given. So nice, I think, to accept this love so thoroughly, with such ease.
Surrender.
She licks and licks, and I can't tell if her tongue is moving slower or if the whole world is slowing down.
"Kitty Kat!" I giggle. "Oh, Kitty Kat."
He was right. This does feel like a dream that is really happening. So much better than some weekend proxy romance. God. How much trouble I'd have saved if I had just gotten a dog! My best friend has a dog. She always says this. For the life of me, I can't remember her name. What is my best friend's name?
Surrender.
Everything is in slow motion. Did I take something? I can't recall. Thoughts zoom past me like headlights through a rainy windshield...
I wonder if Darren put me on the schedule for tomorrow—I forgot to call my Mom back—I'll call her later—I don't think I like seafood—I want to like seafood, but I don't—There, it's decided I don't like seafood—I wonder if that guy from the gym DM'd me back—do I smell dog food?—remember that time you met the dog named Cat—so stupid—
Also my favorite so far
My favorite one so far