Women always say they just want men to be honest with them. Let’s see how that plays out. “You’re pretty and you seem like a fun girl . . . but, I just realized . . . I’m into somebody else at the moment.”
Her neck swivels as she asks, “Excuse me?”
“No offense.” She covers her immense chest with her hands. And now she’s glaring at me. “If it makes you feel better, if I hadn’t met her first, I’d totally be having sex with you right now.”
She scampers off my lap. “You’re an ass**le!”
I can see why she’d think that.
“Get the hell out of my apartment, you dick!” She picks a coaster up from the end table—the heavy ceramic kind—and whips it at my head. The first one misses. But the second one nails me in the shoulder blade as I dive for the door.
“Ow! Christ, I’m going!”
“Jerk!”
This proves it—whoever said honesty was the best policy, was obviously lying.
I park my motorcycle on the sidewalk and sprint up to the front door of Dee’s building. I push her buzzer once, twice, three times for good luck. I wait five seconds, but there’s no response.
Next, I do what every other normal human being would.
I push the button down until my motherfucking fingertip turns white.
Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz . . .
When that doesn’t get an answer, I admit, I start to panic. I walk onto the sidewalk, below Delores’s front window, and cup my hands around my mouth. “Delores! Hey Dee—you awake?”
Because this is New York City, a neighbor immediately yells back, “We’re all awake now, ass**le!”
A few “Shuddups” come from various directions, and I think one woman may have thrown a potted plant at me.
But I’d like to believe it was an accident.
With no other recourse, I throw my head back and go for my best Marlon Brando impression. “Stella!! Steeellllaaaa!!”
Delores’s window opens. Fucking finally.
“Matthew?” she calls down, surprised.
My fingers hook my belt loops, going for a nonchalant stance. “Hey,” I answer. “S’up?”
“What the hell are you doing?” she asks.
Here is when I realize my grand plan to stop her and Tony from getting busy . . . only reached this point. Damn. From here on out, it’s all improv.
“I wanted to . . . Can you come down, please?”
Miraculously, she doesn’t tell me to go screw myself.
And two minutes later, she’s walking out onto the sidewalk . . . with Goomba Johnny trailing behind her. Thankfully, she’s still fully dressed in her club clothes. That doesn’t really mean much—especially considering the outfit covers little more than a bra and underwear would, but at this point, I’ll take whatever bright side I can.
The wise guy wannabe walks in front of Dee and shoves me back. “The f**k’s your problem? You some kinda psycho?”
On instinct, my fists rise to a defensive posture. “I didn’t come to fight you, but you wanna go? We can go.”
Then I notice the tattoo low on his bicep—a tattoo of the Virgin Mary with AVE MARIA scrolled below it. And I take a different approach.
“I’m just trying to save my marriage.”
Yes, lying is a low blow—but desperate times . . .
His head snaps to Dee. “You’re married?”
She’s horrified. “No, I’m not married. He’s out of his mind!”
I open my wallet to the picture of Mackenzie and force sincerity onto my expression. “My family is my everything. I know you don’t know me, but could you just do me a steady and . . . walk away?”
Now Dee is seriously pissed off. She pushes my shoulder and turns to the Jersey Shore reject. “Mickey, that is not my daughter, and he is not my husband!”
He replies, “My name is Mikey.”
It’s a relief to see I’m not the only one having trouble with names tonight.
Exasperated, Dee asks, “Does it matter?”
For most guys, it doesn’t matter—we don’t care if you scream the Pope’s name while we’re giving it to you. But apparently, “Mikey” isn’t most guys. Because he throws his hands up in surrender. “This is way too heavy for me. I’m outta here.” Then he turns on his heel and walks away.
I watch his retreating form with glee. Then I turn to Dee and hook my thumb over my shoulder. “Some people are so gullible.”
That’s when she punches me—right in the mouth.
I stumble back and taste blood. Delores may be petite, but she can throw a hell of a right hook. She points and wags her finger as she rails, “I don’t know what the f**k this is, but it is not okay!”
My hand drops from my injured mouth to my side. And my mind is blank—not a single smooth line or witty comeback in sight. So all I can do is ask, “Why don’t you like me?”
“What?”
“We had a great time—the sex was hot, we laughed—but now you don’t want anything to do with me.”
“This is a new concept for you?”
I snort. “Shit, yeah, it’s new. Everybody likes me. I’m a great f**king guy.”
Dee massages her forehead with her fingertips the way my mother used to do when she had a headache brewing. Then she sighs and admits, “Okay . . . the thing is . . . it’s not you, it’s me. I’m the problem.”
My eyes crinkle with revulsion. “Jesus Christ, are you serious? I’m practically pouring my heart out here, and you can’t even be bothered to make up a decent lie?”
Dee throws out her arms, “I’m telling you the truth. I do like you. You’re very cute, you’re very funny, and you’re fantastic in bed. But I . . . I’m a more content person when I’m not in a relationship. When I get serious with someone . . . I go a little crazy.”
“Who’s said anything about a relationship? Let’s just . . . keep having a good time. See what happens. It’s not like we’re going to take off for Vegas and get married.”
That would just be ridiculous.
Dee shakes her head. “You don’t understand. It never ends well. This won’t be any different, Matthew. I used to think it was the men I picked, but I’ve finally accepted the fact that it’s me. I make good guys go bad. I’m like . . . a penis pump . . . I turn men into gigantic pricks. I’m the girl your mother warned you about—bad news.”
