A young, urban man decides to make a change in his dormant love life. He takes a risk  partly for adventure and partly to satisfy his sex drive. In the end, he rekindles a relationship with the love of his life, if only for a few minutes. Michael Mecherikoff tells the story …

He tossed through the pages of the Westword magazine. The headlines repelled his attention like hooks without bait. “Guh,” Tim whispered. Ads for upcoming concerts became ads for night clubs became ads for adult audiences. 

Hmm, he thought.

Nooners by Nina, the first read. Is Your Penis Too Small? What the—? He felt his face flush and scanned the Sunday morning café. A cluster of couples huddled around a Bible. Two men near a window sat hidden behind different sections of the Post. To the amusement of family, a young girl in pink danced to “Great Balls of Fire” issuing from the speakers overhead. Since his arrival two hours before, the café had slowly filled with chatter. And anonymity. Tim Brenneman continued, ad by ad.

                    Free Viagra!

                    www.tiffanythetongue.com

                    GET WHAT YOU PAY FOR! $10 PHONE SEX!

  The irony, he thought.

                   Surprise your man with a threesome! Call Derek.

                    Big, Black & Beautiful. Call Veronica. 720-419….

                    Let Me Lick You Clean! Call Cat.

  “Psh.  Please.” Then he saw it. The one. It was simple, to the point.

                    Your fantasies fulfilled. First 10 mins free. Wanda.      
                    720-412….

Again he scanned the room. The couples bowed in prayer. The two men switched sections of the Post. The girl curtsied. Others, most in pairs, Tim noted, kept the front door swinging.

Tim sipped his coffee and thought about his situation. A year—today. He snarled his lips with the idea. Not a date, not a kiss, not even a one-night stand. His friends were married—every last one of them; his brothers, too, even the younger one.  He held the magazine just above the small table.

“First ten minutes free,” he muttered. It would be enough time to get a bite without paying for the whole pie, he reasoned. Tim Brenneman leaned back and let his focus fade into the tiny, black lettering of the ad.

“Hello?” The voice was velvet wine.

“Is this Wanda?”

“Yes. And who might you be?”

“This is Tim.”

“Hello, Tim. Do you have a fantasy?”

“Is a frog’s a… yes, I do.”

“Oooh, Tim, tell me every detail.”

He snapped from reverie to the applause for the dancing girl. A fantasy, he thought.  He’d have to think of something. “Kinky,” he voiced, and watched those nearby for peculiar looks. Nothing. No response. The music seemed to have grown louder, and coffee drinkers had responded in kind. The news readers exchanged silent frustration. He dialed.

Wait. Of the two dozen people in the small coffee house, three were on cell phones, and no one paid them any mind. He’d keep it quiet.

“You’ve reached Wanda’s personal line. Please hold.” The connection was poor, snowy with static, but the voice was nonetheless alluring. He upped the volume on the phone.

“Hello,” she said. Velvet wine: sweet, rich, full of body and notable spice.

“Hi,” Tim responded, his voice masked, deep and throaty. “Is this Wanda?”

“Yes, Larry. And I’m just getting warmed up. Are you ready to keep the party going?”

He wiggled on the hard, wooden chair and gripped a lukewarm mug. “Yeah.”

“Yes, Larry. And I’m just getting warmed up. Are you ready to keep the party going?”

He wiggled on the hard, wooden chair and gripped a lukewarm mug. “Yeah.”

“Yes, this is Wanda. What’s your name? No last names, please.” A familiarity echoed through the crackles of bad reception.

“This is… Larry.” Larry?  What the—

“Hello, Larry. Thanks for calling.”

“Uh, you’re welcome. Wanda.”

“What can I do to you, Larry?”

“To me?”

“That’s right.”

He cleared his throat. “What can you do to me?”

“Anything you like. Question is, what do you like? And speak up, please, Larry.  I’m having trouble hearing you.”

He slid deeper on the chair and cupped his hand over his mouth. “Everything.” His voice was an unnatural groan.

“That’s better. Everything, huh? That leaves me a lot of options, Larry.”

“I guess.” He lowered his volume. “How ‘bout talking dirty to me.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart? I didn’t catch that.”

“Talk—dirty to me.”

One of the newspaper readers turned his attention for an interested moment.

“Oh. How dirty?”

“Real dirty,” he said. He caught his hand moving south and instantly wrapped it around his coffee mug.

A minute later, Tim sprang forward and closed his mouth. His eyes had been shut: the first of Wanda’s instructions. Two pairs of glasses rose above sections of the Post as Tim shifted in his chair. He wondered if he had he been moaning or panting. Had his expression been crude?

“Larry, you still there?”

“Uh, yes.” He adjusted his voice. “Yes, I’m still here.”

“How are you feeling? And again, speak up, doll.” Her voice dripped.

“Good, good. I’m good.”

“Just ‘good?’”

“Great,” he whispered. “Powerful.” Powerful—where’d that come from?

“So now that we’re naked, Larry, what do you want to do to me?”

Oh, God. “Uh, Wanda, I can’t really talk right now. Why don’t you do the talking.”

“Say that again?”

He raised his voice. “I like when you talk.”

“As you wish.”

______

“All right, Lawrence, we’re at ten minutes.”

When did she start calling me Lawrence? Scooting upright, he noticed stares and subtly shaking heads from the family of the girl in the pink dress. The two men had folded their newspapers and were watching him with smiles. The Bible group prayed.

“Wha…,” he began, and dropped his voice, adding an element of roughness. “We are?”

“You wanna keep the party goin’, right?”

“Wull, I …yeah. Yes, of course. Wanda.”

“I have time tonight, Lawrence honey.”

“You wanna keep the party goin’, right?”

“Wull, I …yeah. Yes, of course. Wanda.”

“I have time tonight, Lawrence honey.”

“Yes, Larry. And I’m just getting warmed up. Are you ready to keep the party going?”

He wiggled on the hard, wooden chair and gripped a lukewarm mug. “Yeah.”

“Me, too.”

“You are? But I haven’t said anything.”

“Oh, yeah I am! I can hear your breathing and it’s getting me hot.”

Crap. He wanted to step outside, but leaving meant certain forfeit of his table.

“Hot, Larry. I bet you’re a big man, aren’t you?”

About average nearly escaped his lips, but he caught her meaning just in time. “You know it.”

“Good. I like big men. When should we meet?”

“Meet?”

“You wanna keep the party goin’, right?”

“Wull, I …yeah. Yes, of course. Wanda.”

“I have time tonight, Lawrence honey.”

“I…” would never do something like this; would be called a sicko and a pervert; would never forget it; would have an amazing time; break this bad luck streak “…think I could do tonight. What time?”  Where?  How much?

“Ten. Your place. Cash only. No friends.”

Jesus.  “All right. How much?” He felt eyes all over him.

“Depends,” she teased. “For now, tell me where you live?”

“Downtown. Near the Capitol.”

He finished the details and closed the cell phone. 

The music had calmed. The young girl pulled at her mother’s hands, which covered her small ears. The group of couples once again turned to prayer. And the two men, their lower legs entwined, winked and smiled. Tim flashed a grin, grabbed the magazine, and forfeited the table after all.

______

 Her voice, soft and slow, reminded him of melting candles. It flowed though his mind, carrying distant hints of the northeast, where his parents’ families remained. As he stepped from the shower, his thoughts progressed, and a grin cut across his face. He imagined the reactions he’d get when he told the guys that he had called a porn line from a crowded coffee shop. Would he tell them? Tim toweled himself and went naked to the kitchen. 

A bottle of vodka stood where he had left it before the shower: on the counter beside a shot glass. He swallowed a third shot, swirled a few drops of warm beer, opened a new bottle, and lit candles on the way to the bedroom. 

Two shots, a beer, and a shower. The twirling buzz of intoxication struck as he opened the closet. He inhaled deep through his nose and slapped his bare stomach with both hands.

One suit, a half-dozen dull shirts, and slacks too large for his lanky frame hung lifeless in the closet. He sipped the beer and searched the rack. Nothing. What do you wear for this kind of thing?  Who cares, ya moron?  It’s just sex.  It’s gonna be a pile on the floor in a few minutes, anyway. He tugged his bathrobe from a hook.

“Damn.” The robe’s belt was nowhere—not in the loops, not on the floor or the hook or the shelf. “Son of a—”

He spun around when the knocker clicked three times against the front door. His mind caught up a moment later. He inhaled, pulled the robe around his legs, and with the first step tripped onto the floor. “Damn it. Screw it,” he stated aloud, dropped the robe to the carpet and slammed the beer. Hand on the handle, he peered into the peephole.

The figure was blurry but distinctly female. A red dress painted her slender body, and white-blonde hair topped her nodded head. She shifted on her feet.

Here goes. One, two, three. Tim closed his eyes, remembering for an instant when Wanda asked him to close them earlier, and flung open the door.

“Sorry to keep you, WAAAA!!”

“AAA!”

He slammed the door and locked it, crouched and spun on his heels. 

She turned and fled, face in her hands.

Tim leaned for a moment against the door. His face hot, needles pricked his chest. He breathed, engaged the chain lock and opened the door.

“Mom,” he called.

At first, silence filled the hallway. The slow clap of heels against the cement floor followed.

“Mom, what are you doing here?”

“Well…,” she began. Impromptu confidence came over her. “I should ask you the same. I came to meet my friend Larry. Is he your roommate?”

“Your friend Larry,” he replied, incredulous.

“Yes.  Lawrence, actually.” She looked at the floor, then up again. 

“Mom.”

“Well, I didn’t know you live here. You keep in touch with your father, you leave me out in the cold.” She looked down the hallway outside her son’s apartment. “Speaking of which….”

Tim smirked. “Yeah, gimme a minute.”

In a T-shirt and sweat pants, he returned to the door, blowing out candles on the way. He motioned to the couch.

She sat cross-legged and folded her arms. The television off, the stereo off, an aquarium’s air pump hummed in the silence, and candle smoke filled the air.

“So you run a porn line, mom,” he began, and fell onto an armchair nearby. 

“What? I barely said anything.”

“You told me you’re a big man.”

“Huh?”

She nodded toward his sweatpants.

“What? I barely said anything.”

“You told me you’re a big man.”

“Huh?”

She nodded toward his sweatpants.

 She pursed her lips. “So you call porn lines, honey.”

“Guh.” He rolled his eyes. “I need a drink. You want something?” he asked, standing.

“Please.” 

“I have vodka and beer.”

“Vodka.”

She wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, sure to cover her cleavage, then called toward the kitchen: “It’s not a porn line.”

“Then what is it?”

“Well, it’s a business.”

“A business. This is what you do for money?”

“Ya know, Tim, you haven’t talked to me in what, two years? It’s about time you gave me a little credit.”

He handed her a shot glass and fell into an armchair. “Great time to be asking for credit.”

She sipped and looked around the room. An entertainment center formed the wall between dining and living rooms, and pictures of Tim’s friends and their wives made use of a bookshelf.

“Well, let’s not forget who called whom, Tim.”

“I wouldn’t have called if you hadn’t placed an ad.”

“Well what were you expecting when you answered it?”

“Pretty much anything but my mom on my doorstep.”

She crossed her legs and leaned back. “So were you going to pay for sex?”

“No! I wouldn’t let it get that far.”

She looked around at the candles, the dimmed floor lamp. “Mm-hm,” she replied, and sipped. “So… was I pretty good on the phone?”

“Mom! I’m not even gonna think about that. Guh, this whole thing is messed up!”

“Well—”

“I didn’t even recognize your voice!”

“I didn’t recognize yours, either. Larry.”

Tim rolled his eyes and swallowed the shot. The situation was surprisingly sobering, he noticed, in spite of how many drinks?

“Well it was hard to hear, but you sounded pretty pleased over the ph—”

“Mom! Please!”

“Well, Tim, what happened happened. You can’t change it, so you may as well laugh at it.”

“Laugh at it? I was having phone sex with my mom!”

“You didn’t know it was me. I didn’t know it was you. Let’s bury the hatchet.”

“Guh. I need another.” He stood.

“Bring the bottle.”

He filled her glass, dropped into the armchair, and tipped the bottle back.

“What else—”

His lips and throat burned. “Just—stop. I need a minute.” He slouched in the chair and took another slug.

“You know,” she began, “you lied to me on the phone.”

“What? I barely said anything.”

“You told me you’re a big man.”

“Huh?”

She nodded toward his sweatpants.

“Jesus, mom!”

“I’m just saying. Now, your father, he had nothing to lie about.”

“Please, stop! Just stop talking!”

“This is pretty good vodka.”

She emptied the shot glass with a final long sip and again looked over the pictures of Tim’s friends. Not a single photograph of her, or even with her anywhere in it. Given their relationship, the way she walked out on his father, she didn’t blame him.

“Look, honey, we’re not getting anywhere right now, but maybe this is a chance for us to start to get to know each other again.”

Tim looked at his mom and noticed his eyelids lowering like evening shades. He wondered whether his body’s swaying motions were real or just a trick of the intoxicated mind. He shrugged.

“Maybe we can get some coffee sometime.”

The men reading the Post, the little dancing girl, the prayer group, the personal ads—images of the coffee shop filled his foggy mind. He sat up shook his head, clearing the pictures like lines on an Etch-A-Sketch.

“Yeah,” he said. “Sure.”

She smiled. “Okay. Well. I’m gonna go. You have my number.”

He nodded and slumped further into the armchair.

She removed the blanket from her shoulders and covered him, turned off the light, and saw herself out.