LITMIR.BIZ

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he’s probably the least crazy one. He’s intelligent, talented, funny as hell and drop-dead gorgeous. With his brilliantly white teeth, smooth mocha skin, perfectly groomed locks…I swear if he wasn’t gay I would have jumped him years ago. But he is gay. Years ago he jumped out of the closet and right onto the first float of San Francisco’s Pride Parade. So instead of sensual rubdowns I have to settle for marginally frisky conditioning treatments. Lately he’s been calling me J-Lodad because he thinks that (thanks to my Black and Eastern European-Jewish ancestry) I look like a cross between Soledad O’Brien and J-Lo. That’s one of the main reasons why I’m willing to settle for the platonic scalp massages: when I’m stressed or sad Marcus makes me laugh.

      But not tonight. Tonight he’s facing away from me, a five-month-old People magazine in his hands, just one of the many outdated periodicals lying around the waiting room. He’s not reading it of course. He just needs something to hold on to while he waits for relief from his darkest fears…or the confirmation of them.

      On the other hand Anatoly’s current focus is completely on me. Anatoly is…well, he’s my tall, dark Russian lover, my boyfriend, my nemesis, maybe even my soul mate. He lives with me and we are completely dedicated to one another…until we have one of our knock-down-drag-out fights. Then he storms out (or I kick him out) and at that moment we both know that it is totally and completely over.

      Except it’s never totally and completely over because he’s Anatoly and I’m Sophie. We can’t stay apart because, to use his words, neither of us can claim ownership of the other and yet in some odd, paradoxical way I belong to him and he to me. You can’t stay away from something that belongs to you for any real length of time. Someone else might try to steal it.

      But no one would dare try to steal him away tonight. Tonight he holds my hand firmly, his body’s leaning toward mine, letting the world know that he’s ready to catch me if I collapse into sobs, ready to hold me back if I lash out at the wrong person. He seems not to have noticed the hum of the fluorescent lights above although it’s exactly the kind of noise that usually annoys him. He hasn’t glanced at the television mounted in the corner that’s tuned to ESPN. Tonight his attentiveness and responsiveness can only be equaled by my need.

      And to my left, sitting rigidly in what has to be the most worn chair in the hospital waiting room, is Mary Ann. Mary Ann is totally pretty, sweet, honest, loyal and totally, totally ditzy. She’s sort of an idiot savant. Her genius lies in her ability to make even the homeliest face look Vogue-worthy. She spent years being the favored cosmetician at the Neiman Marcus Lancôme counter and now she makes quite a good living free-lancing. So what if she thinks euthanasia is a creative way of referring to the young people in China? The woman can make the biggest zit disappear with the sweep of a powder brush. She’s like the David Copperfield of blemishes.

      And now she has a ring that is as impressive as her talent. A heart-shaped ruby on a platinum band given to her by the man who currently has his arm draped over her stiff shoulders. If my relationship with Anatoly is tempestuous, Mary Ann’s romance with Monty checks in at a continual seventy-five degrees with a gentle breeze and only the lightest precipitation. I don’t often envy her because I do like stormy weather, but every once in a while I catch myself wondering if it might be better to live in a calmer emotional climate.

      Of course she hasn’t been calm tonight. Only a few hours ago she was screaming.

      Monty tried to soothe her but the only one who has the power to truly put her at ease is Dena. Dena is Mary Ann’s cousin and, as I mentioned earlier, my friend. My best friend. She’s a little Sicilian spitfire with a fierce intellect and a fondness for bondage wear. It would be hard to find a cute, available, straight guy in San Francisco who hasn’t worn Dena’s handcuffs at least once. Of course it’s hard to find a cute, available straight guy in San Francisco period, so perhaps that’s not saying much.

      Dena understands me like no one else. She has fought for me in both the figurative and literal sense of the word. When I’m tempted to wallow in self-pity Dena’s always there to give me a swift kick in the ass. When I fly off the handle Dena helps me see logic…and that’s no easy feat. My feelings about logic are tepid at best. In turn I understand, and never judge, her proud promiscuity. I know her strength and I am deeply familiar with her fears. I know everything about Dena.

      As of tonight I even know the color of her blood. It’s the exact same shade as the ruby on Mary Ann’s finger.

      CHAPTER 1

      I don’t want to look for a man. I want to shop for one. And if I can find one that comes with a lifetime warranty or at the very least an exchange policy I’ll buy him.

      –Fatally Yours

      Sunday, May 6th, 7:00 p.m.

      “You’ll never believe what wonderful thing he’s done now!” Mary Ann exclaimed as she flung open the door of her San Francisco Lake Street apartment to greet Dena and me. Her deep brown eyes glittered with excitement.

      Neither Dena nor I had to be told that he was Monty Sanchez, the very successful entrepreneur she had been dating for the past eleven months. He made robotic toys and stuffed animals that nobody needed but every gadget-collecting geek wanted. Like the lifelike seal pup that could recognize faces and dance the samba. That one was a huge hit.

      Dena’s eyes slowly narrowed as they made their way down to Mary Ann’s hands. “What the hell? Why are you wearing long gloves?”

      “Because tonight I feel like a princess!” Quickly she hustled us inside.

      Dena and I exchanged glances. “She never drinks by herself…so she’s probably not drunk,” Dena mused.

      “Maybe she’s sleepwalking?’” I suggested. “We shouldn’t wake her. You know what they say—sleepwalkers can get violent when awakened, especially if they’re already acting deranged.”

      Mary Ann stuck her tongue out at us before breaking into a light laugh. “Come in, take your jackets off and I’ll tell you all about it.”

      We followed Mary Ann into her living room, at which point Dena let out a yelp of alarm.

      Sitting by the window was a giant orca. A plush orca to be precise, but, based on size alone, it could have given any living juvenile orca a run for its money. It gazed up at us with black oval pupils as if pleading for understanding.

      “Don’t you get it? A day after I met Monty on the beach in San Diego he took me to Sea World for our first real date! He bought me a Shamu to show me how much that day meant to him! Isn’t it perfect?”

      “Shamu?” Dena repeated, clearly baffled. “God, Mary Ann, he’s as big as my love seat!”

      “A love seat,” Mary Ann repeated, clasping her gloved hands together as she emphasized the second word. “That’s perfect. And look! He can act like a love seat, too! See? You can sit on him!”

      She plopped down on top of her new pet. Shamu barely budged under her weight, but then again Mary Ann couldn’t be over a hundred and ten pounds. It was doubtful that she had the power to crush a baby Chihuahua.

      “Is he comfortable?” I asked doubtfully.

      “Well, no,” Mary Ann admitted. “But I bet the real Shamu isn’t all that comfortable either, and the trainers ride him all the time!”

      “So now you want to straddle an orca?” Dena laughed.

      “Don’t be crude! This orca is one of the most romantic gifts Monty has ever given me! Not that you would understand. Your idea of romance is a pink dildo with a vibrating dove flopping around at the end of it!”

      “Don’t be ridiculous.” Dena waved her hand in the air dismissively. “They don’t make them with doves. You’re thinking of the rabbit with the twitching nose…or maybe my rubber ducky vibrator but he’s not attached to anything, the vibrator is the duck. You just hold it—”

      Mary Ann sucked in a deep breath through her teeth. “You’re missing the point!”

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