‘PUPPY BOY’
Sherri Harvey is an educator, freelance writer, photographer, and eco storyteller. She travels the world for projects that tell the stories of an environment in crisis and the people helping to save it, especially women. Over the past few years, she lived with a sociocracy struggling to find solutions for the water crisis in Spain, traveled to villages throughout West Africa learning about the plight of women in remote villages, worked with Orangutan Odysseys in Borneo to highlight the crisis of deforestation and orangutans, and followed a vet crew around the island of Phuket to create the documentary film, Accidental Advoctes in Phuket. The power of stories can unite cultures, share communion, and promote eco-change. Please see www.sherriharvey.com or @sherricoyote for more info.
PUPPY BOY
Christina and I met a month after a colleague at Spring Hills Laboratory recommended her as a dynamic real estate agent who could find me a condominium. I entered her office; the words Christina Kane, Agent and Gold Circle Award Winner were engraved on a plaque to the right of her door. Christina, a petite, raven-haired woman with an oval face and delicate features, walked around her desk to greet me. Everything about her was small and well-formed, from her dark-fringed brown eyes to her narrow waist and slender legs. Standing to shake my hand, she reached my chest, and I could smell an earthy scent of coconut from the top of her sleek, shorn head.
She reviewed my specifications: a neighborhood near the lab where I do cancer research; two bedrooms, one to be used as an office; a kitchen, laundry facilities; priced at under a half million dollars. I had a small legacy from my grandmother and finally, at the age of 43, had enough for a down payment on my own place. Christina listened to my requirements, printed out listings from her computer, then offered to take me out. It was a Sunday in April when we went condo hunting in her red Corvette. She drove fast and well, cutting down side streets, shortcuts unknown to me, swearing at slowpoke drivers, unselfconscious about being in the company of a stranger.
The first condo Christina took me to featured all my specifications but was parallel to a noisy intersection. The next one had a definite musty smell that could have been caused from years of bad housekeeping or a hidden leak. Another was missing the extra bedroom. The process was tedious but, at the same time, I felt the pleasure of the full attention of an attractive woman. Christina had panther-like grace and the bearing of a mature, sexy gymnast as she tiptoed across polished hardwood floors. My eyes followed her splayed fingers with crimson nails as she stroked the granite of kitchen countertops. Christina wore a fitted white tuxedo shirt, short skirt, and black, patent leather heels. A red scarf, the same color as her fingernails, was tied close to her throat.
She showed me numerous places, but, as if saving the best for last, our final destination was perfect. It was a newly constructed duplex with two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a combined living room-dining area that led into a well-equipped kitchen and laundry room. The price was the maximum I could afford, but it was shiny and new.
“What do you think?” she asked, knowing it was everything I needed.
“It’s great, no complaints really,” I responded.
Christina, unsmiling and eyes direct, said, “You should think about making an offer, Dan. I know the developer and, with this soft market, you could probably negotiate a lower price. Take another look around,” she suggested.
It was decision time. My first instinct was to play it safe and tell her to keep looking, but my apartment lease was up in two weeks. I walked through again as Christina waited in silence in the kitchen, listening to messages on her BlackBerry, my hesitation causing her professional attentiveness to slip away. I rejoined her in the kitchen; her thumbs flying over her cell phone, she stopped and looked up.
“I’m going to make an offer,” I said. “Four hundred sixty-nine thousand dollars.” The asking price was $499,000.
Christina snapped to attention. “Great! I’ll call the first thing tomorrow morning and present your offer. Can I reach you at your work or cell number?”
“Sure,” I said, sweat dripping down my underarms. I felt an increased heart rate and visualized the diminishing place values in my bank account.
* * *
Late Monday afternoon I was on a conference call. Lost in discussion I was shocked to look up to see Christina. Unable to reach me by phone, she had tracked down my office. It seemed my bid on the condo had been accepted. There was one glitch: the unit was not habitable for at least another month. All the inspections had not been completed, and minor construction on some of the surrounding condos needed to be finished before it was safe to move in. I was certain Christina had been shrewd enough to withhold this information from me before I made the offer, but I wasn’t angry at the deception. I could put my possessions in storage and ask my friend Henry to put me up for a few weeks. I had spent the past 15 years in academia—a dissertation, postdoctoral work, and, finally, a position on the cancer research team. My title, Daniel S. Erikson, Ph.D., on an office door at the laboratory was the culmination of years of study. I had neglected other aspects of my life, and it was time I made some changes.
Christina was taking me out to dinner to celebrate. People at the lab stopped and whipped their heads around when Christina walked past the various departments. Diminutive in stature, she somehow managed to convey a formidable presence. Proud to be seen in the company of a coveted woman, I waved to colleagues; Christina walked out the exit first, alluring and self-possessed.
* * *
By ten o’clock, drunk from sake and beer, I walked into Christina’s house and met her dog, Raoul, a wirehaired fox terrier. The white-furred beast stood at attention with straight legs, expressive face, and wagging tail. Never having had a dog, I was wary. Raoul sensed this and, taking the upper hand, pushed his nose into my ankles, sniffing my socks and nipping at my sneaker laces. As if possessing inner springs, Raoul leapt up on his hind legs, jumping to the height of my chest while yapping in a high-pitched bark.
“Stop, puppy boy! Leave Dan alone,” Christina said, her mouth in a pout, speaking in a tone suitable for a baby. The dog ran around in circles, much to the amusement of Christina, who, glowing with alcohol, was probably calculating her 5 percent sales commission and expecting a night of pleasure. She let Raoul out into the darkened back garden and opened the door of her refrigerator. Christina pulled out a bottle of champagne, unleashing the cork just as Raoul threw his body against the back door, hurling himself back into the kitchen.
“Calm down, beastie boy. Mummy is putting you in the basement.” Christina scooped up the squirming dog, turned on the basement light, and dropped Raoul down, slamming the door behind him. The dog was scratching and barking as she led me by the hand to her bedroom; I felt a combination of erotic anticipation and performance dread. I squinted as we entered her bedroom; all the lights were on. The room was painted a deep pink and dominated by a king-sized bed with a brass headboard. The headboard was intertwined with colorful silk scarves. I noticed the red scarf she wore on our first meeting tied in a bow on an ornate finial.
We embraced and kissed. Christina wasted no time, pulling off her dress, lace bra, and panties. She pawed off my shirt, popping most of the buttons. Christina’s body, high, tight, and small, made me embarrassed by my droopy boxers and the paunchiness of my stomach. Nervous, I let her dominate me in a little game; she covered my eyes with a silk scarf. She kissed my face, chest, and stomach. She guided my hands over her breasts and buttocks. The unpredictability of what she would do next and the newness of her body were thrilling. Christina was adventurous; her tongue slid over me. At one point I was standing, her legs straight up against my chest, ankles hooked around my shoulders. Letting go of my inhibitions, I enjoyed the increasing creativity of our encounter.
Through the cacophony of our shared cries and moans, I heard Raoul’s barks. Trapped in his basement prison, the barks were sharp and angry, different than his earlier silly yapping. Despite the relentless series of plaintive, wolf-like howls, we fell asleep, exhausted and spent.
* * *
Two weeks later, the condo contract signed, I’m staying at Christina’s house. It is a temporary arrangement; the closing date has been pushed off for six weeks. I am happy to be staying here, instead of with my friend Henry. Like a callow newlywed I now live in a state of sexual thrall. Home early this Friday evening, I’m waiting for Christina. Raoul has been outside chasing squirrels. I let him in and he runs right past me to the front door. His mistress has returned. She’s dressed for the drizzly spring weather; a black, bucket-shaped hat frames her angular cheekbones. Christina slips off her raincoat and tosses her hat on a chair. Raoul takes an acrobatic leap, and she catches him in her arms.
“Sorry I’m late, puppy boy,” she croons as the dog lathers up her face.
“Hello, Dan,” she kisses me. I feel the sticky dog saliva on her lips.
“The closing took longer than I expected. I had to wait till the bank cut my commission check,” she informed me, taking it out. I’m impressed with the five-figure number.
In our short time together, Christina has shared a little of her past. Her father deserted Christina and her mother when she was a child. Since the age of 18, she has supported herself and sends money to her mother. She completed an Associate’s Degree, tended bar, worked as a secretary, managed a boutique, and did a stint as an exercise instructor. She ended up at her present real estate agency as a receptionist, then advanced to salesperson, got her broker’s license, and became one of the agency’s top producers. Christina has never married.
She lives on take-out Asian food, exotic fruits, and salad. Christina spends her money. Whenever she receives a commission check, she splurges on some expensive purchase, like an Italian leather sofa or some flashy gift she has shipped to her mother.
Christina grabs half a mango from the kitchen. The three of us walk upstairs to her bathroom; soaking in a tub takes the edge off her day. Living in close quarters with a woman is new to me. I’m not yet accustomed to her stealing my shirts and am a little put off when I notice her short, blue-black hairs clinging to the bathroom sink.
There are perks to cohabitation too, like watching Christina undress. Raoul balls up the discarded clothes into a makeshift pillow which he lies on, nuzzling her underwear. Christina submerges herself under the swirling turquoise bath salts, comes up for air, and picks up the mango. Slurping into it, the juice drips down her chin. Her hair and skin are shimmering with a film of soap suds; she lets her arm hang over the side of the bathtub. Raoul licks the mango juice from her fingers as Christina splashes my face with her foot. The bath salts are separating, and I see rosebud nipples peeking through. Aroused, I slide my hand from her ankle, over her knee to find and explore Christina’s inner thigh. In my travels I step down on Raoul’s paw. He yelps and bites down on my foot; his teeth lock onto the tongue of my sneaker; the thickness of the leather prevents him from biting into my flesh.
“Knock it off this instant,” commands Christina in her sternest voice. The little bastard releases his grip and dives for the base of the bathroom door. He hammers his teeth into the woodwork, a poor substitute for my skin, I think. Christina stands up and screams, “Bad boy!” The terrier lets go his hold and, with his back fur up, sounds short, furious barks in my direction.
* * *
Christina insists she doesn’t need help with expenses. I clean up the place when she is out and pick up her dry cleaning and groceries. I consider buying her a bracelet or chocolate truffles, but instead get her flowers from the market. After years of living on a tight budget, it’s difficult for me to be extravagant. Christina’s eyes soften when I present them to her.
Most men would be envious of this arrangement. Christina’s appetites are wearing me down. Toweling off after a shower, I stare in wonder at my well-traveled penis. I try to imagine how many men have come before, feeling critical of her lack of restraint. Living in close quarters is uncomfortable and making me self-conscious of my bathroom habits and more careful with my grooming. Our evenings are becoming ritualized: dinner, superficial conversations, and then sex. Raoul’s noisy presence is intrusive. When I’m home alone, I distance myself from the annoying scoundrel, who lies on the couch, eyes slit, a watchful sentinel and my canine rival. I begin to wonder why Christina has no female friends.
The following Sunday Christina puts on a smart pants suit, the jacket opened to reveal ropes of pretend pearls. She is going to a church service at a Lutheran church; it’s business-related. She attended the church as a child, and a few parishioners have invited her. They are Christina’s clients, house flippers.
“What’s a house flipper?” I ask, with startling visions of houses tipping over and collapsing to the ground.
“House flipping is when people buy a house in need of work, spend some money to fix it up, and then sell it for a profit within a short amount of time. They do it to eventually trade up to the house they really want. I find them properties and make myself steady commissions,” she explains.
“I see,” I say, thinking the practice must take up a lot of time and energy.
“Dan, would you like to come with me? After the service there’s a brunch. We wouldn’t have to stay long.”
I pause; my friend Henry has invited me over for beers and chess. Henry, a socially maladroit savant, is in awe of my relationship with Christina.
“You know, Christina, I’m not a churchgoer. I’m an atheist. I think I’ll pass on the invitation and visit my friend.”
Startled, she walks closer to me. “I thought your parents were Unitarians,” she says.
“They are, but I don’t believe in God or organized religion.”
“How can anyone know for sure that God doesn’t exist?” she asks.
“God is a product of religion. Religion played a role in getting groups of people to get along socially. It doesn’t serve that purpose now. Instead, I believe it’s a huge obstacle to creating a global society.” I know I sound like a lecturing professor, but I hope to engage Christina in some kind of meaningful debate.
Christina, glancing at her watch, says, “So everything has a scientific explanation to you. People find comfort in the idea that there is a spiritual being watching over them, and most of us hope God will someday relieve human suffering.”
“But He doesn’t. Africans died from HIV because of religious objection to condom use. God-loving people want to preserve disease and preach abstinence instead of science. Millions died because of unscientific objections to Covid vaccinations.” I am revving to segue into stem cell research, but Christina shrugs her shoulders at me and turns to leave.
“If God isn’t real, what will happen to us when we’re dead, Dan?” she asks.
“We cease to exist, our bodies decompose, and we become one with the natural elements and—that’s it.”
“Well, while you’re turning into mulch, I’m going to paradise.” She turns to blow me a kiss, then leaves.
Beautiful, simple Christina, I think. An accomplished capitalist and sublime libertine, she hopes to find even more pleasure after death. I shake my head, locate my keys, and drive to Henry’s house.
* * *
My lawyer calls me to tell me that the closing date is set for next week. Everything is in order. Christina says she’ll help me move. She’s scurrying around the kitchen, about to leave for an Open House; she just secured a new listing.
After moving out I know I will feel the need to take a little hiatus away from Christina, but don’t know how to go about it. I decide to go out. Searching for my jacket, I see Raoul lying on top of it on a living room chair, deep in sleep. His coarse fur makes him look like a wooly lamb. Annoyed by the fur stuck to my jacket, I creep up on him and yank it from under his body, disrupting his doggy dreams and flinging him from the chair. Raoul, wide awake and angry, rolls, then rights himself to lunge at my foot. I flee out the front door as he snaps at my escaping heels.
When I return Raoul keeps a respectful distance. I let him out the kitchen door to do his business. He frolics in the grass and then begins digging a hole. The doorbell rings. I notice a white Corvette identical to Christina’s parked out front. I open the door to a slightly built, older gentleman. His hair is gray and thinning, and he is wearing a neat, pressed shirt, jeans, and blazer.
“Hi, is Christina home?” he asks.
“No,” I say. “She should be home soon, though.”
The man is nervous and pale.
“Do you mind if I come in? My name is John Turner; I used to date Christina. I have to speak with her. She changed all her numbers and doesn’t respond to the messages I leave at her office.”
Feeling apprehensive, I hesitate.
“You’re probably her new boyfriend. I can just wait in the living room.”
“Look, John, write down your number. I’ll tell Christina to call you as soon as she gets back.”
John is sweating; he pulls a gun from his pocket. Pointing it toward my face, he pushes his way into the house.
I don’t know much about guns; the man’s hand is shaking. He is much smaller than me but I stand frozen.
“Relax, man,” I plead. “I’m sure whatever the problem is, it can be resolved. I’m not really Christina’s boyfriend; in fact, I’m moving soon.”
“I want to speak with Christina face to face. I need some, uh—closure.”
“Sure, you know, you could probably catch her later this evening.” I know I’m babbling and can hear Raoul throwing himself against the back door. I am afraid the dog will burst in, startle John, and there will be bloodshed, probably mine. Then I notice that John’s crying. He puts the gun in his pocket, lowers himself into Raoul’s favorite chair, and covers his face with his hands. Sobbing, he apologizes; then tells his story.
“I met Christina three months ago; I work as an attorney for a mortgage and title company that does business with her agency. It was great at first. I wanted to get married, but Christina wouldn’t hear of it. You know she spends money without thinking about her future. I got her to open a 401k plan. I told her, ‘You’re fifty years old; the real estate market is changing.’” He wipes his eyes with the backs of his hands.
Christina is 50? I’m shocked. I never asked her age or details of past men. Christina is a master at lies of omission.
John continues, “For her birthday, I bought the Corvette. I brought her to the dealership; she loved the spontaneity of it all. Well, to make a long story short, she ran off to Atlantic City with the car salesman, Mike. They were gone for a week. When she came back, she accused me of being possessive. Maybe I am possessive. I pleaded with her to still see me.” He takes a deep breath. “I suppose it really is over.”
I pat John on the back. I feel we have entered into a brotherhood of sorts; two overeducated chumps fallen for the same aging femme fatale. At last Raoul manages to dislodge the back door latch, prancing into the living room. He jumps into John’s lap, licking the tears from his face.
“How are you, fella,” John perks up. I watch, amazed, as John massages Raoul’s ears; the dog nuzzles his neck. I offer John a drink. He declines.
John gets out of the chair, shakes my hand, and leaves.
* * *
I go out to clear my head. Christina’s car is in the driveway when I return. She’s in the backyard, tossing a ball to Raoul, wearing one of my shirts, the tail reaching her mid-thigh.
When I go out to join her, she asks, “How was your day?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, it was kind of interesting. A guy named John showed up here looking for you; he waved a gun in my face. He calmed down and left; it seems he’s been trying to reach you for awhile.” I study Christina’s face for a reaction.
“Oh, John is harmless.”
“It seemed that way. He mentioned Mike, your car salesman friend, and a trip to Atlantic City.” I sound sarcastic.
“Are you judging me, Dan?”
“No, but you might have mentioned them. We have been kind of close.”
“Have I ever asked you about your past or pressured you for anything?” She pauses. “I know you think you’re smarter than me; but, like most men, you’re a hypocrite. I take care of myself; I don’t want a husband. Yes, I like variety, but when I’m with someone, I hold nothing back. You want to end it, don’t you? You know something?” Her bottom lip is quivering. “You live without passion; you’re boring and cheap and even stingier with your love! You can leave right now!”
I underestimated her as a worthy opponent; her assessment of me is like an astute, unsolicited comment from a madman or a child. I feel shame for not giving Christina the careful treatment she deserved. She runs into the house. From the top of the staircase, she kicks down my clothes. She races up and down the steps, finding things and tossing them outside. I end up in the front yard gathering my belongings, stuffing them into my car trunk. It is a warm June evening; a muted twilight sky casts a forgiving aura to the confusion. Christina shoves my rolling suitcase out of the door; it crashes down to me, just missing my foot. She undoes my shirt, walks over, and hands it to me. Naked, Christina stands on her front lawn for a moment to give me the full effect of what I would be missing, her dewy skin lit to perfection. She slams the front door; a white sock is stuck under the door jamb. Backing out of the driveway, I see Raoul perched on top of the couch, looking out the window; his black eyes shining and maniacal. His toothy mouth is in an open grin. Sighing and relieved I put the car in gear, gun the engine, and head to Henry’s house.
Michele A. Hromada is a special educator and political blogger. Her work has appeared in: Wild Violet, Diverse Voices Quarterly, Forge, Tower Journal, Gemini Magazine, The Book Smuggler's Den and Coffin Bell.
