Sarah Mlynowski - Monkey Business

“So far so good. He’s the type of guy I could fall in love with.” She shivers. “Saying that out loud just scared the crap out of me.” She kisses me on the cheek. “I must go pack. Your job over the vacation is to find yourself a career. Got it?”

“Got it.” I watch her and her bag roll away and I feel like crying.

Tuesday, March 16, 8:00 p.m.

Kimmy squeezes into the hotel bathroom, hogging my space. “Russ, which shirt do you like better?” she asks for the third time.

Oh, man. “That one.”

She sighs, apparently exasperated. “Before you said you liked the other one.”

I’m rubbing gel in my hair, trying to decrease my head’s static. In the mirror I look like a porcupine. It’s our second night at a boutique hotel in Old Montreal. Tomorrow morning we’re going up to Mont Tremblant to ski. At the moment she’s contorting her body so she can see herself in the mirror behind me. I move, so she can have a full view. Again. “Yes, because you look good in everything.”

“No, I don’t. I looked like a fat cow in that one.”

Kimmy is constantly criticizing her body and her looks. “You do not look fat.”

“So you’re saying I look like a cow? I should never have eaten that poutine today.”

“I told you it was filling.”

“Who eats fries, cheese curds and gravy? It’s disgusting.”

“You, apparently.” She felt differently while she was inhaling it.

“I hate this shirt,” she says. “I’m changing.” Ten minutes later, she’s still changing. I’m sitting on the bed, flipping through the channels. TSN. CTV. CBC. Good old Canadian television. I miss my channels. I miss Peter Mansbridge.

“What do you think of these pants?” Kimmy asks. “Does my ass look big?”

I keep my eyes trained on the TV. “No.” I don’t understand. If she didn’t like the way any of her clothes looked, why did she bring them?

“You’re not even looking.”

Oh, man. I look at the clock. “Are you almost ready? We’re going to miss our reservation.”

“I’m trying. I’m trying to look nice-for you.” The last segment comes out as a sob. She storms into the bathroom and slams the door. What is her problem? Why is she acting like such a baby? She comes out, five minutes later, eyes red.

I turn off the TV. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

Then why is she crying? I don’t get it. When Sharon was pissed, she told me. “Fine.” I’m not going to fight with her. When she wants to tell me what’s wrong, she’ll tell me.

She changes back into the first outfit she tried on.

“You look great,” I say, meaning it.

“No, I don’t. Let’s go. Do you have the room card?”

“Yes.” I stop her with my hand as she opens the door. “You look great, eh?”

She smiles. “Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Thanks.” She kisses me and we head out the door, only ten minutes late.

I ask the concierge how to get to the restaurant.

“You can walk, monsieur, ” he says. “Eez only tree block down.”

The cold air attacks us as soon as we step outside. “Why can’t we take a cab?” Kimmy whines. “It’s freezing out here and my feet hurt.” She hasn’t stopped complaining about the cold or her feet since we got here.

Oh, man. “Why didn’t you wear the hat we bought you yesterday?”

“I can’t wear a hat out at night. I just blow-dried my hair for thirty minutes. I’m not ruining it with a ha-” Swish! She slips on the ice, and her legs split apart like she’s an action-adventure star doing a stunt. I seize her arm so she doesn’t fall.

“Maybe we should slow down,” she says. “It’s not easy to walk on ice in stilettos.”

Maybe someone shouldn’t be wearing stilettos in the middle of winter, eh?

Wednesday, March 17, 1:32 a.m.

Don’t tell me…did he just fall asleep? With his hand on my clitoris? While he was trying to make me orgasm? We just had sex, and he came, and now it was my turn to come. Or it would have been if he hadn’t fallen asleep.

I’m not impressed. Just because he’s well endowed doesn’t mean he can take naps in the middle of coitus. He’s too big. It hurt when he inserted himself at certain angles. His penis is very straight, and could use a curve, like my banana.

Now what am I supposed to do? I wish I had my banana. No movement. I nudge him again. “Hello? My turn.”

Dead to the world.

Maybe if I catalogue the contents in his room I’ll fall asleep. His closet is open and I can see one, two, three, four, five, six…ten…no fifteen pairs of shoes. How many shoes does one man need? Shoes aside, I’m still aroused.

Maybe if I think about something non-sexy, like snow, I’ll be able to fall asleep.

Lots of snow. White snow. Wet snow. Wet.

Now I’m getting all aroused again. I guess I’ll have to do it myself. I turn over and slip my hand downward. He doesn’t move. I start to rub just a little bit. All good. He still isn’t moving.

As I start getting a little more into it, I notice that the bed is shaking. Not shaking a lot like in the Exorcist, but just rocking like we’re having a minor earthquake.

I stop and the bed stops shaking. Then I start again, slowly. He groans and turns over.

I freeze. But his eyes are still closed. I start again. Then stop.

This is kind of a turn-on. Once again I start. This time I picture a scene from an erotic novel I read years ago. A man and a woman are dancing at a party. The guy lifts up her skirt and undoes his fly, and they have sex right there in the middle of the dance floor. People are dancing right next to them, but no one can see a thing.

My legs start shaking.

And I imagine I’m dancing, moving around the dance floor, and he’s whispering into my ear, how good I feel, how good he feels, and it’s…my God, it’s Jamie!…and my legs are shaking, and the floor is shaking, and the bed is rocking…uhoh, the bed is really rocking, and I’m about to orgasm-

“What are you doing?” Brad asks, sitting up.

I stop. “Trying to orgasm.”

“You’re shaking the bed,” he says, then turns over.

Well, excuse me! As I wait for lover-boy to fall back to sleep, I realize something: he doesn’t have any fish. I didn’t see an aquarium anywhere in the apartment. Why did he write his whole essay on fish if he doesn’t have even one? What kind of lying freak am I dating?

I knew there would be something wrong with him. I sit up, put back on my clothes, leave him a goodbye-and-don’t-call note, and sneak out.

When I’m back home in bed, I return to the party.

Jamie, huh? Passionate, loving, caring Jamie.

Oh, Jamie!

Thursday, March 18, 9:30 a.m.

I.Am. In. Serious. Pain.

“Time to get up,” Russ says, jumping out of bed.

Can’t. Move. “Ghjrfhft,” I groan.

“Ready to get going?”

Going? Going back under the covers. “Going where?”

He laughs. “What do you mean, where? Boarding.”

He wants to go snowboarding…again? “I can barely move from boarding yesterday.”

We flew into Montreal on Monday, spent two days touring, then rented a car to drive up to Tremblant. Apparently my dreams of slaloming were outdated. “No one skis anymore, Kimmy,” Russ said. “We board.”

It was fun at first. The sky was a brilliant blue, the air fresh, the sun warm on my face. I wore my new ski pants and puffy jacket (what debt?), sunglasses and gloves, and rented boots and a board. We took the chairlift up, and up and up, stood at the top of the mountain and…