7.02 / February 2012

Little Rubber Houses

I didn’t mean to make a habit out of sitting naked on lemon meringue pies-or split watermelons.  I’d watched this soft-core sex show called “Fetishes of the British” and thought food foreplay would make my husband laugh, relieve the four-year itch.

I’m on my way to London now, non-fetish business. Lana is meeting me at our bar in La Guardia, where we fill my layover hours with talk we can have only in person. Lana is my sex girlfriend: we don’t discuss politics, love, or art.

“We’ve tried to stop,” I tell her. “But now, if there’s no food, I get a migraine. The headache is coitus interruptus. We put our clothes back on, get in the car, and as soon as the bakery’s in sight, boom, my head clears. We’ve done our thing in the Passat. You know how Ben used to be about his upholstery.”

“It hasn’t affected your weight,” Lana says. “You look great.”

“We don’t eat what we buy,” I say. “Which is so against my principles. Last Saturday, Ben had to restrain me from jumping onto a bed of tomatoes at the Farmer’s Market.”

Lana pats my hand. “You’re okay,” she says.

“I’m always on the brink of making a scene.”

“That’s the fantasy,” she says. “Think about those tomatoes and that market crowd when you’re on top of a crumble safe in the Passat.” She shakes her head. “What do I know?”

Lana tells me she and Dave have been doing the golden shower thing. It’s almost their six-month “golden” anniversary. “We did it in the shower the first time,” she says. “To avoid a mess.”

“It must be hard to pee in the kitchen,” I say.

“Running water helps the first few times. Having a drain there too. Then you’re okay with the garage, the laundry room. You can pee in the kitchen. Every corner of your house invites sex!”

For weeks, she says, half their furnishings were covered in Saran Wrap. She gave the cat away because he started spraying everywhere she and Dave had peed. They pulled the carpet and had concrete floors poured, bought synthetic furniture directly from Antwerp. A party to warm the house back up was a failure: the new furniture did not invite sitting-exactly.

“Now we’re discussing bondage,” she says. “Something we can contain. But do you know how much it costs to hook up a playroom?”

“No idea,” I say, thinking how much fun house swapping will be next time.

“Someone needs to invent the rubber house,” she says. “Dave and I would buy one.”

We clink glasses. The bartender brings us more pretzels.

“Truth,” Lana says. “Do we disgust you?”

Control tower lights flicker in the large dark window behind her head.

“It is piss,” I say.

“It’s so mundane,” Lana says. “But it’s bliss.”

In regards to cereal, Christine Fadden is the female Seinfeld. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Spork, Bluestem, Cobalt, Everyday Genius, New South, Joyland, On Earth As it Is, Staccato Fiction, Storyglossia, and elsewhere. She lives in Wyoming and is working on a screenplay with a fine rib-cracking friend in Oregon.
7.02 / February 2012