And then there are moments like this when Paul deserves a fucking five fingered blow to the pie hole to shut up his whining, but I deal with it because that’s who Paul is, a menstruating man-lady with perfectly circular nipple hair and the aptitude to shout useless facts at you until he’s blue in the face.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart, what were you saying?” I pat his arm, giving him the attention he craves.
“My dad was saying when we get to our next stop, we can all get matching shirts so you feel included as well.”
I swear to God, if Paul was a dog, he would be slamming his head against a wall and whacking his own balls with his tail right now; he’s that excited.
“Matching shirts, huh?”
“Yeah, just like old times. Remember when we used to dress the same on the farm and in school?”
Correction, I used to dress normal and Paul used to see what I was wearing and then get changed so we would match. He grew out of that phase quickly, the minute Marley started to match us as well. It was cool to match his best friend, but the minute his little sister joined us, he was done.
“Sounds cool, man. So, have you talked to Savannah since you’ve been on the road?”
“No, just an email here and there.” Paul shakes his head. “We decided to be silent when I’m gone. She thinks it will make the heart grow fonder.”
“Well, is your heart fonder?” I ask.
“Fonder, not sure. Hornier, one hundred percent, yes.”
“Eck, gross, Paul. No one wants to hear about your little warthog needing love,” Marley says, disgust in her voice.
“Warthog?” I ask with a raised brow.
She shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t know. In my mind, Paul’s dick has tusks and belches into vaginas like Pumba from The Lion King. I can’t imagine it being a pretty thing.”
“As a matter of fact, Savannah has told me that my dick is the smoothest thing she’s ever felt. Like she is rubbing her cheek against a piece of crushed velvet. So, I guess you would call my dick pretty, not a puking aethiopicus. For you laymen, that’s the category of species the warthog falls under, but only the desert warthog.”
I shake my head at Paul, ignoring his biology lesson. I’m about to tell Paul calling his penis pretty is not a good thing when Bernie steps in. “Son, I love you, but for the love of Gerald Ford, don’t call your penis pretty. I know you like alliterations and find the beauty in even the nastiest of things, but calling your penis pretty is like calling your ass ring beautiful. It just doesn’t work.”
“Then how would you like me to describe it? I can’t possibly think of a more flattering description for my appendage,” Paul defends.
“I can,” Marley raises her hand and then starts counting off descriptions. “The Jolly Green Giant penis, Army penis—be all you can be, Robitussin penis—used by nine out of ten moms, uh…M&M penis—it melts in your mouth, not in your hands.”
Laughing, I add, “How about an Energizer penis? It keeps going and going.”
“Good one,” Marley nods at me. “Then you have the Campbell’s Soup penis—Mmm, Mmm Good. The Frosted Flakes Penis—It’s Grrrreaaaaat! And then there’s the McDonald’s penis—over eleven million served, but I guess that wouldn’t apply to you, Paul.”
“Burn!”
“You’re just listing slogans and attaching them to penises. That’s not being creative,” Paul huffs out, showing his irritation.
“On the contrary, big brother, it’s being quite creative. The Ford penis—built Ford tough. Or the Bud Light penis—great taste, less filling.”
“The Subway penis,” I add. “Eat fresh.”
“The Imax penis—think big,” Marley says.
“The Disney Dick—the happiest place on earth. There’s an alliteration for you, bud.”
“The Maxwell House penis,” Bernie cuts in. “Good until the last drop.”
The RV falls silent as we all look at Bernie in shock. He isn’t one to really join in on the raunchy conversations. He is more of an observer rather than a contributor, so to hear him add his dick slogan to the pile causes Marley and myself to erupt in laughter, to the point that I’m bending over, holding my stomach.
“You guys, hold on, I got one.” We continue to laugh over Paul, who is waving his arms around, trying to calm us down. “I have one; don’t you want to hear it?”
I wipe my eyes and give Paul my utmost attention. “Go ahead, Pauly. Lay it on us.”
Paul Lifts his chin and puffs his chest, obviously very proud of his dick-ism. “Alright, listen to this…The Ragu penis—comes out chunkier than the rest.”
He can be such a fucking idiot.
We don’t laugh, we just sit there and stare at him. Silence stretches through the RV before Marley finally breaks it. “You can’t be serious, Paul? That’s how you want to describe your penis? Calling your man juice chunky? What kind of chlamydia dick do you have going on down there? Do you see where you faltered in your description?”
Paul thinks about it for a second and then concedes. “Yeah, I see where I went wrong there.”
Bernie is giving Paul a lecture about sexually transmitted diseases when Marley tosses her pen at my head. I rub the marked spot and look at her to see what the hell she’s doing. With a serious look on her face, she points out the window, just as I see a semi approaching us from a distance.
Fucking great.
“Do it,” Marley mouths, the devil seeping from her eyes.
A clammy sweat breaks out over my skin, as I take a deep breath. I don’t want to do this; I can already tell Bernie is a little tense from the STD talk up front and Paul shouting out facts and descriptions about gonorrhea. Bernie will not appreciate my man scream, but by the stare in Marley’s eyes, I know I have no choice.
The tractor trailer nears and I prepare myself for the scream of the century.
“We’re here,” Bernie calls out just before I let it rip.
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!—please let it be noted that I reached decibels only a rabid, elderly looking mangy dog eating a birds carcass can hear.
The RV pulls off in a parking lot and my ear piercing screech echoes through the cabin, sending Bernie into a state of shock, slamming on the brakes and throwing his hands up in the air from being startled and scared.
Oh fuccccccckkkkk…
“Richard Nixon!!” he screams, his shoulders bouncing up and down and his fingers clenching in and out.
Bernie only takes Richard Nixon’s name in vain when he’s really pissed, well because…Watergate and all.
Marley has her hand over her mouth, covering up her laughter, while she sinks down into the bench seat. Sweat breaks out over my upper lip and the urge to pee my pants is crushing.
Slowly, a tidal wave of the Bern-an-ator floods my space, his eyebrows on their own island, twisting uncontrollably, and his nostrils flaring, large enough to fit Paul’s ‘pretty’ dick inside.
I’m fucking terrified.
“What in the Harry S. Truman are you screaming for, boy?”
I can feel my lip tremble in fear, my armpits have turned into monsoon season in the rain forest, and my balls have folded in on themselves, shriveling up like a balloon that just lost its helium.
My mouth is dry and I’m sinking deep in my seat, wishing it would eat me whole. I don’t know what the hell to say. My mind is blank and it doesn’t help that Marley is practically seizuring in a fit of laughter next to me.
“Well, what have you got to say for yourself?” When Bernie speaks, spit flies off his lips, and his eyebrows are doing the can-can at me, begging me to come closer. I would rather chop off my own dick.
“I, I…uh,” I beg my brain to say something, anything. “Um, I…uh.”
“Well…” Bernie stares me down, waiting for an explanation.
“Uhh…” Just say something! Out of nowhere, I reply, “I thought I saw a spider in Paul’s hair.”
“What?!” Paul screams, busting the door open and sprinting around the p
arking lot while swatting at his head and squealing like a pig in heat.
Bernie looks out at his son and then back at me, a slight shake of disappointment to his head. “Where did I go wrong with you two?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer; he turns off the RV and leaves, shaking his arms out, probably releasing the tension I put there.
My balls are safe.
I let out a long breath, happy I wasn’t throttled by Bernie. He may be older, but I know he could fuck me up with just his eyebrows. Ever seen anything so scary you think you might pee your pants? That was me ten seconds ago. Thankfully, my bladder control was on point. I will pray to my prostate later for keeping it cool during the presidential/eyebrow showdown.
“That was better than I expected.” Marley wipes her eyes. “Hell, you even made Paul look like the moron that he is. You made my day.”
As she walks out of the RV, she pats my shoulder in appreciation. And that, right there, that is the reason why I just made it seem like someone plucked a hair from my nut sac. To see that smile is worth all the ball hair plucking in the world.
CHAPTER EIGHT
**MARLEY**
“Did you put him up to that?” my dad sidles up next to me as we watch Paul run around the parking lot, still swatting at his head.
“Put who up to what?” I feign innocence.
“You know what I’m talking about. You weren’t very discreet at hiding your laughter. Snorting isn’t very becoming of you, Buttons.”
“Just having a little fun. Nothing wrong with that.”
Pulling me into his chest by wrapping his arm around my shoulders, he kisses the top of my head and leads me to the front of Teepee Curios, a souvenir shop with a teepee shaped front and a well-known reputation on Route 66.
“If you’re going to have fun, include me, don’t use me. We’re supposed to be on the same page. You know, favorite kid and all.”
I laugh. “Don’t let Paul hear you say that. He’ll cry himself to sleep.”
Porter exits the RV and readjusts his red hat on his head while observing the souvenir shop. His jeans cling to his legs in all the right places, really accentuating his ass, and his long sleeved black and red flannel is tucked into his low riding pants, showing off his narrow waist. His sleeves are rolled up to just below his elbows, because apparently he’s trying to make me suffer, just like this morning.
The only reason I taunted Porter this morning with my yoga moves was because he showed up half-dressed at my hotel door. The whole man without a shirt, freshly out of bed in a pair of blue jeans gets me every time, especially when he’s as sexy as Porter.
Seriously though, let’s take a second and reflect back on what he looks like without a shirt. I’ve never been one of those girls who can twiddle herself while thinking about a man cupping his balls for a camera while making some kind of “O” face. But, hell, I was seconds away from doing the deed after Porter left my wigwam. Farm life has done him well because not only is he cut, like really freaking cut, but he’s also tan and doesn’t bother to wax, which makes him all the more rugged and handsome.
Even though my heart and my libido are begging for a taste of Porter, my mind knows better. He’s hurt me once, he will hurt me again, even if he’s sorry. And who’s to say he would even want anything to do with me? It might seem like it, but Porter’s always been a wicked flirt. He could just be tossing Paul’s little sister a bone so we get along for Paul’s wedding. If that is the case, I will chop his balls off so fast and serve them up as appetizers at the wedding, he wouldn’t even have time to stroke his beard in that sexy way that he does. You know, the “I’m pensive and thoughtful” kind of way.
“Are we going in?” Porter asks.
“Uh, yeah.” I yell over to Paul, “Paul, are you coming?”
“Is it off of me? I can’t see it.” Paul is using a stranger’s side mirror of their car to try to see the top of his head.
“It’s not there,” Porter says, exhausted.
“How can you tell when you’re not looking up close?” Paul parts his hair in the middle so his scalp is showing and searches through his strands like he’s a chimp looking for a tick. “Why is no one helping me?”
“There was no spider. I made it up.”
Paul’s back goes ramrod as he stands and turns to look at all three of us, standing side by side, judging him. “Why would you lie about that? You know about my fear of spiders. No animal should have that many legs, what’s the point? It’s just to screw with people, to make them feel drunk when they haven’t even had a lick of booze.”
“Yes, Paul. God put spiders on this earth to make the human species feel the effects of too much alcohol in one’s system,” I answer sarcastically.
“Right?” He shakes his head in disbelief while Porter claps him on the back and pushes him through the front door of Teepee Curios.
“They’re an odd combination, but it works. Come on, Marley, we have some shopping to do.”
Teepee Curios is an interesting store. From the outside, you can tell it’s a blast from the past with its Native American symbols, white façade with bold, teal coloring, a very iconic feel represented by Route 66 back in its heyday. But when you walk inside, it has an eclectic feel to it. It’s sentimental in a way with its kitschy Route 66 souvenirs that I want one of each. They have a counter full of jewelry giving off a slight pawn shop vibe, but in a cool, nostalgic kind of way. I’m totally digging this place.
Right away, my dad goes to the cashier and starts chatting her up about our trip across Route 66. Something you need to know about the Bern Man is he is notorious for talking to strangers and telling them his life story. He has no shame. There isn’t one person Bernie has met that he hasn’t been able to make friends with. It can be irritating at times, especially when he starts spouting off personal facts like when he had to take me to a store after my mom died to buy lady products. Talking to the store clerk about my tampon size is a conversation I will never forget. There is no filter when it comes to him.
“Yup, traveling across Route 66 with my son, Paul, he’s the one with the blond hair and my daughter Marley, the beautiful darling you see over there. Paul is getting married and we decided on one last road trip as a family. The flannel wearing stud over there is like a son to me. We’ve known him ever since he was a wee lad. His name is Porter, works on my farm with me, and he’s Paul’s best man. The wedding is in a week, it will be at the farm. Such a beautiful time of the year for a wedding, don’t you think?”
I drown out the conversation, feeling bad for the cashier, who looks bombarded and confused, but there is no way in hell I’m going to go over there to bail her out. Do you know why? Because my dad would somehow drag me into the conversation and wind up talking about something extremely embarrassing that happened in my childhood. I don’t need stories like that coming up around Porter; I’m trying to show him how cool and awesome I am and what a big mistake he made by making me feel like a fool.
I’m not bitter at all. I’ve totally moved past that night…
“Gahh! Dream catchers!” Paul shouts in a high-pitched voice, channeling his inner Ross Geller, from across the store. I watch as he power walks like Beverly Goldberg to a wall full of the intricately weaved wall hangings and plays with the dangling feathers between his fingers.
“See anything you like?” Porter’s deep voice comes from behind me, his chest almost pressing against my back. My heart rate picks up from his proximity and I wonder what it would feel like to have him arms wrapped around my stomach and his chin resting on the top of my head as I look at old tin signs.
“Not yet,” I gulp, turning around to face him.
“Paul seems to have found his jackpot. I think he left a trail of pee behind him as he ran to the dream catchers.”
“The boy has interesting taste. Find anything you like?”
“Yeah, I did actually.” His smile is debilitating.
“What did you find?”
“None of you
r business.” He pulls on the brim of his hat and walks away, clutching something in his hand. I can’t help but stare at his tight rear end.
“Marley, come pick out matching shirts for us,” my dad calls out. “We want to make sure we’re fashionable.”
Even though this place is unique and fun, I was pretty sure any Route 66 shirt I picked out wasn’t going to be seen walking down the runway anytime soon, but I humor my dad.
Paul struts over to the shirts, holding a giant dream catcher in his hand. The thing can’t be anything less than a twenty inch diameter circle with beads and feathers attached to it. “This will be the perfect gift for my bride on our wedding day.”
I cringe at the thought of Savannah opening that up as a pre-wedding gift. With a gift like that, she might call the wedding off. Not that a dream catcher isn’t nice, it’s the fact that brides usually receive a beautiful piece of jewelry instead of an authentic Native American artifact.
“What a nice gesture, Paul,” my dad compliments. There is no hope when it comes to the men in my life.
Porter is at the register purchasing something secretive, I ignore him as I sift through the shirts. They are interesting, to say the least. Ranging in colors from red to blue, I go for a simple white with the Route 66 sign on the front. It’s actually a pretty cool shirt. I grab a small for myself and try to find sizes for all the men.
“Look what I found!” With excitement, my dad holds up cheap looking Native American head dresses. “We need to get these.”
“Dad, Hunky Dory!” Paul shouts, his voice raising another octave.
You must be thinking, what the hell is Hunky Dory? I don’t blame you, I didn’t know what it was either until my dad got it once when we were on a road trip; I can’t remember where we were, but he bought a bag for each of us. Basically, it’s Cracker Jacks on steroids. It’s caramelized popcorn with almonds and pecans, it’s as if you opened your mouth like a baby bird and God puked heaven into your gullet. Yup, that’s an accurate description.