Vampire Style: An Essay

Years ago, I dated a vampire. Things started out very well. We had a lot in common, despite the 586 age gap between us. But she certainly looked good for her age.

And though she could only go out at night, it gave us plenty of time to snuggle during the daylight hours… as long as the shades were pulled. Good thing I was a night owl, anyway! Though it sucked that we couldn’t do daytime outdoor activities (like picnics under the summer sun, or trips to the zoo) we made up with moonlight picnics in the park. We also attended the annual Zoo After Hours event. They served cocktails!). The important thing was, we were in love. And we were happy.

At first, I had to get past the fact that the number of partners she had far exceeded my own personal resume, I just had to remind myself that she had been around much longer than me. Once I did the math, I realized she had averaged less than one partner a year. And then I no longer worried about it. Besides, her experience paid off between the. She liked to play rough – especially as far was biting concerned. Hickies are one thing, but for obvious reasons, I had to put an end to that before things got too far out of hand. The consequences would have been too severe.

And once she started talking about being together forever, I have to admit – I sort of freaked out. This was about six months into our relationship. And that was really when things began to turn.

When she first brought it up, I made it very clear that I would need more time to think it over (even though I knew deep down, I would never change my mind). I had never been in a relationship quite like this before and didn’t want to rush into anything. For awhile (at least), we both agreed to just enjoy the present. No relationship is perfect, but in case, the good things far outweighed the bad. And for a few months, we both seemed to be on the same page about this and things were relatively smooth sailing. But soon enough, the topic of forever was brought up again. After she dropped numerous hints – and soon enough – fanged threats, I knew the time had come to cut her loose.

It was certainly fun while it lasted and, of course, there are plenty of other fish in the sea. And plenty of life left to live. Especially as far as she was concerned.

If Only…

If only he got her e-mail….

He wouldn’t have left work early.

He wouldn’t have headed to the bar.

He wouldn’t have had his first Manhattan.

And then his second…

…and then his third.

If only he got her e-mail…

He wouldn’t have dropped his phone in a shit-streaked toilet.

He wouldn’t have struck up a conversation with the bartender,

who was also talking to the attractive woman seated next to him.

A conversation that started out between two,

became three,

before it became just two again as the bartender got back to work.

If only he got her e-mail…

He wouldn’t have opened up to a stranger about everything.

He wouldn’t have explained how his marriage was over.

He wouldn’t have offered to buy her a drink.

And then a second.

And a third.

And his fourth.

He wouldn’t have gone back to her place.

He wouldn’t have driven drunk.

He wouldn’t have gotten her pregnant.

He wouldn’t have been in a car crash.

He wouldn’t have broken his leg.

He wouldn’t have killed that little girl.

He wouldn’t have gone to jail.

He wouldn’t have lost his job.

He wouldn’t have been divorced.

If only he got her e-mail…

He could have had children with his wife.

And another unborn child would have been born.

If only he got her e-mail…

He would have known she was sorry.

He would have known she didn’t really want to leave him.

He would know she still loved him, as he still loved her.

They would have gone for counseling.

They might have even laughed about it all later.

They could have lived happily ever after.

If only…

only he got her e-mail….

It could have all been avoided.

He wouldn’t have left work early.

He wouldn’t have headed to the bar.

He wouldn’t have had his first Manhattan.

And then his second…

…and then his third.

If only he got her e-mail…

He wouldn’t have dropped his phone in a shit-streaked toilet.

He wouldn’t have struck up a conversation with the bartender,

who also happened to be talking to the attractive woman seated next to him.

And then a conversation among three people,

wouldn’t have become conversation between two.

If only he got her e-mail…

He wouldn’t have opened up to a stranger about everything.

He wouldn’t have explained how his marriage was over.

He wouldn’t have offered to buy her a drink.

And then a second.

He wouldn’t have had his fourth cocktail.

He wouldn’t have gone back to her place.

He wouldn’t have driven drunk.

He wouldn’t have gotten her pregnant.

He wouldn’t have been in a car crash.

He wouldn’t have broken his leg.

He wouldn’t have killed that little girl.

He wouldn’t have gone to jail.

He wouldn’t have been accused of date rape.

He wouldn’t have lost his job.

He wouldn’t have been divorced.

If only he got her e-mail..

He could have had children with his wife.

And another unborn child wouldn’t have been aborted.

If only he got her e-mail…

He would have known she was sorry.

He would know she didn’t really want to leave him.

He would know she still loved him, as he still loved her.

They would have gone for counseling.

They could have laughed about it all later.

They could have lived happily ever after.

If only…

Tinder is the Night

“If all you want is sex, why not just find someone else?” she said during the midst of yet another prolonged argument over sex – more specifically, the lack thereof.

As usual, they would spend way longer arguing about sex, rather than if they were to just do the act itself. In the rare instance where they had sex, it was though we were receiving a botched root canal from a crazed ape. She blamed her non-existent sex drive on her anti-depressants. But it was even worse when she wasn’t on them. At least when she was on drugs, she could do a better job of pretending to like him.

“All I want is sex? It’s been five fucking months! And how? Who?
“Just make sure it’s not someone I know.”

This time, he decided to do something about it.

Enter Tinder.

Once he got past his initial jitters and paranoia, Eddie became a true Tinderfella and quickly learned to appreciate the left-right ease of the whole thing. It felt more like a video game to him, than real life. Though he enjoyed the initial high he got off of matches, it could only last for so long before you just had to reach out and touch someone.

His initial interactions were a mixed bag (he once right-swiped a cheeseburger). His decision to be upfront from the start (married…but with a greenlight!) backfired.

Many matches reacted to his honesty by immediately disappearing off the screen in a simple Poof! Some expressed some form of condolences before they disappeared. Some thanks him for his honesty. Some preached morality. One simply wrote: “That’s fucked up.” Another said: “sounds like a personal problem.” Another asked: “Why are you telling me this? I don’t get it.”  Several asked point blank: “Why don’t you just get divorced?”

Great question. Why didn’t he? It wasn’t like he hadn’t pondered it before, but he couldn’t convince himself that lack of sex was a good enough reason for divorce.

Or maybe it was? And their relationship was certainly far from perfect in other categories, too.

Anyway, he got it that most women didn’t reply back. He wasn’t exactly an ideal catch.  And he quickly realized that Tinder was a breeding ground for desperate, married men like himself. And in the rare instance he got a match, it was more often than not a bot. Yet, he fell for it over and over again.

And though he technically he had “permission”, he still felt like he was doing something wrong. It still demanded a fair amount of sneaking around. After all, did she really mean it?

He also felt a growing sense of paranoia that he was getting himself into something that would require payment when it was all said and done.

Enter Maggie.

Three hours later, through the sheer magic of his writing skill, a date was set for the next night.

“All you have to do is ‘woe’ me,” Maggie wrote.

“You mean, ‘woo’?” Eddie wrote back.

“Yes. No woe. Just woo.”

Though he lacked confidence in his ability to woo, he was confident that a wee amount of bourbon could be just what the love doctor ordered.

Their situations were a perfect fit. She was at a point in her life where she was tired of looking for the “right” guy and wanted a casual fling – a NSA FWB. Based on her looks, personality, and interests, she was exactly what he was looking for. But did he have the balls to go through with it? But did he have the balls to go through with it?

Throughout the half hour drive to the bar, the trumpets of morality began to sound in his mind, as every possible negative outcome swirled in his head.

He finally arrived at the bar she suggested, conveniently close to her place.

As he got out of his car, he checked his phone and saw a text: “Seated by the bear.”

He assumed she met bar.

He finally reached the entrance, took a deep breath, and entered. He scanned the bar, but saw no sign of her.

He texted her: “Not seeing you.”

“What about the bear?”

She actually did mean bear.

He turned around room, figuring he had a better chance at recognizing a bear before he would recognize her.

He somehow still didn’t see a damn bear. What she trolling him?

He approached the hostess.

“Can you please point me in the direction of the bear?”
“I’m sorry. Who?”

“A bear. Is there a bear in here?”

“Oh, yeah. Right over there.”
She pointed toward a back corner. And sure enough there was a bear, carved-out of wood. And just to its left, Maggie.

He nervously approached. She smiled eagerly.

“Maggie?”

“Yes. Hi, Eddie.”

He offered his hand. She stood up and greeted him with an unexpected hug. It had been over a year sine he last hugged his wife. And not for a lack of trying. As his wife liked to make clear: she wasn’t a hugger.

Maggie smelled so nice. Would his wife smell it on him? Would that be all it took? Nothing he could do about it now. He could always blame it on a strip club.

They took their seats and he realized she was already halfway through a beer. Was she impatient? Or, was she nervous?

He hoped the latter.

The waiter approached. He ordered a 7 & 7.

“Nervous?” she asked.

“That obvious?”

She smiled.

“So…are you?” she asked.

“A little,” he said, suddenly growing less so.

“You?” he asked.

“No. Should I be?”

“No.”

“This is all so surreal,” he said.

“What is?” she asked, with what sounded like genuine curiosity.

“All of this. Being here. With you. On a date. It’s been awhile.”

“You’re going to be fine,” she said, placing both of his hands into her soft, warm ones, dissolving his anxiety.

And she was right. Their conversation couldn’t have gone more smoothly – an endless, effortless stream-of-consciousness dialogue. He honestly couldn’t remember a conversation with somebody who seemed to interested in what he had to say. It felt like therapy.

“I feel like you should be charging me!” he admitted.

“Oh. You will pay me back,” she said. It sounded like a threat, but her seductive smile let him know that it wasn’t.

“So, when do you turn into a pumpkin?” she finally asked him.

“As long as I’m back on the road by 12:30, I should be good.”

“Would you like to meet my Guinea pigs?” she asked, which was apparently code for inviting back to her place.

“I’d love to meet your Guinea pigs.”

And with that, he picked up the tab.

He followed her back to her place – a five minute rive that ended on a dirt road at a dead end.

He got out of the car and took in his surroundings. Though it was pitch black, the sound of honking geese made it evident that a pond was nearby. He looked up at the sky.

“Wow, you can really see the stars out here,” he said. She nestled in closer to him.

“It’s one of the main reasons I love living here. Even though I’m still close to the city, I’m still far away enough to see stars.”

“And the geese!” he replied. “Why are they still awake?”

“Those are swans,” she explained. “And they’re probably looking for mates,” she said turning to face him, with a seductive glint in her eye. He pulled her in for a kiss, as though he had no other choice, even if he wanted to.

Five minutes later, she was disrobing him in he upstairs bedroom and issued this mandate: “I want you to do to me whatever you want.”

“What about you?” he asked.

“I want you to do to me whatever you want.”

They made out passionately, before she decreed:

“I want you to fuck me,” she finally said.

“Shit,” he said.

“What’s wrong?”

“I left something in my jacket. Downstairs.”

“What?”

“Insurance…” he said.

“I’m covered.”

Eddie wasn’t about to take any chances.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, hopping out of bed.

“No, I’ll get it,” she demanded. “In your coat pocket?”
“Yeah.”

He found her reaction slightly askew, but assumed that she didn’t want him to freely wander around her home, which was certainly reasonable.

While she disappeared downstairs, his cock turned limp, which gave him time to gave pause and ask himself:

What the fuck am I doing?

            Exactly what you have been wanting.

And what about the Guinea pigs?

A cool, but comfortable breeze wafted through an open window, which faced the pond where the swans honked their midnight melody. The curtains even bellowed, like something right out of a movie.

As his cock turned limp, he twirled his wedding ring for a second, then took it off. He wanted it out of sight. He didn’t want her to see it. He set it on the dresser and tried to ignore the fact that it was the first time it had ever come off. He felt a slight tinge of guilt and sadness, but it faded the moment Maggie returned with his the three-pack of condoms he purchased en route.

They continued to make out and his cock was returned to its full glory in no time.

And then they fucked.

It was a quick finish, which was not a surprise considering how long it had been. But he kept right on truckin’ into the next round.

“Don’t you need a break?” she asked.

“No,” he said, thrusting harder. “It’s my superpower.”

“Wow. You’re amazing.”

And they continued to fuck.

And fuck some more.

And fucked some more even after they were done fucking.

And the swans trumpeted outside the window.

And the curtains continued to bellow.

And he knew he would be sore tomorrow in a way he hadn’t felt in years.

Every few minutes, he asked her if there was anything she wanted him to do, and she whispered the same refrain into his ear: “Whatever you want.”

What he wanted to do was give pleasure in equal measure.

“I want you to do to me whatever you want,” she repeated.

So, he made her come three times.

The third time, they came together.

They collapsed into one another’s arms, though he got the sense they could both go another round if they wanted to.

Instead, neither spoke. They held each other, their limbs interwoven like a pretzel, as swans echoed in the night.

“Thank you,” Eddie finally managed to mutter.

“Thank you,” Maggie said.

He looked at the clock, then loosened himself from her grip.

“I hate to do this, but…”

“You gotta go…”

He nodded.

And then, like an unexpected hammer to his face:

“So, you can leave $250 on the nightstand before you leave.”

He laughed nervously, but her face appeared to mean business.

“You’re joking, right?” Eddie asked.

“Don’t tell me you’re surprised…” Maggie said with a whole shift in demeanor. A mere flick of a switch.

“Surprised?” Eddie asked. “We just had sex. And now you are asking for money. How do you expect me to react?”

“Don’t tell you don’t know how to this works…”

“Prostitution? Yes. I do. But I didn’t think that – this – is what it was. You’re joking right?”

“You had voids that needed be filled. And I filled them. So now, it’s time to fill mine and pay. You got what you what you wanted, right?”

“Not exactly.”

“I’m sorry for the confusion,” she continued. “I thought this arrangement was clear from the start.”

He scanned his mind for any evidence this would have pinpointed him toward this direction. But aside from the general paranoia he had felt, nothing specific came to mind.

“So, $250,” she said, as though he had forgotten.

“Yeah, well, there’s just one problem. Do you take credit cards?”

She laughed.

“You’re cute. But no.”

He fumbled for his wallet, opened it up, and revealed that he had only about $30 for cash.”

“Where is the closest ATM?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know…”

“Yes, I would, actually.”

“You got to be fucking kidding me…”

As he threw on his clothes, she gave him directions.

He felt a knot in his stomach. Though he could get away with charging anything and everything on his credit card, his wife kept close tabs on their joint ATM account. He thought about using his credit card to take out cash, but he didn’t know his PIN. And did he really want to deal with customer service at a time like this?

He realized that aside from the ATM issue, he was now going to be arriving home later than expected. Hopefully, his wife would be too sound asleep to notice, which was usually the case. And since he slept on the couch most nights, it was easy to slip in undetected. It was only when he came into the bedroom that she noticed him.

She led him to the door.

“I promise I’ll be right back,” he said as he headed out the door, where he

was greeted by the now familiar swan chorus, now accompanied by large black man with a parrot on his shoulder.

What the actual fuck?!

“This is Antonio,” Maggie explained. “Antonio, take this gentleman to the bank. He needs to make a withdrawal.”

“Come with me,” the man Eddie presumed to be either her pimp, or personal bodyguard said. The parrot repeated: “Come with me!”

            You got to be fucking kidding me.

Antonio put a meaty hand on the back of Eddie’s neck and led him to his black SUV. He even opened the door for him.

“Thank you,” Eddie said, surprised to be the recipient of such special treatment, as he climbed in. He then realized it was more of a precautionary measure to keep him from bolting, rather than any sort of gentlemanly gesture.

Antonio went around and climbed into the driver’s side.

“Buckle up,” Antonio demanded, out of breath. Under ordinary circumstances, Eddie never neglected to buckle up. This was a rare misstep.

“Buckle up,” the parrot repeated, still perched on Antonio’s shoulder. Did this parrot hear this phrase often? Or, did it just have exceptional repeating skills?

As Antonio pulled out of the driveway, he spotted Maggie in the doorway. He still couldn’t compute how a person that he connected to on such a dynamic level could turn out to be prostitute. On some strange level, he found it fucking sexy.

Antonio put on some slow jams and nodded his head to the music. Not a word was spoken. It was all so romantic. The soothing tones of Luther Vandross calmed Eddie’s nerves, which – considering his present circumstances – was quite a feat. Besides, what did he really have to fear? He owed someone money. And had the means to get the money. Problem solved. And nobody gets hurt. Not that he had any experience resembling any of this.

But then his creative paranoia conceptualized a whole new scenario: what if Maggie’s sole purpose was to teach cheaters a hard lesson? What if she were a black widow, who used Antonio as the hired assassin to finish the job? Could he escape? Perhaps not without putting himself in even graver danger.

They finally arrived at the bank. Antonio must have trusted him enough to wait in the car as Eddie approached the ATM. Then again, he probably stayed in the car to make things appear less suspicious in the eye of any passerby or security cameras. At least now he could avoid the performance anxiety he was likely to feel had Antonio been looking over his shoulder.

“Buckle up,” the parrot said right on cue, despite the fact that Eddie already had beaten him to it.

Antonio drove them back to Maggie’s house, serenaded by the soulful seduction of Isaac Hayes.

When they got out of the car, Antonio led Eddie back to the house, as Maggie greeted them at the door. Eddie handed her the cash.

She took it without saying a word, clearly annoyed by the inconvenience he had caused.

“Are tips standard etiquette?” he asked.

“Up to you,” Maggie said.

He added an extra $10, wondering if 20% was standard. But fuck it. He never wanted to make this purchase to begin with.

She gave him a hug and even told him he was welcome back anytime.

As he headed home, he realized that despite the monetary setback, in the end, it was worth every penny. He got what he needed.

And maybe…just maybe…there would be a next time after all!

He pulled into his driveway, fully at peace with everything that had transpired that night.

He shut off his engine, then noticed something familiar was missing: his ring.

NPR Review of LOVE & VODKA by Zinta Aistars

“Worthy of Several Toasts”(***** out of 5)

by Zinta Aistars

Love, science reveals, is really just another form of madness. The brain undergoes similar changes, from the rational into the irrational, and the resulting pheromone chemical soup tastes like insanity.

Dearborn-native (Michigan) and author R.J. Fox would probably not debate any of that. It took all of twenty minutes for him to fall in love with a foreign exchange student he spotted in a line for an amusement park ride. When she returned to her native Ukraine, he followed her, engagement ring in his pocket. And more madness ensued.

In his memoir, Love and Vodka: My Surreal Adventures in Ukraine (Fish Out of Water Books, October 2015), Fox recounts that initial meeting with Katya and the trip he took to Ukraine a year later to bring her back to the States again—as his wife. His adventures on foreign soil as he works up the nerve toward a marriage proposal and earn the blessing of Katya’s family are both outrageous and hilarious.

Babushka-wearing old women curse him, snarl and chase him, threaten to splatter him with bleach. Well-meaning hosts force vodka on him in toast after toast that he finds he cannot deny, resulting in drunken stupors, cold outdoor showers, and barefoot walks across sharp-edged rocks in his underwear. And so the story unfolds as Fox learns about a culture and a world far different than his own. Within its traditions and people, he finds himself in comical situations, but he also learns lessons about himself, love, and home.

What has remained with him from that mad and maddening journey these many years later, Fox says, “is the immersive experience of being in a whole other world than the one I know. Out in general public, people had a distrust toward me because I was not from Ukraine. This was in 2001, so not too far removed from the Soviet years when Ukraine was the center of missile-building during the Cold War. The distrust—it was the closest to feeling discriminated against that I’d ever known in my lifetime.”

In inner circles of what would increasingly become family, however, Fox found warmth, love, and family connection, not unlike what one would find in any family anywhere, and all liberally christened with yet more vodka. Although the resulting marriage would last only eight years—Fox is now remarried and has two children—he holds his memories of his Ukraine adventure close to his heart.

The memoir is the first publication of a new Ann Arbor-based publisher, Fish Out of Water, run by Jon and Laurie Wilson.