“Honey, really, it’s fine! You don’t have to be freaked out. Everyone watches a little porn now and then. I just wish you would have waited for me,” he said with a leer.
So there’s that. My boyfriend thinks I’m a closet porn watcher, that I sit alone in the dark while he’s at work every night watching Skinemax and diddling myself. There’s something wrong with me if I’d rather he think I had a porn addiction than a deep seeded need to find out if David Tutera could turn a camo, guns, and ATV wedding into a masterpiece.
To try and deter him from my fake inclination toward porn benders, alone in the dark on the couch, and to try and erase the memory in my mind of the sheer look of terror on his face at Liz and Jim’s wedding when I had caught the bouquet, I’ve decided reverse psychology is the best route to go. It works well on kids. And men are pretty much giant babies most of the time anyway, so I figure I’ve got a fighting chance at getting things back to normal between us. Ever since the wedding he’s gone back to being on edge and jittery around me. I think he’s afraid he’s going to wake up one morning strapped to the bed in a tux with me standing over him in a wedding dress, waving a sledge hammer over my head Kathy Bates-style, threatening to smash in his kneecaps if he doesn’t marry me.
He should be more concerned with my father doing that, frankly.
I start off slow by telling him I absolutely don’t believe that whole tradition that whoever catches the bride’s bouquet is the next to marry. I believe I might have used the words hogwash and twaddle in that conversation to bring my point home. But Carter thinks I said twat and then it turns into an afternoon of him saying, “Twat did you say? I cunt hear you. Let’s see if I can finger it out,” while I try to show him just how unconcerned with this custom I am by throwing the bouquet away. The beautiful gerbera daisy, orchid, and lily nosegay that looks stunning in my hand.
Shut up. “The Wedding Planner” had been on the other night and Jennifer Lopez taught me what a nosegay is. I had also learned that Alex, the hot doctor from “Grey’s Anatomy”, isn’t so hot when he’s playing a guy a few fries short a Happy Meal with a shitty Italian accent. And also, the guy from the Magic Bullet infomercial looks a lot like Nigel from “So You Think You Can Dance”. Also, late night television should be illegal in all fifty states and maybe I really would be better off watching “Sweet Home I’ll-a-Slam-Ya” or “Driving Into Miss Daisy”.
“Claire, what the hell is your problem? You’ve been moping around all day,” Jenny says as she comes out of the office of the shop with some invoices for me to sign in her hand.
I jump at the sound of her voice and realize I’ve been dipping the same pretzel in chocolate for the past twenty minutes.
Liz might not be here, but at least I have someone to bounce my thoughts off of.
“Carter thinks I have a porn addiction,” I blurt out.
“Ooooooh me too!” she replies with glee.
My mouth dropped opens and I stare at her in shock.
“Oh no! I don’t mean I think you have a porn addiction. Well, not that I know of. I mean Drew thinks I have a porn addiction too. We’re like twinsies!”
Yeah, I don’t think so.
“I have a membership to a porn-of-the-month club. It’s kind of like a jelly-of-the-month club except you don’t get jelly. And I can’t tell my mom about it. The porn, not the jelly. She likes jelly so I could tell her about that. I just got ‘Weapons of Ass Destruction’ and ‘Forest Hump’. Sex is like your box on my cock-o-late,” she says in her best Forest Gump voice. “We should totally watch that one together!”
Not gonna happen.