Pimp My Lent/Day 42

The Prompt:

When today’s prompt didn’t arrive by noon, I buzzed my friend, Tulsa actress/singer Liz Masters on Facebook and demanded her help. She looked around her office, and said that she had a “instant boyfriend kit” on her desk, a gag gift, and then asked “Will that do?”

The Product:


What was I doing? What was I even doing?


Oh, Jesus. Was I really doing this? Was I really going to do this?


The photograph of guy on the box. Hilarious. Dark olive skin with bushels of chest hair and a blond Fabio hair photoshopped onto his head. He was naked, one thigh forward to cover his junk, muscles tensed like a bodybuilder, face grimacing and fierce. Who in the world thought this was what women wanted?




I was drunk is what I was. It was my 48th birthday, and I was standing over the bathtub in a crappy room-by-the-week motel, with a half teaspoon of “bake soda” in my hand, looking down at a swirling mass of what looked like anti-freeze with several cans of Chunky Sirloin Burger soup mixed in. The liquid volume was a surprise. The grainy “formala” powder had been sealed in a plain envelope that was about the size of a gravy packet, and weighed maybe two ounces.

The Max Suprem Boyfriend kit was a joke, one of many that had been perpetrated by my Gay boyfriends during our long evening of birthday debauch. My Gay boyfriends understand me. We “get” each other, and we tend to go through our single cycles at the same time, kind of like how women get together and have periods together. I don’t get that. I don’t much like other women. They’re annoying, and they take the focus off me.

I’d told my guys that I wanted just two things for my birthday: an affordable apartment in a safe neighborhood, and two, the best sex of my life, which meant that I needed a third present. A boyfriend, one to replace the perpetually-underemployed pot smoker who kicked me out of his apartment – our apartment – so he could move in “KiMee,” an 18-year-old burrito folder from Stuff Your Big One, favored hangout of perpetually-underemployed pot smokers.




I was drunk enough to give it a whirl. Drunk as I was – margaritas with a sangria swirl, the hangover was going to be mountainous – I still had enough of my wits to remember that four quarts equal a gallon, an that a 32-ounce Big Gulp was, indeed, one quart. And, to keep an accurate count of the 52 Big Gulp cups of water that it took to equal thirteen gallons.


I added the half “tease spoon” of baking soda, and picked up the broom that I’d stolen from an open custodial closet down the hall. The broom was filthy, dusty, with hairs tangled up in the straws. I knocked as much of the dirty and yuck into the wastebasket and then stuck the broom in the boyfriend water and stirred.

I couldn’t look down at the mess for fear of ejecting my many swirl margaritas and whatever the hell it was that I’d ended up eating (memory was fuzzy) into the Suprem Boyfriend mix. I looked at the plastic black clock on the wall instead and at the passing of time, sent thoughts of love and plenty to my Gay boyfriends, and thoughts of endless muggy sleepless nights and ingrown pubic hairs to that vapid ignoramus who’d thought foreplay was smacking me on the butt and saying “Let’s go.”


“I gave him the best last eight months of my life.” I said to the clock. It hadn’t been five minutes of stirring yet, and already my arms were tired. How could I do this for another…however long it was? And again, why? Why was I doing this? Was I so desperate for a man? This was a joke, a gag gift, I knew that, it was a gag gift, what the hell was I doing?

I stopped stirring and the mixture in the bathtub made a thick sound, like GLOOP! GLOOP! GLOOP!

Oh lord. It was congealing. Already. Whatever it was – industrial Jell-O or something – it was thickening. Oh well. If it became a disgusting solid instead of a disgusting liquid, it might make it easier to clean up and I wouldn’t have to worry about it clogging the pipes. I didn’t have the money to pay for damages.

I barely had any money at all. SuperTwit had frozen our joint bank account. I never should have agreed to a joint account, I know, I know, my Gay boyfriends tried and tried to tell me. Never again. Never. Again. No more sharing money. I had sworn it tonight, in front of God, my four Gay boyfriends, and the patrons of Miss ChiChi’s Wild Tex-Mex Bar & Grill. I stood up on my chair, a bottle of Herradura in my right hand and sworn it on a bowl of limes:

“I solemnly swear that I will never again share my money with a man, not even with George Clooney, the man who makes my ovaries stand up and go “YAY!” – not even if he walks in here tonight and slides a bigass diamond on my left finger and marries me on his private jet on our way back to his Italian villa on Lake Como where we will live happily together forever in a heavenly haze of sexual endorphins. Amen. So be it. So say we all. Amen.”

My Gay boyfriends and I are prone to drama and public displays. We’re actors. Get over it.

A half-hour went by, and I was still stirring, still ruminating. The Max Suprem Boyfriend mix was the color and consistency of runny rice pudding. It gave off a slight musky odor, not awful, not entirely pleasant. It seemed familiar and suddenly I remember how my mother would pick up me from piano lessons and then we’d pick up my two little brothers from their after-school day-care and as soon as they’d pile into the car, she’d crinkle her nose and say, “Oh, there’s that little boy sweat.”

My phoned chimed: new text message.

 “R U sleepn?  I R DUH-runk”   Antoine – my Ante, my best bestie, and the source  of the Max Suprem Boyfriend.

I texted back with one hand: “No time 4 U. Busy making new bf. So far so good. Smells like sweaty sox”

An almost instant reply: “Better than sweaty balls. Let me know how it goes. Gnite, my presh – happy bday”

Ante is to texting what The Rifleman was to rapid-fire shooting. Ante types two hundred words a minute with 96% accuracy. He’s a big shot chiropractor, so busy he needs two secretaries, neither of which have to work much because Ante’s such a freak perfectionist he does everything before they can. That’s how I met Ante, going to work for him. Well, actually, we’d first met when we were in summer stock, doing “Oklahoma” in Tulsa…Oklahoma.  We got drunk at a cast party and sat on a back stairway at the theater and kissed for like an hour before we decided on chili omelettes at the Metro Diner instead of possibly ruinous drunk sex. Ante loves women. He’s one of those Gay men can lust after us even though we aren’t his thing. It’s fun, and often very gratifying.

Chime. “NOMI ON MAN-TV!!” This text is from RayRayRay, whose real name is nowhere near as fun as his nickname. RayRayRay is obsessed with “Showgirls,” the worst movie ever made. Don’t argue with me. It’s that bad. For RayRayRay’s last birthday, Ante gave him a desktop display of Nomi licking the dance pole. The man has costume pieces, autographed cast photos, show posters, and copies of the movie on VHS, DVD, Blu-Ray of “Showgirls,” but he still scours the cable guide to see when it’s coming on.

Another chime, and there’s a dismissive “oh PLZ”  for RayRayRay, and then to me, “Nite baby, happy bday 2 uuuuu” These are from E.R., given-name John but to the collective he is E.R. or Eye Roll due to a bad habit swears he doesn’t have but – hello – he’s always rolling his eyes.

A few seconds and then there was a “Nite all. Luv u all” from everybody’s sweetie-pie, Bobby Darin. Bobby Darin’s mother had thought James Darren in “The Lively Set” was the cutest guy she’d ever seen. She also thought his name was Bobby Darin.

I told them I was mixing up my Max Suprem Boyfriend. Of course RayRayRay wanted to come right over and participate, but I said no. I told them all, in so many texts, that just on the off-chance that George Clooney was about to rise up out of my bathtub, I was going to be naked and fully ready to slap him on the ass and say “Let’s go.”

God, the last half hour was torture. The last five minutes was life-after-death with all the pain and none of the rhapsody. I thought my arm was going to snap off, and my fingers were going to be permanently cramped into the broom-handle-gripping position. Which could come in handy, I guess, in certain professions, with certain people.

“Well. Okay. There he is.” My voice echoed in the dingy beige bathroom.

At last. Exactly one hour and six minutes into the effort, there he was, the man ever-after known as Max Suprem, Boyfriend.

Max was of a hue unknown to even the Crayola Crayon 64 box, a color somewhere between sawdust and spinach-turd green. What he was, in fact, was a barely visible outline of a man floating in his gelatinous man matrix. I could just make out the head, trunk, two arm blobs, two leg blobs, and between them, a sort-of bulge. Not quite as much package as Barbie’s boy Ken sports between his rock-hard quads. Max’s face, his features…. Who did he look like? I could not figure it out. He looked so familiar, but I could not place him. Finally, I took a picture and sent it to my Gay boyfriends.

“OMG!! It’s the OPERATION GAME GUY!!” texted RayRayRay.

The margarita sangria swirl hangover was every bit the bitch that I had known that she would be. I stayed in bed all Saturday – at this age, I do know how to plan ahead for a debauch – and into the evening. I was lonely, but it wasn’t like I didn’t have options. Ante and Bobby Darin both had dates, but RayRayRay was dying for me to come over for bottomless bowls of his famous jalapeno-parmesan popcorn and the “Showgirls” marathon on The Man Channel. And E.R. was repainting his bathroom and would welcome company. I turned them both down, gently, and by 8 p.m., I was in bed with my remote and a bag of chocolate-covered almonds, the good kind.

I really wanted to take a long, hot bath, but Max Suprem was still in there, biodegrading. He had become very porous throughout the day; I popped in about every hour to take a photographic record of his deterioration. According to the box, Max was made out of a safe soap-like substance, but DON’T TOUCH WITH HAND!!! NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR BURN OR DISEASE!!!  The good news was that after his demise, Max promised to LEAVE BATHTUB SPAKLY CLEAN!!

It’s only natural, I guess, on your birthday weekend when you’re now just two years away from fifty, and you’re in bed at eight o’clock on a Saturday night watching back-to-back episodes of “Buffy The Vampire Slayer,” eating candy, and there’s a toxic gelatin man degrading himself in your rented-by-the week motel bathtub, to start ruminating about your ex, wondering what he’s up to now, in your old bedroom, him and his burrito-rolling teenage girlfriend with the wandering left eye and the tongue stud.

I’ll admit, I was feeling a little blue.


”This guy blows. Not in a good way. C U in 15. Wear red lipstick, tight blk dress, dancing heels.”

Ante showed up with Pizza of the Gods from Hideaway, flame-orange roses, love, laughter, and hope.  We drove over to Woodward Park and crashed a snooty party at the Philbrook mansion, and danced on the terrace until just before dawn. Then we went back to the motel, and I fell into bed while my Gay boyfriend stayed up and washed that man right out of my tub.


About Vicki Caroline Cheatwood

Writerly. Rebooting. Evolving. Searching for great chicken salad.
This entry was posted in Pimp My Lent, Short Story. Bookmark the permalink.


  1. dehelen says:

    I could not wait to see how this turned out. Hooked from beginning to satisfying end. I do not want LENT to end. Please keep writing to prompts every day for as long as you can. (I’m writing a poem a day for a year.) Your creativity is un-f***ingbelievable. xoxoxoxoxo sdh

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s