Read When Mr. Dog Bites Online
Authors: Brian Conaghan
When Mr. Dog Bites (34 page)
Recently Michelle Malloy and I had begun to do little mini hugs with each other. She hadn’t experienced one of my hug specials yet. I didn’t think it would be too long, though. Fingers crossed. I even showed her Green and let her have her own wee rub of it. I began snogging my forearm as practice for the main event. I couldn’t wait! Fingers, toes, arms, and legs crossed. I told her she could be on our list if she wanted, and she was majorly down with that idea. So
Cool Things for Dylan, Amir, Priya, and Michelle Malloy to Do Before They Cack It
was definitely the way forward and was taking shape. We just needed some cool things to put on it.
*
Mom and Tony were going to the flicks to see some duff Christmas rom-com; Mom said that she needed some chewing-gum brain crap to take her mind off getting fat. That meant I had the house all to myself FOR THE FIRST TIME EVER! Tony told Mom that I was still the man of the house and that I could be trusted not to burn it down.
Way to go, Tone-Meister!
So, here’s what I did: I invited Michelle Malloy over to spend some quality time with her new bf. ME. And when we made plans on the phone I did a mega un-Dylan-Mint thing.
Just before we said the “Good night, babes” part, I said, “Wear the red Adidas high-tops, babe.”
Nutzzzzz.
She said, “No probs, hun.”
Double dunter nutzzzz.
Then my heart began to beat even faster than it did the day I thought I was going to cack it. Michelle Malloy, my new gf, was coming over to my house.
My gaff.
My empty gaff.
To chew the cud.
“Chew the cud” was a “
euphemism”
(my new word) and we both knew it.
Good Golly, Miss Molly!
I had to tell someone, so I told Tony, who was like my second best bud now, and it’s okay to tell your second best bud things as long as you tell your first best bud too. I didn’t say anything about chewing the cud, though. Wink! Wink! I only asked him what I should wear
(
jeans and a nice crisp shirt, he said), what we should eat for snacks (anything but soup, he said), and what music I should put on. Tony suggested some fella called Marvin Gaye and gave me this CD called
Let’s Get It On
, which is a euphemism for “let’s pump each other silly
.”
And “Gaye” made me giggle, because it was a super-ironic name given that it was a dude and a chick who were going to be chewing the cud. Wink! Wink!
But then I had to tell the bold Amir, as my nerves were shattered just thinking about my empty gaff, Michelle Malloy, red Adidas high-tops, and chewing the cud. My original
Cool Things to Do Before I Cack It: Number one: Have real sexual intercourse with a girl. (Preferably Michelle Malloy)
was actually going to happen, and I was shitting big bazoongas.
“The first thing you’ll need to do is get r-r-rubbers, Dylan,” Amir said.
“Suppose.”
“Suppose nothing. You don’t want any of her eggs to be fer-fer-fertilized by your seed.” Amir was really into the reproduction section in biology.
“I ditto that.”
So Amir wingmanned me to a drugstore on my rubbers-buying mission.
“There’s shitloads of them, Dylan.”
“Shut up, Amir,” I said, because we were like a couple of semen demons hovering about the rubbers section. “Someone will hear us and lob us out.”
“But how do you know which ones to get?”
“How should I know? I’ve never bought rubbers before, have I?” I tried to pretend I was looking at the deodorant and shaving-cream section, but really my eyes squinted toward the stacks and stacks of rubbers. It hurt my eyes doing this.
“There’s, like .
.
.” And Amir started counting all the different kinds of rubbers you could buy. “. . . four, five . . .” All different-colored boxes. “. . . eight, nine . . .” All for different things. Promising different pleasures. This was a stress head-wrecker. Green was soaked in my damp hands. “. . . eleven, twelve . . . TWELVE different kinds. Fuck me sideways.”
“Come on, let’s go, Amir. This is bonkerinos.”
“Bonkerinos exactly, Dylan. Look at these!” Amir was holding a yellow box up to my face. “These taste like ba-ba-bananas.”
“I’m not going to eat them, Amir.”
“I know, but .
.
.” He did the nudge nudge game we sometimes play.
“But nothing,” I said. “Come on, this place is making me feel nervous.”
Amir picked more packs off the shelf. “These ones are called Tingle.”
“Shut your fucking cave. Come on.”
“Does that mean your dingle tingles, or the girl’s flower?”
“How the fuck .
.
.” I could feel wet on my spine by this stage.
“Ultraconfusing, Dylan. Ultraconfusing.”
“You can look at rubbers all day if you want, Amir, but I need to get out of here quick styley.”
I did. I needed to make a rapido exit, because I could feel him coming, like he was sitting on a wall ready to
pounce
swoop
or
leap
on the next person who walked past.
I could see him there with saliva hanging from his teeth, tongue dripping wet.
GGGGGRRRRROOOOOWWWWWLLLLLIIIIINNNNNGGGGG.
I hadn’t seen him for a while, which tickled my happiness because When Mr. Dog Bites, it’s an unpleasant present to the peepers and lugs.
Please don’t let Mr. Dog get out
, not in a drugstore.
Please don’t let Mr. Dog get out
, not while I’m browsing the rubbers section.
Please don’t.
Please.
And guess what happened?
Mr. Dog came out.
*
“It’s okay, Dylan, I’m here.” Amir was sitting next to me on the sidewalk with his arm around my shoulder. Not in a doolally batty-boy way, more in an I’ll-take-care-of-you-bud way. “D-d-do you want some water?” he said, handing me a bottle.
“Thanks, Amir.”
“That’s what best buds are for, isn’t it?”
“You bet.”
“You okay now?”
“A-okay. What am I going to do, Amir?”
“Have some water.”
“No, with Michelle Malloy.”
“Tell her some j-j-jokes. That’ll put her at ease.”
“Telling her rubbish jokes won’t woo the knick-knacks off her.”
“Well, maybe these will,” Amir said, and handed me a small white bag. “Here.”
“What is it?”
“Look inside.”
I looked.
“Aw, Amir, you bought me rubbers.” It was, like, the nicest thing anyone has done for me. What a top-notch bloke. And what a lucky dude I was to have such a top-notch bloke as my best bud.
“I did. ‘
Extra safe, with extra lubrication
,’” he said, pointing to the writing on the box. “Now you can pump Michelle Malloy all night long and your willy will be super safe.”
I wanted to say thanks, but the gobstopper in my gub stopped me from doing it.
So I hugged him instead.
29
The extra-safe rubbers are in my top drawer. Marvin Gaye’s
Let’s Get It On
is on pause, ready to spring into action. I’d put a twenty-watt lightbulb in my bedside lamp—Twenty’s Plenty, and all that. The sheets and pillowcases have been given a chick makeover: they now smell of aloe vera and lavender. All my socks have been removed, for safety reasons. All the Internet sites I used for doing some last-minute-dot-com research have been cleared from my browsing history. And I have two boxes of Pringles (Hot & Spicy Wonton and Salsa de Chile Habanero), a box of malt balls, and a bottle of Irn-Bru on the sideboard for mega munchies and a debrief afterward. But no matter how much I prep the gaff, leaving no brick unturned, I still need some momentous brain gym to calm the old tense nervous-energy jets. So I try to think of my top six big-belly-belter jokes that I can tell Michelle Malloy in case the conversation becomes weird or she has one of her ODD moments.
When the doorbell rings, I swear to Jesus, Allah, Buddha, Samson, and Doc Colm I almost shite a bazoonga.
“Hi, Michelle. Glad you could make it.”
“Make what? Oh, God, you’re not having a weird night, are you?”
My tongue twists; I can feel the gobbledygook coming on.
“Did you hear about the dyslexic man who walked into a bra?”
Michelle Malloy squints her face and shakes her head.
“Get it?”
Joke number one is a disaster.
Michelle Malloy’s getup is anything but. Black tights (hard to remove, skill required) under a wee red tartan skirt (no clue as to what clan) and a T-shirt with a banana on it and the words “
The Velvet Underground”
(I know it isn’t a comfortable mode of transport she’s promoting) AND the red Adidas high-tops. Absolute class! My teen dream queen.
“Marvin Gaye’s in my room if you want to go up. PUMP. RIDE. DRILL,” I say. (But I sooooooooooooooooo want to say, “
You look like the first thing I’ve seen after twenty years of blindness, Michelle.
”
)
“Oh, shit, sorry, Michelle. I didn’t mean .
.
.”
“Calm the fuck down, Mint. I’m not even in your room yet. Come here, hun.”
She puts out her arms, and we come together for a hug special. Her hair is in my face. I close my eyes, take an inhale of her astounding scent, and think,
This moment is a gamillion times better than sitting in heaven munching on an ice cream with a big cherry on top any day
.
Michelle Malloy isn’t too good with stairs—she lives in a bungalow—so I help her up. That’s what any decent bf would do for his gf who has stair-walking difficulties. If I had my way, I’d fling that dame over my shoulder and carry her up the blinkin’ stairs.
In my room the twenty-watt is doing its thing. Michelle Malloy sits on my bed. I wonder if the chick makeover is doing it for her.
“Want a glass of Irn-Bru and a couple of Pringles?” This is what’s called playing it cool before the main event.
“Rank! No.”
“Malt balls?”
“No.”
“Maybe for after.”
“After what, Mint?”
“Nothing. BONKING. Fuck!”
“Got any water?”
“Water? FUCK WATER’S DICK. Sorry, Michelle.”
“It’s okay. Relax.”
“I didn’t plan for water.”
“So what have you been planning for?”
“I’ll run down and get some.” I make my way to the door.
“Take a chill pill, will you?”
“Okay, chill pill. Got it.”
“Come and sit here, Mint.”
“Where?”
Oh, Sweet Billy Pilgrim! She only wants me to sit next to her on MY bed.
“Here,” she says, and pats the bed next to her.
“What, there?” I point.
“Yes.”
I sit. Thank God I do, because I think my arse is going to collapse.
“Are you sure your mom and her boyfriend aren’t coming back until late?”
“The rom-com runs for one hour and thirty-eight minutes, and then there’s seventeen minutes of crap ads before it comes on, and then there’s chat time afterward, then time in the car home, so I think that makes well over two hours and thirty-three minutes until they’re back.”
“Good,” she says.
“Good?”
“Very fucking good, Mint.”
Crash! Bang! Wallop!
It happens.
SMACK-A-ROONY full force on the lips.
Michelle Malloy grabs my crisp shirt and pulls me toward her. SOMEBODY CALL THE HEART TRANSPLANT DOCTOR—NOW! I’m not joking—I think someone has planted an IED in my chest.
We do little kisses at first, like longer
Good night, Mom
pecks but on the lips. I don’t really know what to do, so I follow Michelle Malloy’s lead, as she is clearly the experienced one. Then our lips kind of stick to each other’s and go around in a wee circle for a while, fast, slow, fast, slow. I enjoy it. So does my heart, as it goes back to just beating-fast pace. So does my willy, as it starts to wake up like an alligator in the Florida Everglades. Then Michelle Malloy’s tongue enters my mouth and jabs in and out as if she’s playing a game of tongue sword fighting. If that’s the game she wants, then I’m her man, I think, so I jab my tongue in her mouth and we play tongue sword fighting together. When the tongue sword fighting stops we do some mouth-to-tongue sucking. And boy, oh boy, oh boy, oh boy, does my willy like this game! When our mouths separate, I don’t want to clean my face of the slobbers in case Michelle Malloy thinks I’m being RudeTube to her saliva.
“Wow, Michelle.”
“Enjoy that, Mint?”