Tango's Tales

Tango’s

Tales

LISA KOPEL

TANGO’S TALES

Copyright © 2008, 2015 Lisa Kopel.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-6559-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-6560-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015910143

iUniverse rev. date: 10/08/2015

CONTENTS

Tango and the Fuckbunny

Crazy

Dreidel, Dreidel, Dreidel….

The Drought

Ode to Married Men

Fan Mail

Three Guy Weekend

Cambridge

Applying for the Job: An FAF Interview

Lost!

MG

Thinking Big

Fixing a Hole

Bob’s Fantasy (An FAF Cautionary Tale)

Subject #14

Making the Cut

Yes, Please

My Wanton Ways

A Toy for Tango

The 17th Floor

Clock Watching

The Other 90%

The Blind Leading the Blind

A Significant Difference Between Men and Women

Random Man’s Fantasy (Another FAF Cautionary Tale)

The Gift

Tango’s Twilight Zone

Black is the New Brown (A Blog)

Exquisite Pain

Spinners

Tango’s Travels

Not a Winner

Tango’s Testimonials

The Happy Dance

Trespassing

Hooker Shoes

Walk Away From the Computer

Blue Eyes

And Yet…

A Different Kind of GPS

Not a Prude!

Blog Wars

Short Comings

The Tumescent Tragedy

Phone Sex

Out of Control

The Fidelity Gene

Threesomes, Golf Clubs and Power Tools

Stood Up

Lust and Immediate Gratification

Stupid Question

Who?

Laser Lovers No More?

Sisterly Love

The Communications Bank Account

Will Fuck for Flounder

The Crap Shoot

Swedish Fish

Friction Burns

Garlic

Juggling

What I Want vs. What I Need

Take Off Your Panties #1

Pesky Little Metal Spiders

From Eyebrows to Fuck Me Hard

The BJ Olympics

The Lotion Commotion

Six Degrees of FAF Separation

Take Off Your Panties #2

Wedding and Reception

Take Off Your Panties #3

Parking Lot Hugs and Sidewalk Kisses

Zero Break

However incongruous,

For Sam and Owen.

With a very special shout out to J.P. – I miss you every day.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Without the loving support and encouragement of family and friends, this book would still be a random bunch of loose leaf papers thrown indiscriminately into an empty shoe box.

Sandra Kopel, Sheryl Kopel & Andrew Bell, Eric Kopel & Peggy Kopel, Joseph Kopel & Norma DeRose, Kenneth Esperum, Jennifer Kopel Allen, Laura Levy, Bob Lee & Sheila Gustafson, Heath Gomez, Tanka Hazard, Alana Goodinson, Edward Ellis, Dennis Paille, Jonathan O’Brien and, to the two most important men in my life, past and present, Samuel Kopel and Edward Trunfio.

TANGO AND THE FUCKBUNNY

WHO IS TANGO? I’VE BEEN ASKED THAT QUESTION A LOT lately. You’d think it would be an easy question to answer, right?

What would most people say if asked to describe themselves? There are facts: physical attributes and characteristics, jobs, family, hobbies, past history, personality traits, etc.

With me, the answer to that question is not so easy. Because the truth is, I am two entirely different people. Sometimes I am Tango, and sometimes I am the Fuckbunny.

Tango is a middle-aged woman, with red hair and green eyes. A middle-aged woman who is holding up pretty well. I am petite and slender. I’m cute but certainly not beautiful. I have been a runner for over 30 years. I am lucky to have a close family – a mother, brother and sister who love me, although they don’t necessarily agree with some of the choices that I have made.

I have a mundane job as a supervisor in a call center. I don’t have a filthy rich boyfriend who wants to buy me mansions and give me the world. And has the means to do it.

I AM a non-traditional woman, in that I have never been married, nor do I have any children. I am extremely adventurous and I will try just about anything once. I tend to not follow the rules. Truth is, if someone tells me something needs to be done a certain way, or that I need to do something because that’s what the situation calls for, or dictates, I will instinctively want to do the opposite. Or, at the very least, ask why? Call it being contrary or rebellious…that’s just who I am.

Which is why, I guess, that my family doesn’t approve of some of my life decisions.

What is unique about me is that I have the ability to transform myself into something purely sexual - the Fuckbunny. Abra Cadabra! Like Clark Kent into Superman. Except there are no longer any phone booths (I haven’t seen any around for years) and I don’t have a cape. However, I do have a crop. Which naturally segue into…

Who, or what, exactly, is the Fuckbunny?

The answer is more of a concept than a definition.

Fuckbunny may be used as a noun, sometimes interchangeably with Tango; i.e. Tango channeling the Fuckbunny. Wanton, certainly. Sextoy? Yes, please. Plaything? Sometimes. Fucks on the first date? Perhaps. Depends on the mood and the man.

Fuckbunny may also be used as an adjective, to describe clothing and items. For example, I have tons of fuckbunny attire. The Fuckbunny loves to dress up: bustiers, corsets, costumes and thigh highs (not so much garters; can someone please show me how garters work?), costumes. There are fuckbunny toys (vibrators, dildos, etc.) and fuckbunny places (strip clubs, sex stores, adult websites). Hell, it may even be used as an adverb: a sexy anonymous hotel room can be very fuckbunny.

This duality has served me well. I became Tango many years ago, but the Fuckbunny was only just recently born. There was an epiphany, of sorts, a catharsis, which opened up the door for me to explore my sexuality without rules, limits or boundaries.

Confused? Imagine being me. Because my transformation from Tango to the Fuckbunny is not thought out; it happens naturally; organically; subconsciously. And sometimes I go from Tango to the Fuckbunny, or from the Fuckbunny to Tango, in the blink of an eye. Again, depends on the man and the mood.

Now, I think if I was just Tango, I would feel incomplete. Bored. Restless. I’d miss the Fuckbunny. I love when the Fuckbunny comes out to play. Tango and the Fuckbunny have a good dynamic. They play well together.

CRAZY

I HAVE NEVER BEEN NORMAL.

I realize that normal is a very subjective word and may be used to describe an avalanche of things: normal body temperature, normal day-to-day activities, etc.

But I think that most people view a normal life in pretty much the same way, with, of course, certain subtle differences. Me? A normal life to me has always been synonymous with conformity.

My normal, for example, would have been to go to school, graduate, lose my virginity somewhere along the way. Get a job, meet a nice Jewish man attractive and interesting enough to marry. Have kids, buy a house close enough to the city to easily access the theater and ballet (both which I adore and attend every chance I get) but not too close – the kids would need to go to a really good public school, after all. Have polite sex (two times a week, missionary position), make friends with other couples like us and with whom we would occasionally socialize and engage in mild flirtations with each other’s spouses.

Sound about right?

Not to me. Never to me. Very early on I realized that this normal did not appeal to me at all. I wasn’t exactly sure what I was going to do with my life but it sure wasn’t going to be that.

Sometimes I would think about how much easier a normal life would be and so I would try to psych myself up (deep breath, deep breath) to get ready to get ready to try to lead a normal life. But…phew. It was exhausting just to think about. It was easier to just go on doing what I wanted to do, when I wanted to do it. I was always sure that things would eventually fall into place.

But it was not meant to be. You see, when I was 26 years old I realized that I was crazy.

For real. Mentally ill. In nearly every way possible: literally, clinically and diagnostically. I meet crazy criteria according to the bible of mental illness, the DSM – any version, I-V. I am so crazy that my psychiatrist, who I have been seeing monthly for the past 16 years, has diagnosed me with not just one mental illness, but with three. I’m a recipe of crazy. You can also ask my friends…each one will agree. Totally fucked up. But in a good way! Although I’m aware, really, they have to say that because they are my friends, after all. And being around crazy can be fun. At times.

My primary diagnosis is MDD, or Major Depressive Disorder. This means that if I don’t take my anti-depressant, I will retreat to my bed and no one may ever see or hear from me again. It has happened many times throughout the years when my prescribed medication was just not having it.

Depression made me want to isolate, and as soon as I got home from work, I would turn on the TV, crawl into bed, and not get out until the following morning. I religiously watched game shows (the old-school Family Feud was a favorite…remember Richard Dawson? I developed a huge crush on him…that sexy English accent. Even though I think he was gay). Soap opera characters became the family I was too depressed to see on birthdays and holidays.

I often talk about my medications as if they are human beings (anthropomorphism at its finest, that). As in come on, people, work with me!

But certain antidepressants seemed to have a mind of their own.

Nope. Sorry, Tango, said Prozac.

Yeah, right, laughed Zoloft.

As if, scoffed Paxil.

Fuck you, spat Effexor.

Well, fuck you, too, Effexor.

Effexor really messed with my head. Because Effexor gave me hope - it actually worked for nearly three years. I started to venture out of the house and cautiously began to live somewhat of a life. A life out of bed. After the one year mark, I started to relax a bit, and, at year two, I thought I had finally found the Holy Grail. Goodbye, depression!

Then, without warning, Effexor bailed on me. One morning I woke up and couldn’t get out of bed. It was like the Effexor gave up on me, and for no apparent reason. I felt tricked.

It was like a horrible breakup. Mr. Effexor stuck with me for three years, decided I was too hard of a nut to crack and kicked me to the curb. Just like many men had done in the past. The weak men, who had been unable to tame the shrew. Whatever. Effexor is a total pussy drug, anyway. No wonder why hardly any psychiatrists prescribe it anymore. It’s just not up for the job, obviously. Not hardcore enough to keep the darkness from creeping back in.

So I’m a challenge. Big deal. It took quite a few meds to find one man enough to tame Tango. If there is a higher power, thy name is Seroquel. Seroquel whipped me into shape straight away. There would be no more game show marathons. No more following the impossibly complicated lives of the denizens of the mythic cities in which my soap opera families lived. Seroquel kicked their collective asses.

What is really messed up, though, is that when the Seroquel started to work, I was actually initially kind of depressed about it. Because, as I started to feel exponentially better, I was actually staying out of bed after work, and thus no longer able to visit my TV family every day. I missed them. How seriously fucked up is that?

But I was able to isolate less, which had the domino affect of being able to shower and wash my clothes and perform all the daily activities that are required when one is living a semi-productive life. Because, really…who wants to smell and be all dirty and nasty around other people?

I was also able to give my poor neglected cat Rudy a proper memorial service. Because Rudy had run away. In the dead of the coldest winter Southern New England had had in 20 years.

He escaped one afternoon when, deep in a bout of depression, I left my bed to retrieve the mail. I opened the door, and Rudy ran outside. I have never seen a cat move so quickly. Actually, I think he was waiting for an opportunity. Rudy recognized a chance when he saw one. He ran away as fast, and, I bet, as far as he could and never came back. I made a half-hearted attempt to look for him, if you call looking leaning out the door and shouting Rudy two or three times. No, Rudy was gone and I hadn’t had much hope that he would survive the arctic-like temperature.

Poor Rudy. Poor dehydrated, starving Rudy. I guess he’d had enough, too. He’d rather chance almost certain hypothermia than stay inside with me. Because, when depressed, it just didn’t occur to me that cats needed to be fed and given fresh water daily. I honestly thought that cats were like plants. Which explains, I guess, why I no longer have a cat or any plants.

When depressed, I won’t take your phone calls; and, when I do, I’ll offer a million excuses why I can’t attend whatever life changing ceremony it is that you are having. I’ll rationalize to myself. I’ll call them stupid and a waste of time and something society cooked up to make the masses spend loads of money on things like a set of stainless steel grapefruit spoons (which I only recently found out existed - imagine all the time I’ve wasted digging out those pulpy triangles of goodness trying not to get squirt in the eye with juice).

I also have a secondary diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder. This means that if I don’t take my mood stabilizer, I will become, of course, moody, but also extremely volatile, mercurial and I will want to stay up all night and scrub the crud off the kitchen floor and the scum off the bathroom floor. On my hands and knees. With a toothbrush. Between my teeth.

I have been a runner since I was 16 years old. It’s amazing the clarity that I get; I absolutely do my best thinking when I run.

When at baseline, I love to run the perimeter of the East Side of Providence, racing up and down the many hills, covering at least 3 or 4 miles a day.

But, when manic, I will run miles and miles without ever leaving the proximity of my own neighborhood. Over and over, around the same couple of blocks, for an hour (sometimes longer when the mania is really bad), getting absolutely nowhere. Literally a rat on a wheel. I’ll ruminate on my toothbrushes and how I was isolating, which would make me feel like shit, which exacerbated my depressive tendencies.

Also, when my bipolar meds aren’t working, I am the biggest bitch imaginable. I have no filter. Whatever weird, inappropriate, unforgiveable thing I am thinking just spills out of my mouth. The irony is that when I am taking my psych meds and at baseline, I can still be the biggest bitch imaginable. A bitch who can’t blame being a bitch on not taking her psych meds. Nope, sorry. I’m just being a bitch.

It’s a trade off.

Lastly, I have a tertiary diagnosis of ADD, Attention Deficit Disorder. This means that if I don’t take my meds, I will be unable to decide whether to get the blue toothbrush, the green toothbrush or the red toothbrush. To clean the kitchen and bathroom floors. I will also be unable to focus or concentrate on anything longer than 30 seconds, which totally sucks. Because I am unable to follow any soap opera story line, much less guess what the majority of 100 polled people think is the number one answer to some stupid random question.

When I take my meds, and they are working, I can focus enough to write about being depressed, volatile, and wishy washy. I can turn on the television without obsessing about whether Drew Carey or Richard Dawson was a better Family Feud host, or if my favorite soap opera couple really had a chance at happiness. I can choose a toothbrush - orange, my favorite color. I can seriously think about getting another cat. Although I kind of feel like I should first start off slowly, with a plant. A cactus.

Actually, I’m not too fond of cats in the first place. The only reason I had gotten Rudy was because I thought it might make me feel better. Not in the way most people may think. No, I didn’t get Rudy the cat because he would serve as a companion, or curl up next to me and be warm and make me feel loved and secure and not lonely and all those other bullshit reasons why people get pets.

I realize I may be alienating tons of pet-lovers here… if you’re one of them, I’m not putting you down, or implying that it’s stupid to have a pet. It’s only stupid when pet owners start treating their animals as if they are people.

Example: I used to have a friend, and he and his wife owned two cats. And they treated the cats like people; like the children they didn’t have. I had to end the friendship when I went to their house for dinner one night. The table had five chairs, three place settings, and two sterling silver bowls. A bit weird but I thought maybe the hosts were expecting a couple of other guests.

However, when the wife announced that dinner was ready, the two cats ran to the table. I quickly realized that these longhaired creatures would be joining us for dinner. The smell and sight of the wet cat food in the sterling silver bowls was sickening and I was so nauseated I could barely get through dinner without yakking in the lovely steak tips on the plate in front of me.

No, the REAL reason I had gotten Rudy was because…cats are fucking crazy. No joke. Lunatics. Like, I may be crazy, but this cat is fucking crazier!

Want proof? Put a bag on the floor. Any size. Pick up the cat and place it on the floor anywhere in the room. Anywhere. The cat will find that bag and climb inside - every single time. Guaranteed. I mean, you don’t even need to entice the cat by putting any catnip in there, or kitty treats, or dead mice or even another cat in heat. No, just an empty bag. Every single time.

Now, if you put a life size empty bag in front of me, even in my most depressed, manic, unfocused state, I will not climb inside (although I might take a peak to make sure there wasn’t something cool in there, like a pair of shoes).

What I’m saying is that I thought that having something living with me that was even crazier than I was might make me feel better about my mental health issues. That was the reasoning; like, God, I may be fucked up, but look at Rudy getting into that empty bag. Hah! I wouldn’t even be tempted to try it!

It made sense at the time.

However, I really don’t want to risk the untimely demise of another feline friend. Life is about learning lessons from past mistakes, right? But more times than I care to admit, my lights are on but no one’s home. And sometimes no one has been home for years.

So no more cats for me. If Rudy hadn’t made me feel better when I was in my most desolate and unmedicated frame of mind, why would I think that getting a cat at ANY point would make me feel better? Only a crazy person would think that.

Plus the Animal Rescue League might get wind of my previous experience (or lack thereof) with cats, find out where I lived and verbally shame me while they picketed and threw rocks at the darkened windows of my house. And then I would probably get really upset and my meds might stop working (always a very real possibility) and I’d get depressed about not being able to take care of a cat. I mean, cats can pretty much take care of themselves, right? And I couldn’t take care of one? What a loser!

So I would feel depressed AND pathetic. Which would, of course, add to my overall feelings of despair. And then I would look at the kitchen and bathroom floors and feel disgusted at their filth but be unable to clean either because maybe the orange toothbrush just wasn’t right for the job. Then I would have to put on my running shoes and run 10 or 20 times around the block, all the while ruminating on the toothbrush issue and berating myself for getting that stupid orange toothbrush when I should have fucking got the blue one, or the green one, or the red one…or maybe I should have just bought all of them? I couldn’t decide. Damn, of course I should have bought all of them.

See? It’s a slippery slope.

But I digress.

Being officially diagnosed with a mental illness (or three) is important for a number of reasons. First, it allows my psychiatrist (bless his heart) to write monthly orders of highly addictive controlled substances such as Adderall (10mg QID)