| This time last year |
[May. 5th, 2009|12:58 am] |
It's my birthday. I don't mind getting older, I just mind getting older without getting wiser. Or at least without being able to put and new-found wisdom to use. And what I mean by that is that apparently "knowing" is not half the battle. It just means that you know what kind of dumb stuff you are likely to do before you do it--because you've done it before.
I think it is time to reference Kurt Vonnegut's "Timequake", in which on February 13, 2001, everyone and everything, is sent smartly back to February 17, 1991. Everyone and everything is forced to live through that decade of life again without being able to change a thing, though they can remember every horror or buffoonery that is going to occur. Someone who dove head first into and empty swimming pool and breaks their neck has to embark upon and complete that action knowing full-well the tragic outcome in store.
I feel that the longer I am alive, the more I find this to be a pretty accurate description of non-time-quaked life. However, that doesn't mean that there isn't room for some pleasant or unpleasant surprises. Some things have changed, and some things have stayed the same. Here is a list of 10 things that have either changed or stayed the same since my last birthday:
1. As I was last year, I'm still impressing references to Kurt Vonnegut, particularly "Timequake" and "Slapstick", upon people in the event of even a smidgen of conversational relevance. For instance: recently my sister's fiance was eating a piece of cold pizza for breakfast, and my step-father noticed it. "PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST?" he said "HA! BREAKFAST OF CHAMPIONS!". The fiance said nothing. I said "Actually, a Martini is the 'breakfast of champions'. At least according to the book."
I also still reference something that Darrell Morris, perhaps the greatest fiber-artist of all time, said when I was in his class my first year of college: "Art isn't the way to the party, it IS the party." When I went to the Harry Potter exhibit at the Museum of Science and Industry last week I was dazzled by the awesome props in the display cases and declared "Man! Doing props for something like this would totally be the party!" Unfortunately, I feel as though my current life is neither the party or the way to the party, but instead is the way away from the party.
2. I'm still not famous, despite being on national television. In the early part of 2008 I got on stage in a bar and furiously stabbed balloons all over my body in a frenzy. Someone in the audience video taped it and then posted it on YouTube. Way on the other side of the world someone had a job looking at weird stuff on YouTube that could maybe be put on real TV--in a remount of some show from the 70s called "The Gong Show". Only this time it was being called "The New Gong Show with Dave Attell." Last year I didn't really know what The Gong Show was, but I had heard of Dave Attell because a friend of mine (who sadly I never see any more despite the fact that she has a May 6th birthday and that on two previous May Fifths or Sixes we got tied up and beaten-the-crap-out-of by a fellow who paid us lots of money to let him do it) had developed an unhealthy interest in Dave Attell from watching a show in which he wandered around all night talking to drunk people. My friend enticed Mr. Attell, via the internet, to meet up with her in New York and have sex with her in a taxi-cab after one of his shows.
Somehow that played a significant part in my agreeing to make a appearance on The New Gong Show with Dave Attell after I was wooed by someone who had seen my act on the internet. And despite the fact I was assured that I would not get "gonged" because I was, in this act, a sexy lady in a bikini, I ended up being "gonged" by a dog puppet who said "Dave, do you really have to have all of your one night stands on this show?"
But, even though it was just a dog puppet, there was something humiliating about getting "gonged", and maybe that's why I haven't been able to come up with any new acts in the last year. It also might be because last year I agreed to do a striptease with my boss in a show, even though it was clear to everyone except me that my boss was just trying to find an excuse to do a strip tease with me.
3. But whatever the reason, since my last birthday I have ceased to be an up-and-coming burlesque performer. I did, however, go to Europe and perform in a piece with the woman that I have been entangled in a multi-year, painful, almost-but-not-quite-requited love with. In the act our wrists are tied together by a couple of feet of rope, and we try to get away from eachother, but we can't, so instead we give each other hateful looks and try to pull our arms out of their sockets. But wait--there is a surprise ending: we magically find scissors stashed under out chairs and cut the rope. And at the last minute we grab each other by the wrists, fall back in our chairs, and cling desperately to each other as the last chords of the song die away. After we performed the act in Berlin someone approached me and said "I liked your act with za string. Is it about za lesbian realtionship?"
4. Last year on my birthday I was in love with that same woman, and the fact that she came to my party made my day--despite the fact that a month earlier I had sworn I was cutting her out of my life once and for all after she told me that actually she had decided that she couldn't date me because she was too scared of ruining our wonderful friendship. This year she is not attending my birthday party because I have sworn that I have cut her out of my life once and for all after she, about a month ago, told me that she actually can't date me because she is too scared of ruining our wonderful friendship. On my birthday two years ago my family and I dressed up as zombies and walked around in the graveyard. I was still in love with that woman, but she was in Costa Rica trying to find herself on my birthday. A week before she left she told me that she did want to date me, but then the day before she left she wouldn't let me kiss her good bye. "I can't". she said. I never quite knew what that meant, but I'm pretty sure it meant that she didn't want to ruin our wonderful friendship.
5. But despite the fact that my romantic situation is exactly the same fruitless crock of shit (Kurt Vonnegut reference) that it was a year ago, I now, thanks to my diligent study of the works of William Shakespeare over the last year, can describe the situation thus:
Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,
And make me travel forth without my cloak,
To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,
To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,
For no man well of such a salve can speak
That heals the wound and cures not the disgrace:
Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief;
Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss:
The offender's sorrow lends but weak relief
To him that bears the strong offence's cross.
Ah! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,
And they are rich and ransom all ill deeds.
Somehow I have resisted sending her that sonnet via Facebook or whatever. Let's see if I can say the same thing next year.
6. A difference from last year: the porch on my childhood home is now complete with a front railing after being without one for 20 years. 21 years ago my father was laid off from his job with the Civil Rights Department and decided to upgrade our porch. He tore the old one off and started to put a new one on. But then at the last minute he got a new job with the state's Child Protective Services and became so busy he didn't have time to finish the porch. So, it looked like a porch with missing front teeth for 20 years. But then a series of event occurred. First of all, America became a corrupt capitalist society in which doing things as cheaply as possible was the highest priority. Then, people stopped wanting to make cars in America. Then, the Motor City fell on even harder times. Then Jennifer Granholm decided to give the film industry a tax incentive to make movies in Michigan. Then a location scout for a movie called "Betty Anne Waters" starring Hilary Swank found my dad's house and thought is would be perfect to use as Betty Anne Water's house. "Betty Anne Waters" is the story of a woman who becomes an attorney after her brother is wrongly imprisoned for a murder he didn't commit--and she gets so busy being an attorney that she doesn't have time to take care of her house. And it gets very cluttered, like my dad's house was. The set decorator used his clutter as inspiration, but then boxed up and moved all of his clutter out and replaced it with fake clutter that they purchased and placed around carefully. When they were done shooting the movie, they took all of their fake clutter and put all of my dad's clutter back exactly where it had been. But, they also added a railing to the porch, which apparently took under three hours to do.
The Bollingers, our neighbors from across the street made a very big deal about how they had been waiting for 20 YEARS for that porch to be finished. They also made it clear that they hoped that the people making the movie would decide to wash our windows, because they had also been waiting for 20 years for THAT to happen! At first this made me mad but then I remembered that my father's favorite hobby has always been making fun of the Bollinger's for being fat, and somehow it seemed fair. During my childhood he liked to call them the "Bowlingballs" and gloated joyously every time the Schwann Ice Cream truck appeared in front of their house to make a special delivery of fine frozen treats to re-stock their basement freezer.
My father lives primarily on large piles herbs and supplements. Somewhere at the bottom of these piles is also a significant portion of food, but that seems only to act as a kind of baby-buggy in which the supplements ride into his mouth.
7. I have adopted some of my father's eating habits in the last year, primarily a daily consumption of a strange concoction of mystery herbs known as "Nu-Plus". "Nu-Plus" was a product made by a triangle-scheme supplement company that I mother had a brief flirtation with about 15 years ago. Although "Nu-Plus" for her was just a phase, my father has developed a lifetime commitment to it. Recently he found a fellow in town named George who has a store called "Ancient Formulas" who is able to make home-made "Nu-Plus" that he sells to my father for a quarter of the price, and then my father gives it to me. The last time I visited my father we went to "Ancient Formulas" to pick up the most recent batch of "Nu-Plus", and the only other costumer in the store was a fellow with the most enormous goiter I have ever seen.
I seem to live primarily on "Nu-Plus" these days. Every day I mix it with protein powder in a big purple mug from which I spoon-feed myself this delicious slurry. If you approach this mug in its permanent habitat on my desk and look inside it you will see that it resembles a barnacle-encrusted cave.
8. I now weigh I weigh 95 lbs. I also now have big veins that stick out all over my forearms and my hands and knees seem to have gotten bigger. I also now have dark brown hair. I dyed it, and I hope very much that the decision to do so had nothing to do with the fact that my unrequited love only seems to date brunettes. I also have the desire to get guns tattooed on my chest--which I fear may have something to do with the fact that my unrequited love only seems to date tattooed chicks--but really suspect that it has to do with the fact that last summer I was struck suddenly with a love of hip hop that hit me like a bolt of lightning.
9. My sister got engaged this year and I interrupted her fiance's proposal by rapping. It was a beautiful August day and the two of them were sitting on the glider on the porch. I wandered over, whistled a couple bars of intro music, and then started rapping "rubber band man, WILD as the taliban, NINE in my right FORTY-FIVE in my other hand! I'm a troubled man, I always in trouble man, worth a couple hundred grand, Chevys all colors, man." But somewhere in there I trailed off, turned on my heel, and walked away because I noticed that the fiance had his arm looped around my sister's neck and was holding something that appeared to be a ring in close proximity to her face. And she was looking at it with the baffled expression that people frequently have when their pets present them with decapitated rodents.
10. These days I am unable to stop rapping. I am also unable to stop making puppets. For instance, when someone says "whatever you want" I say "Stacks on deck, patron on ice, we can pop bottles all night, baby you can have whatever you like. yeah. Late night sex so wet so tight, I'll gas up the jet for you tonight and baby you can go wherever you like". When someone says they are spending money I say "you're BLOWIN that celery." When someone says anything about either pants or dancing I say "I can't dance cuz I keep a big knot in my PANTS".
When someone says "Can you make some puppets for me?" I say "Sure."
When someone else says "Can you make some puppets for me?" I say "...Sure."
And when someone else says "Can you make some puppets for me?" I say "......Sure." |
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| The Devil's Butthole |
[Feb. 15th, 2008|10:21 pm] |
Several years ago Victory Gardens Theater produced a show called The Snow Queen: a family holiday musical version of the classic Hans Christian Anderson tale. They hired Blair Thomas, master puppeteer, to design puppets for it. I work for Blair Thomas, and when he designs stuff, I make it. Sometimes when he designs stuff, I design it and I make it.
During the designing and making of the Snow Queen, Blair Thomas lived in another state. But I lived here, and for the week before the show opened, I lived at the Biograph because there were so many puppets that still needed to be made. I slept on an army cot under a packing blanket--and got the shit scared out of me by what had to be John Dillinger's ghost plodding around in two-tone oxfords during the night.
I thought the puppets I made turned out pretty good, under the circumstances. The Jeff committee thought they were great. They nominated me for Best Puppet Design.
Blair thought the puppets were an embarrassment. So did Victory Gardens: for the remount the next year they decided to cut most of the puppets and replace the tragically black-sweat-suit clad puppeteers with frisky dancers dressed like sexy hobbits. Victory Gardens wanted Blair to design some new things for the frisky dancers to wear to transform them into "devils", "wooden soldiers" and "an army of snowflakes", but Blair thought the whole thing was a crock of shit. He tried to get out of working on the remount, but his efforts failed.
So, we sat down one afternoon at the studio and tried to think up some clever ideas. We both agreed that the devil costumes should slightly obscene--because things like devils should always be slightly obscene. In fact, Blair told me that he had always wanted to do a staging of "MacBeth" in which the first thing you see is one of the witches (costumed as a devilish centaur with hairy haunches and luscious bare breasts) butt-fucking a wolf puppet. We tried to think if there was some way we could incorporate this idea, but in the end we decided that the "devils" should wear fake bare butts. I did some sketches and we emailed them to the show's director, Frank Galati. But Frank Galati was busy spending quality time with his husband in their cabin in Michigan. When he received the sketches, he crumpled them up and tossed them on the blazing fire that was warming his toes.
We started making the stuff anyway. I was unable to interest the studio intern in sculpting the mold for the butt, so I did it myself. I piled two large, round mounds of clay next to eachother on a board, and smoothed them into a butt shaped with nicely cleft cheeks. Then I made them lumpy and dimpled, grotesque as I thought the devil's ass would be. I was pleased with the end result, and was certain that Blair would be as well. "Blair's going to love this!" I bragged to the intern. "He'll love this almost as much as the fat testicles I put on that pegasus for A Christmas Carol last year!" This boasting was not a lie: I had in fact sculpted fat testicles on a pegasus that had appeared in Trinity Repertory Theater's family Christmas classic. And, I painted them with a blush of pink. When Blair saw the testicles, he was impressed by how "virile, almost ready to burst!" they were. When he said this, it was accompanied by a mime of cupping and squeezing the virile, ready- to-burst testicles.
Sadly, my hopes for similar praise were dashed when Blair saw the butt. "It shouldn't be lumpy!" He declared: "It should be sexy! Luscious! You should want to touch it!"
"Well, I guess I just thought the devil's butt would be gross or something. I don't know." I mumbled vaguely in defense. Then I reshaped it to resemble the buttocks of Halle Berry as Catwoman. I presented it this to Blair.
"Where's the butthole?" he asked. "Oh, somewhere in there." I said, pointing. "It needs to be more visible." he said. When it was deemed satisfactory, I coated it in five layers of papier-mache. It glistened eerily in the dim warehouse light.
To accompany the butt, I sculpted horns and a mask with a large nose. I also made gloves with wrinkly fingers, and big hooves that the dancers could wear over their jazz shoes. I also painted a bright pink, puckering anus on the butt as a finishing touch. "There's no fucking way they are going to let that butthole onstage, is there?" I asked the intern. He shook his head sadly.
However, when Blair came back from the first day of rehearsal, he had surprising news. "We're in the right company!" he said. "They loved the butt! They loved the butthole! And--they want us to make the tails look like dildos!" Though surprised indeed, I was delighted. We proceeded with construction the rest of the costumes--but before we stated papier-macheing the the next butt, Blair repeated his request that the butt-hole be more pronounced. He took his thumb and pressed a large indentation around it. Sometimes when you want a job done right, you have to do it yourself.
However, by the time the construction of the third and final butt rolled around, his tastes had changed yet again. "I want that butt-hole to look like one of those noses could fit in it!" he said. He demonstrated by picking up one of the masks and attempting, in vain, to insert it into the clay butthole, which clearly needed to be expanded to a slightly disturbing depth and width.
I asked the intern to papier-mache it. "Be careful around the butthole. It's kind of deep and wide now, and we don't want to lose any of the definition." I explained.
When all three butts were finished and dry, it was time to add the tails. The intern did this as well--first, he twisted long pieces of wire together, stuck them in place, reinforced them, and covered the wire with foam and tape. Then he sewed long tubes of red fleeced, which he laboriously forced over the wire/foam/tape, and then finished it off with a cardboard arrowhead.
After he went home for the day I secretly re-made the tails to look more like dicks. The next time he was in, I had him paint the butts and tails a cotton candy pink, gradually fading into a ruby red at the end of the tail, and on the height of the butt-cheeks. He did an excellent job. He also painted the buttholes a sickening purplish brown, entirely of his own accord. The detail was impeccable.
Meanwhile, back at Victory Gardens: rehearsal was in full swing. And with every passing day spent in rehearsal, more puppets were cut from the show, and new dancer-friendly accessories were requested. One of these requests was for the "army of snowflakes" (previously snowflake puppets on long poles) to be re-designed as, in the words of Frank Galati, "armor that looks like turtle-shells covered in pieces of snowflakes." In addition, it was requested that we sculpt masks of "snouts with horrible, curling lips and boar's teeth." From this description, Frank Galati was clearly envisioning snowflake-encrusted teenage-mutant-ninja-turtles with vagina dentata for faces.
I spent the afternoon sculpting and chortling to myself. The result was a a vertically opening mouth with several layers of rippling labia and a prominent clitoris that doubled as a nose. In the middle was an opening that would reveal gnashing teeth. Still chortling, I showed the finished product to the intern. "That's not subtle at all." he said.
However, when Blair took a look later in the week, he asked "Is it just me, or does this look like a vagina? It's just me, isn't it?"
"Well, I guess now that you mention it, it does look sort of like a vagina. That's funny." I said.
But, like one who had committed the perfect crime, I needed acknowledgement of my cleverness, and several hours later I blurted out: "Okay, okay, it's true, it IS a vagina! It's a vagina dentata!"
"A vagina dentata? What's that?" Blair asked.
"You know--a vagina with teeth in it! Man's primordial fear!"
He had the intern try it on. "It's great how you can see the actual mouth underneath it. Do you think there's some way we could add some sort of tongue extension? Can you get stuff like that at The Pleasure Chest, Meredith?" Blair asked.
"Yeah, probably." I said.
The day of reckoning arrived--the first day of Tech. Blair and I showed up at the theater with three devil costumes complete with bare, blushing cheeks, dick-shaped tails, and raw, gaping buttholes, and three sets of snowflake armor complete with frozen-pussy face masks. The devils made it as only far as the first hour of tech--sadly, the tails had a tendency to bounce around and trip the dancers during a fancy high-stepping sequence, and the long-fingered gloves got in the way of their jazz hands. But when we showed Frank Galati the vagina dentata masks he declared them a success: "Those are pig ugly! Brilliant! Meredith, you are a princess among men!" And they have graced the Victory Gardens Theater stage every holiday season since. |
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| Ol' Blue Eyes |
[Aug. 27th, 2007|11:37 am] |
Last night I dreamed that I was watching a very young Frank Sinatra sing and dance his heart out in a movie shoot. He was really on fire, and wowed me with his razz-ma-tazz and his all-that-jazz. He also was naked--and although this didn't seem to be holding him back, he was finding ways to avoid putting his genitals in full view.
The director told Frank that he needed to loosen up, to let go his inhibitions, and give the camera a good full frontal view. So, he went for it--he turned right around and finished the number with his penis swinging to and fro right before our eyes.
However, there was something odd about his penis: instead of being accompanied by a pair of testicles, it was emerging from the depths of a huge, gaping vagina. The lips of this vagina were the size and fullness of a pair of large testicles, and were doing some swinging of their own. And the whole package was an unnaturally deep purple, and covered with curling Italian pubes. |
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| Feigning Dominance |
[Aug. 2nd, 2007|11:56 am] |
Recently I did something that I used to do alot, but had not done for three solid years: make a shit-ton of money rough-housing some pervert for a couple of hours.
I was going to be doing the rough-housing of this pervert along with my friend "Mistress Victoria". She had set up the appointment, and all I knew about it was that this particular pervert was that he described himself as a "no limits masochist".
When I stepped in to the dungeon, the smell of incense and bleach filled me with nostalgia. I felt as though I were returning to my childhood home, or some other place that I hadn’t realized how much I had missed. Victoria put on her uniform—a pinstriped blazer that covered the tattoos and scaqrs on her arms and stomach, ruffly underwear, flesh-colored fishnets, and high heels. I put on a red push up bra, red underpants, a black mini skirt that was a cast-off from my mothers’ slutty post-divorce days, and high heels.
Despite the fact that so far everything was exactly as I had remembered it, I wasn’t sure if I would remember quite how to be a dominatrix. I hadn’t done it in three years and I felt nervous. Victoria assured me it would all come back to me.
She went to answer the door and let the pervert in. She greeted him and was about to introduce me, but before she could managed to bump a nearby wall and knock down a painting--it fell to the floor with a crash. I picked it up quickly and set it off to the side.
“Joseph, this is Mistress Charlotte.” Victoria said.
“Hello, Mistress Charlotte.” Said Joseph.
“Helloo.” I said.
Joesph was tall and bald with a pronounced jaw and sharp nose. He looked like Daddy Warbucks. He was wearing shorts and was carrying a cardboard box.
Vitcoria yelled at him to get down on his knees. Then she yelled "What have you brought me?" which was his cue to open the box.
The contents of the box included:
-a stack of computer-printed pictures of things he wanted us to do to him that he had seen other people doing on dirty websites.
-a black pair of men's sandals with foam soles. They looked cheap. It was mysterious why he had brought them.
-a tan baseball hat from an air show. It was also mysterious why he had brought this.
-a package of a drug called Cialis. This was mysterious to me as well at first. But then I put it together that he couldn't get it up without this stuff.
-about four dozen needles. He wanted us to stick these in him--presumably in his nipples and genitals, because he had shaved big bald circles into the hair on these areas. I saw this when Victoria yelled at him "Get undressed!"
-a strange device that looked like this: a skinny clear plastic tube attached to a piece of pale blue plastic shaped like a combination of a vagina and the head of a plunger. "I made this for you, Victoria!" said Joseph.
Victoria handed me the stack of pictures and I leafed through them. Many of them were close-ups of wide open vaginas pissing directly into gaping, curled-lipped mouths of men. There was also a picture of a penis with a toothbrush stuck into the urethra, and a man sticking his face into a big black ass. None of those things were going to happen to Joseph that evening. He, meanwhile, was neatly laying eight one-hundred dollar bills on the floor in front of him.
"Get undressed!" Victoria yelled.
She picked up the money and whispered for me to come with her. We went behind a faux-leather curtain that concealed a kitchen and started drinking cups of water so that we could pee on him. I had just peed minutes before his arrival and wasn't sure that I could do it again soon.
"What should we do to him?" she whispered. He probably could hear us.
"I don't know--I guess he's into this shit." I said, showing her the pictures.
"That's fucking disgusting." she said
"Yeah, in his fucking dreams we're going to do that to him!" I said
"He's so gross." she said "I think he's drunk. He's smells bad."
"Really? What should we do?"
We agreed that we would start with restraining him on the rack, flog him, and then give him an enema-- because that would kill at least forty minutes. If we found we really needed to kill time we would give him two enemas. And at some point we would pee and him, and stick needles in him.
We threw back the faux-leather curtain and charged out. Victoria yelled at him and spit a big glob onto his bald head. I planted a few badly aimed high-heeled kicks on his bare ass.
"Get up you stupid slut!" Victoria yelled.
"Yes, Mistress Victoria." said Joseph. He rose, and she dragged him over to the rack. We cuffed him with leather restraints--she took one hand and foot, and I took the others. We clipped his wrist restraints to the corners of the rack, and then I grabbed a spreader bar to put between his ankles.
This was my big chance to talk. "Spread your legs!" I yelled. At least I felt like I was yelling. I probably was just using a nice, audible indoor voice.
He spread his legs. "Yes, Miss Charlotte."
"Wider." I said audibly.
Things proceeded in a predictable fashion: Victoria and I said things like "You're a nasty slut, AREN'T you? You're just a worthless slave, AREN'T you? Whose worthless slave ARE you, you nasty slut?" And he responded with things like "Yes, Miss Victoria. I am a nasty slave, Miss Charlotte. I am Miss Victoria and Miss Charlotte's slave".
Victoria took a Cialis pill out of the package. "Should we give it to him without water?" she asked. "Sure." I said. She opened his mouth and put in the pill. "Chew!" she yelled. "You don't deserve any water!". He chewed the pill. I said something like "That's so that your pathetic little cock will work, isn't it? Will that make our nasty little toy get hard so that we can play with it?!".
Victoria took a thin rope and tied it around our nasty little toy. "Tug of war!" she yelled, and started yanking on it.
We took turns saying things like: "I've got your cock and I can do anything I want with it! Because it belongs to me now, and I can do anything I want with it, CAN"T I?! And there's nothing you can do to stop me, IS there?" and he surely said "No, Mistress. I can't stop you. My cock belongs to you now."
His balls were squeezed to the point of achieving the color and tightness reminiscent of a red balloon. I flicked at them with my fingers. I twisted his penis and then slapped it repeatedly, and it bounced up and down. He winced and let out a pained "Ooohhhh." He did this every time we hit him or did any of the other things we were doing. These things included: yanking on the rope tied to his penis and testicles, flogging his back and ass (in the proper spanking area, of course), flogging his penis and testicles, flogging his inner thighs, spanking him with a stiff leather thing, hitting his inner thighs with a stiff leather thing, hitting his ass with a riding crop, hitting his penis and testicles with a riding crop, hitting his inner thighs with a riding crop, etc. At some point Victoria lit a cigarette and blew smoke in his face. He had specifically requested that. Then she rolled and dabbed the burning end of it on the head of his cock. While she did that she made noises like people make when they are offering a tasty meat-flavored treat to a dog.
The "Ooohhhh" sound he was making during all of this annoyed me, because when he made it he exhaled a stinky mouthful of breath near my face. That he was doing something that acctually was annoying made it easier to feign anger. I grabbed his chin, squeezed it, and clamped his mouth shut. "Keep your mouth SHUT! I don't like you breathing your nasty breath on my face!" I said through clenched teeth.
I slapped his penis, and he made the noise again, and I said "What did I tell you?!!! I told you to keep your mouth SHUT!" He never did get the hang of keeping his mouth shut, so I was able to drag this activity out for quite some time.
The fun times on the rack were over when he called his safe word on the leg-spreading. We told him he was pathetic and ordered him to lay down face first on the faux-leather bondage table. I uncuffed his wrist, and then saw that Victoria was attaching his other wrist cuff to the table, so I put it back on. I hoped he didn't notice. I also hoped he didn't notice that Victoria and I were both a little comatose from boredom.
I climbed up on the table and stomped on his butt a few times. I squeezed his head between my feet and said things like "I bet you'd like to look up my skirt, wouldn't you, you nasty little slut? But you don't deserve that, DO you? No! You DON'T!" Then I killed some time by flogging and beating him and carrying on in this fashion: "I'm going to leave such deep welts on your pathetic slave ass that you won't be able to stop thinking about us the whole drive home! Isn't that right, SLAVE? And when you look in the mirror you're going to think about who you belong to, AREN'T you? Who owns you?! Who do you belong to?!" ("Misstress Charlotte and Mistress Victoria!" said face-down Joseph) "That's right, you belong to US, and we can do WHATEVER we want to you! And you can't stop us! We OWN you! We OWN your ass, and I want it to be RED!" I flogged him fiercely. "Good. It's getting nice and marked up. Just how I want it. BEG me, you pathetic slut! BEG me to mark you to prove who you belong to!" ("Please, Mistress! Please may I have a mark?" said face-down Joseph). I cut one of many marks into him. He made the "Ooohhh" noise. "What's that, SLAVE?! Do you have something to SAY?!!!" I demanded. I probably stomped on his butt again, or grabbed his ear or something. "The only thing I want to hear out of your mouth is 'Thank you, Mistress!'. Do you understand?!!!" ("Yes, Mistress, thank you Mistress!" said Joesph, into the table).
Victoria arrived with an enema bag filled with warm water. She told him to get on his hands and knees, lubed up his butthole, and stuck the nozzle in. "You're going get nice and clean so you can take our cocks, AREN'T you, you filthy little slut! Yes, you're going to take ALL of this, and THEN you are going to take our cocks, AREN'T you?! Because you're our little slut, AREN'T you, and you want our cocks, DON'T you? We're going to tear you open with our huge cocks, AREN'T we?"
I chimed in, spanking his now slippery butt cheeks full force. "You think that hurts, you little slut? Just wait until you feel our cocks in you! THEN you'll feel how we own you, inside and out! Don't you want our cocks, you slut? BEG for our cocks!" ("Yes, Mistress Charlotte and Mistress Victoria, I want your cocks." I wasn't entirely sure this was true.
"You keep that water in there until I tell you you can let it out! You're going to hold it in there for your Mistress!" Victoria squeezed his stomach. ("Yes, Mistress Victoria"). He held it for a suspenseful minute, then called his safe word, and was sent to the bathroom. He was told to knock when he was ready to come out.
Victoria and I went behind the faux-leather curtain again.
"What should we do now? It's only 8:40. Ugh." she said.
"I don't know. Let's just put him on the spanking horse and spank him some more, and then we can fuck him in the ass while he's up there. And then we can turn him over and do CBT and needles for the end?" I offered.
"Yeah, that sounds good. And I'll use this thing on him when he comes out. I think I can pee now." she held up the the weird plastic device.
"What the fuck is that thing anyway? You're supposed to pee in it?"
"Yeah, I guess."
Joseph opened the bathroom door and came out without knocking. "You were supposed to KNOCK! I told you to KNOCK!" Victoria shrieked. "Get down on your knees! I didn't tell you you could stand, did I?" ("No, Mistress Victoria.") "You disobeyed me, didn't you! Give me that--(pointing to the enema bag)! Now wash your hands! And make sure they are clean!"
When he had done that to her feigned satisfaction she had him lie down on the floor on his back. She pulled down her pantyhose and stuck the plastic pee-thing onto her crotch. "Now you had better drink ALL of this, do you understand! Every last drop of it! Don't waste any of it!" Joseph put the end of the tube in his mouth, and soon it filled with pee, and then his mouth filled with pee. He took two nearly-overflowing swallows before he pulled the tube out and capped it with his thumb. "I need a break, Mistress." he said. "Okay, but then you have to drink it all!" He took another swallow, and then called his safe word. "You're a pathetic toilet!" said Victoria. "Go take this to the bathroom and pour it out. He carried the pee-filled tube away, still capping it with his thumb.
While he was rinsing it she got out a spray bottle of Clorox and some paper towel and cleaned the floor where he had been laying. There were at least five tiny drops of pee visible, and if we had really cared, we could have punished him for "wasting precious nectar" or something. But we didn't have the chance, because when Joseph came out of the bathroom he declared "I think I'm done. That's enough for me." We stared and blinked at him for a moment, unsure if we should be concerned, or be thanking our lucky stars. "I probably could have drunk it all if I had just taken it straight on the face." he added.
He started to get dressed and we all dropped the whole mistress/slave act. Victoria gave him helpful directions to get back to the highway. He told us about his private airplane and we gushed with enthusiasm. He apologize for leaving early, and thanked us. We each gave him a hug, and then he asked if he could kiss our butts. We let him--three pecks on each cheek. Then he said "You know what I'd really like to do with you girls? Take you out for dinner!" We told him how simply lovely that would be--but that it would have to wait until his next trip to town, because we were booked up for the night.
He took the left over Cialis with him, but let Victoria keep the needles for future use. "Would you like to keep the hat as well?" referring to the baseball hat in the box.
"No, no, you should keep it." said Victoria.
"Are you sure? It's a pretty cool hat!" he said.
"That's true--it's pretty cool!" she said
"It's yours! Keep it!"
Later we discovered that he left the sandals as well. The sneaky bastard.
He closed the door and was gone. Victoria looked at me and said "YES!!!! He left early! I love it when they do that!" We gave eachother a high-five. |
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| Naughty Librarian |
[Jul. 15th, 2007|04:08 pm] |
I made many fatal errors last night. The last fatal error of the night took place at 4am. It is now 4pm the following day, and the twelve hours in between have been devoted to finding ways to alleviate the overwhelming desire to punch myself in the face--besides punching myself in the face.
I despise running, but I went for a 30 minute run at noon. And the more I thought about what a stupid fuck-up I am, the harder I ran. It felt good in the way that I think punching myself in the face would. I listened to Frank Sinatra on my headphones, and sometimes I jumped over branches as if they were hurdles, when the music was really swinging.
Last night ended like this: It was 4:30 am. I was standing in the alley behind my house wearing only high heels and an unzipped bright-orange-tropical-print mini-dress and huge black hoop earrings. My hair still looked perfect, because of my over-use of hairspray and gel, but my bright red lipstick was smeared in an arc under my mouth. I was talking to Honey's answering machine trying to say this: "I left because I thought you were running away from me, because that is what you always do. But really all I want is just to have an honest conversation with you, because I feel like I am never being very honest with you. So, hopefully since you are back in Chicago now, we can have a conversation. And I hope that you will call me. And I hope that you have a good night."
However, I don't think it sounded quite that concise, because after I got out the first sentence, a giant black dog came trotting down the alley and put its face under my mini-dress, aiming for my crotch, and I found that really distracting.
Last night started like this:
I looked perfect. I was wearing a bright-orange-tropical-print mini dress, huge black hoop earrings, fishnet stockings, gold cowboy boots, heavy eyeliner, and bright red lipstick. My freshly bleached hair was smoothed across my forehead. Even my pubic hair was perfect. I had bleached it and shaved it into a tiny, frizzy triangle. Bleaching it burned horribly, and shaving would inevitably lead to festering razor-burn--but the pain was all in the past and the future.
The reason that I looked so perfect was that I was on my way to perform in a show at Spin--and I would see Honey there. She had just moved to Madison, WI and I was both heartbroken and relieved. I was just starting to be more relieved than heartbroken. But when she sent me a message saying "Finally get to c u on saturday. Looking forward to it.", I was in a frenzy again. I assumed she was coming to town to help with the show and to gather the remains of her things. I was afraid to see her, because I knew it would be extremely thrilling, but ultimately shortlived and frustrating. And then the ratio of heartbreak-to-relief that I had just gotten under control would be thrown off again.
We saw eachother in the basement of Spin, which is where I first got to know her. It is cramped and filthy but I love it. We hugged eachother and delared our enthusiasm for seeing one another. The last time we had seen eachother was on a camping trip two weeks before. For some reason, we acted like we didn't really know eachother the whole time. But, that was then--this was now, and now we were acting like long-lost best friends. I think she told me I looked good--which fell a bit short of standing in stunned silence, wordless with awe until "Holy shit, you look so fucking hot that I suddenly realize I'm in love with you!" could be stammered. That was what I was hoping for.
I milled about and did the things one does when one is waiting to perform. I went upstairs to pretend to look for someone. I came back downstairs and watched girls painting spirit gum on there nipples and sticking fancy fake-nipples over them. I watched other girls squash their breasts and wrap ace bandage around them. I amswered questions like these: "How was your trip?", "What act are you doing tonight?" and "Is this legal?" I laughed loudly and told the same stories, but in different rooms. At some point I glued my own fancy fake-nipples on and wore them under my bright-orange-tropical-print mini-dress. I touched them alot to make sure they were not coming off.
I also watched Honey put duct-tape over her nipples. While she did that we had this conversation:
her: How are you? Have you been keeping busy?
me: I've been out of town alot. I'm feeling kind of melancholy, because I just spent alot of time with my sister, and now I'm back here and I miss her!
her: That's kind of how I felt when I left my sister back in Madison.
(me thinking: I assumed you just came back from Madison today. For the show. But I bet you didn't! I bet you've been here a while and didn't call me!)
me: How long have you been back?
her: A week. But I've spent most of the time job hunting! But I think I found one!
(me thinking: That's no fucking excuse for not calling me! You're not my fucking friend!)
me: So, are you going to be living in Chicago then?
her: Yeah, I guess. For now.
(me thinking: Fuck! I would be excited, except that you clearly want to have nothing to do with me, because you didn't call me to tell me you were back in town, and you just sent me a text message which I was excited about at the time, but now realize was just you covering your ass because you had been in town for a week and not called me!)
I believe that I appeared completely nuetral about her decision to not actually move to Madison. I believe that I casually moved on to another topic of conversation. (Something like: working sucks, doesn't it?!) I also believe that I appeared fairly nuetral about helping her fasten the back of her chain mail bra, even though I didn't feel nuetral about it at all.
Along with her chain mail bra, Honey wore leather chaps over tight men's underwear. She was packing. I had never seen her wear anything like this decided to make a big deal over how hot she looked in hopes that she would think I was being sort of fake. It seemed like the best way to handle the situation since tonight we were on our best-friends behavior. And best-friends always tell eachother that they look hot even though they aren't actually attracted to eachother.
But if you are the type of person that Honey is, you also drape your arms around, caress the bodies of, hold the hands of, and kiss the cheeks of your best-friends even though you aren't actually attracted to them. She did that to me all night. It gave me the wrong impression. It has been giving me the wrong impression for over a year.
She also sometimes gives me the wrong impression by making out with me.
I feel that she has the wrong impression of me. I'm not sure what that impression is exactly, but I know it is wrong, because if it were right, she would be in love with me. Sometimes I try to do strange things on the off-chance of stumbling upon the thing that will finally give her the right impression.
Last night I tried this: being a Naughty Librarian, on stage.
I wore conservative looking black high heels, a knee-length navy blue wool skirt, a blue polka-dot print blouse (tucked in), and horn rimmed glasses. Underneath all of this I wore navy blue lace panties and a matching bra. Underneath that I wore fancy fake-nipples made of black sequins. I carried a demure navy blue book.
But in the act, the navy blue book is a very, very dirty book. It is filled with the dirtiest things you can think of. I carried it on stage behind my back, and then I slowly brought it out. I shushed the audience and looked around to make sure no one was watching. Then I opened it and began to read. I began to read the dirtiest things you can imagine, and they made me slowly lick my fingers to turn pages, and loosen the neck-tie of my blouse, and then open my blouse and caress my breasts, and then take off my blouse entirely. I turned the page and the dirty words made me start rubbing my thighs and pulling up my skirt. Then I read something so dirty that it made me put the book in my mouth and hold it in my teeth while I pulled down my panties. Then I wanted to smell the book, and then I licked the open pages of the book and rubbed my face all over them as if they were not pages of a book at all, but someone's wide-open beaver.
Then I realized how naughty I was being, so I slammed the book shut and spanked my bare ass with it. For a very long time. Especially long because I accidentally started doing it on the wrong cue.
Once I had sufficiently punished myself for my naughtiness I opened the book again, but something else dirty made me clutch it to my breasts and slip my arms out of my bra. I flipped a few pages in front of my bare, bejewelled breasts, and then I turned away, still reading, and began to unzip the back of my skirt. I had nothing on under the skirt, and I began to slide it down with the book.
At this point I was facing Honey--she was by the back of the stage. And she had the look on her face that read: "Holy shit, I can't believe what she is doing!!!" Which made me feel triumphant. It was a much better response than I had gotten the last time I had taken the stage at Spin and hoped that seeing me as a Naughty Sheperdess would finally give her the right impression of me.
I gloriously completed the routine by stuffing the book between my legs, turning around, and then opening the book and my legs--as if the book was actually my wide-open beaver. Then I slammed my legs and the book shut, and walked off stage.
"I don't even know what to say about that! It was hot!" said Honey, as I slid past her. Her hands slid over some part of me, or maybe mine slid over some part over her. I felt like hot shit. Like the hottest shit in the club. Some other people seemed to think so too, which made me feel like even hotter shit. And think that maybe, just maybe, all I had to do was sit back and wait, and Honey would come right to me.
Two of my very favorite people, Maxx and Sam, were there to see the show. I had seen them the night before, and over shots of tequila I had made them a promise. This was it: That when I saw Honey I would go up to her and say "Honey, there is a conversation that we need to have. That we have needed to have for a long time. But since we clearly are never going to have it, I am going to have it for us." And
then I would act out a conversation, saying both parts, that would go something like this. "Honey, what is going on? You send me mixed messages all the time! You say you like me, but then you don't act like it, and sometimes you act like it but say you don't! Sometimes you make out with me. Sometimes you run away from me. What's going on?"
"Well, Meredith, I really do like you, and I'm really attracted to you, but I just don't want to get into anything serious right now, and I know that would happen if we dated!"
"Honey, that's not true at all! Admit--you're just not that into me! Admit it!"
"Okay, fine, Meredith, you're right! I'm not that into you! I just didn't want to tell you that because then you would stop humping my leg all the time, and I love the attention!"
"Well, Honey, finally you are being honest with me! And I know it will be a blow to your ego not to have me there stroking it all the time, but you'll get over it! Goodbye forever!!!"
And then I would kiss her, hard, and storm off.
I thought there was about a 50% chance I would do this. But things seemed to be going so well that it sort of slipped my mind. Until 3am when the bar was closing and it was time to go home, and I realized I hadn't seen Honey in a long time.
I didn't want to go home. I didn't want to take off my Naughty Librarian costume, either. But I did. I put my bright-orange-tropical-print mini-dress back on, freshened up my lipstick, and tracked Honey. Time was running out, and Sam and Maxx were waiting for me to get to be ready to leave.
I very nearly trapped her in the office, but she evaded me on the pretense of obligations upstairs. She said she would be right back. So I tracked her to the bathroom and stood in the narrow hallway in front of the door to the basement. If I could just buy a little time, she would have to pass me.
Sam and Maxx stood across from me and I declared my intention. I was going to do it--I was going to have that monologue-conversation with Honey! Just like I promised!
But when Honey came back from the bathroom, she sweetly said "Are you takin' off?" to which I said "Yeah, think so." And she gave me a hug. And then she gave me a goodbye-kiss on the lips. And then instead of doing the enactment I had planned, I grabbed the back of her neck and started ferociously kissing her. She kissed me back, and somehow got out the words "Did you miss me?" when my tongue wasn't in her mouth. It was perfect, but short, because a man who worked for Spin came up and said "Hey you guys can't stand there." We stopped. I looked both smugly and sheepishly at Maxx and Sam.
"I'll be right back!" said Honey, and she disappeared through the basement door.
I didn't think she was coming back. And I couldn't really buy any more time and not look utterly pathetic, so I followed Maxx and Sam out. Hoping to the very last moment that Honey would come back and stop me from leaving.
Then something terrible and wonderful happened. When we were already in the car, I got a message from Honey that said "Did you leave? Ran back up & you were gone. I'm crying as we speak!"
I'm not sure exactly what I said, but it was something giddy like "Oh my god, holy shit, go back, go back!" I didn't know what to say. I didn't know what to do. It looked like overwhelming evidence that I hadn't forced her to make out with me after all! "What should I say you guys? What should I say?!" I asked Sam and Maxx. They would know.
We started to drive back to the club and discuss the issue. It was suggested that I respond with "And?", which I did. She responded with "And...I didn't think you'd leave before I came back." Me and Sam and Maxx discussed amongst our selves again and agreed on the response "I'm outside spin. Come home with me." However, I chickened out and secretly modified it to "I'm outside Spin. Come out." I sent that.
Then there was an agonizing moment of waiting for her response. We pulled over across the street and at the door, hoping to see her rush out, phone in hand. I was very excited. But every time the door opened, it wasn't her.
Then she wrote back "I would love to but I have to clean. I hate cleaning." Without asking for advice I hastily responded "I will wait...". Then I regretted it horribly, and I admitted that I had done it, and there was much discussion. And somehow it came out that I hadn't asked her to come home with me. "Because I know she would say no! There is just no way she would say yes!" I said. I moaned and knitted my brow.
There was no response from Honey. We waited. I alternated between wanting to wait and making bold statements like "She knows where I live. She has a car. If she wants to get in touch with me she knows how." This vascillation resulted in the frequent buckling and unbuckling of my seat belt.
There was still no response from Honey. We discussed amongst ourselves. Sam came up with "And if I wait...". I sent that. Honey didn't respond. She never responded.
And I may never know what really was going on inside Spin right then, but I will forever believe it was this: Honey, trying to clean, got really annoyed with my catty messages. She also was annoyed that even though I know that she will "make out with just about anyone", because she tells me that all the fucking time, I still insist on thinking it means something when we make out. So, she declared "What a bitch!" and tried to ignore my messages that were coming through. However, she couldn't quite resist the urge to read them just to see how far I would go in my delusion of importance, and she read them and then was more annoyed by them. And probably showed them to her friends and said "God, what is Meredith's problem! She won't stop sending me these stupid text messages!" And then everyone probably laughed and thought about what a stupid bitch I am.
Sam and Maxx were extremely supportive. They assured me that Honey was being completely stupid, and a bitch, and passing up a really great thing. And that clearly she didn't deserve me--I was much too good for her.
"So, I shouldn't contact her, should I?"
"No! No! The ball is totally in her court!"
I didn't listen. I instead I gave in to the temptation to dig myself into a deeper hole by trying to get myself out of the whole I was already in. I decided not to talk myself out of calling her. But somehow I managed to resist the urge long enough to unzip my bright-orange-tropical-tropical print mini-dress. Then I wandered onto the back porch where I actually get reception.
I egged myself on. "If I don't do this now, I never will! And then we will never get to the bottom of things! I know you aren't supposed to call people at 4 in the morning after you just saw them, but damn it, I'm going to go for the gusto!" And while I thought all that I wandered into the alley. Just to make sure I would actually get reception.
So, there I was. It was 4:30 am. I was standing in the alley behind my house wearing only high heels and an unzipped bright-orange-tropical-print mini-dress and huge black hoop earrings. My hair still looked perfect, because of my over-use of hairspray and gel, but my bright red lipstick was smeared in an arc under my mouth. I was talking to Honey's answering machine trying to say this: "I left because I thought you were running away from me, because that is what you always do. But really all I want is just to have an honest conversation with you, because I feel like I am never being very honest with you. So, hopefully since you are back in Chicago now, we can have a conversation. And I hope that you will call me. And I hope that you have a good night."
However, I don't think it sounded quite that concise, because after I got out the first sentence, a giant black dog came trotting down the alley and put its face under my mini-dress, aiming for my crotch, and I found that really distracting. |
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| Sugar Sugar, Zombie Zombie |
[Jun. 26th, 2007|11:02 pm] |
It has been just over a year since I began to be in varying degrees of unrequited love with Honey. And recently she agreed to be in an act with me even though I warned her that it would involve me biting her. I didn't tell her anything else about it before she came over for rehearsal the night before the show.
Earlier that day I had purchased a costume for her. I wanted her to look like a 1960s greaser girl, and I found the perfect thing: a black button down dress with a collar. I also bought her a little polka-dot neck scarf and a bra. I hadn't asked her her bra size, but it seemed likely that is was the same as mine. Which somehow seemed odd in a way I couldn't describe--sort of like I was shopping for a dress and bra for my little brother, and realizing that we have the same sized breasts.
Honey and I hadn't seen eachother for 2 months before that night. We had both been out of town on exciting adventures: me in Europe, her in latin America. I was nervous about seeing her, not only because I had to describe the act to her and convince her that it was a good idea after she had already agreed to it, but because I had been looking forward to the moment of seeing her for the last two months. In my imagination we would immediately kiss upon seeing eachother.
We didn't. We hugged, but I don't really remember it, because I was too distracted by wondering if the red silk shirt, glittering belt, high heels, bouffant, huge hoop earrings, and vivid red lipstick I had put on made my enthusiasm for seeing her too obvious. Earlier in the day I had worn a faded black tee-shirt and some baggy coullotes that made my thighs look spongy.
Her hair was longer and redder than I had ever seen it, and she was a little tan. I offered her a beer and explained (knowing that she seems to have a thing for drunks) that I was thoroughly hooked on beer after my travels to Belgium. And I made the obligatory comment about how beer elsewhere just doesn't taste as good after beer in Belgium. Honey said something about the last time she was in Belgium, with an alchoholic girlfriend, and we casually tossed around the names Leffe, Duvel, and Westmalle. I poured myself a second beer, hoping that she might have one too, and then another, and another, and then would change her mind about the "early night" she had warned me of. But she took a pass--apparently she had gotten shit-faced the night before. And sadly I knew that if only she felt about me the way I felt about her, she would have gotten shit-faced two nights in a row. For me.
We talked about out trips for a while, but soon she reminded me that we really should get down to business and rehearse the act. Which reminded me again that she doesn't feel about me the way I feel about her--because if she did, she would have sat there endlessly in enrapt conversation, hoping that we wouldn't get around to the act until the middle of the night, after which point it would truly be too late for her to go home...
I played for her the song I had picked out for the act: "Sugar Sugar" by the Archies. Then I showed her a video of Annette Funicello dancing in a scene from Pajama Party, which was apparently about 1960s teenagers dancing like maniacs at a pajama party. I told her that the act would start with her entering the stage and dancing like Annette Funicello. Then, I would come out as a zombie and attack her.
I showed her her costume and asked what her bra size was, to make sure the one I bought would fit. She said she didn't know. "You have no idea how long it's been since I've bought a bra!" she said. But she was probably, she continued with much hesitation, a B cup, maybe a 34. That was my size--I had guessed right. I laughed languidly and said "You wouldn't believe how often I buy bras!" And then confessed that I hadn't bought any for myself in the last two months--but only because of my EUROPEAN TRAVELLING and the shitty exchange rate. Then I launched into a monologue about the most amazing lingerie I had ever seen, in London, of course.
We went to the living room, where I had brought the lamp from my bedroom to provide a more dimly lit atmosphere. I showed her the simple choreography and she picked it up right away. We went through it together a few times, and then she did it alone. I explained that during the rehearsal I would be making my entrance, but that I would not actually be attacking her because it was hard for me to really get into it without my zombie costume and make-up on. So, she danced through the first few bars, and then I came lurching up, a rather half-assed zombie, and grabbed her surprisingly delicate wrist. I became acutely aware of the fact that she might in fact be smaller than me. And that made me wonder if I should feel bad for planning to rough-house her.
I presented her with some high heels I had picked out for her to wear. They were mine--we have the same sized feet. But she couldn't walk in them, only totter miserably and certainly not dance, so we decided against them. My own heels sounded fiercely on the wooden floor and made me tower over her just slightly. Sensing that our rehearsing was drawing to close, I leaned cooly against the wall and made dramatic poses in the lamplight that I hoped were just subtle enough while our conversation drifted back towards our travels.
I offered her a beer again, and she asked for a glass of water instead. I ran to get it and paused only a moment to freshen up my lipstick, hurrying back in fear that she might decide it was time for her to leave. I told her about a horrible hangover I had had in London, and we transitioned to sitting on the couch--I was surprised.
While we talked I lounged in front of her, leaning my platinum head on a gracefully bent arm that rested on the back of the couch. I sat on one hip, my body curving over the edge of the couch, my legs crossed, and one shoe occasionally popping off my heel and dangling. I made my eyes wide and smiled gloriously at her tales. I hope that my expression did not change when she said that she had met a girl on her trip who she had flirted with even though she's "not usually attracted to blonde girls". Then she added "Well, not blonde girls if they are surfer girls". I have spent the past several days seriously considering dying my hair black.
She leaned against the arm rest, facing me, but tucked up into herself. She repeatedly apologized for being so out of it even though she didn't seem any different from her usual self as far as I could tell. I knew that soon she would decide she needed to leave, and when she announced it, I reacted much the way that I had when she told me she was going to move to Madison, Wisconsin. I was cool and profoundly understanding of her need to do what was best for herself in the long run, even if that meant leaving me in my fancy clothes in my empty house wanting to pound my face ont he floor. I tried subtly to detain her by talking rapidly and jumping from one gripping conversation topic to the next.
But she slipped out towards the door. She thanked me for the water. I thanked her for coming over to rehearse. She thanked me for asking her to be in the act. I thanked her for being in the act. We hugged for a long time and kissed chastely on the lips. Then we hugged for a long time and kissed chastely on the lips a second time. We might even have a third time. I decided that I am in fact just slightly larger than her.
She walked down the stairs and I waved to her, hoping that utter nonchalance showed on my face, instead of a screaming frustration and disappointment that we hadn't made out for hours and confessed our love for eachother.
Miraculsouy she had forgotten her wallet and I found it. It was bulging rough grey leather and on a chain. There were keys on the chain. I called her and took great satisfaction in the thought that I was calling to tell her she forgot her wallet, and not calling to tell her that I was in love with her and that I wanted her to come back inside and actually kiss me. I met her on the street, and she thanked me and we hugged again and again kissed chastely on the lips.
I went to bed with Sugar Sugar racing through my mind. My teeth clacked it and my toes tapped it as I tried to fall asleep.
The next day I was feeling very nervous. It occured to me that I might blow my chance at being a zombie. That I might not actually me bold enough to maul her unrehearsed. That I might not be able to go through with my plan to put my face in her crotch and pretend to eat it. I hadn't told her that I planned to do that, because there just didn't seem to be a good, solid way of describing it exactly.
We communicated a few times during the day. Did I mind if she cut her hair off? Her friend had a couple of wigs she could wear. Did she have a bra she could bring? The one I had bought for her I had chopped up for my own costume after chickening out on destroying a vintage one. All day I shredded lingerie and tried to make a mixture of various kitchen substances look like blood. I finally got something good. Then I styled my hair into a messy beehive that reminded me of blond cotton candy.
I was still nervous. I was nervous on the way to the venue. I was nervous when I arrived and talked to Harley Poker (not only because she had organized the show but had no idea what I planned to bring to the stage, but because she is the most devastatingly attractive woman I have ever met. And she was being uncharacteristically friendly to me, because I was in her show.) We talked briefly about logistics, and then I went down to the dressing room, hiked up my dress, and started spreading grey make-up on my inner thighs. I pictured myself leaning down and tenderly putting lipstick and thick kohl eyeliner on Honey's sweet face. I had bought chewing gum in anticipation.
When Honey arrived I saw that she had only cut the sides of her hair and she now had the exact hairstyle of Archie Andrews himself!--who she really does bear an uncanny resemblance to. Another performer asked what song we were using, and when I told her, she said "Awesome!!" and then turned to Honey and said "Please tell me you are dressing as Archie!" And I briefly panicked at the prospect that I clearly should have had Honey be Archie in the act! Obviously! I had missed the visionary boat! But then I couldn't really get away with putting my face in her crotch.
While I continued to lusciously rub grey make up over my body I hoped that I was not ruining the mysterious secret of my womanhood that I should be preserving for when we met tenderly as lovers. But, it seemed, realistically, that I had already ruined that illusion by ripping off a patch of lace that was glued to my vagina in front of her at a past show. My labia had momentarily been pulled down to my knees before snapping back, and she had witnessed it. I had made sure of that.
My make-up took an hour and a half to put on. I carefully painted black into my butt crack and crotch, from where I would surely be oozing the ooze of decay. I put some coming from my belly button as well. I hoped that Honey was impressed by my skill and dedication. Harley Poker was. If only that would make Honey jealous--but she never seems to notice things like that.
She got dressed and put the panty hose and panties I had brought for her on over her other pair of striped underwear. When she put the pantyhose on she ran them and seemed to feel pretty bad about it. "See," she said "that's what happens when you make girls who don't usually dress as girls dress as girls!" and I said "I feel like I'm torturing you!" and she said "What do you mean?" and I said "I'm feel like I'm making you wear all this girl stuff that is making you uncomfortable!" And she said "Of course not! I love wearing costumes! I'm a performer!" To which I did not say "I'm glad you are a performer, because then you have to play along with whatever I do to you on that stage!"
I was feeling very nervous still. I could not decide if I should be a horny and sexy zombie, or a completely spastic zombie. I was leaning more towards the horny and sexy variety, because I was feeling more horny and sexy than spastic. It was almost time for the show and I was still deciding. And I was still deciding if I should wear both shoes, or just one. It seemed quite likely that a zombie would have lost a shoe somewhere along the road. I decided on one, poured some fake blood into a plastic cup, and then followed Honey behind the curtain where we waited. I tried to move like a zombie in time to the music that was playing for the act before us to warm up.
I felt extremely excited--there club was packed, people were excited, Harley Poker was near by, clearly thinking I was actually kind of cool. I was wearing nothing but one shoe, one ripped stocking, a pair of ripped panties under a shred of a slip, and a shredded bra. And I was standing very close to Honey, and we were about to do our first act together. And I was about to have the chance to put my mouth all over her. And I couldn't blow it. It might be the only chance in my lifetime.
The MC announced us. "Claire de Lune and ---- -----!" That was us--we were appearing on stage together, the two of us, in an act, together! The music started. Sugar Sugar, amplified. It was our song, the song for our act! For us! Honey started out onto the stage and began to dance. People shrieked and threw dollars at her. I took a big gulp of blood into my mouth, unhooked my bra, and began to lurch out onto the stage. I saw our friends in the front row. I bounced around stiffly, dragging a leg as I danced next to Honey. "Oh Sugar! (do do do do do do) Honey Honey! (do do do do do do) You are my candy girl, and you got me wanting you!" I tore of the remains of my slip and threw my bra off my arms with a tremendous shake of the shoulders. "I just can't believe the loveliness of loving you! I just can't believe it's true!" I opened my mouth in a smile that leaked out a dribble of blood that landed between my bare breasts. I began to pursue her. She began to back away. I thrust out my arms and grabbed her. "Oh Honey! (do do do do do do) Sugar Sugar (do do do do do do)!" I bit her once, on the shoulder, hard, and blood ran out of my mouth. And then something took over that made me able to bite her again, hard, on her other shoulder, and her neck, and her arms, and pop her breast out of her bra and bite it along with a dollar she had stuffed in there. I bit her hard. I was trying to consume her. I ripped every single button of her dress and tore it open. I bit her ferociously. I put my face in her crotch and bit her vagina and shook my head a few times with her labia (and two pairs of underwear and a pair of pantyhose) clamped in my teeth. "I'm gonna make your life so sweet! (Oh yea-ea-eah) Pour a little sugar on it! (Oh yea-ea-eah)!" I was vaguely aware of her seeming surprised. I was vaguely aware of our friends in the front row watching. I was vaguely aware of her nearly falling over and seeming genuinely shocked. I was vaguely aware of this being an opportune time to stick my nearly-bare ass out towards the audience. I was acutely aware of needing to bite her and grab her and chew her and feel her as much as I possibly could before the song was over.
And when it was over I helped her up and was acutely aware of a tremendous sense of triumph. I gave the audience a long look of satisfaction as I walked off stage, with Honey at my side, both of us covered in sticky, sweet smelling fake blood. "You bit my VAGINA!" she said. She was laughing. I was smiling bizarrely. "And you got me all turned on!" she said. And then I was aware of the fact that I was nearly shaking. |
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| Picnic |
[Sep. 13th, 2006|11:29 am] |
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Last night I dreamt that I was gazing out of the second story window of a beautiful vistorian house, much like the one I grew up in. Down in the yard someone sat on a blanket, beckoning me to come down and join them for a delicious picnic. However, when I shifted my gaze over to the other side of the lawn, I saw that there was a very large pile of logs and branches, and intermingled among them were about 6 or 7 dead, rotting woodchucks. And I wondered, "Can I really enjoy a picnic sitting next to a pile of dead, rotting woodchucks?" |
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| The Package |
[Aug. 21st, 2006|09:24 am] |
| [ | mood |
| |  mischievous | ] |
Between the two of us, Beth and I had one foe—Verne. So one night we decided to do something nasty to him. A regardless of the fact that we were itching to do something nasty to just about anyone, no one will ever convince me that Verne didn’t deserve what we did to him.
Everything fell into place astonishingly well. I actually had Styrofoam peanuts and a box, and Beth had postage supplies. And most importantly of all, she needed to take a shit. We put a layer of Styrofoam peanuts in the bottom of the box and then took turns going into the bathroom and squatting over it. One of my greatest regrets is that I was only able to contribute an inch long nugget along side her fat, curling turd. A turd that reeked and brought us close to gagging as we covered it with more peanuts, and sealed the box.
Beth was a longtime employee of The UPS Store, and naturally had taken a rather generous supply of postal paraphernalia, which elevated the level of authenticity of our package. Wrapped excessively in postal tape and plastered with a carefully peeled of postage label from another box, our package truly looked as if it had traveled through the mail to the address I had scrawled on the surface.
However, the package did not arrive during regular postal hours, but late in the night. The stench was starting to permeate the sides of the box, so we wrapped it in two garbage bags before setting out to make our delivery. It was hot and lightly rainy outside, and the moist summer air seemed to draw the wretched smell even through the garbage bags as we drove.
In order to make up for my failure to shit adequately in the box, I bravely offered to be the one to drop the package off. Beth waited in the car, a few doors up, while I dashed through the rain and up the steps to the familiar door. I set the package down, checked quickly to make sure that no one from inside saw, and ran back to the car. We sped away incapacitated by nervous laughter.
Beth called me at 5 in the morning that night. I could hear that she was not able to speak because she was either laughing or crying, and it was quite a while before she was able to get a word out. Eventually she spouted out haltingly “he—put—his—hand—in—it!”. And she went back to laughing convulsively.
After closing out a 4 am bar Verne had returned to his house to find a package waiting for him. He noticed that it smelled bad, and decided to call the girl he was seeing, Beth, and give her the news.
“Someone sent me a package that smells really bad! I wonder what’s inside!” he said.
“Well, don’t open it!” Beth said.
“But I want to know what it is! It smells like a dead rat or something.” said Verne
“Don’t open it if it smells bad!” said Beth
“It’s probably just my cousin playing a joke on me or something.”
Unimportant conversation points most likely took place during the time it took him to slice into the box and open it. Any and all small talk ended with the cry “OH MY GOD IT”S SHIT!”
“What are you talking about?!” Beth feigned.
“It’s human shit! Somebody mailed me human shit!”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll call you back! I have to go wash my hand!”
By the time Verne made his follow up call to Beth several minutes later, he felt certain that he had gotten to the bottom of things. He was certain that the package had been sent by one of Beth’s ex-boyfriends who was pissed that she had moved on. He based this hypthesis on several rock-solid pieces of evidence: first of all, it was a total frat guy prank. Second of all, it was clearly a man’s handwriting on the box. And most importantly, he knows a man’s shit when he sees it! Verne reiterated these points many times, and held them not only as proof of the male identity of the perpetrator, but also as proof of his own keen eye for the finer details of a situation. There was even some discussion of a future career in psychology or detective work.
As Beth got through this narrative the uncontrollable laughter spread to me as well. And then it consumed me for several days. I could not sleep the rest of the night—any time that I began to let me mind drift off and become sleepy, the image of Verne’s shit covered hand would return, and with it the laughter. A silent, heaving, convulsive laughter. A kind that must be hidden in a room at night or in a crowded public place. A kind that I could not trust not to overtake me at the most inconvenient of times. A kind that had me shuddering in corners the next day, and the next, and the next.
It was the perfect crime. Perfectly conceived, and perfectly executed. And, we were able to follow the details of the story intimately--Verne called Beth at least twice a day to report his progress on discovering the identity of the pooper. He was keeping the box and its contents on his back porch for future DNA testing, and had determined (from the used postal label), that it had been sent from Pittsburgh. And one way or another he would get to the bottom of things and bring the pooper to justice.
Part II:
It is quite likely that now, several years later, Verne knows exactly who sent that box of shit--if he hadn’t already figured it out. I have had, through the years, a tendency to tell people about things that I have done that make me proud. And getting Verne to stick his hand in a box of shit made me proud.
I met Shayna’s seemingly innocuous (if perhaps repulsively hairy-chested) ex-boyfriend Kenneth for the first time sitting at her pink kitchen table. He was eating salsa and looking things up on her computer. Thirty minutes before I had been easily persuaded by the charismatic Richard to go with himself and Shayna to some art openings. And Kenneth had apparently already been persuaded by the also charismatic Shayna to attend as well.
All went as well as could be expected for an evening in art galleries. We bumped our way through crowds, viewed endless streams of art that were at once discouraging (about the state of human judgement) and encouraging (because it must be easy to get something in a gallery if that stuff made it in—heck, I should be a painter!), and sipped glasses of free wine guiltily taken from the hands of untipped servers.
If I hadn’t had the wine, I may not have told the story. Or at least may not have told it so emphatically. But Kenneth brought up someone named Verne, and the word “Verne” triggers an automatic response in me—“You mean Billy with the disgusting earlobes?”
“Um, yes.”
“You mean Verne who's a hairdresser?”
“Yes.”
“I know him!” I cried.
“He used to be my roommate.” said Kenneth
“Really? Did you live with him when somebody sent him a box of shit?” very excited.
“No---but I think I might have heard about it.”
“It was ME!” very, very excited.
There were a few more unnecessary comments between that one of mine and Kenneth saying “Verne is my best friend!” And then he stormed off. When he was down the block he called Shayna and told her exactly how he felt about the sort of company she keeps.
Its not my fault that Kenneth’s best friend has old-lady-vagina-looking earlobes that were reconstructed from extra skin collected from his face after he had a face lift (to get the extra skin) after his original ones froze off and lies about stuff that you really shouldn't lie about. That doesn’t mean he’s a bad person, it just means he deserved a box of shit. If I had done to him what he did to me, I would have accepted a box of shit and, frankly, felt pretty fucking lucky. At least I didn’t let my otherwise nonviolent mother hire mob goons to beat him within an inch of his life.
Part III:
I saw Verne last night. He had come to see the show I was performing in--he had come with Kenneth who was there to see his ex-girlfriend as "Little Nikki" grind. I hadn't seen Verne in at least four years--and the last time I had seen him there had taken place the only outward display of rage and hysteria in my adult life. It was a rainy night, and the day before my birthday.
I always assumed that I would feel an intense wave of anxiety and aversion if I ever saw Verne again, and I knew it was only a matter of time until I did. But when I saw him (just from the back) pleasantly ordering a drink at the bar, he seemed very human. Innocuous, funny, and almost sweet, and I could remember why I was friends with him in the first place.
I hoped he wouldn't recognize me. It's possible that he didn't. And that's what I needed to assume in order to get through a show stopping rendition of Just a Gigolo in pasties and a g-string in front of the only two people in the city who hate me. |
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| America's Got Talent! |
[Jul. 26th, 2006|02:23 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  cynical | ] |
Mark was out of town—gone to California to shoot another appearance on America’s Got Talent. Last time he had kicked a flaming bowling ball with stake knives in it and caught it with his face. But before he did it he put a deadly scorpion in his underwear. His explanation for why it doesn’t sting him is that it is used to him. The next appearance would feature a baby doll and a running lawn mower.
Having had some success previously seducing a clown by mailing him a pair of dirty pantyhose, I figured that sending something to Mark to keep me on his mind was in my best interest. The obvious choice was pin up photos of myself posing with juggling props—there by combining two of his favorite things (and by that I mean pin-ups, not myself).
It was one of the hottest days so far this summer. I hadn’t showered in several days. My hair was greasy, my pits and crotch stinky, my room filthy and littered with costume accoutrements and a thick layer of dust. But somehow I managed to cover my sofa and wall with enough random black fabric that I could just barely squeeze into a frame that revealed nothing of the surroundings. I set the camera, ran across the room wearing nothing but high heels and a necklace, struck a foxy pose with a juggling club or two, and then hopped did it all over again—many, many times. Despite the fact that in 3 out of 4 shots I had rumpled the drapery enough to reveal some element of couch or wall and that my hair was plastered down in oily strings, they turned out extremely well. I sent them off the next morning via email, accompanied by a cute note relating my progress in bowling and at Mario Kart. That was my first mistake—well, my second because my first was the night before. Actually, the third because I made two mistakes that night.
Richard was downstairs drinking a bottle of wine. I descended the staircase in a white chenille robe--heels, makeup, and rhinestones still on. I told him I was upstairs taking pictures or myself, but I didn’t tell him why. I wasn’t ready to reveal that I was taking a deliberate step to further things with Mark. This was because I suffered from the delusion that seeing me with another man might be making Richard unhappy or jealous. Thinking about him with another woman made me unhappy and jealous—particularly thinking about him with his girlfriend, in afar away exotic place—where I wanted her to stay while Richard’s heart slowly broke, and then healed again in a strong bond to mine. But instead she was coming to claim him in two weeks time. He anticipated her arrival with unblemished excitement as the fulfillment of his unshakeable love for her.
Through conversational tactics that would have been transparent to one less oblivious than he, I determined that he had felt no inclinations whatsoever or in any way towards any other girls. However, I felt that there must be some sort of loophole through which I fell—that he had considered loving me, and decided against me only because he wasn’t convinced of my affection for him. And now that I was starting to see someone else he felt the deep regret of not acting, but was too stoic to interfere at this point.
I lounged about stupidly, draping myself and my white chenille over couches and chairs, and hunted him throughout remaining evening. However, it was only when he declared his intentions to go to bed that I was able to get out the words “Richard I want talk to you about something in the next couple of weeks—we can either do it now, or some other time.” He chose now, but after I sat there blankly staring and saying “Well…” for five solid minutes he changed his mind to “some other time, then.” And although I was stupid enough to have spent the preceding hours in a relentless monologue on the topic of how aged freakish gentleman were my only admirers, and that every person who had ever dated me dumped me, and that men my own age find me terrifyingly repulsive, I was at least smart enough to know that I would never bring it up again if I let this chance go by.
He lay down in bed and turned the lights out. I told him I was going to go use the bathroom, and that when I came out I was going to have a one sided conversation with him. I took off my make-up, which left a dark halo around my eyes and a pink one on my chin, and then sat down on the foot of his bed.
“Are you awake?” I said.
“Yes.”
“Well……………..the only reason that I’m not really into you is because you are in love with someone else. But, if you ever decide that you aren’t into someone else and that you are into me, I would be really into you.” He said nothing. “Are you awake?” I asked.
“Yes”
“Awake enough that I can know you heard that and should let it go?”
“Yes.” Sometime during that conversation panicked humiliation spread over me. I wondered if I had said enough. I hadn’t said that I have the best conversations with him of everyone I know, or that hanging out with him is always fun no matter what we do, that he is pretty and handsome both, that the happiest I have been recently was when he was sleeping in my bed every night, that I was certain that we could love each other and get along so well that I would fill him with just as much bliss as Molly. What he didn’t say was that he would never in a million years consider dating me, that he could never love me, and that everything about me pales in comparison to her--he didn’t have to say it.
I went upstairs and broke out crying. I felt so pitiful and miserable that I decided to call Mark--surely after a month of dating I could claim the privilege of calling him late. However, calling him late and crying over another man was a privilege I would never earn, so I attempted to mask the fact that I was crying like my eyes were going to pop out of my head—but my voice was tragically clogged by thick snot and tears. The only thing I remember of the conversation was that Mark said he was having a drink and had just taken some sleeping pills. And that I sounded like I could use some sleep, too.
I slept eventually, and woke up with eyes that looked like onions. I pretended to Richard that everything was normal, and his tremendous relief that I wasn’t putting on a freak show expressed itself in an increased enthusiasm for our friendship.
I hadn't heard from Mark for several days--nothing about the pin-ups. And nothing about the fact that he had apparently gotten x-ed by two judges during the filming of his routine. I about this because, in a weak moment, he had spilled the secret pre-aired info with Brian. The fact that Brian had talked to him was a bad sign--almost as bad as no response to naked pictures--it meant that he was in full phone and email communication, and I that I would have to now stop assuming he just hadn't recent access to such commodities during his travels. So, I developed a theory that he had somehow mispoken when he had given me his email address, and so I had actually sent the photos to some other Mark, who was not particularly amused by them either.
For some reason I tapped into an uncharacteristic emotional stoutheartedness--and continued to believe there was some pretty good (or at least forgiveable) explanation for his lack of response. Not that you would think that from talking to me--I made a point of referring to myself as having been dumped by a crazy carny as much as possible. One particular conversation on this topic took place over a beer at Rainbo with my friend The Warlock. We had met up to exchange a gorilla suit of which he was the keeper--actually, he is the keeper of three (plus some extra hands, feet, and heads) and I needed one for an upcoming "Gorilla crashes the Burlesque show" extravaganza.
No one in Chicago notices anything. I walked back from Adam's car wearing the full Gorilla suit, and after being ignored by barflies for three blocks I was unusually receptive to the first attention that I got. It came from a tall, lean cowboy who sat against a tree--he asked who I was, and he kept calling me a monkey. Soon he and I and two of his friends were on our way to my house. I wondered if Richard would be at all impressed (although certainly not jealous or regretful) that I kept late night company with a tall, lean cowboy. A young, tall, lean cowboy who looked almost exactly like Gram Parsons ( and spoke with what was most likely a fake country accent. His speech made him strangely more appealing to me because something about it reminded me of the person who had disappointed me in love the very most. He was an animator, and a drunk with a reputation. He nailed his testicular sac to a chair with the back of a rusty hatchet at a party at my house shortly after he dumped me. I encouraged it.).
But Richard never woke up. Even though Nugget barked fiercely at me (in the gorilla suit) for nearly twenty minutes, right next to his bed, he never woke up. The only witness to the gorilla and her date was Garth, who seemed to think he was dreaming. And perhaps some neighbors who are perhaps light sleepers were witness to some loud singing of "Sin City" in a surprisingly accurate Gram-Parsons-Emmylou-Harris style duet.
Suddenly it began to pour down rain in thunderous buckets. The cold rain was a relief in the vicious heat, and the surreality of the the world's sudden transformation added a drama that made the moment nearly perfect. What perhaps pushed it over the edge into perfect was the idea that we had met when I was wearing a gorilla suit.
I’m not exactly sure when things started to go wrong, but I’m pretty sure it had something to do with the fact that I allowed him to come inside, dry off, and gave him a change of clothes. It all seemed innocent at the time—I’m definitely not capable of refusing someone, particularly cute cowboys, shelter from the rain. To try to diffuse things a bit I gave him a t-shirt from “The Great Big International Drag King Extravaganza” and a pair of “boi’s” underwear with a lesbian mermaid on the thigh.
And I don’t remember exactly when he said it for the first time—“I’m sorry I have a gut!”—but I am pretty sure that it coincided with his confrontation of his more scantily clad self in my bedroom mirror. And I’m sure I would have forgotten the comment entirely, or thought it was a joke if he had not from that moment on repeated the comment with a fearsome relentlessness, embellishing on it with “I’m sorry I’m so fat!”, and then adding into the mix “I’m sorry I have such a small penis”. Things got worse when he started referring to it as his pee-pee—“Why is it that it’s okay for me to fawn over you, but you won’t even look at my pee-pee?” I couldn’t give him an answer—I couldn’t really articulate why the thought of looking at his pee-pee made my skin crawl. He wanted me to tell him if it was small or not. I didn’t want to look at it, I didn’t want to touch it, but some degree of interaction with it during some half-hearted making out had revealed to me that it was medium. Just a medium, regular looking pee-pee on a really tall guy. I told him he had long legs. He said, “Everything about me is long—or do you disagree?” Getting crabby, I said “What, you want me to tell you if you have a big dick or not? It’s medium.” Humbly he declared that he had never before gotten a straight answer from a girl--that usually they just laugh nervously and say “It’s big enough!” I tried to explain to him that part of their nervousness might be the result of his badgering them for their opinion on the organ.
I’m pretty sure that in his mind things weren’t going as badly as they were in mine. He declared me extremely sexy, and told me “I want to make you my woman!” He said I was everything he wanted—I was sexy and had long hair. But he also wanted to be assured that I would let him look at other girls. And he said that from now on he wanted me to tell him what to do.
And in a vain effort to rouse me to some sort of sexual livelihood he declared his intention to ‘lick me all over”, and started with my feet. “Do you have a foot thing? Aren’t you to young for that?” And when he made his way up to kissing my stomach I could feel that he gut was in fact soft, that my toes poked into fleshiness in a disturbing way. I felt as if they were being sucked into a churning pool of lumpy flesh. It made me miss Mark.
I told him I had had enough and that I wanted to go to sleep. He threw what could only be described as a sissy bitch fit, saying that he wanted to stay awake and kiss me all night—that he thought that would be romantic, but apparently I didn’t think so! And that he wanted to keep kissing me, and I wanted to go to sleep, and so wasn’t that boring for him? And when it was my turn to kiss him, I wasn’t kissing him as much as he kissed me when it was his turn. And then I think he started to make a connection between me wanting to go to sleep and his being fat and having a gut, so he tried that argument for a while. “It’s probably because I have a gut. I’m sure you hate the fact that I’m so fat.” But sadly, I just wanted to go to sleep. I wanted him to stop groping me, and maybe, just maybe, I wanted him to leave.
Finally he told me he was going home to beat off before he had a brain aneurysm. He got out of bed, and before writhing into wet jeans, he paused before the mirror to observe his gut more closely and declared that he did indeed need to lose some weight. He wrote his full name and phone number in huge letters on an old psychologist’s bill that I handed him and left, cursing the fact that drenched cowboy boots awaited him downstairs.
And then I had time to really think about things—how I felt bowled over, and disgusted, and regretful, and lonely. How my own bed now seemed soiled from laying in it with him. How much I longed for something familiar—and how much I would have preferred to have been kissing Mark. If he had been there he would have passed out without pouting, bothered me only with a “Sorry I’m so drunk”, and then let me rest my hand on his belly, which would feel like skin vacuum-packed directly over muscle. And we would have slept in each other’s arms all night.
Mark finally called me the next day--the next evening, right after the “live results show”. I knew his appearance the night before hadn’t gone well—I had watched the short clip of him on the web when I voted for him—but I didn’t turn the sound on. I didn’t want to hear if people were booing or the judges’ unnecessarily harsh comments. It was odd to see him in this way—I had been having a little bit of difficulty calling up a sensory memory of him, and somehow this didn’t help. I made sure that my mom and step-dad and sister all voted for him, too.
I was excited to hear from him, excited to try to make him feel good, even though he told me he had just gotten voted off the show. “Well, I’m glad you’re not moving to Las Vegas—that makes me happy!” He didn’t bite. He told me he might have another shot at some offshoot of the show.
Then he told me the “bad news”: that he had gotten back together with his girlfriend. He thought he was over her and ready to move on, but realized that he wasn’t. And that I am a really cool girl and that he loves coming over to the Milk Factory, and so he really hopes that we can be friends, and that I am a really cool girl and I deserve someone who really loves me with their whole heart, and he is not the type of guy who can date more than one person, but he really wants me to call him sometime so that we can be friends, that he had gotten the pictures, and thanks, they were really great. And then he wrapped up with that he felt really really terrible, really bad, just awful about everything.
Interspersed somewhere amongst those statements were my own: that I was very disappointed, that I had had no idea that he had a girlfriend and would never have acted the way I had had I known that, and that I didn’t think I wanted to be his friend, because I was sad about the whole thing. And good luck with everything. I didn’t mention the Game Cube he left at my house, which I’m certain that the retrieval of was his primary motivation for befriending me.
Apparently he had wasted no time in getting kicked off the show, and then going straight up to his hotel room, calling me, and dumping me. I wasted no time bursting into baffled tears. And then banished him from my mind as quickly as possible.
Epilogue: The Great Ghoul Rush of 2006 (and why I’m awesome).
I may have seen Warlock for the last time last night. He is going to California, just like Serwich, and considering that I have never visited anyone in my life and he swears he’s never coming back here, there is a fairly good chance that we will never see each other again.
Three years ago was the first night of shooting The Spook Show, and also the first time I met Warlock. We met through Serwich--they had arrange to video tape me performing my shadow puppet reenactments of famous celebrity deaths at Serwich’s loft—I showed up, set up and realized only too late that Warlock was there and very busy puking from the stomach flu. It took me two years to shake the fear that he was about to puke at any moment, but only one year to stop thinking of him merely as “that puking guy, the Warlock”. And the fact that I am over the incident enough to have kissed him last night is kind of a surprise.
Last night I was a part of the final shooting of The Spook Show. Warlock, in full Warlock costume of white greasepaint, deep dark circles around his eyes, black lips, and black locks curling onto his cheeks, plus a witch’s hat and a velvet cape. He stood in front of a faux-stone proscenium decorated with giant cloaked skeletons wielding scythes and spoke the line “And now I leave you with a token of my infernal gratitude…but remember! While you sleep, I destroy the world!” Then The Monster Mash started and I entered the frame wearing only a green sequined G-string and holding two giant ostrich feather fans. I ran through all of my best fan dance moves—fluttering in front, fluttering in back, one in front, one in back, spinning and fluttering, showing my butt as if I were a peacock, pretending I had wings, etc, as The Monster Mash played on, again and again. And then I slowly opened the fans for a final shot as the fog machine blasted a steady stream on my sweaty breasts. It so hot that I was truly sweating horribly--even totally unclothed and constantly fanning myself with apocalyptically oversized fans.
It seemed like a good idea to go back to Rainbo—and surprisingly, we got more of an immediate response there than I had the previous week in a gorilla suit. Warlock in his cape and pointed hat, and me in a purple velvet bustier with black swirls over the breasts—“Oh my go! You look great!!!!” cried Liz Armstrong, fawning over us with an enthusiasm that I assumed would be missing from her recounting of the episode if it appeared in the paper.
I hadn’t called that damn cowboy—hadn’t even considered it after the idea that I wasn’t obligated to slipped into my mind. But there he was, sitting in a round booth surrounded by equally hip looking boys. He smiled and waved, and I smiled and waved, and then turned my back. We had a brief, ineffective conversation when he passed by me on one of his many trips to the bathroom.
Warlock and I crowded into the photo booth and fed it wrinkly dollars. Our white faces bleached and our dark features darkened, our short strips of horrified and sinister expressions fascinated us endlessly. I giggled and declared them amazing, the best photos booth pictures ever taken.
I left without saying goodbye to a certain someone, and that’s why in the end, I’m awesome. I’m a gorilla-witch-fan-dancer-girl, far too cool for a tall, lean, hipster cowboy.
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mechaniquemary's journal
confused
satisfied
rejected
