| 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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