by Mia Natasha
I watched Chad manipulate the gadgets on the recording equipment as I sang the song again. I couldn’t really tell if he liked my singing or not. He seemed so serious. Perhaps he’d created a poker face from years of pretending that he liked his client’s singing. I didn’t want to do it anymore. I had to make my checkmate move.
I said, “You know, I bet I could hit the high note a little better if you came over here and tweaked my clit. I heard that was part of Madonna’s regimen when she trained her voice for her role in Evita.”
Gee, I thought, he seemed so easily persuaded. I was obviously making that up. He nearly hit his head on that light fixture dangling from the ceiling. I’m not even sure he set the record button because he dashed over lickity-split. But, fucky-doodles, I wasn’t really there to sing, so I didn’t care.
He came into the little recording booth and approached me from behind. I tried to pretend he wasn’t there, as if I was in the middle of an MTV music video. I kept singing the ballad, as I would if I had been singing in the shower, because I wasn’t really thinking about the lovely-dovey words. I knew them by heart. Chad Mavis put his arms around my waist, lacing his hairy knuckles there. Then his hands found their way to my nips. He tried squeezing them but my halter-top kind of reined them in too much. I reached for the left side zipper and started to undress myself. Too forward? WWMD, what would Madonna do, right? It was already 1:30pm and I had other things to do, you know? Time was of the essence of fucky-wucky-doodle-doos.
Chad helped me lose the dress and the headphones. I couldn’t tell if he liked what he saw because of that damned poker face. But please! A twenty-three-year-old pseudo virgin in white lace and cha-cha heels? I admit I have a bit of a jiggle in my tum-tum, not like Chad Mavis’ of course, but a little lady poochy-pooch is good, especially when I do some belly dancing on harem night with Zeus. It gives a guy some leverage (when he’s pushing his way into my hoo-ha) - something to hold to steady himself.
At least that’s what my gyno, Dr. Martha Quirkenbush, said once. Dani, the jigs give a man leverage. She’s full of quirky one-liners too, like never say no - you never know when Tom Jones will be walking into your neighborhood. I’m not sure who this Tom Jones character is, but he must be über-sexy if he appeals to a testosterone filled woman like my mustached doctor.
My record producer put his head against my cheek and I could smell the faint scent of Mr. Wino reeking from his pores. I hadn’t noticed that before. But it wasn’t a big dealio, especially due to his expert handling of my upper body. I love having my titty-ta-tas tweaked - tweaking in general is always a good thing. It sort of sends a telegraphic message to my uterus that an army of man-seed is approaching, and I need to send the secretion troops out to intercept and defend the egg queen.
“Baby, you are hot,” Chad whispered into my ear. I was a little off-put since I was still trying to sing that stupid third track. I didn’t want his voice showing up on my recording. If my song was truly any good after all of this, I kind of thought that I might actually play it at my wedding reception – really late at night after we’ve broken every plate and are dancing on the tables.
He moved his hands back down to my waist then lower and lower. I uncrossed my legs to help him find his way. Sliding my thong aside with his thumb and index finger, he used them to clamp my hoo-ha open, and simultaneously my voice hit that note. I’ve never sung so well! Chad rubbed me out slow and steady, rhythmically, I guess. Now it really felt like singing in the shower because I always did that to myself in there, which is why I take such long showers. Zeus always complains that I use too much hot water. He’s so practical.
Chad moved around to face me. He squatted down and kind of took in the whiff of sex emanating from my hooey, just like one of those wine experts who sniffs the liquor and then announces the fragrance - fruity, nutty, and la-la-la. What would Chad say about my smell, I wondered? I haven’t been eating a lot of meat lately because I had read that a cunt smells more lady-like on veggies alone. Would he say I smelled fresh or pungent? Hmm. Well, he didn’t say anything at all. He just smiled.
There was something so provocative about singing the words I’m crazy for you - you know it’s true while being prodded by a relative stranger. It made me think about Madonna again. Could she separate sex from emotion, like a guy could? It was weird, I thought, but if she could do it then I could do it too. I couldn’t really pretend that Mr. Mavis was Zeus. Zeus doesn’t smell like cheap wine. So I pretended that he was going to provide me with a piece of the puzzle of worldly knowledge, and I would accept the gift with cum and a smile.
Once I’d finished that third rendition of Crazy for You, Chad Mavis rose and lifted me off the stool. Maybe he had weak knees or something, because he didn’t carry me around like Zeus does. He immediately put me down and I spread-eagled on the grass green carpet. I was so like a virgin circa Madonna 1980s at the VMAs! Like reincarnated, only she’s still alive.
He placed his pubic style goatee on my tidy mon-mons and used his tongue to dart about my pink tunnel (Dr. Quirkenbush says it’s the pinkiest she’s ever seen, by the way). He worked as if he was getting paid to do it, like one of those Victorian professional massages for hysterical women, sucking my lab lips and reaching deep inside. I was wrong before. Chad didn’t have a Mick Jagger look, it was more of a Steven Tyler thing, like the mouth you enter in the tunnel of love ride at the fair, you know? Giant-like. His tongue thrust deep inside me, practically licking me dry I believe, like a tongue cock. I thought, why doesn’t his wife like this? It’s a pretty fucking great precursor to a hooey-pricker rainbow connection!
Once I was all tingly and on the yellow brick road to orgasm, I decided to go after his cock. Because to me, sex isn’t sex without the presence of a clean healthy pricker. Am I right? Before this day, Zeus’ big kazoo was the only one I’d ever seen except for that time in fifth grade when Tim MacGillicutty’s pants fell down and I saw the whole teeny shi-bang.
I jimmied my way to Chad Mavis’ zipper and slid it open. Finding his thingy only slightly erect, I touched it to pump it up a bit. Maybe it didn’t see well in the dark, I thought. Light flutters with my manicured magic fingers boosted him into manhood. Yes and yes! Then I pulled him down on top of me. He penetrated me with a one-two punch (wetty-tastic!). I began to yell obscenities the way Zeus likes, all fuck me, big man and then…wha-whan! He turned Mr. Softee! Definitely weird, my friends. What the hell, right? I forced it to go in again but it was a sloppy no-go. Squish-squash. He slid off me and I watched him frantically try to slap it into form. He was doing this insane masturbating thing. But nothing came of it. Nothing, my friends.
I said, “Don’t you like me?”
“You’re beautiful, Danna,” Chad Mavis replied.
“I don’t get it.” I said. Literally, I guess, which was humiliating, especially since I had committed to the bit. Once Zeus or I commit to a role-play sex game, we stick it out until the end. It’s one of our Greek commandments. “Does this happen often?”
“Not exactly... well... sometimes,” he said. He stopped trying to force himself into an erection and looked like a soldier in a ceasefire without the white flag. I am not fond of quitters of any sort. We Elinopoulouses are hard workers. Hard. Get it?
“Well try harder,” I said. “I need a cock to finish me off.”
Then, and this is where it gets weird, bloggers - he started crying! Like a pussy. I have known Zeus since church school when we were both eight years old, and I have never seen him cry.
“I can’t please you,” Mr. Mavis said. “I’m sorry.” He retrieved a white hanky from his shorts pocket and nearly blew his brains out discharging mucous into it. The white flag. It was over. I thought it would have lasted longer, but oh well. While he was bawling, I got up and casually wiggled back into my dress.
I said, “Hey, no. It’s totally cool. This was great. Thanks for the opportunity to cut the record. You did me a favor, not the other way around. Don’t sweat it.”
I gave him a pity kiss. I let him slobber my lips with my own cunt-drenched juices that were still lingering on his. I tasted like robust sugary koulurakia cookies. We left it on amicable terms, I think. He pulled up his pants, went back to the console and prepped the tape for me. We shook hands. He said he would mail me an additional tape of the songs we’d discussed for the processional and a mix for the reception, for when the Greek folk band takes a break.
Tomorrow I’m headed to my future mother-in-law’s. I should probably buy some creamy colored towels when she takes me to Macy’s. Something that easily hides the cunt residue of my soaky-wetty and naughty hooey.
Comments:5
The lesbian friend of Madonna’s, Sandra Bernhard, did indeed have a relationship with Madonna. I bet you can’t guess who was the top and who the bottom?
Shae Stewart, Long Beach, CA
Dannika, I’ll be waiting for you at the Marriott in Times Square. August 29th. I’ll give you the ride of your life. And you won’t see a flaccid penis.
Rob, NY, NY
You may be a feisty Greek goddess, but sexy you ain’t!
Boxman, Inside-a-cunt, IL This is all lies. May you get a gypsy curse for stealing my niece’s identity! Auntie Sofia, Toronto, Ont., Canada
When are you going to fuck the black guy? I’m on stand-by if you need me. Tyrone, Atlanta, GA
****
Like a Virgin
Sunday, JULY 26, 2009 - 10:00am
I’m at work right now. Eiffel Travel is open seven days a week and that means I’m here at least two Sundays a month. No one else is here, which is great because I’m listening to Bedtime Stories. It’s so soothing. I could have sex to every song on this CD. The blinds are open the way they are supposed to be when we’re open for business, otherwise I’d be tweaking right now.
My titty-titty-bang-bangs are in desperate need to break free of their padded bra. Just the thought of it secretes my hooey to the point of damp panties. Should have worn a Stayfree. Wouldn’t it be weird if this were a naked travel agency? I think I saw that once on HBO. We’d have to cover the chairs with a protective film to protect them from all the pre-cum back-lash.
If it were a nudie-toons, then Gina Romano and I would be the stars since the other two women who work here are a bit zaftig - although some men prefer that look. I shouldn’t judge. Gina is my best friend though, and she is beautiful. She’s Italian and Irish with dark hair, blue eyes, freckles, and titty-ta-tas that put mine to shame. She is two years older than me, and she’s been married for a year - to her college boyfriend Vince, who happens to be Zeus’ bestie as well as a documentary film director. Vince is going to videotape our wedding.
Kathy Duke-Dike, our office manager, always seems to have a boyfriend despite putting in over fifty hours a week and having a smushy watermelon booty-boot from all the sitting she does at the agency. Apparently, her deep, dark secret is that she is the blowjob queen of Schenectady – Gina ran into a friend of a friend of hers, that’s how we know. I think it says so in her high school yearbook. The Duke-Dike sucks cock not pussy – something like that. Her lips are like balloons that could float a pricker to the moon so it must be true.
And this is ironic - even though she bleaches her hair blonde and wears tons of crucifixes all the time, Kathy hates Madonna. She never lets me listen to my pop-icon’s music, forcing me to throw my head phones on when she’s here, which makes me seem anti-social even though I’m not. If I don’t do that, and there are no customers, she demands we listen full blast to oldies like instrumental versions of Hotel California on one of the old lady radio stations that the travel agency allows as their Muzak in here. Okay, so she only did that once.
Gina and Bunky Hewitt aren’t like that when they are at work, although if I play Madonna then Gina will want a stab at Lady Gaga as a form of compromise. Gaga is a Madonna disciple, I think, so it’s no biggie. She was totally doing Madonna poses in her latest video, right? Bunky’s kind of easy-going, so she doesn’t care what we listen to, although she prefers quiet, especially when she’s searching for the comparative rates of flights to the Caribbean where she and her husband have a time-share. She loves to get a good deal. When she’s doing it though, she’s one of those I-must-have-silence types, as though she’s about to concentrate on a magic trick instead of a simple travel option.
Kathy has been here for ages, at least since before the name change – Traveler’s Nook to Eiffel Travel when Jack Cochran bought the business. It took years for her to climb to the top, no BJs on that ladder, so she’s allowed to be the office bully, I guess.
We usually work in pairs. The reason I’m alone today is because Kathy took the morning off to take care of her carpel tunnel problem. It’s been nagging her more often than usual, which makes me wonder if she’s having an affair with her doctor since I don’t know many doctors who work on Sundays (unless she went to the ER), plus I’ve rarely seen her typing anything. When she’s here, she’s usually on the phone chatting up all her friends from the other Eiffel agencies across the East coast while eating pastries.
God, I’m so bored!
Secret – it sounds like Madonna is singing to me, personally. Mmm-mmm, my baby’s got a secret! I can’t concentrate on any of this paperwork that I’m supposed to get finished before I take my honeymoon leave of absence. I guess it’s because I do have a secret, as you know, and there are five more to go.
I have an appointment in an hour with a man who is about to surprise his wife of fifty years with a trip to Paris. Doesn’t that sound so romantic? It’s on her bucket list after surviving cancer or something. Fifty years, wow. I hope Zeus and I last that long. We’ve been on fucky-wuck patrol for five years already, we can totally go the distance. Time flies when you are in love, so I’m sure we’ll get there in no time.
By the way, Mrs. Zepkos does think I’m a virgin. I knew it, which is good, I suppose. Even if she was just implying it to be nice, and she is always nice – I have no evil stepmother-type mother-in-law stories to share - it means that she approves of my liaison with her son and that she respects me. None of that behind my back gossip that a lot of our church friends do. At least I don’t think she’s like that. What do you think?
She had made a weird comment while we were on the phone the other day that our Mr. & Mrs. Zeus Zepkos wedding night needed white sheets to capture the essence of my chastity. Since we weren’t face-to-face, I couldn’t tell if she was kidding around or not so, I tried to keep my Chad Mavis style poker face on (for my own benefit) while I managed to say something silly like, maybe I should bottle it up and sell it as church incense. She laughed. She has to know the truth! What does she think we have been doing for the last six months in my apartment? She must know that we’ve been practically living together there. Technically, he lives with his parents, but he never actually sleeps in his bed there. He’s either travelling or with me. Do we have Mrs. Zepkos fooled?
We have absolute heaps of sex, if you must know. Sometimes the big kazoo obliterates the feeling in my hoo-ha from all the pounding. It’s true! Please don’t misunderstand, bloggers. Even though, you’re probably thinking ZZ equals Zeus Zepkos. Like he probably sleeps a lot because of the all the Zs. He doesn’t, really. He actually has energy times infinity. His middle name is Archimedes, by the way, so his initials are really ZAZ, like pizzazz, you know?
You need to know that I love Zeus with all my heart and my hooey combined, I mean, this six fuckers thingy – it isn’t about him, because he can get it up, no worries there. I told you why I’m doing this. Madonna came to me in a dream. It’s a vision quest. I’m supposed to seek out a poppy field of prickers and grab them all so that I can utter the dreamy Oz phrase about my heart’s desire being in my own backyard. Isn’t that how happy endings work? It’s the journey that supplies the moral, whether or not you have it to begin with, if that makes any sense.
I’ve known Zeus since forever and, you know, our families have been close for generations. We must be soul mates if
such a thingy exists. We look a lot alike - same big brown eyes, brown hair (his has actual sun highlights from when he was in California for a week last month), same exotic Mediterranean flavor, I guess. I wouldn’t be surprised if we were related somehow. The Greek Isles are relatively small, right? Most of our families hail from Crete – okay, so it’s the largest one of the islands, but still. I’ll probably end up with one of those deformed incestuous style babies, missing forearms and such. Do you think? My in-laws probably wouldn’t care, as long as it’s a boy. They can be very demanding in their own nice way.
Oh, you guessed right. I’m not using birth control. I stopped taking the pill last month in preparation for my honeymoon. No biggie. Madonna wanted a United Colors of Benetton family way back when she fucky-wucked Dennis Rodman without birth control. And wasn’t Carlos Leon a Latino? I wouldn’t mind creating a mutt baby, aren’t mutts healthier than purebreds anyhow? It’s like that with cats and dogs. But I won’t get pregnant, right? Gina can’t seem to get pregnant and is going in for fertility treatments next week. It’s not that easy to put a bun in the oven these days – Demetrios took two years to knock-up his wife. And I seriously doubt that Mr. Softee was a threat, don’t you?
I had to cancel on Mrs. Zepkos’ offer to take me shopping because I’d forgotten it was my Sunday to work. I’m only here for another hour though. After work, I’m driving up to this new health club that just opened in Rome, NY. It’s a bit far, but they’re offering free training sessions plus I thought it would be best not to venture into local territory for this next escapade. Zeus has a lot of soccer buddies who frequent the gyms around here. Wouldn’t want them looking over my shoulder. I’m sure I can find myself a suitable personal trainer at this new place, one who can get the task done, because when in Rome, right (wink, wink)?