Putting the Madge in Danna

by Mia Natasha

  It’s an omen.

  Whoops! Somehow my left hand found its way under my dress. What the hell am I doing? I’m masturbating at Eiffel Travel! God, my hooey is drippy. I told you I love tweaking! I’m out of control. Damn you, Madonna, and your sexy Sanctuary song! Oh, I didn’t mean that. I just crossed myself three times, praying to any Madonna who will listen, Mother Mary or sister singer. I am a good girl, you know. I hope you know.

  I think I see my client pulling into the parking lot. Got to get back to work.

  Oh, yeah – one more thing. The linen department sales girl at Macy’s triggered my gaydar. She was one of those college bi-curious types that looked like a smiling Malibu Barbie. I stopped in for a second before work just in case Connie had decided to spring for the sheets without me. I wanted to see what was available. I have to call her, by the way, and tell her what I did. I bought the stupid white Martha Stewart sheets with the hand-crochet trim. They didn’t scream sexy newlyweds, what was I thinking? And it’s hard to wash cum off white sheets (these sheets had a do not use bleach label). Maybe I’ll return them, and grab another notch of gusto, girl style.

  Yes? No? Maybe? Anyone?

  Comments:3

  Only an idiot wouldn’t use birth control. Dr. Nancy Godwin, M.D., Pittsburgh, PA

  Don’t be a fool, Pinkie. Use a condom.Dr. Martha Quirkenbush, Schenectady, NY

  Room 1022 has been booked for August 29th. I will act as your lover, Dani.

  Rob, NY, NY

  ****

  A Camel-toe’s Feathertoe

  Friday, JULY 31, 2009 - 11:30pm

  I’m sorry I haven’t blogged. I didn’t think I would be, because I hate when people make excuses for their work ethic, but I really have been very busy with wedding plans. I had a bunch of thank you notes to write for all the gifts Zeus and I had received at the bridal shower last month. I’m sort of old school when it comes to thank yous, like Jackie Kennedy Onassis, as a matter of fact. (She had married a Greek too.) Thank goodness, Gina took very clear notes of all the cash and prizes we received at that mega party. There must have been over three hundred women and children there. It was a bit of a blur that Sunday with me dizzy from several mimosas and all that Greek music playing in the background. I had to load up on chicken Cordon Bleu and roasted potatoes to stop from spinning.

  So I was all thanks so much for the beautiful (read hideous) T.J. Maxxinista glass vase and the lovely (not soft) handmade variegated threaded afghan. Of course, I am grateful for all merchandise, but it’s a real disappointment to receive these dislikes when I had taken the time to drag my very busy fiancé to the gift registry of several stores. I had forced him to help select stuff for the home we will soon permanently share, only to end up receiving random items that we didn’t want or need. Aargh, the potential clutter!

  At least the thank you note stationery is super cheerful. It matches the wedding invitation – white cardstock with an embossed Art Deco floral, and with the official engagement photograph of Zeus and me hidden inside. I love my own handwriting – very steady as she goes with lots of loops. I heart my Is too instead of dotting them. They are prettier that way, don’t you think? Plus, as you know, I do like to write, which is probably why they took so long to do.

  In addition to all that writing, I had two appointments with the florist. The first was a bust, because I’d forgotten to bring the scrapbook filled with sample floral bouquets I’d saved from old bridal magazines. Then I kept changing my mind about what I’d wanted, because Mom and I did not see eye-to-eye in this matter. She wants me to carry a gy-normous bouquet with absolutely every flower known to mankind inside wrapped in baby’s breath and superfluous ribbon. Naturally, I want something smaller, like a nosegay around the wrist with tiny roses because my middle name is Rose. Later, when Zeus and I cyber-sexed, and I told him about it, he said I had a strong argument with the rose thingy and that I should stand firm since I had already backed down over the menu choice.

  Greek people don’t seem to like Prime Rib because they have some sort of weird aversion to meat cooked rare. But I love it, especially if I plan to drink a lot at the wedding reception, because it will absorb all alcoholic fluid and keep me at a quality equilibrium, but no. We’re going to have roast beef or some other well done steak. I shouldn’t have picked a fight over food with Mom and Dad since it is their area of expertise. They own a restaurant after all, the one where we’re having the reception, of course, and I get that they are about making the wedding memorable and fun for the guests. Plus I don’t need to eat red meat at all since it could muck up the smell of my pinkie pinkerson, as I’ve mentioned. Flowers are not my field of study, of course, but they are not Mom’s either and I know what I like, and what I like will not affect the guest’s enjoyment of the festivities. I’m going to take Zeus’ advice and stick to my guns.

  I’m still working at the travel agency too. I was supposed to go to part-time then take my leave, to do grown up thingys like raise babies and hopefully still have time for sexy-sexy, but there’s lots going on there right now. We’re running a special on cruises to Alaska....

  Sorry, this is a sex blog not a Bridezilla blog. I don’t know why I’m bothering you with all of this. Without Zeus here, I seem to be using this blog as a to do list of sorts, when really I should stay focused on the matter at hand and the reason I’m here – to put some Madge in Danna. I’m getting married in less than a month, and I still have five strangers to fuck before I say I do.

  I signed on for a free week at that health club, The Weight Loss Depot. As I mentioned before, it’s in Rome, New York, near the casino. I’ve been taking the thruway to get there, no biggie. It’s a brand new facility, a huge aluminum shell like a modern Dutch Colonial barn painted sage green with a dark red roof that looks at home with the landscape. It is next door to a stable where they offer horseback riding lessons.

  When I noticed Horseman Farms and saw that beautiful brown and white Appaloosa grazing in the field, I was thinking about that sweet man, Mr. Carter - how he was checking the Paris trip off his wife’s bucket list. Learning to ride a horse is something I’ve always thought I needed to do before I died. I want to be just like Julia Roberts in Runaway Bride. Just kidding, I don’t want to run away from my impending nuptials, not at all, but still, she looked great in a wedding gown on horseback.

  I’ve been feeling more adventurous since this whole thingy started, maybe I will have a go at it. I have only ever ridden donkeys on my way up the hill to get to my grandmother’s house in Mykonos. Riding a horse must be a similar experience, although in Greece a man in a fisherman’s cap always directs the animal so he doesn’t freak and buck you off.

  Am I too young to start a bucket list? I wonder if Madonna has a bucket list? Her mother died of breast cancer. Does that run in her family? There is no cancer in my family. We all just die of old age, I think, but I’m not sure exactly, because nobody is dead yet. My great grandmother is going on one hundred, which I attribute to the Mediterranean lifestyle, including yogurt, folk dancing, lots of Ouzo and sexy-sexy. I need to remember to keep my pop-idol in my prayers so that she can stay as healthy as we Elinopoulouses. She is my sanctuary.

  The first time I walked in to The Weight Loss Depot, I noticed it was full of that new house smell, mostly of leather from all the Cybex machines’ seats, rubber from the floor mats, and that kitchen pipe smell as in all the metal. It was kind of a quiet place, except for the sound of heavy metal music coming from within the I-pods of the muscle heads (mostly very short men with gy-normous biceps that reminded me of inflated Munchkins). The whole place gave off an animated vibe the way Munchkinland does when we first see it in The Wizard of Oz – from black and white to Technicolor.

  As I investigated those machines, I felt that sensation that I would have good luck there. The adductor and abductor were my favorites. I love having my hooey stretched by a large piece of apparatus allowing my hips the flexibility they need to sustain a fucksy of an elongated duration
should Zeus make one available to me. I could have an orgasm just thinking about that last time, after Dad’s party and before Zeus’ flight to Japan. Good times.

  I moved through the busy body-building free weights area like a female Super Mario Brother, hoping I wouldn’t get crushed by a dumbbell along the way. It would have been a terrible tragedy had that falling weight landed on my toe preventing me from dancing at my wedding. The guy who dropped it didn’t apologize, he just said, “Get out of the way.” So much for chivalry in Rome, I thought.

  No partition separated the aerobics room from the rest of the gym, only a step up that had been painted a bright yellow, so you couldn’t miss it. The dance floor was made of a highly polished oak. Three women taking a Zumba class that first night fought for supremacy with the one-on-one yoga class going on in the corner. The dancers finally finished up and hit the showers. For some reason, I kept thinking a house might fall on top of the yoga enthusiast. Not sure why that made me laugh, but it did.

  Floor to ceiling mirrors lined the entire room, which I liked very much. I could see how silly I looked laughing like I was, so I tried to get serious the way Zeus and I had practiced in case we get so drunk at the wedding that we start laughing during the speeches or, god help us, if we giggle through the marriage ceremony. I saw a bride do that once on America’s Funniest Videos. Shameful.

  I’m all about seeing myself from all angles like the three dimensional person that I am. It really helps to check your form when you’re exercising I think, otherwise you might get caught in a slouch. I have caught myself doing that twice in the last few days, by the way. I imagined what that would look like if I did it in my wedding gown and it wasn’t pretty, my friends! I looked pregnant, which would be quite scandalous if true to be honest. Even in this new millennium, if I appeared shot-gunnish at my nuptials, it would be worse than if I laughed through the ceremony, I think. The Orthodox contingency is way too conservative for that. It would cause a pandemonium.

  Once I finished my tour, the very fit, young guy behind the front counter greeted me. He had been busy personally training someone when I first walked in but had since taken a shower, and changed into jeans and a black T-shirt with a faded silkscreen of Woody Woodpecker on the front of it. His long, silky black hair was the type one would attribute to Indians or geishas, with matching dark almond-shaped eyes. I liked his smile. His teeth appeared very white against his tanned skin.

  “Hi, I’m Zeke Feathertoe,” he said. “What brings a pretty thing like you here?”

  I said, “I prefer thingy.”

  “What?”

  “Thingy,” I repeated. “I’m Dannika Elinopoulous, soon to be Zepkos. Call me Danna. I’m getting married next month and I need to get rid of my jiggle.” I grabbed at my slight imperfection through the anorack jacket I was wearing. “I heard your ad on the radio and thought I’d check you out.”

  You and I both know I like my jiggle the way it is, right? I felt a little like a method actor, though, as if everything I was doing was so real. And I was lying! I mean, this other me, the flirty one created by Madonna’s words, seemed to really come alive the farther I ventured from home. I think I’ve said more inappropriate thingys to Zeke during this one week of Carlos Leonifying than I had ever said before and that includes the day I thought I saw Justin Timberlake at Price Chopper.

  Zeke took all of my pertinent information and made out my temporary pass for the free week. We had a formidable entry interview – that was what he had called it at least. He was so gung ho about getting me to see results from my workouts. Very hard sell, which made me think he was on commission or something. But he was cute, so I didn’t mind. And I kind of thought we had a spark between us, a sort of flirtatious banter that reminded me of Gina’s first meet and greet with Vince Romano, at least the way she had told the story. Since Zeus and I have always been friends, we had never had that first meet jitters thingy, but I suspected that this, with Zeke, had the same feeling that you would get if you liked someone as a potential boyfriend. I liked the way his first name was similar to Zeus’ – that whole starts-with-a-Z-and-has-only-one-syllable thingy. It was an omen.

  Turns out, Zeke is an Oneida Indian pure blood. He said he’s part owner of the gym with his father. He’s a personal trainer, as I mentioned. He’s in great shape, of course. Not soccer player sexy like Zeus, but he does play lacrosse in an American Indian league and they play without helmets. I admire the toughness of that mixed with his friendly personality. Coupled with ethnicity, it’s like a fusion of the masculine and feminine mystiques, which I think is exactly the type of quality Madonna looks for in a man. Like Carlos Leon, I think he is the perfect exercise man to fucky-wuck!

  He’s only twenty years old, so it gives me the added bonus of being a cougar (meow!). That part was unexpected, because I had tentatively picked another lover for my cougar experience. But so what? I am about to be so much like Madonna that it’s scary.

  I’ve met Zeke every night this week. I don’t get to the club until 8:00pm and since the gym closes at 9:00pm we’ve been alone in there after hours twice so far. Nothing has happened, just a little flirty-flirt. He seems really interested in my wedding plans and even more interested in my fascination with Madonna. He showed me a bunch of things I could do for my abs so that they could look more like Madonna’s.

  Like earlier this evening, I was hanging off this bar with my armpits shoved into stinky fabric rings, and I had to lift my lower half up so that my body formed an L-shape. He made me do this like twenty-five times, I mean three sets of twenty-five. It kind of reminded me of the way I feel when I’m wrapping my legs around Zeus while the big kazoo is locked and loaded into my hooey barrel chamber and we play the Mount Olympus cling. When we do that, I must keep my abs tight and hold myself up without the use of my arms. He sort of twirls around the room, like a soaring eagle. I always end up wrapping my arms around Zeus’ neck before he dives onto the bed and we fall into missionary man bliss. This was what I was thinking about, I guess. I was huffing and puffing, trying desperately to maintain the position without breaking a sweat. I didn’t want to fail and yet my mind went to that soaring eagle – my man is so much like his mythological god doppelganger…and then - and let me say thank the lord that no one else was there to see it - I had an orgasm! My hooey shook like a Kansas tornado, all hot and wet, and full of dark, dreamy thoughts.

  I moaned loudly the way I do when I’m with Zeus, at least it sounded super loud as I do with Zeus, because he can be very quiet in comparison.

  “The equipment likes you too,” Zeke said.

  I took a deep breath and said, “Funny.” As much as I wanted to be, I could hardly be witty at a time like that.

  “Now you won’t need your fiancé to take care of your sweaty little dreamcatcher,” he said. “Not tonight, anyhow.” I was certain I’d heard him right, and I liked that I didn’t have to be the aggressor this time. I knew I was right on track to get this party started.

  I replied, “Zeus is out of town. He’s in Japan on business.”

  “You’re engaged to a deity?”

  I laughed, because I had just been silently making that same comparison. I said, “I guess, right?”

  “You know,” Zeke said, unmistakably flirtatiously, “the name Feathertoe represents a long line of spiritual shaman. And our spirit men can smoke rings around mythology.”

  “Really?” I asked, hoping for a more specific ring – hooey, nipsey-russells, lips or back end? I thought, maybe he meant all of them, like a four-ringed circus or something?

  “What can you teach me, oh great one?” I said. “I bow to the mighty Shaman in you, Mr. Feathertoe.” It was all I could manage. I know, lame. Hey, what did you expect? I had just had an orgasm for fuck’s sake. I was still hanging by my armpits, in what will now be referred to as the fuck harness. It was hard to play über-sexy and cool Madonna protégé while dangling from the precipice of a non-pricker wham-bam that felt like the big kazoo. But anyhow, it work
ed. A little more sexy-sexy banter and guess what? Zeke’s taking me to a local beach tomorrow night after our work-out so that we can sit American Indian style...and perform a sexy power pow-wow.

  Comments:5

  Native Americans like girls who can suck cock.Bluejay Hawk, New York

  Be careful, Danna, because Madonna got pregnant fucking her gym rat.Julia Czardzinski,Minneapolis,MN

  What is this foolishness? I call police. Identity theft is crime. Dannika good girl is.Auntie Sofia, Toronto, Ont., Canada

  Where’s the brother fuck?Call me!Tyrone,Atlanta,GA

  It’s no act. Aug. 29th. Marriott Hotel. Room 1022.Rob, NY, NY

  ****

  Indian Giver

  Saturday, August 1, 2009 - 3:00am

  I met Zeke at the gym at around 8:45pm. I was supposed to be there at 8:00pm but Zeus had called unexpectedly from Japan. He had said he’d wanted to hear my voice because there was a small earthquake, and the Skype wasn’t working. That scared me a little. It never occurred to me that something like an earthquake could come between us. I started thinking about all the creepy things in life that could ruin our lives, like plane crashes and natural disasters or a fight over the TV remote, separating us for life.

  I thought, maybe I should give up my vision quest? I wanted him to promise me he’d never travel to Japan again. Zeus assured me that everything would be okay, because he would never let any of that terrible stuff happen. He would use the powers of the gods and move heaven and earth to make sure we would be together, and I believed him, although I still made him promise and didn’t stop badgering him until he did.

  Our religion is pretty fucking powerful, truth be told. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been called a good luck charm because of it. Mr. Cochran tells me that all the time – apparently our business grew exponentially when I came on board Eiffel Travel, but that might have been because everyone in my church congregation starting booking through me (due to the fact that they like working with their own kind). Of course, Zeus is always right too, naturally, which helped me off the irrational track.