by Mia Natasha
As I was thinking about this stuff on my way to the mall, it made me feel less embarrassed at failing to go all the way with my male companions. I started getting almost excited for my lez-lez conquest, as though it was going to be the very best one. It would jumpstart my hooey in a sort of Sci-Fi regeneration, which would lead to better success with the remaining male conquests!
Sometimes Zeus jokes about doing a threesome. We both love that old movie Summer Lovers, where the young couple fucks a Greek girl during their summer vacation on Mykonos. That movie is super sexy because all the people involved are attractive. Zeus and I agreed that if we were ever to add a third party to our love making it would have to be Mila Kunis and no other facsimile. He doesn’t like the idea of doing a girl who doesn’t look exactly like me, and I don’t really feel comfortable sharing him with anyone in case that girl tries to steal him from me. So we made a deal that the only way we would ever go for it, is if we ran into my famous actress doppelganger and she agreed to it.
Naturally, that would never happen. Hmm. What are the chances, really? We are very lucky people. I guess she could conceivably be in Hawaii if we go there on our honeymoon. That would definitely be weird, especially if she were behind the front desk, like she was during the movie Forgetting Sarah Marshall. She looks so much like me, it’s actually eerie. It would be like me fucking Zeus and fucking myself at the same time like a giant narcissist. Would she fall in love with Zeus then try to snatch him away from me forever using her acting wiles? I shudder to think it.
I had planned to waltz into Macy’s the way Zeke Feathertoe had danced me over to the leg press machine – and I was going to point blank ask the sales girl on a girl date. Then after plying her with drinks, I’d get her to lick me up, maybe she could even strap one on and fuck my hoo-ha silly, which it needs badly. Are lesbians as easy to persuade into the sack as guys, I wondered? I didn’t know, but I would learn quickly, I thought.
I had the scenario’s dialogue in my head, how I would say, “I bet your hooey smells like Hostess Twinkies,” and she’d say, “Indeedy-do. Care for a whiff and a taste?”
“Yes, please,” I’d say. “Let’s get into the groove.”
She wasn’t there. What was I thinking? It’s true that like Madonna, my life’s trajectory thus far had been positively successful, so I guess I thought that my blog-mission would take on this magical voyage type of aura. Like everything would just fall into place the way it does in a movie – the way Dorothy works out her problems in her Oz dream.
That story would have made much more sense had Dorothy been a little older. She could have had heaps more fun in Oz. She would have been happy boffing the Lion for a time while living in that green city, don’t you think? I mean who doesn’t love a talking cat? Plus they all thought she was super powerful and wonderful even though she was a malicious witch murderer. She could do no wrong. They thought she was a good witch, like Glinda, whom they all adored the way I worship Madonna.
Before my dream, I doubt I would have ever even thought about having sex with anyone besides Zeus, and now look at me. I’m a woman with good witch gusto, right? I couldn’t start this thing without ending it – without having contact with all six fuckers. Everything about this missed opportunity felt frustrating.
She not being there left me feeling terribly empty. You must know what it’s like when you plan to go somewhere and you take your last pee and you are so ready, like a filly about to run the Preakness or whatever. Then you have to abort, at the five second mark, with no hoo-ha fill-up….
I’m so not used to failure. I felt so incredibly glum, as though I wanted that particular lesbian experience the way I really wanted that Madame Alexander doll from FAO Schwarz that had been way too expensive. I was six years old at the time, in my defense. She was that baby doll that looks so real she even pees after you give her this fake watery milk. I cried until I got her. Then I abandoned her on the porch swing (not sure where she is today). I think I was too young to take care of a baby. Have no idea how I will do it when I do get pregnant, truth be told, unless our mothers and Yaya step in.
Mom loves kids. Her world practically revolves around us, especially my brothers whom she treats as gods. I feel sorry for Penny and for the woman who marries Dean, because they will have some big-headed babies on their hands. Please god, don’t give me boys, even though we’ve already picked out their names. Of course, a boy who looks like Zeus wouldn’t be bad at all.
I didn’t want to go home and sulk or type up this blog empty handed. Thought I’d lose my audience if I did that – on the off chance that there is an audience out there. All talk and no action is a sort of pitiful work ethic thingy. With the extra time on my hands, I decided to head over to Jasmine’s for my wedding gown fitting instead of waiting until tomorrow night. I guess I was using the remains of my positive energy, thinking that since the lez-lez event was a bust, the staff at Jasmine’s would stop whatever they were doing to assist me. I would only need a drop of good luck for that to happen, and I only thought this because every time I go to Jasmine’s everyone falls all over me showering me with compliments on the way I look in my wedding gown. They are so sweet and always make me feel good.
I figured now would be a good time to hear pleasant comments. It was either that or make an appointment with my priest to rid me of my disappointment guilt. Do you know that the way the Orthodox Church does confession is face-to-face? No secret playhouse box, like in the Catholic Church. I’m not sure if anyone has ever used that sacrament, except maybe that woman, Joanne, the one who makes excellent spanikopita. She went to jail for tax evasion, and I’m pretty sure she had confessed to Father Phillip before she left in case she gets shanked in the big house.
I love Jasmine’s Bridal Shop. It’s in a small plaza that has a white picket fence around the perimeter next to Giuseppe’s Tailoring and that cobbler who seriously looks like Pinocchio’s father. Jasmine wasn’t there - do you believe that? She’s almost always there. Instead, a thirty-something blonde stood in her stocking feet by the tall T-stand near the cash register. She took the end of the tape measure that was around her neck out of her mouth and began to speak in broken English.
“Ha va you?” she said.
Since I too speak B.E., I had no problem with it. Many people who attend our church are off-the-boaters, you know? Broken English helps when speaking Greek too. I’m not great at it, not Greek fluent yet, so I tend to throw in some American words in a sort of Greeklish thingy. Greek’s hard to master.
“Hi, there. Dannika,” I said pointing to myself.
“Margot,” the fragilely thin woman replied. She was pretty in that way people who need makeovers look breathtaking afterwards. That house frau polyester dress with the zip front did nothing for her. “Polska.”
I assumed that meant she was from Poland.
“Fitting?” I asked. It was kind of like playing that Password game that Mr. Zepkos loves to watch on TV Land.
“You bride?” she said.
“Yes.” I nodded yes too, to make Margot feel confident. We walked to the back of the store. “It’s an Alexandre gown. Last name is Elinopoulous, soon to be Zepkos.” I couldn’t remember if we had listed it under my name or Zeus’. Zepkos is so much easier to pronounce.
Margot looked to the front of the store. There was no one there. If anyone came in, that little bell on the door would have chimed. It’s not like people steal wedding garments, or anything. That would be weird. Anyhow, it was getting late and it hadn’t looked like Margot was expecting another appointment. I’m sure she would have said so. Instead, she walked over to face me and smiled shyly before averting her eyes.
“I will find dress,” Margot said.
She walked into the back room. I followed the trail of the classical music playing. As I suspected, it was emanating from a CD player behind the register. Kind of thought it would put me in a better mood if we listened to the mix Chad Mavis had made for me, which I happened to have in my giant hobo
bag. I mean, I’d thought I brought it, so I burrowed through, deep inside past the cosmetic bag full of tampons I always kept there in case of emergency, and the wallet Zeus had given me at Christmas that only had room for two credit cards after he had filled the slots with pictures of him and me at various stages of our bliss.
When I found the CD, I removed Mozart’s Greatest and replaced it with the one of Madonna spotted hits. I didn’t turn up the volume because that would have made me seem a little bit of a bitch, don’t you think? I didn’t want to act like I owned the place or anything. Margot had a Madonna look about her so I thought she would enjoy the mix too or at least offer a positive comment on its sound quality. I did come there for positive comfort, after all.
I bet Margot would have looked cute in stretch lace and rubber bangle bracelets, especially when she was younger. She could have won a look-a-like contest. I wondered if she had ever gone through a Madonna phase. Was Madonna popular in Poland? It didn’t look like bracelets were Margot’s thing though, as they would have probably interfered with the preciseness of her alterations work if she wore them, I guessed, which is why I suspected she didn’t wear them or any jewelry.
She was taking a while finding the gown. Since I was in the back of the store behind the tall round rack filled with sale gowns, it wasn’t a big deal to slip out of my skinny jeans and designer peasant top. Wow, I looked a lot thinner standing there in my red lace bra and matching thong. I slipped the Candies leather mules back on my feet. I’ve been wearing this easy on and off shoe for obvious reasons, but mainly because they are sort of retro, harking back to the ‘80s when Madonna first got her start. I still felt a little like a fledgling Madonna with my newbie like-a-virgin fuck status and all.
Sometimes I wear these old pink opera gloves that Yaya had given me a few years ago when she was cleaning out her hope chest. She had worn them at her 1959 prom, but they look like the ones from Material Girl. Obviously, I only wear them in private. I don’t want people to think I’m a fetishist. Anyhow, I needed heels for my dress and I didn’t bring the Choos, seeing as I hadn’t planned on coming there tonight and the Candies were about the same heel height. You get the picture.
My gown has a built in padded bra so I removed the one I was wearing. I didn’t want to forget to do it and then get all stuck in the dress and accidentally get make-up on it or something disastrous-like. I stood there in just the mules and the red thong waiting for Margot to return with my dress and staring at myself in the three-way mirror. My nipsey-russells felt the cool breeze of the air conditioning and stood erect as I positioned my arms in various Vogue poses. Good girls, I thought, because I love the way tit-tats look when they are plumped. Margot brought out my dress as I was doing the Coppertone ad pose, thong down showing my tan line while my booty-boot jutted out almost past the point of balance. I nearly fell off the podium when I noticed her there.
“Okay,” Margot said as she came around the corner and placed the dress on the hook next to the mirror. “O….” I assumed she was going to say okay again, but she stared at my naked top as her mouth froze at the O, making her look like one of those angels you made out of acetate during church school at Christmas to place as a window cling on the glass insert of doors. I folded my arms in front of me to contain my boobsies demurely. Margot turned away and unzipped the cloth bag, but I could see her sneaking a peak at me through the looking glass.
My wedding gown is really exquisite. It is an Alexandre, a new designer out of Canada, whom my auntie knows personally. I could hardly get the kind of dress I really wanted, slinky sleek ivory silk that would have looked amazing with my olive skin and have allowed my tit-tats the freedom to nip out all day and night. The real me, all sexy-sexy, but not for a rated G family big fat Greek you-know-what, of course. Instead, the Alexandre gown is white chiffon, with a Schiffli lace bodice all padded up, and with a lacing at the bust, sort of like football player’s pants have. There’s a lot of Swarovski crystal trim around the seams too. Very shim-shim-sheree. I’m wearing it to please my mother mainly. She picked it out. My parents are spending loads of money to see their only daughter get married. I’m like their princess, and I want them to be proud of me. Don’t get me wrong, bloggers. It’s very pretty. Zeus will like it.
Margot helped me into the gown like my lady-in-waiting. She was so careful with it, the opposite of Jasmine. I think it was because Jasmine works with dresses all the time and knows how much the cloth can take, especially a polyester blend. Margot, being new, acted as if someone had woven the material of the finest Milanese silk, and her life depended on keeping the fragile cloth safe from harm.
“Oh, it is bu-ti-ful,” she said. “You are most bu-ti-ful bride, Misses Eli-op-plis.
I said, “It’s Elinopoulous, Margot, soon to be Zepkos. But call me Danna.”
“Danna bu-ti-ful, elegant bride,” she said. Margot was beaming, exactly the way my mother had when I had tried it on for her.
“Are you married?” I asked, thinking that Margot might have a little girl hiding somewhere that she might marry off one day. But then, I had an inkling….
“I don’t like-um man,” she said.
I paused for a moment and let her comment digest. I thought I would check for understanding before I allowed the gears in my brain to churn up a plan. I said, “You don’t like men? Are you gay, Margot?”
“Gay,” she repeated. And then, “Ya, ya, gay, I am.” Margot proceeded to pin the bodice around my tummy. It was actually a smidgen too loose since my fitting two weeks ago.
I said, “How do you like it? Being gay, I mean. Do you like….” Then I kissed the top of her head. Her hair smelled like hair, like she didn’t wash it every day, which must be a foreign thingy. The kiss startled Margot. She jumped and the pin she was using hit my tummy-tum-tum. Yikes, that smarted. I yipped. Yes, I yelled, “Yip!” No blood drawn, thank God.
Margot cocked her head when she looked at me. She was probably, like the others, wondering why I was getting married. I thought if I tried to explain, then it would get lost in translation. So I just stood there waiting, but not for long. She climbed up on the podium so that we were eye to eye. Pins were in her mouth - otherwise, I would have kissed her lips. Margot continued the adjustments, pinning the cap sleeve a little, making it move with me the way I wanted it before and couldn’t get Jasmine to do.
“We finish,” she said firmly. She seemed proud of her work.
“Okay,” I said. “Good. You do very nice work.”
“Very nice,” she repeated. I took it as flirtation on her part.
Margot helped me out of the dress, just in case a stray pin actually hit a vein. Blood is hard to wash out of white, blood and cum, as I mentioned once before. She placed my wedding gown back in the bag as I stood waiting in my sexy red thong. I flicked my pinkie a love rub when I knew Margot wasn’t looking. That got me nicely hot and bothered, and wet.
I said, “Do you like what you see?” Now I pinched my girls so they could give a proper greeting. Margot turned and faced me full on. She reached to touch them and she reminded me of a poor little girl holding a doll in a store and wishing she could take it home. The way I must have looked when I was begging for that doll from FAO Schwarz. Now I was that doll, not a baby doll, but a full-blown bride doll.
I began to wonder if Margot would make an acceptable lesbian trophy for my Madonna adventure. Because I needed someone to guide me, not the other way around. Margot seemed to need me more, and there was a sadness to that, like the cowardly lion who still feared life even after receiving a badge for courage. Suddenly Madonna’s Forbidden Love song came on. It seemed an omen, because I couldn’t understand why Chad Mavis would have added it to a wedding reception mix tape otherwise. I had my answer.
“You come back Friday, and we try dress again, okay?” Margot said. She was trying to maintain an air of professionalism but I could see through it.
I said, “Okay, Friday. Should I bring my Choos or just my choo-choo?”
> “I bring everything,” she said. I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I was hopeful, because as I moved to reach for my bra, Margot clamped her mouth around my left nip. She nibbled it until I gasped. It felt tickly-ooh-la-la and left righty jealous. Then she returned my dress to the back room.
I got dressed, and realized how ridiculously lucky I really am. You see, my friends? Madonna guides me well – and Zeus, inadvertently, since he was the one who told me to schedule another dress fitting. I’m not sure why I had any moments of doubt. Maybe I am the lioness.
I better not fuck this up, because my only hoo-ha to hooey experience resides in a dream. I really have no idea what I’m doing. What is sex sans cock? I guess I’ll find out Friday night.
Comments: 2
Whoo-hoo and what do you know? The Cretan is a lesbo! This trumps crafting any day of the week.Ro, Miami, FL
I think I love you with all my heart. Scratch that with your lioness claws. I do love you.Rob, NY, NY
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Bad Girl
Saturday, August 8, 2009 – noon
I woke up in someone else’s bed this morning. It was disorienting to say the least. I’m pretty sure it will take me all day to recover from this hangover. Zeus called again, wouldn’t you know it? And I wasn’t home, and I feel a panic attack coming on thinking I have no way to explain my absence, and I’m only half-way to my six fucks. He can’t find out!
I’ve had only one other panic attack in my life. It was the day I had graduated from high school, and I thought I’d lost the speech I’d written. My peers had elected me to speak at the ceremony – cheer more like, I think, due to the response I’d gotten at that pep rally when I’d performed the new cheers I’d invented for the all-county winning basketball team. I had the whole thing memorized – I didn’t need that stupid folded up paper, but I had just wanted it as a crutch. I’d wanted to stare at my heart dotted Is and the rest of my handwriting, for comfort.