by Mia Natasha
Yaya had found it in the refrigerator about two minutes before we were set to leave for Proctor’s Theatre. I must have thrown it in there when I was getting myself a glass of orange juice. The panic had been averted but that feeling of slowly dying from a heart attack as you can’t catch your breath is simply mortifying – it’s happening now and it’s much worse than the way I felt before offering my words of wisdom to my peers. I don’t get why public speaking is the number one scariest thing on people’s list of scariest things, by the way. It’s not a big deal. I could do it all day – but I cannot lie to Zeus.
This is an awful feeling. I need a paper bag to breathe into or something. I don’t lie to Zeus, as I’ve mentioned. I’m sure you’re wondering, why doesn’t she carry a cell phone? I don’t for the obvious reason that I don’t want Mama Zepkos hounding me minute by minute. Not just her, but anyone who wants to intrude on my privacy. Not Zeus, you know, but still. It is a little weird to have people up your ass every minute, don’t you think? And then, if you let it go to voice mail, people will wonder if you are avoiding them or something, and they’ll get mad. It’s a damned if you do, damned if you don’t scenario.
But this time, I kind of wished I had taken Zeus’ advice and picked one up at Best Buy when they were having that sale. I wouldn’t have missed the call that came at seven in the morning. I could have reiterated my insistence that Zeus promise me he would never leave on an overseas work assignment without me by his side, especially when he’d mentioned another small earthquake. I needed to yell at him for leaving me like this, since I have been such a bad, bad girl.
He had left that message plus he’d said that his parents are planning to host the rehearsal dinner at Eli’s on Friday the 28th, instead of the night before the wedding, so that he can go on with his American-style bachelor party plans in the city on Saturday night. That’s fine, because my parents and I had already discussed it, and Gina had already put the deposit on the hotel rooms we are using for the bachelorette bash on the same night. Of course, I trust Zeus – I doubt he’ll engage in strip clubs, and finding girls in cakes. And he’s never had a hangover the size of mine right now. He has incredible integrity, about as much as my dad does, and that’s a lot….
Okay, I just puked. I prayed to the porcelain god and afterwards I drank a giant Virgin Mary. Then I took a shower, although now I’m back in my little nightie, sitting on the sectional with the laptop on the armrest, pointing my hooey towards the air conditioner. I’ll be okay, I think, as soon as I quit worrying - and rehydrate.
I met Margot at Jasmine’s last night. It was late – the store had officially closed for the evening. I actually waited for Jasmine to drive off in her old Caddy before I ventured in. Kind of felt like a thief or something out of a TV Land detective show - a cuntessa thief. Zeus calls my hoo-ha the cuntessa sometimes, which is his way of calling me a princess.
Margot let me in through the back door then took my hand and led me to the podium. My dress hung on the hook by the mirror. It is so architectural in design that it almost doesn’t even need a body in it. I really love it.
“I finish clean, okay?” she said. I nodded yes. I didn’t want to distract her from her store duties, and it goes without saying that I wasn’t going to help.
I sat down and opened the shoebox. Those Jimmy Choos are really spectacular! Worth every penny that my mother paid for them. Margot vacuumed the front of the store as I put them on. I rose and proceeded to do a bit of Never on a Sunday. Love the way the shoes sparkle when I do the stomp-swoosh.
When Margot returned, she helped me disrobe, which was easy since I was wearing another sundress, this one a maxi length floral with smocking at the boobsies. She pulled gently on the strapless top and it slid right off. This time I did not bother with panties of any sort. Thought it would better put me in the sex-mode mood if I felt my hooey freely dribble moistness down my thigh. I had briefly considered shaving my mon-mons for the occasion, thinking it worked the lez-lez theme, but that would have looked weird on me. I certainly don’t want to look like a child on my wedding night. I’ll save that look for when I go gray in thirty or forty years.
I looked at myself, all nudie-toons and stilettoed, and I thought I looked very sexy, I must say. I wore my hair in bed-head fashion, long and messy-like. I kept my make-up to a fresh faced minimum so all that competed with those fabulous shoes was my Asscher cut diamond engagement ring, which sparkled like Glinda’s wand.
“Maybe too skinny, you are,” Margot said.
“I’ve been working out.” Had she found me unattractive? I was kind of thinking I was about to give her a gift, you know, and I guess I almost felt insulted. She is a very slender woman herself, so I was very surprised by the comment at first. But then I saw her blushing and I took it as a sign. It was simply small talk to avoid a jumping bones escapade, no more. It was probably fair to assume that even lesbians like a bit of foreplay before the big hurrah.
“Do I look thinner than last time?” I asked.
“Done worry bout it,” Margot said as she helped me into the gown. “We can fix dress. Always fix.”
She zipped it up and affixed the pearl buttons into their respective loops. I stared at myself in the mirror while Margot fastened me in. She was very adept at pulling tightly the strings of the corset part. I know it sounds stupid to say that the dress fit like a glove but really – I mean, I took deep breaths and it moved with me like swimwear. The refitted Alexandre gown looked incredible on me, if I do say so myself. Despite my preference for something sexier, it is a suitable and appropriate garment for the Orthodox Church and for the reception at Eli’s, the restaurant and banquet hall Dad owns. The train is long, but not so much that I couldn’t maneuver it. I decided to walk around the store. I met Margot at the register. She held my veil in her hands. Together we strolled back to the mirror and she placed it on my head. My hair wasn’t styled the way I plan to wear it on August 30th, but the effect was still transformative. I started to cry. Margot kneeled down to adjust the train the way it would look for the photographs.
“I feel so bridey,” I said. “I can’t believe I’m actually a bride. Why am I crying?” My guess was that everything seemed way more real, now that the dress fit. Mom had cried when we’d selected it, even though I had these creepy giant hair clip thingys pulling it against my back. The original sample had been at least three sizes too big.
I tried to think funny thoughts. I didn’t want the costume to have so much power in case I spilled Diet Coke, wine or cum down the front of it. Then I would really cry.
“Bu-ti-ful,” Margot announced as she clapped her hands with glee. “Sexy, but without so much toot-toot.”
I said, “Do you really think it looks sexy? I don’t know.”
Margot rose from hands and knees formation. She put her fingers together and kissed them then placed the wet digits on my cheeks. “I dunno prettier bride. Sweet girl.”
It was as if we had shared a moment or something. Margot became like a surrogate mother in a way. A profundity overtook me and I wondered if this seemed in any way similar to a lesbian connection. Not about hoo-has and prickers, but emotional stuff, like compassion and love. I still feel a little confused by the sensation, truth be told, because it had something to do with Madonna. I looked into Margot’s blue eyes and I saw her. I saw my pop-idol as though her spirit had performed a hop in into my seamstress, and I’d somehow fallen into my dream. I tried to shake it off because it kind of scared me.
“Okay then,” I said as I tried to get at the buttons to unburden myself of the lace encrusted polyester. “Pack it up and I’ll take it to my parents’ house. That’s where I’ll be getting dressed for the wedding.”
“Greek wedding,” Margot said.
“Yes.”
“I think one more fitting and we make it perfect,” she added as she held the gown. “Sexy girl might lose more weight from bang-bang.”
“All right, Margot,” I replied. “But I doubt I’ll lose
any more weight. I’m always hungry, and Zeus isn’t in town, so, you know.” I pointed to my hooey and made a sad face then I looked at her expression. Her eyebrows kind of rose up in one of those oh, really? poses. I hesitated at first. Could I actually do this, I wondered? Then I smiled and before I could stop myself I said, “Girl bang-bang?”
“Ya, ya. She bang it,” Margot replied and laughed. I looked to my left then right like a coconspirator – making sure no one else was around. I hated to think a secret hidden camera was capturing any of this – and if it were, then I’d have grounds to sue due to my nakedity.
Margot covered her mouth with her hand as though it embarrassed her to be attracted to me. I didn’t want her to think I felt sexually harrassed by her interest, so I removed it, gently, and gave her a quick kiss on the lips. When I moved away, she remained eyes-closed lingering in the kiss as if it was the kiss of life. That gave me the confidence I needed to continue.
“You do great work,” I said. “I can come back next Thursday for the last fitting, if that works.”
“I check the book,” she said. Margot rushed to get the appointment book by the desk and moved her finger down the calendar. “Jasmine will be here.”
“That’s great,” I said. “I’ll bring my mom.”
I think Margot seemed a bit saddened. Perhaps she had thought our encounter had ended? That’s when I asked her out.
“Are you hungry, by any chance?”
Margot and I ended up going to Tully’s because she had wanted to watch some World Cup soccer game. I used my credit card to buy the drinks, beer for me and seltzer water for Margot. I tend to drink beer at sports bars. Let the venue fit the alcoholic beverage, I always say, and Tully’s wasn’t exactly Ouzo country.
We had burgers and fries, but I couldn’t stomach mine because I was so nervous. I wasn’t sure how to behave on this date – would Margot expect more emotional talk? Would she appreciate my knowledge of everything Madonna? Where would I find common ground with her?
As I kept drinking on a fairly empty stomach, I stopped fussing once Margot became engrossed in the soccer game, because the date became very similar to a typical Sunday afternoon with Zeus. We watch a lot of soccer on ESPN or live, when Zeus plays a pick-up game with his college buddies or the guys from church, you know, when he’s not in Japan or otherwise traveling.
Okay, so I got wasted. I plied myself with drinks. Isn’t that what gay people did? I mean closeted gays, naturally. I heard they tended to drink a lot due to their extreme shame for liking same sex couplings so much. Or was that just dudes? I don’t really know, I’m only going on hearsay from the mouth of the always opinionated Kathy Duke-Dike. My apologies to any of you closeted gays out there for my ignorance. I promise you, I’m not a big drinker. I hope you don’t think badly of me. I do care what you think, bloggers. It’s just that I had never done this before, and I wasn’t sure I even wanted to go through with it until I got hammered. Because the drunker I was, the more Margot became Madonna.
Margot helped me into her car. I was borderline pukish at that point. Her little Hyundai sputtered about and almost stalled a couple times. I think she didn’t do well with stick shift. I imagine that’s because it is a phallic symbol. What do you think?
Holiday played on the radio. Another omen. It will definitely be playing at my wedding. The Greek band can even do it Greek-style. I sang at the top of my lungs, as if I was trying to beat the favorite on Idol or impress a record producer.
“Madonna make sexy with girl but she no like,” Margot said.
“I don’t know about that,” I replied. “She’s very pro the gay movement. I’m sure she enjoyed it very much.” I kissed her stick-shift hand. She kind of shrugged me off so she could have it back to use.
“Danna, you no like girls,” she said.
“But I do,” I said. “I really do. I have heaps of girlfriends. And we kiss – oh, and shower together whenever we can.”
I was referring to that time my college roommates met Zeus and me in Athens one summer. Zeus hung out with his uncle’s family while we went to a spa and there was that big shower room. Technically, it wasn’t a gay experience, but it still counted, I thought in my drunkenness.
We drove back past the bridal shop - I saw my Accord in the lot where I’d left it - then around the corner onto Lincoln Street. Margot lived in a studio apartment above Milano Bakery. The smell of hot Italian bread soothed my queasy stomach. I love Italian bread. Every morning my dad gets bread from the restaurant from Milano’s and sometimes, on his way home from work, he’ll drop off a loaf at my apartment. I love to tunnel out the inside and save the crust for when I eat soft-boiled eggs. Do you do that?
I wish I had a loaf of bread right now and maybe some orange juice. I think I’ll call Dad later and see if he could stop over with some. Mom and Dad always come right over if I tell them I’m sick. They are very loving parents. But if I call them now, they’ll probably want to hop out on another real estate outing. I don’t want to look at houses in the suburbs for Zeus and me without him – I’ve told them that a thousand times. My apartment is plenty roomy for the two of us, at least for a little while, probably twice the size of Margot’s.
Hers was a studio apartment with dingy wallpapered walls and windows covered with blankets in lieu of traditional curtains. She had a futon for a bed, a coffee table, and two end tables that looked like they had been purchased from a little old lady’s estate sale. There was a kitchenette and a sewing table with an old black Singer sewing machine on it, and a stool to sit on. It looked like a drab tenement apartment from 1920s Manhattan, real dreary-like.
I felt kind of sorry for her. It reminded me of the time Madonna did that reality show on VH-1 (I saw it on the internet) where with cameras in tow she visited a former slum she’d lived in, and this couple were living there all sloppy-like with clothes on the floor and such. I felt sorry for them too. They were excited to see her there, thought she’d shower them with gifts and prizes I imagine, but Madonna was just there trying to illustrate how far she’d come.
I said, “Thank you for sharing a little piece of yourself with me, Margot.”
“Tank you,” she said.
I said, “Why? I haven’t done anything, aside from buy you dinner, and think I’ve been such bad company tonight.”
“For sexy,” she said as she pushed me down on the bed and began to investigate my facial orifice with her soft lady’s lips. Zeus has a scruffy beard and I love the way it feels against my cheek, but wow! It felt amazing to kiss lips that were attached to such soft skin. I had no idea.
There was no shame in this. I felt like it was my birthright to take this journey due to the whole Lesbos thingy. I came up for air and gazed at my homo-instructor. The black and white shirtwaist dress she wore reminded me of Madonna’s look in A League of Their Own. The short blonde hair and blue eyes with a hint of wrinkle around them, probably from squinting to see a thread go through the eye of a needle or to smash a ball into the outfield. My seamstress looked at me with a sort of fondness that made me feel good. I realized that she had been the right choice. I was helping her as much as she was helping me. Of course, she was helping me.
Thank you, Madonna for guiding me, I thought. I lay like a baby in Margot’s arms. She undressed me with a swish, quicker than she’d done it at the store. Thus began the dance to orgasm. She touched my nip-naps as though she was touching herself. Like she knew what would please me because she was feeling it too. Not breast exam like, mind you, but tender and gentle. Her mouth clasped onto the right one. It felt so nice and soft, no beard stubble to scratch them up.
She licked as though she was searching for the summit, in slow swirls. Now she tweaked its twin – no jealously this time, gathering the nip between thumb and forefinger, which necessitated a gy-normous moan from me. A drivel of pre-cum leaked down the corridor of my waterslide. I hoped that Margot had a second set of sheets because I was going to leave a wet spot for sure. Margot changed posit
ions like a ballerina. She placed a hand on each breast and then stretched out, moving her face to my mon-mons. As she nibbled at the loose skin there, I screamed out.
I wanted to get up and leave. It wasn’t what I’d expected - felt like a puppy bite on my privates. But Margot restrained me via vise grips on my titty-ta-tas. I became her prisoner, and that was kind of sexy. She began to suckle my cuntessa in earnest, taunting me with her lady-like tenderness and her poor, alien in New York passion. We locked lips again with more pressure this time. With my eyes closed, I started to imagine my Madonna dream. Is this what it felt like?
In my dream, Madonna touched me like a man - rough and tumble and such. But this pseudo Madonna felt yum-yummy. My body fluttered all over with tickly sensations, if you want to know the truth. I mean, I experienced new pleasurable tingles in places no tingle has ever lingered. Like she liked to lick the nubby tender part of my clit, the part I like to touch when I’m in the shower and the part Zeus has yet to discover. He has plenty of time to learn, of course. We will have a long life together to understand each other inside and out. I mean, he’ll find it eventually.
While my mind conjured Zeus, Margot reached into the end table drawer and pulled out a vibrator. Ew, I thought, she better not use that on me. Is it even clean? Where has it been? I was going to relieve her of it, maybe take charge and use it on her instead, but the drunken part of me reminded myself that it is impolite to make demands when you are a guest in another person’s home. I passively awaited my fate. Dr. Quirkenbush could handle any gyno emergency. She’s told me. She’s seen it all.
“Powerful weapon of love,” Margot cooed.
In went the pink device, dissolving into the wetness of my pinkiest-pinkerson of a pussy. A pink for a pink. Oo-la-la! It felt super deluxe good. I’ve never used a vibrator because my own hand was always sufficient, you know? Plus when a twenty-three-year-old cock sleeps in your bed, you can have sex like five times a night, you know, two short blasts, two of medium duration, and then a long lingering fuck-a-doo, complete with snuggles and I-love-yous and that ever super colossally delicious looking into each other’s googly eyes and saying more I-love-yous. I know, we can be toxic. Oh, I love Zeus so much, I thought, as this strange foreign woman pelted my cunt with thrusts from a fake cock.