by Mia Natasha
Honestly, I don’t remember what happened next. I remember laughing a lot. Sex is supposed to be fun, and Zeus and I laugh all the time. But I think Margot thought I was mocking her somehow, because she didn’t seem amused. I vaguely remember getting a hold of the pink toy and shoving it into her mouth. I thought she’d like to suck my juices off of it, yum-yum. But I heard her moaning, like maybe she couldn’t breathe, the way I couldn’t when Zeke Feathertoe had clogged my windpipe with Mr. Skinny.
All this drunken lesbian sex had pooped me out so I turned to the side (I’m a side sleeper) and let the sandman work his magic. At the time, I thought Margot had been singing me a lullaby, but the more I think back on it, the more I think that maybe she had been screaming at me. It sort of sounded like the combined whine of the adults on the Peanuts cartoons as I drifted off to sleep.
I was alone in the dingy apartment when I woke with that vibrator plugging about an inch of my asshole. Ew. I farted it out though, so no biggie. I hope she cleans it before she uses it again for the sake of her next partner. Margot left me a note.
Tank you for try to be for sex. Now get marry and be happy.
I think I need another Virgin Mary. Madonna, where are you when I need you? I know what you’ll say - three down and three to go. I know where to find myself a black guy, but a Dom? An actor? I really hope this all works out. I’m on a time crunch – there’s only a few weeks left - and I don’t want to fail you.
Comments: 3
Madge tells me she has been reading your blog. A-Rod was just a friend. And her gay quest was just as experimental as yours. Ro, Miami, FL
I am part of the BDSM community and can hook you up.
Ladybelle Mestopheles, Long Island, NY
I sorry you no like sex. Margot, Rensselaer, NY
****
Flower Power
Tuesday, August 11, 2009 - 4:30pm
Irv Goldrodblum is my florist. He does all the Greek weddings around here. We’re lucky to have such a prestigious florist in town who knows the ins and outs of the ethnic Orthodox experience, from the church decoration (no women inside the altar!) to a lavish sixty table reception. He studied in France at one of the top perfumeries in Paris. It was there where he learned to perfect match hand-dyed carnations to any bridesmaid gown or table linen and to inject them with essential oils of some sort for lasting freshness. His flowers always have such a strong fragrance lasting well beyond the wedding reception witching hour, which in our case might be dawn, what with all the Ouzo fountains followed by drunken folk dancing on tables.
The shop, called Flower Power, is located off State Route 7 in Troy, New York. Irv specializes in South American roses but he also grows a lot of his own flowers, like stephanotis and those carnations - inside a greenhouse on the other side of the parking lot.
All sorts of impending disasters await the unsuspecting couple during a Greek wedding, and it all happens to the tune of archaic sing-song, like a creepy Scooby-Doo cartoon, the ghost being holy. There’s the kinky bondage - the binding of the right hands with a white cloth, which restricts movement while, wearing crowns that are usually knotted together with ribbon, the couple must putter around a table and bow a bunch of times. And god help them if they fall off or worse, if the koumbari lose their grip on the crowns and they knock together. They will need the evil eye to make it through fifty years of marriage due to all the bad luck that will befall them. Oh, and then there are the candles. It’s always the koumbara’s fault. She’s usually too short and somehow the bridal veil becomes an inferno of fire – we’re the same height, but still. That’s why I’m not wearing my hair down – I don’t want dry fly-aways to clash with that giant wick flame.
It’s all rather stressful, really. I don’t know why Mom and I don’t see eye-to-eye on this one, because to me it is all crystal clear. A big bouquet would just be in the way. Why pay hundreds of dollars for flowers your first bridesmaid ends up holding? You don’t carry them at the reception. Zeus actually emailed my mother to support me, and she finally caved. I’m having Irv do a wrist corsage for all the ladies in the wedding party. Mine will have a green orchid with dark red flecks, three mini roses for my middle name, Rose, and two Gerber daisies. Does that sound pretty or do you think it’s tacky? The last time I went to see Irv, he and I discussed the designs based on these collages I’d made from pictures taken from old bridal magazines. He had said he would make up some samples for the corsages and the boutonnieres.
So today, I took a half-day at work because I needed to see Dr. Quirkenbush too. I arrived at Flower Power on schedule, right after lunch. Irv Goldrodblum met me at the door.
“Why hello there, young lady!” he exclaimed in his Long Island accented voice. “How’s the bride to be? How’re ya holding up? Won’t be long now till you’re saddled with the ole ball and chain, am I right?”
“Nope,” I said. “Just a couple more weeks and Zeus and I will finally be married. There’s still so much to do yet though. A lot of planning.” And Madonna-style fucky-wucks, I thought.
“Someday, David and I might do it up,” he said. We were thinking about an outdoor ceremony under a pavilion at Grafton Park. I see an all white floral arrangement with bougainvilleas hanging between our favorite Brazilian roses…and tulle, lots of tulle.” He clapped his hands with girlish delight then wiped his brow with the pocket square from his Italian suit jacket. “I don’t know what I’m saying. We’d go out of business with the amount of flowers I’d want to use.” He sighed, a heavy one. “Ah, yes, weddings. Don’t know how many years we’d have to wait to marry here.”
“It may not be too long,” I offered.
“We had a civil service,” he said.
“You did?”
“In Malawi, right next to the orphanage where we adopted Kai,” he explained. “Performed by the local Kabbalah rabbi, yes. I carried a bouquet of lavender wildflowers wrapped with a rawhide string.”
Now we were getting somewhere, I thought, because time was running out and I needed to seduce my basketball player - pronto. How cool is it that my florist is a humanitarian just like Madonna? I asked, “How is Kai?”
“Oh, he’s doing great,” Irv said with a loving fondness. “Matter of fact, he’s working with us this summer, did I tell you? I can’t remember. Dave always says I need to curb my blabbering, especially when it comes to dealing with brides. Should be all about them, not me and my wonderful family.”
He had mentioned it the last time we had spoken on the phone. I had worn a leopard chiffon top with my trouser jeans today – cougar style, for what I’d thought would be a rough and tumble encounter with the nineteen-year-old or at least a preliminary meet and greet.
“I don’t mind,” I said, encouraging him to continue.
“He works here mainly on Thursdays but hopefully more, if we can get him weaned off that darned basketball. He plays for Sienna, you know. At 6’7”, he’s one of the tallest players. Not only is he a top athlete, but he also knows his way around a flower shop. We’ve trained him well.”
Irv turned around and grabbed a white box from the back counter. He placed it on the table as I squealed with glee.
I said, “I love-love-love my corsage! The colors are so summery, all seafoam green, deep red in the orchid, delicate red-orange Gerber daisies - and a cream colored rose that looks….” I was going to say it looks like velvet cum, but stopped myself. I really loved the one rose decision, it was so…perfect. Irv really is the best.
“Like?”
“Like a velvet cake,” I managed. “Oh, and I love my koumbara’s corsage, too!” It was a smidgen different, smaller and with the tinier coral-colored roses, as we’d discussed. “But where are the sample boutonnieres?”
“Gosh, darn it!” he exclaimed. “I forgot about those. Can you come back later?” He looked at his watch. “I can have them ready in three hours.”
I tried to suppress my smile as I concocted my plan. Yes, that would do nicely, I thought. I said, “I have a
doctor’s appointment. What about Thursday?”
“I’m off then, but Kai will be here,” he replied as I expected. Irv picked up the tortoise shell picture frame on his desk. “Here’s my boy. He’s a looker, huh? A real heartbreaker, that one. Left the last young lady in tears.”
I had been hoping to see him today. As I stared at the picture of Kai wearing his hoops jersey and looking sweaty-sexy, I began to imagine our encounter. It would be the sexiest by far, at least according to Bunky Hewitt, who likes to brag about her African-American husband’s prowess in the sack. Kai’s dark-skinned arms looked so powerful! You could see every muscle defined as he held that basketball in his big hands. I envisioned them wrapped around me, his big pricker pounding Madonna-like sense into me. No emotion, no tears. Oh my, yes! He has no tatts, he’s a Jew after all, but he’ll do just fine, I thought. In a way, using flowers to get what I wanted the way I was, I felt a little like the Wicked Witch, although I didn’t see any poppies in the refrigerated case. Naturally, I didn’t plan to drug him, I just wanted to sleep with him.
I placed the corsage on my left wrist. “Looks divine,” Irv said. “Hope Kai can find a darling girl like you one day.”
I beamed as I thanked him and left there feeling incredible heat inside my pinkie-pinkerson. Things always have a way of working out for me, don’t they? Kai Golrodblum - do you see the rod in there, you know, as in Rodman? It’s an omen, a big one.
Comments: 5
This is so hot baby. Smitty, Austin, TX
This kid better not be a fruit! Tyrone, Atlanta, GA
Madannika, take a bow! At don’t forget to meet me at the Marriott. Rob, NY, NY
You are a stupid bitch. Anonymous
Your flowers sound nice. Angela Ballins, Conway, SC
****
To Have, Not to Hold a Scarecrow
Friday, August 14, 2009 - 9:00am
I had dinner with Mom and Dad on Wednesday night. I had forgotten that it was gift central at their five-bedroom Colonial in the ‘burbs. You should see all the loot Zeus and I have received, you know, since getting engaged - wedding presents that have been delivered to my parents’ house from all over the world, like Canada, Australia, and Greece and such. Getting married is like being on a game show because you leave with fabulous gifts and prizes. I highly recommend it to any young couple still on the fence about it. Naturally, the best part is that you picked them out yourself, except for the miscellaneous stuff I’d mentioned before, like that ceramic rooster Mr. Cochran gave us. Gina said it was a themed gift, a big cock from a big cock, and that I should start a cock collection, you know, because it sounds sexy to say - and roosters are called cocks.
This whole marriage thing is quite a racket, I must say. I sorted through some of the stuff, like things I could use right now – the everyday dishes and utensils, that juicer I’d wanted, and all the sexy nighties that my college friends bought me. I hadn’t wanted any of it mucking up the apartment before, so instead, my parents’ living room looks like hoarder town.
They don’t mind, because they never use the living room. It’s like the parlor on The Beverly Hillbillies. A room for guests, only they never seem to have formal visitors. We don’t even use it at Christmas, since the tree fits better in the family den.
I can’t believe that My Auntie Thalia actually bought us that plasma television and home theatre combo we had wanted. Zeus and I had only put all of it on the wedding gift registry for kicks. But Auntie Thalia used to be married to a Hollywood director, and she got loads in the divorce settlement. Mom said there’s a little something-something in an envelope that will go in the wishing well with all the other money gifts as well, which I’d better remember before I write that thank you note. I should have brought my things-to-do notebook with me to remind myself to contact Best Buy and have them redeliver that stuff to our place before Zeus comes home so that we can watch our wedding video on it in surround sound when we return from our honeymoon. I’d forgotten that spiral notebook full of wedding agenda scribblings because I’d been thinking with my stomach. Dad is such a great cook, I’d been anticipating the usual family feast. I hadn’t eaten a decent dinner in days, since I’ve been so busy, and I don’t cook.
It was only a threesome. Demetrios and Dean had gone off to practice soccer with their summer league team and Yaya had taken my grandfather to church for one of their many social functions, which is why it mystifies me that Dad had done what he did.
Dad grilled lamb shish-ka-bobs, believe it or not - so you know that I didn’t eat much, just rice and some of the vegetables. Lamb smells like dirty feet, don’t you think? And I don’t want my hoo-ha smelling like that, especially not on my wedding night, right?
I yelled from the den, because I couldn’t stand to be near them while they ate at the kitchen table. “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice, Dad? I can tell the difference between lamb and beef, you know. And I’m not really eating meat right now. At least until after the wedding.”
“Don’t be foolish,” my mother managed to say with her mouth full.
“Remember when you didn’t like feta cheese and roasted red peppers?” Dad asked. “Now they are your favorite foods.”
“That’s different,” I said before I took a forkful of grilled onion and pepper in my mouth. I chewed several times and washed it down with a glass of iced tea. “You can’t compare dairy and veggies to Mary-Had-a-Little-Lamb.”
“It’s a sacrifice,” Dad added, “a great thing. You’ll learn. And so will your taste buds.” He sounded like the Holy Restauranteur. All he needed was a priest’s robe and the book of menus. I know I shouldn’t argue food with my father, since that is his business. I mean he and mom rarely argue about traveling with me, unless they are discussing the origin of the Atlantis myth – Santorini vs. Bimini vs. somewhere in Japan. I couldn’t help the way I felt and feel still, and I stand by what had been said. The smell was right up there with dead skunk and Opium by YSL.
I sing-songed, “I doubt it.”
“I am chef,” he said all Greek accent-like. “I know this. Your tastes will grow as you mature.” He always says this, sometimes more passionately than other times. He will yell at Demetrios whenever he suggests that Indian food is the best ethnic food. In that case, I do not side with my older brother.
“Then we’d better hurry and get her married off so that she can hurry up and ripen,” Mom chimed in. “Zeus loves lamb.” She walked over to the coffee table where I’d placed my empty plate and picked it up. “This isn’t a restaurant, you know. We can’t make things to order just for you.”
I replied, “Well, it sort of is, I mean, come on! You guys own a restaurant. And you know what we like. You never add the extra spices to Yaya’s noodles. You know I’m right.”
“You don’t have dietary restrictions.” She took the plate to the dishwasher. “Case closed,” she said firmly.
I said, “Fine, but lamb still smells like stinky feet.” I love to have the last word, especially in my nuclear family household, where there always were fights for the conversational floor since it was so crowded growing up with my grandparents and parents, two brothers and the fish in the koi pond out back that came with the house.
Gosh, I’m still a little disappointed that I lost out on the protein I could have had, had they just used chicken in the shish-ka-bobs. I just stamped my feet on the hard woods in a retroactive tirade. But, it does too! You agree, right? Lamb smells like that odor in the locker room at The Weight Loss Depot. Maybe that’s why I had lost weight there – because it made me lose my appetite. I left in a bit of a huff, but not before having dessert – apple pita à la mode.
And speaking of feet – washed this time - you know it always amazes me to find out that the most normal looking person in the world could have a quirk, you know? Take Kai Goldrodblum, for example.
I was late again as usual, late for my Thursday evening appointment at Flower Power. In my defense, it has been getting really busy at the travel ag
ency. Everybody wants to know the hottest locales for honeymoons and we are already booking for 2012, believe it or not, you know, for the end of the world and such. Everyone wants to go out with a bang – or more likely a full-body sunburn.
Zeus and I aren’t going to Greece because we go there all the time. Although Bunky Hewitt kept badgering me to do a doubles cruise to her Caribbean retreat (which was weird), I got us a deal to spend a week in Grand Cayman, for just the two of us. If you look through the brochures for the various five-star accommodations there, it’s clearly the best honeymoon place. Very sexy-sexy private, where Zeus and I can make love in romantic ways or even swing from the chandeliers that decorate those seriously gorgeous huts on the beach - wild-style. Sweet!
I had been reconfirming our flight in between dealing with a few irate customers who’d lost their luggage on a cruise I’d booked for them. Mrs. Helios was the most difficult of them all. She kept yelling at me over the phone and I could feel my hoo-ha moisten from the upset. I finally worked it out. Using my very capable broken English-Greeklish, I said that I would help put her in touch with the cruise line, which I did, and was finally able to hang up. Before leaving to meet Kai, I stopped at the bathroom. The moistness in my nether region was my red friend. I had gotten my period. Thank god, for the emergency tampon stash I always keep in my purse.
When I finally arrived at Flower Power, Kai had the boutonnieres ready because I could see them through the window on that white cardboard tray. He was standing behind the counter looking scrumdiddlyumptious in a navy blazer over a white T-shirt when I walked in. I liked the way he looked so professional and GQ put together, just like Irv, one of his two adopted fathers. He had been balancing a dark pink rosebud on his index finger, as though it was a tiny basketball or a woman’s hooey. I liked to think it was, metaphorically, my rosy pinkerson.