by Mia Natasha
I feel like I’m portraying that Pre-Raphaelite painting of Ophelia, drowning – and the only reason I know that reference is because Madonna wore her hair in a Pre-Raphaelite fashion to an awards show so I looked it up on Google to understand it better. She’s so smart, and fashionable. So artsy! She’s truly my savior. Before I take my last breath, Madonna pulls me by my just washed hair and rescues me from the deep.
I say, “You saved me, Madonna. You’re saving me now. You’re here for me, now and forever, and I’ll never forget it.”
“I’m here. Right here. You’re doing well,” she says. “Only two to go.” She tugs on my hair and laughs flirtatiously. It hurts a little but no one said this would be a painless journey. At least, I think, she’s not spanking me this time.
“I don’t want to fail you,” I say. “I would never want you to think that I don’t care. I’m trying my very best.”
“Second best?”
“No! You’re so very important to me, Madonna. And I’m a loyal friend, I really am. Everyone thinks so,” I say. But I don’t know what I’m saying, really. It’s almost like I need her approval more than anything else in the world.
“You forgot the to-do list,” she reminds me. I look around the room and for the first time I see our shed fishnets and Italian heritage-inspired corsets scattered on the tile floor. My Westwood heels are sitting on the toilet seat, hers are resting on the granite counter top of the double sink vanity. Yes, the clothes look familiar. It must be the same night and yet, time has passed. Have I, in fact, learned the secret to time travel? How amazing! I could go anywhere and always come back home, I think.
“I remember it, though,” I say. I’m not sure why, but it’s the truth. I recall that I must call the electronics store, and send the thank you note to Auntie Thalia. And I remember that I have to find a Dom and an actor to fulfill the requirements of this directive. Madonna lifts the razor to my armpit and tickle-tackles the stubble from it. I stifle the laugh because I need to get serious. No more robotics, especially in front of a professional dancer. I need to focus but I need her help. She will know what to do. “It all seemed so straightforward at first.”
“It still is,” she says. “There’s always a choice. I had so many lovers….”
“But Madonna, where am I supposed to find a Dom? That’s way too kinky for Schenectady. And I don’t think I want, you know, to get forty lashes or whatever. That won’t look good with a wedding gown.”
“Think,” she implores. “I suffered so badly.” She gives me a kiss on the forehead, the way Glinda, the Good Witch kisses Dorothy. Like motherly love but also the kiss of kindred spirits. I still cannot wrap my head around the answer. I blink soap out of my eyes then feel like I’m starting to slip away. Is this a dream? I look at her again and it almost looks like a halo of white light surrounds her as she speaks.
“A substitute for love?” I say, but I don’t know why.
“Last night I dreamt of....”
I interrupt her, thinking, I’m about to finish her sentence. Zeus and I finish each other’s sentences all the time. How funny that the two relationships are so similar, like a soul mate threesome. Wouldn’t it be weird if Zeus dreamed about her too? Because then I could tell him everything and there would be no secrets. I blink away another phase-out blast. Am I merely a hologram of myself? I don’t get it, but then I hear the song in my head with its Latin rhythms that remind me of….
“San Pedro?” I suggest, although I can’t think how it relates to a man in Madonna’s life.
“I dreamt of Basquiat,” she says instead.
I scrunch up my nose in one of those reactions that people have when the response is nothing like what you thought it would be. I say, “The artist?”
“Of course,” she says.
Then I woke up.
Comments: 1
Madonna likes to fart in the tub. SP, LA, CA
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No Dom in Oz
Monday, August 17, 2009 - 10:00pm
That dream put everything into perspective. God, it was so real. How did I do that? Before all of this, I could barely even remember a single second of my dreams let alone allow them to control my destiny. But it made so much sense in a weird way.
I’m not at all the type to go back on my word, but I’m sorry to disappoint you, bloggers. Because I changed my mind. I need a substitute for love. I’m crossing off the kinky Dom experience from my six fucks list. It’s just too hard and scary, right? I am not going to search the seedy underbelly of my hometown to find a stranger to offer me discipline. If you’ve been reading this blog since the get-go, then you understand a little bit about me and how I’m not exactly the kind of girl who responds to punishment - because I’ve never actually been punished, spanked, grounded or in any way disciplined for poor choices or actions. Not at home or school, or within the confines of a relationship. I know I’d fail that task miserably. Are you with me? I can’t postpone the wedding so I can’t fail to complete this mission. There are less than three weeks left though, and I’m getting anxious.
I’m going to find somebody else. I’m going to fuck an artist. A quiet but strong brooder, perhaps, or an action painting wham-bammer. Preferably someone with street cred, like Madonna’s beau, Jean-Michel Basquiat. Wow, it sounds like such a relief to say it aloud and write it down in this blog. An artist.
Comments: 0
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You’ll See
Tuesday, August 18, 2009 - 1:00pm
I’ve been giving a lot of thought to this – to finding an artist fucker. As I’ve mentioned before, Zeus has me on a tight spending leash. We’ve had a joint checking account for several months. It was one of the first things we did as an engaged couple. That and hooking into the beautiful world of credit cards, which is super collossally fun, especially when you go into a store with no money and walk out with a bunch of new stuff and all you have to say is thank you. But I can’t just saunter into an artist’s studio and purchase an abstract painting on my way to achieving a hooey to pricker connection. Zeus knows I can’t stand abstract anything, including concepts, which is actually one of the reasons I stunk at math. I only passed because Zeus tutored me in high school and I have great short-term memory.
“Here’s your wedding gift,” I’d say as he unwrapped the crappy painting depicting a sloppy version of my Madonna-style tryst. Naturally, I see myself as artist’s muse in the vision.
“What the hell is this?” Zeus would reply. “I thought we said no presents until after we bought a house.” He’d be a lot nicer in tone, because he and I have more of a sing-songy banter, but I was projecting a worst case scenario here where we’d end up having an argument over my spending habits. I don’t like when we do that because it’s the dark underbelly of marriage and you know how I feel about seedy stuff. And that wouldn’t be the worst of it because he’d probably go to the artist’s studio and confront my fuckster and use his Australian-accented wiles to get to the truth. I can’t have that happen, especially once we’ve entered wedded bliss, right? That would be very bad, indeedy-do.
None of my friends are much into going to artist receptions, so I realize I’m on my own when it comes to the reconnaissance. Gina and I love shopping together and my Greek girlfriends and I will hang out at summer-league soccer games or go to church socials together. My other college friends are scattered around the US, so when we are together, it’s all about carousing the night life - preferably in Manhattan - and drinking up a storm. I mean, I do go to movies and such, but when you are in a relationship as cozy as mine is with Zeus Zepkos, there’s not always time for girl only retreats. It’s either groups of our mutual friends gathering at my apartment or just the two of us, alone, going to dinner and concerts or staying at home playing our love games.
So I was beginning to feel like this whole artist thing was another busted direction. But, you know, I thought, it couldn’t be if Madonna was directing me. Of course, I knew about her tryst with Jean-Michel Basqui
at, because I was watching this movie on HBO about him once, which interested me because it had the flavor of the city in the Madonna-era ‘80s. There she was, depicted as his girlfriend, by a girl who looked nothing like her, except for the lace tutu and big tulle bow in her hair. It was more like a caricature.
I mean, I really hate those unauthorized biopics about celebs where they have scenes that happened behind closed doors, especially the ones about the royals, like Princess Diana. No one can speculate the inner workings of a person in private, you know? If people saw me walking down the street, I don’t imagine they would peg me for a bride-to-be – oh yeah, except for the giant engagement ring. Okay, fine, but they wouldn’t know that I have been inspired to fuck like Madonna. I have no such telling signs of my secret life at all. I wear cute sundresses mostly, with my brown highlighted hair more than likely in a ponytail. I carry a water bottle with me everywhere. I drive an Accord. I mean, I’m just about the most generic twenty-three-year-old Greek girl you’ll ever meet.
Anyhow, I do want this to work, and I’ve been sitting around all morning trying to figure out how to make it work. I thought about Japan again. Zeus does love that culture – was there a Japanese artist somewhere around here? Maybe he could paint me a scene à la Hokusai or something – not a tsunami or anything creepy like that, certainly not an earthquake, although it would be kind of great to get an earth shattering response from Zeus when I offer the artwork as his wedding gift. I don’t know why I keep coming back to that gift thing, but maybe it could work under the right circumstances.
And I think I’ve found them. An artsy-fartsy photographer has just set up shop in Rye, New York, right near the offices of Wallace Construction. It’s actually in this renovated factory building where the city is trying to turn the area into an art corridor. He’s a Japanese-American. It’s like an omen thingy, don’t you think? His name is Ford Jitsu and he specializes in nude portraiture.
You heard right, bloggers. I think it’s a good idea to have myself photographed in my buffy-buffington, right? I mean, think about it – I’m in perfect shape, thanks to Zeke Feathertoe’s training camp. I may not ever be this thin again once I have kids, although I do burn lots of calories having sex.
Then there is Zeus’ travel schedule. He’s made vague promises to me about curbing his work travel, but that might have been to get me to stop nagging him. Guys do that all the time. I’ve seen my dad agree to things he has no intention of doing, just to get Mom off his back. Zeus’ boss could force him to go to Japan again or Cairo, or San Francisco - all places he’s consulted on bridge design. And then there is that local travel. Sometimes he heads upstate for those stupid rafting outings on the Pulaski River, and he’s gone overnight. He will need a photograph of me in all my sexy-sexy under his pillow so that the sandman can supply him with sexy-sexerton dreams of his nudie beloved, always and forever.
God, when I put it like that, it gets me all tingly! I’m going to do it. I’m going to make the call.
Okay, I’m back. I’ve made an appointment with Ford Jitsu for Friday morning. Look, my friends, this is all on the down-low, mum it, because I’m going to have to be sick (cough, cough). I can’t take any more personal days from Eiffel Travel because it’s so close to my wedding, you know? I get about five sick days a year that are paid days off and I’m really never sick. This is the only appointment I could get. I’m on a tight schedule as you all know. It’s going to work. It has to. I feel it.
Comments: 4
You are my ray of light. Rob, NY, NY
Open your heart to Zeus. He’s the only man you need. Nonni, USA & UK
I spit on you, three times and then it go in your eye. Auntie Sofia, Toronto, Ont., Canada
It seems to me that you have everything you need in Zeus. Why do you need something else to remember? Kathy Melinos, St. Petersburg, FL
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Cock-Ringed Thief of Hearts
Saturday, August 22, 2009 – 9:30pm
Evidently, all artists are not created equal, but I’m sure you knew that. It’s just that, sometimes I get an idea in my head of what is supposed to happen, and reality sets in. Never really in a bad way. Just very…different.
Jean-Michel Basquiat was born in 1960. He was the son of two normal, middle class parents, but for some reason, he preferred to live in a box instead of a nice, cozy house. Yeah, he lived in a fucking cardboard box in Central Park in New York City, back in the 1980s! I know. I can’t really wrap my head around that, I guess because my parents and I are so close. They didn’t even really want me to have an apartment, which, as you know, I needed for my lovey-dove-dove with my man. Their concern was my safety so they insisted on paying the rent on the security building near the school instead of the one I could afford downtown - because they cared. I know they wished I was still at home. They have even dropped hints that they’d love for Zeus and me to move in with them once we’re married.
The first hint was that bathroom remodel. Mom and Dad had all the bathrooms done. They’d even turned my grandparents room into a second master, which was a bit odd considering that they are planning to move to this retirement condo in Tarpon Springs, Florida right after Christmas.
They’ve also been quite tickled by our house search, always willing to come with us as we search suburbia for the perfect home. Mom particularly liked the one with the in-law apartment above the garage, but it already had an offer on it when we saw it, and Zeus didn’t like the way our realtor was pushing us to offer full price.
I love my parents, and I’d live with them in a heartbeat, but I think they’ll end up living with Dean as soon as he settles down, since he’s the baby. That’s what all Greek families do, and I don’t want to be in the way of tradition. And Dean never challenges Dad like Demetrios does. He likes Greek cuisine just fine, which makes sense since he works alongside my parents at the restaurant. He’s dating Stephanie Nichols, a half-Greek, so there’s hope that everyone will get what they want. Zeus and I will have our dream alone time before the kids come, and we’ll all be one big happy family.
I don’t think Basquiat had a bad relationship with his family. I just think he had wanted to be an artist more and would have done anything possible to make that dream come true. There are some people, like my high school art teacher, Mr. Dundee, who believe that everyone should suffer for their art. Come on! Really? I mean, he blew my class ranking with that philosophy when I received a seventy-five percent for my abstract painting entitled Cheering to the Masses. It was a thingy where I took watered down acrylic paint to my pom-poms and cheered, shaking them onto the canvas. Zeus thought it was a brilliantly creative concept. It was actually one of the reasons I got picked to speak at graduation. A photographer from USA Today had been at school with a reporter to do a puff piece on graduating seniors and he took my picture. It kind of went viral.
Mr. Dundee was probably jealous when I sold the painting to that New York City collector. That’s why I hate abstract art. I didn’t care about that picture, but someone else put a value on it. I cared about school, and I care about family, you know?
Did Jean-Michel Basquiat like the idea of suffering for his art as well? He started selling his graffiti inspired paintings to the mega-rich. He met my pop-idol. He became a famous painter then blew all his money on blow. And then he progressed to heroin, shooting himself up so that he could live in some warped harmony – a lie of a life, because it was based on fleeting love of the abstract. Basquiat fucked Madonna and then he died.
I don’t really understand why he would up and off himself when he had the love of the most special person in the world. It must have had an impact on her life. This worried me because it kind of put pressure on me in a way. I wanted my artist fuckster to be special. Not special like Zeus, but memorable, I guess. The best of all.
Ford Jitsu’s studio is located in a dilapidated row of buildings the city plans to renovate, as I’d mentioned, and make into artsy-fartsy land. He just relocated from Brooklyn, where he lost
a battle with his landlord over a rent-controlled apartment, as per our primary phone conversation. His place out in Rye is basically skank-a-wuck central on the outside but really pristine on the inside, which is cool because no one would think to try to rob him of all his expensive equipment and valuable art photography, some of which are one-offs because he does this hand tinting thingy to the black and white negatives. There are no windows and so it feels very private, and that was a good thing because I was about to get nake-e-do in there.
He greeted me at the door. Short, balding and about thirty-five years old, I thought, because he sort of reminded me of Chad Mavis in a way (he’s thirty-five) – not too old in a creepy Warren Beatty way, but old enough to give me a manly-man gift in my hoo-ha. I was sure I’d seen him somewhere before, and then it hit me. He looked like a Japanese Pillsbury doughboy, only human, you know?
I kind of liked that because it made me think of all the yum-yummies I have been avoiding so that I can fit into that Alexandre gown I’ve had altered a million and three times. That’s not exactly true. I’ve been okay with apple pita because of the fruit while staying clear of anything chocolate or baklava-ian. But once the wedding is over the losing battle of the bulge will commence, and I will eat any and all Pillsbury treats. I told you that before, bloggers, right, that I’m prepared to get fat. I tried to resist the urge to laugh-out-loud at my own Pillsbury joke, you know, eating Ford Jitsu or rather, sucking his pricker. Would it taste like cookie dough? Too late. I burst into my trademark guffaw like a complete idiot.
“Laughter is indeed one of the best gifts,” he said, which sounded so random to me, so spiritual, I guess, that I really lost it.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Jitsu,” I managed through my giggles. “I’ve been thinking about sad stuff lately, you know, artist angst. I must have needed a good laugh. Don’t know where it came from.”