by Mia Natasha
“Are you an artist too?”
I calmed down a little, thinking I really needed to get it together for Madonna’s sake. “I was once,” I said. “I’m a travel agent. Eiffel Travel in Schenectady? We have offices in Buffalo, Rochester, and Dobb’s Ferry. But not for long. I mean, I won’t be there for long. After the wedding I’m going to be a Suzi-homemaker.”
“That’s honorable,” he said. “You’re lucky to find a man who can support you. Good for you.” He clapped his hands the way Irv Goldrodblum had when he met with me about the corsages – that same gleeful expressiveness that must come from working with brides. On his internet web page, Ford Jitsu had offered samples of weddings he’d done in the ‘90s, some of which had traditional Japanese kimono costuming, which reminded me of Madonna’s Rain video.
“Thanks, I know,” I said. “I’m very lucky.” It hasn’t exactly sunk in yet, that my life will be so different after I get married. I clapped my hands too to mirror him, thinking it was a way to show him I was interested in more than just a simple retail transaction. That, and I really do feel lucky.
“Well, Miss soon-to-be-Zepkos,” he said as if it was my actual future last name – Soontobezepkos, which still sounds Greek, doesn’t it? “What kind of photographs did you have in mind for this photo shoot?"
I said, “Zeus travels a lot for work. I was thinking of giving him something to remember. You know, of the naked variety.” I whispered the naked part even though we were alone.
“Yes, that’s my specialty,” he said. “I’ve done my share of weddings, which paid the bills ten years ago, and now I’m able to immerse myself in my true nature. I call it Tints and Shades of Desire. I’ve done quite well with it. Especially back in the city, although I have no doubt my clients will follow me where ever I go.”
“It’s not just Ford Jitsu Photography?”
“Yes, well, I was referring to my recent work. I give my series titles when I have gallery showings. It helps catalog the work. Why don’t you look through some of these lookbooks and we can have a better idea of your interests.”
I perused the photo books resting in an orderly precision on the coffee table, while Ford Jitsu sat next to me on the black leather futon. He looked over my shoulder and gave a little narrative to each photo. He was worse than Auntie Thalia when she visits with her professionally cultivated scrapbooks. We had sat transfixed for hours as she had pointed out the minutia of every picture from every country that she’d travelled to on her world tour last summer. She grazed over the shots of the archeological dig site on Thera, which were the ones we’d really wanted to see, but we all kept mum about it, because we didn’t want to upset her.
The ones I’d wanted to see didn’t seem to exist here. Because these art photos, although extremely sexual in nature, did not give out the sexy-sexy I’d anticipated. I got the distinct feeling that I was in some sort of gay fantasyland. These were the tints and shades of desire? I wouldn’t have pegged these chaps (some of whom wore chaps) as models, which proves my behind closed doors theory. There were a number of photographs of big, hairy and chunky men dressed as bikers except for their massively thick cocks. Those were exposed save for large gold rings constricting the poor defenseless pulsating members. I’m using the plural because two enormous black leather portfolios had been filled with cock-ring-party-time. Where were all the women?
“Do you see anything you like?” he said. He moved one of the books closer to his lap and I thought I saw a tent in his khakis. He must like my perfume, I thought. I decided to go for it. Like Auntie Thalia night at the Elinopoulous house, I thought, I could be here an eternity, if I didn’t act now.
As I flipped open the last book, I said, “Maybe I should let you decide what I should do, since I can see that you are not merely a photographer but a true artist. Here, I’ll just take my clothes off so that you can have a look-see.”
I continued blabbering stuff about the principles of art that I remembered from Mr. Dundee’s art class five years ago while I removed my lucky green gauze mini-dress. Lucky, I guess, because I was wearing it when Zeus proposed. It matches one of my bikinis, which I’d worn underneath that day because we were having a picnic by the lake. This time, I didn’t bother wearing undergarments because, you know, I didn’t know how sanitary it would be in this run-down building.
I kept thinking - what if I left them on the futon couch, and they picked up some nasty snatch disease or something – one that Dr. Quirkenbush couldn’t repair? It was a nude portrait studio, you know, and I’m very wary about things and places I don’t know much about. There could be evidence of flying jizz lurking about, and I didn’t bring that black light Zeus and I use when we travel, the one that seeks out semen and blood on hotel bedding, because Zeus took it with him to Japan.
I actually hate going somewhere new all alone, especially without my protective gear, like that light. Does that happen to you, bloggers? For some reason it made sense in my vision of this event, to throw off my dress, get fucked and go home with no fuss and no muss – an easy in-and-out and I would have been on my way. But then, once I’d disrobed, I had to put my dress down – I’d forgotten about that. I tried to maintain an air of professionalism as my mind raced with all this messy stuff.
I talked about my plan to surprise Zeus with this picture for our wedding and how it would be fun to capture my essence, and what not. I talked about a lot of things including my interest in Madonna while he kept staring at my buffy-buffington.
“My, aren’t we lovely?” he said.
I said, “Thanks. Thank you, Mr. Jitsu. I’ve been working out. What do you think of my ass?” He was still sitting on the futon, adjusting himself the way Zeus does on the soccer field when his cup is crooked. I handed him my dress then turned and shoved my booty-boot in his face. And then I saw a photograph in that last opened book on the coffee table that captured my attention. It was of a very lean girl wearing a strap-on and it reminded me of my first Madonna hop-in dream. It was an omen thingy.
I said, “Oh, my god, that’s it.”
A little while later, I was decked out in a black leather motorcycle cap and black over-the-knee boots, and wearing thick black eyeliner, false eyelashes, and bright red lipstick. The only other item in my wardrobe was a big, black dildo attached to a leather belt that went around my hips. Ford positioned me in front of the large paper backdrop, a sort of Easy Rider motif, like a desert type thingy with blue birds flying in the sky. I kneeled on a shiny motorcycle, a Harley that he used as a prop. It had been visible in a number of selections from his lookbook portfolio.
We listened to Madonna’s Hard Candy CD while he paparazzoed me from every angle. I draped myself over the seat, on the handle bars and against the back tire. I twirled and squatted, and smiled my head off. I became more daring as I felt more comfortable, fingering myself heavily – hooey, nipsey-russells, lips and back-end. He really liked it when I masturbated the dildo. This continued for nearly an hour. I needed to make a transition to sex, somehow.
I said, “You know, I had a dream that I was making love to Madonna like this. Well, she was wearing this type of cock contraption and I was getting it in the ass.” I couldn’t believe how bold I was, taking matters into my own hands with my dirty talk and not feeling the least bit embarrassed. I was finally getting the hang of this, I thought. Let the fucky-wuck commence!
“Why don’t you show me,” he replied. “You be Madonna, and I’ll be you.”
I said, “Uh, okay.” That is not how I had envisioned it, my friends, but I had hope that we’d take turns, since I was kind of like the guest.
Ford Jitsu stripped himself of his white button down and the wife beater underneath. He yanked off his khakis as if he was in a hurry to proceed then removed his yellow banana hammock thong. God, he was just about hairless, a doughboy in every sense of the word, except in the pricker department. He revealed a massive Mr. Hard-on, do you believe it? I mean, come on! I knew he was probably gay, although somewhere in
side my brain a little part of me thought I shouldn’t stereotype, hoping for the purposes of my journey that it wouldn’t matter or maybe that he might have been one of those liberal types that doesn’t discriminate gender.
But, I’m not gay savvy. I didn’t even know that the guy who gets it in the booty-boot has an engorged pricker too. I guess that makes sense though. Plus I was flattered that he got it up for me, right? Or rather for the big black rubber appendage I wore. I needed him to be my artist lover because it was really too late to find another. I was relieved when I saw that gy-normous boner. His pricker rivaled Zeus’, truth be told. I was sure there would be enough of it to go in and around.
Ford Jitsu went into his back room and retrieved a small bottle of KY.
“Lube me up,” he ordered.
Are you sitting down with a full bottle of Ouzo? Good.
I slathered the KY on my whole hand. I clearly did not know what the hell I was doing. Zeus and I never need lubricant of any kind – just the regular love induced flavored pre-cum. I popped a finger into the photographer’s bunghole. Wow, you should have heard him moan! Gradually, I added two more fingers because I didn’t think it was greasy enough. I mean, that dildo was a lot bigger in real life than it looked in my dream. How would it fit in there? I wondered if Kai Goldrodblum’s cock was that big. Bunky Hewitt is always bragging about how her husband’s cock is so big that it doesn’t fit all the way inside of her. Of course, I didn’t get to see Kai’s rod because he was repulsed by my Mother Nature’s blood.
It was weirdly erotic watching the doughboy’s asshole stretch. He could have the biggest fucking bowel movement in America with that thing, I thought. Sorry, if I sounded so clinical. It’s just that this experience was, in a way, the most educational of all.
I steadied him against my giant attached rubber man-part and squeegeed inside. At first, it didn’t budge. I kind of had to thrust my hips. It was a lot of work and I started feeling empathy for Zeus, especially when we’re playing our kinky games where he’s an intruder and he’s thrown me down on the bed and he’s raping me and such. No bondage, as I’ve mentioned before, just me offering no assistance and even pretending to fight him off to make him work for it. Good times.
I saw a picture in a tabloid of Madonna and Guy Ritchie, and she was holding a recently purchased device like the one I used on Ford. I kept that vision in my mind. Madonna does this, you know? I glided in and used my tummy-tum-tum muscles to withdraw, and then, summoning all my strength I did it again, and again until it seemed almost natural. Ford sounded in agony, but I think that was just his style of moaning. Everybody’s different I suppose. He masturbated his cock like crazy.
I said, “I’m fucking you in your ass. I’m a girl and I’m fucking you silly.” I upped the ante on the dirty talk and he moaned like the Skipper calling for Gilligan – sorry, another TV Land reference, but funny, right?
That did it. He shot his load and it hit the tripod. Ew, I thought. I wouldn’t want to be his cleaning lady. I would be mortified if Zeus left a mess like that for Petra – but he never would because he’s got great aim (hooey, mouth or titty-on-the-bang-bangs).
“Wow,” he said between deep breaths.
It was finally my turn. I said, “I need a cock to finish me off, you know, in my hoo-ha.”
“Good luck with that,” he said.
And that, my friends, was that. No nothing. I couldn’t even make sense of this in an Oz way except to say I was like Dorothy, trying to find my way in a very confusing world. But I was over the rainbow, right? There had been a rainbow flag hanging as the entrance to the darkroom. I had to walk behind it to get to the sink to wash my hands afterwards. And there were bluebirds flying in the backdrop to my photographs! How weird.
Like I said, all artists are not created equal. Madonna found a drugged out hetero one with a functioning pricker that loved her if only for a fleeting moment in time, and I got to use a rubber shaft then got the shaft – but not in the hooey. Some seduction.
Comments: 3
Jean-Michel Basquiat was one of the most prolific artists of the 1980s. He was an inspiration to many of his contemporaries including the great Andy Warhol.
Dr. Mark Cole, Ph.D., University College, Rockville, MD
Basquiat was a dear, sweet man. Nonni, USA & UK
You will live to tell the tale of our tryst at the Marriott Hotel. You won’t have to act like you like it. No toys. Just you, me, and hot sex. Rob, NY, NY
****
‘Till Death (or close to it) Do Us Part
Sunday, August 23, 2009 - 3:00pm
I’m getting married in exactly one fucking supercalifragilistic week! When you are in a relationship for as long as Zeus and me, it seems like the wedding shouldn’t be such a big deal. Like our lives will continue as they had before, and la-la-la. But it isn’t like that. I spent a majority of my childhood dreaming of this day – collecting pictures of wedding doo-dads, which actually gave me the idea to do a CD in the first place, you know, as a wedding favor. Having a man declare his undying love to you in a church in front of all of the heavenly world and your relatives is just the pinnacle of my existence, especially since the man is someone I’ve known for more than half my life – Zeus Archimedes Zepkos.
We have all of these plans for the future that harbor on a married life together - travel, babies, volunteering on church committees and saying I-love-yous on all of the days of our lives – all that and more. I truly want to be the wife that Zeus has always dreamed he’d have – as sexy-sexy as he can stand in addition to the friendship, fun and family life we’ll create together.
I’m almost there, bloggers. Although I haven’t been totally successful in my hooey-pricker fluid exchanges (since I’m just a fledgling Madonnite), I’m hoping the best is yet to come. In my dreams, Madonna has encouraged me and those visions have felt very real, my friends, an omen thingy, as I’ve mentioned, but more than that. Spiritual, I guess. Because, you need to know that I had never done anything like this before I began this blog, and I just went for it, kind of like a sickie with a bucket list – like Mr. Carter’s wife. I only have one fuckster left. The actor.
I’m glad I did it all because I feel different now, closer to being a better person like Madonna, and closer to finding my way home like the fictitious Dorothy Gale. Of course, it’s not exactly lady-like to divulge fucky-wuck conquests. In the back of my mind, I sort of wondered what would happen if someone close to me found out.
Do you ever get that thing where your stomach just…drops? It’s like this bizarre excitement mixed with fear thingy that feels like an invisible cord is tied from your neck to your hooey and somewhere in between your stomach gets all knotted up. Bunky Hewitt had something similar happen to her for real – her uterus fell out. I guess it happened soon after she had given birth to her son Joey, which had been on her forty-second birthday. I thought she was kidding when she gave me that as a reason for why she didn’t have more kids. I didn’t know your parts could get all disassembled and fall out of your orifices. But apparently they can – I looked it up. Gina Romano signaled my queasy squeeze last night and I thought I would drop dead. I pictured Zeus dressed in his white bridegroom tux at my funeral saying, she couldn’t justify my love.
I had just finished writing my blog entry when she’d arrived with a bottle of Champagne. We toasted to a bunch of things as we sat at the bistro table on the back deck of my apartment, drinking out of my new Lenox flutes à la Zeus’ Great Auntie Alexandra. I’m going to miss this sweet view of the sunset, by the way, that is if Zeus and I ever buy a house.
Gina is my bestie. I really love her like the sister I never had. She’s so pretty with her amazing cheekbones and those beautiful blue eyes that look like the Mediterranean Sea. We have worked together for a year, and in that time, we’ve bonded via a mutual love of Champagne, silly tom-foolery and secrets. It helps that Zeus gets along with Gina’s husband, Vince Romano, because we get together as a foursome a lot. I think the g
uys bond over sports, a fondness of foreign films and similar senses of humor – you know, fart jokes.
Okay, so we usually pick a sparkling New York wine as our drink of choice, not actual Champagne. It’s the same thing, but you can’t call it that because it isn’t made in France. Did you know that? The French have patented the name or something. I wonder if there are laws against naming a child Champagne, especially if said baby isn’t born in France.
I said, “Zeus and I have already picked out baby names. We both like the name Zoe Zepkos, if it’s a girl. We plan to add Thalia as a middle name in the hopes that my rich auntie will shower her with gifts exponentially because of it. Is that bad?”
Gina made a sound effect that sounded like the ZTZ initials. “Tzutzs.” She spilled a little Champagne from her glass as she moved to place it on the table. Her bare leg got wet but luckily, she didn’t get any on her new dry-clean only. Gina likes sundresses too.
I continued, “Another girl could be called Helena, because my family name’s derived from a long dead great grandmother named Helen. Elinopoulous is like Helen Mountain or something.”
“Helen of Troy,” Gina said as she pulled out her iPhone and started focusing on it the way she does when we go out to lunch and I drive. She always responds to whatever I’m saying, so it’s no biggie. “I think she had gy-normous mountains.”
I said, “It could have been Helen of Troy, but maybe not. I don’t know how popular that name was in ancient times. I’ll have to ask my dad. For a boy, we thought we’d name him Odysseus. That way his initials would be OZ.”
Gina laughed. “I know you like The Wizard of Oz, or at least your father does. It’s his favorite movie.”
“I don’t remember telling you that, Gina. But you’re right,” I said. “Coming to America was his over the rainbow. Did he tell you?”
“Nope,” she said and smiled as she continued to check messages or whatever. Maybe she was playing Bejeweled Blitz, I thought. She’s obsessed with it – worried that the lady in Amarillo, Texas might beat her score if she doesn’t keep up with it.