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July 10th, Two Thousand Five: A Choose Your Own (Mis)Adventure Entry
When last we left our sheroine, she was counting the hours until
her lover arrived. Her trusty minion personal assistant arrived in the evening as scheduled, as she
was walking the dog. He drove by sticking his head out of the
window with a strange barbaric yawp, which she at first thought
coquettish and charming -- "Ah, that Brandon," -- until he rounded the block and was not appearing to circle back. For a few fleeting and panicked moments,
she wondered if perhaps the yawp was in anger, and she had done
something to so terribly annoy him that he'd punish her by NOT
stopping to take her to the airport to claim the aforementioned
paramour d'arrivée.
She began to wonder what she could possibly do to exact appropriate
revenge should this be the case, because entertaining revenge
scenarios seemed a more dignified response than dropping to her
knees on the pavement and howling, "WHY God, WHY!?!..."
But alas, he merely had a hard time finding a parking spot. Lucky
for him her.
After a drive which involved many flashbacks to the days Heather
was a driver in Chicago, including wild manual gesticulation,
and more than once incident of yelling in Itanglish out the car
window to drivers doing truly annoying things like, you know,
stopping at red lights, a parking spot was found and Ms. Corinna
and her poor, beleagured lackey employee raced to the gates.
....to wait. Much, much too long.
Meanwhile, Brandon became quite engrossed in his position as paparazzi
for the evening. Heather would turn from her tired gate-staring
to kvetch at her gaydy-in-waiting personal assistant about, for instance, the unmitigated gall
of other people flying into the airport on the eve of HER sweetie's
arrival, and he would not be where he stood mere moments before,
but instead, fifty feet away, coquettishly poised behind a water
fountain. She would approach him again, bitch accordingly, then
stare at the gate again, only to turn to voice her vexation once
more and find him missing again, this time misplaced on the other
side of the gate behind a rubbish bin. She drew the line when
he hoisted an elderly woman in front of him, moving her around
to attempt to remain hidden. I mean, really.
All of this waiting made our Heather...
... just a bit irritated. But alas! Suddenly, coming down the
escalator was a posture and a shiny head she recognized! (Who
did not see her right away, despite her bouncing up and down like
a hyperactive buoy in waters infected by eels doing the Electric
Slide, but noticing he was having his picture taken by some strange
man, figured she must be nearby.)
What happened next was.... |
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Understand that our lovers BOTH hate flying. Quite a lot. So,
Madame Corinna goes to great lengths to provide her love with
many pursuits and distractions during his flight, which always
arrive in a rather large box, with a wide array of surprise silliness,
the occasional low-flying smut, and more than a little romance.
The airplane package before last looked like this.
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And the last bit of goodie inside the package for this flight was this, which when the seal was broken, read:
"Run!
As fast as those little feet will carry you!
No, you stupid wanker: run the OTHER way." |
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And so, our devilishly handsome and beamy beau stopped upon seeing
his chickadee, waved the paper, opened it, smiled and walked out,
where...
... he tried to run, but she grabbed him, yelling in his face
for holding up traffic like a total moron. Scolding him for keeping
everyone else from their pursuits -- more important things to
do than smooch some silly girl, like getting to Very Important
Business Meetings, funerals and ascerbic Lysol-perfumed hotel
rooms so they could spend the weekend shopping at the Mall of
America -- from their activities of great import. Everyone clapped,
thanked her profusely, then gave the sheepish bald guy the dirty
looks he so clearly deserved.
But he figured he might as well get some hot girl-on-geek action
out of the deal, at least. |
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You know what happened next.
But what you do NOT know is...
...that in the middle of all of the kissing and the embracing,
our Mr. Price took Madame Corinna's face in his hands and told
her he loved her right to her face. Then wash, rinse, repeated this outcry about 367 times.
To this, our heroine responded by saying, with a Rat Pack wink,
"Yeah, yeah, whatever, baby. Aren't you cute. To hell with this
hearts and flowers crap, let's get home and get horizontal. I'm
so too cool for you." |
Brandon was incredibly tolerant of the pair on the drive back
to Chez Corinna, even if he did clearly drive a little hastily
to be rid of them and their painfully gooshy behaviour. Brandon
also sighed with Heather and gave a knowing grin as her paramour
stated, before they were about to leave the airport, the words
anyone in a relationship longs to hear: "I have no baggage."
They stayed up fairly late. Heaven knows why (though neighbors
have surmised it was either due to marathon lovemaking, a loud
cat in heat or an attempt to design a combination of Bikram yoga
and primal scream therapy).
* * *
The next morning, after breakfasting on the uncomfortable monosyllabic grunts of two people who have
slept together but have strong, shared allegiances to Ayn Rand
and Nietzsche, who otherwise no interest in one another, they
shared a freezing cold shower in stony silence, the obituary section
of the paper and antacids. Mark and Heather suited up, packed
a bag, grabbed bikes and headed out for a bike tour of the lakes
inside the city. They enjoyed the sunny day, some beach stops,
a break at Sonny's. While driving behind Miz Daisy, her braids
flapping in the breeze like Dumbo's ears, her sexy boy's cargo
shorts over her overlage calf muscles, Mark thought to himself
and later remarked, "My girlfriend often looks like the big dyke she is, but hell,
she's still got a great ass. Observe my beachfront suavity! Fuck
this sunny weather, bring on the rainy gloom of Seattle! She'd
better give me a blow job later. Damn, are my thighs chafed."
They biked, they beached, they swam, they snuggled, they enjoyed
hurling various two, three and four word phrases at one another,
as many lovers do: "Get off my lawn. Begone, foul beast. You're convenient. I'm all
mine. Stop fucking touching me. SHIT. You suck. Personal space
bubble! What was I thinking? Mybarelyacceptablecomerecepticle.
Now, let's go screw."
Once arriving back home and taking a bath -- because of the sand,
you know -- the pair dressed semi-formally for dinner. This resulted
in the staff at Heather's most frequented restaurant -- who have
a sort of selective memory about her occasionally donning something
other than a ponytail, a just-washed face and old jeans -- spending
most of the evening with their jaws gaping open, whispering that
our narrator looked like an actual girl AND an actual girl quite
bizarrely appearing to be more than a little enamored of this
critter with her with a PENIS.
(To the degree, it should be added, that when attending the restaurant
later in the week after Mr. Price's departure, back to the ratty
jeans, ponytail and lack of eyeliner and in the company of some
of her usual queer commandos, it was remarked that everyone felt
rather relieved. Heterosexual privledge, my Dago ass, I tell you.)
As many do, this evening culminated immediately in bed. Because those fucking Italians always have to make the food so heavy.
And sleeping sure beats talking or having really great sex with
the person you love. Boy howdy.
Saturday found the pair starting the day with a boxing class heather
had to substitute teach, but which was also attended by Ms. Elise,
who discovered she had more mobility than she thought. Heather
also got to spot and field punches from her boyfriend, who she
tried VERY hard not to kiss or make eyes at while she was supposed
to be punching and kicking all serious-and-surly-like, especially
since she has been trying to be considerate of her entire city's
gaping jaws at her being with a BOY.
Breakfast at the BLB with Elise and Juan followed, who remarked
more than once that our star-crossed lovers had quite the habit
of smiling like complete dorks rather incessantly (which, as the
cynics know, was surely due to gas, and CERTAINLY not due to having
found true love or anything, for that would be preposterous).
Mark's phone rang, and he spent some time on it talking to his
father.
Mark immediately started speaking in the secret code he and his
father had devised long ago for serious emergencies.
"I'm having a great trip. She's fantastic. How are you?" (Translation: "I'm stuffed! This woman is a nightmare! Help!")
Mark's father imparted him with the perfect exit strategy: "Go to the comic book store, my son. Spend days there if you want:
she'll be running away in no time. It works every time, this,
I promise you."
So, after breakfast they headed down the street to Dreamhaven
where Mark geeked happily and kept apologizing for some strange
reason. Heather had a fine time geeking herself, followed by discussing
the coming apocalypse in the U.S. with an old tenant who was also
in the shop that day. After being dropped off by Elise and Juan,
the two rode off to nab some hooch and fetch items for dinner
the next couple nights, poured the booze, took another bath (after
engaging in an endeavor previous which shall never be named here,
no not for all the rubies in Burma) and then raced to get dressed
for yet another evening out.
(And how much do we love Beqi, for everytime I wear my silly,
skintight cotton cocktail gown with all the kids and baby animals
in the spaceships on it, it both beguiles and amuses, which is
precisely what a cocktail gown on a ghettobootied feminist pugilist
dyke-in-love-with-a-boy should do, IMO.)
On the agenda? Dinner at the Soul Food restaurant which has vegan
exceptions with Becca and her husband and Brandon and his boyfriend
(where the food was amazing, Mark could not stop compulsively
saying JAM-BA-LAY-YA with every vowel stretched to capacity, the service was atrocious,
and the dinner guests seemed to keep forgetting that you maybe
don't ask a couple who haven't seen each other in weeks what exactly
they've been doing over the visit). Then to a three-man interactive
show my friend Brian was in (sort of a Blue Man Group cum Garrisson
Keillor-drunk-on-ludefisk sort of thing, I'm sure you can imagine).
Then to the chichi bar where the other Heather works for what
turned into a rather impromptu party where everyone and their
uncle showed up and either:
a) Gladly accepted and chowed down on the infectious goosh, lust,
excited hyberbabble and revelry of our leading man and leading
lady (and perhaps even muscled their way in a little bit to get
RIGHT in the goosh, but hey, nearly all of my friends are drop-dead
gorgeous, so who's complaining?),
b) Looked at the two of them as if they had just been released from
the asylum, or were perhaps catching a drink en route, or
c) Ordered a piss and vinegar cocktail with a side of bitters.
Everyone and their uncle also were apparently a little unclear,
when the Corinna Contingency said they were calling a cab to go
home, that no, that was not because they were TIRED, and no, because
they were NOT TIRED did not mean they wanted to NOT GO HOME and
do OTHER THINGS (which are currently illegal to do on the bar
patio, plus: concrete, awfully hard on the knees).
They stayed up late and had sex.
Then they woke up early and had some more.
There was another bath somewhere in there. Come to think of it,
there was more rather mind-blowing sex in the bath.
Clearly, they were bored and wanted to avoid conversation with
the extra bonus of washing each others collective cooties off
within mere moments of rubbing the cooties on.
There was a spontaneous guacamole-off, after which it was intially
agreed that each of our offerings were SO radically different
that comparing them would be impossible, and both were tasty.
However, Mr. Price seemed hell-bent on some sort of victory, so
insisted that The Lady Sofia taste-test each and make the final
vote.
She only touched Mark's guac. Which endeared her to him perhaps
even more greatly than before.
It has not yet been mentioned that until he had met Sofia the
visit before last, my beloved had never liked a single dog in
his life. Mind you, a rabid dog-hater he was not: by virtue of
growing up with a family allergic to the entire world and everything
in it, he simply had no reppor with our canine friends, and had never met the dog with whom he might develop such a thing.
And it wasn't going to happen with this one, either.
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| "Muahahahaha. She thinks we're playing, but little does she know
I am gouging your little buggy eyes out!" |
Mark attempts to force the vegan-householded Sofia to eat chicken. |
The plan Sunday evening, after engaging in a highly delightful
and tasty meal and watching Heather's favorite movie (which, thank
goodness, Mark enjoyed, otherwise she may have had to reconsider
this who schpeal, no matter how utterly amazing it is otherwise),
was to go to bed early so that a sunrise awakening could occur
without too much agony for either party.
That was the plan. Really.
Three hours after passing out in a sweaty, monosyllabic pile,
the alarm went off, Ms. Corinna made the coffee, and then she
got to experience her boyfriend being annoyed with her for the
very first time.
(Cynics, please do stop clapping now. I'm still talking. It's
rude.)
It went something like so:
Heather (all too awake so early to be in any way lovable): "Hey baby,
it's time to get up."
Mark: "Ten minutes."
Heather: "Yeah, no can do. We're already late, and the sun's got
her own schedule."
Mark (dryly, but with gumption): "TEN MINUTES. DAMMIT."
Heather (trying very hard not to laugh, because it's quite hard not to
laugh at someone who is clearly seriously unhappy, but who looks
so cute and smushy-faced while exhibiting annoyance, is still
100% asleep, and just happens to still be the love of your life,
live and in person in your bed, however cranky): "Five."
Mark: "I'll take five."
Heather (two minutes later, trying to add kisses to her approach): "Time's
up. Here's coffee. Let's move it. I love you!"
Mark (one eye open, trying to grin through a grimace): "Hrrmmphhmmmrgh." |
* * *
Know how they say "and never the twain shall meet?" Well, not
this time. Oh, no no! Cynics and romantics, all together now!
Mr. Price and Ms. Corinna are, in numerous ways, remarkably similar.
To the point that many who know them have taken up jogging. Quickly.
In the other direction. However, in some respects, Mr. Price and
Ms. Corinna are remarkably disssimilar. To the point that many
who know them have gifted Mark with extra padding and Heather
with a Get Out of Jail Free card. Sometimes, the behaviour or
opinions of one is slightly less than endearing to the other.
For instance, when, post-coital, our dashing duo lie naked in
bed gabbing, gooshing and waxing poetic, and our non-smoking boyfriend
plucks one nipple of his girlfriend, looks down, then looks up
at her to say "Hey, where's my cigarettes?" (A joke likely lost, given, on the younger generation.)
And she sits, jaw agape at the rampant objectification.
And he then decides to MOCK HER FURTHER by, in pseudo-Heather
voice (which is, oddly, an octave higher than actual-Heather voice)
presenting the monologue:"I work night and day to HELP people
with their sexuality! I am a champion of body image! I am a pseudo-feminist
ICON! And what do I get? Huh, huh? I get a BOYfriend who grabs
my tits and is all --"
(insert shiny-headed man with rather large eyes pantomiming panicked
radio-nipple dialing here)
".....Come in, Tokyo!"
See, the twain SHALL meet. It's pulling into the station in Japan,
apparently. Without me on board.
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A visual demonstration of the poky little puppy/brave little toaster/
little engine that could (but really didn't want to), once the
beach was gotten to, via bicycle.
"Ah, sunrise. Pret-ty. Shiny."
"So pretty, very.... shiny. Pretty, pret-ty, very shhhii ... chuunnnhhhzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz."
"Wha--hunh-- I'm awake! I was just resting my eyes! Whoohoo, sunrise! Three cheers for
girlfriends who perkily wake me up at 5 in the morning then throw
me on a bike when I've one leg in my pants! Who couldn't love
THAT? (She's so, so lucky I love her, or else I'd.....)"
(In case you needed further evidence as to Mark's zeal for early
mornings.)
* * *
The rest of the day help some napping on the part of the XY in
attendance. More bathing. More sex (and no, I am so NOT informing
anyone about my vocal chords deciding to get creative and coloratura
during that session, thank you very much). Stoop sitting. Photo taking, because we both...
Photo taking, because we both...
..want to be sure we have plenty of evidence to bring to the police
station when we file the restraining orders.
There was one more dinner. There was living room pug-waltzing.
There was misting up on both sides more than once (clearly, it
was allergy season). There was an awful lot of embracing and sweet-talk
and a couple secret plans and promises made. There was two people
being pretty darn sad about parting, but who were thankfully insulated
by the fluffy cartoon clouds they were floating upon. There was,
as always, lots and lots of (very, very icky) kissing.
There is something I may or may not have made patently clear,
which I feel should, in fact, be incredibly clear.
I have found the great love of my life here.
Did you hear me? No?
I HAVE FOUND THE GREAT LOVE OF MY LIFE. For real.
And vice-versa. And we both somehow managed to do this at pretty
much the exact same time -- down to the week -- in our lives we
were both saying, "To hell with this shit."
Amidst all of the billions of people in the world, and despite
having to meet half a country away, quite spontaneously, despite
gawd knows what goes on with time and space, WE DID THIS.
And that, my friends, is a motherfucking miracle. Especially considering
my life. WE RULE.
So, you know what? You bet your sodding ASS I am going to gush
about this like an overactive geyser. Darn' tootin' I simply cannot
bloody shut the fuck up about this. And yes, sometimes it's gross
and barfworthy and insular and I have no doubt it sounds silly
and adolescent as all getout, but I'm not sure it sounds any less
silly or over-the-top than half the rollercoastery, melodramatic
depressive crap that is personal writing all over the web.
I have spent more than half my life, and all of my adult life,
very convinced that the closest I had to a great love of my life
I got when I was WAY too young to appreciate it. And that the
insanely brief time I got it for, which ended in blood and trauma
and hell was all I was going to get in that regard, and that that's
just how it goes. Which isn't to say I haven't had a few excellent
romantic and sexual relationships, because I have. Pivotal, even.
And very dear to me. But they weren't the stuff to file under
anything smacking of The One. And they happened well after I abandoned
the idea that that notion was even anything real.
Not only do I know quite sincerely I was wrong, about that not
existing, and about having already had it all too briefly, but...THIS
IS SO MUCH BETTER THAN THAT WAS. It's better than anything I bloody
imagined, in the escalated bits and in the mundane bits. And while
I do wish Mr. Price had hurried it up a little and found me before
now, this is still good enough to make all the previous relationship
crap -- all the people who tried to fix me, who wanted only the
parts of me that interested them, all those looking to me as a
human liferaft or as a shiny accessory, all the really ungodly
betrayals, and the heartbreaking disappointments -- I waded through
100% worth it.
And if any of y'all don't like it or it bores you, that is really,
truly, TOO FUCKING BAD. (And yes, since you asked, this is my way of telling those of
you who have not good-naturedly commented or have even sent emails
all but requesting that I edit my LIFE so that you have reading
in a tone or genre which pleases you better to fuck the hell off
and go read about someone else's life if mine isn't up your alley.
And yes, I have been more than a little vexed with these requests,
and yes, I'm a little aggro about it because being this in love
does, in fact, make me a tad hypersensitive and overprotective.)
Because, gawdammit to hell, I am going to savor this for every
motherfucking second we have it for. Because so would you, believe
me.
(Those of you out there in the cheap seats who are psychology
geeks may at least entertain yourselves with the wonder of my
pathology wherein falling completely in love manages to make me
both ungodly sweet AND more than a little hostile. In my defense
-- and I say this to give you a momentary break from my sarcasm
-- it really is pretty weird to find the best thing ever, feel
happier than you ever have, want to earnestly share it with everyone,
and at the same time, from some people both immdiately in your
life, and others who merely watch, field anger and some severely
shitty behaviour because you had the Chagall to be HAPPY.)
While I have, to date, yet to be embarrassed by, you know, everyone
seeing my naked bum on the Internet, I, indeed, have managed to
completely humiliate myself with goony love-blubber, again and
again, in the same venue. Under the eyes of some staff at the
ACLU even! My landlord! Exes! Probably my first-grade teacher
who reads this regularly just to validate that she was right about
me! AND I DON'T CARE! (Okay, maybe I care about the ACLU folks.
But I'm going to keep embarrassing myself anyway, even if I later
have to eat crow for doing it, for, in the immortal words of Linda
Rondstadt, love has no pride. And I AM going back someday, come what may, to Blue Bayou, for that matter.
Dangblastit, I absolutely deserve to have a chance in my life
to make a complete, giddy ass of myself for the best reason possible.
Know what else? Huh, do ya? I wish the vile curse of something this good and this spastic
on EACH AND EVERY FRICKING ONE OF YOU.
So there.
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