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.
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.
Similar Books
