i
there! How are you tonight? "Mmmm-wah!"
(Word of advice: when somebody blows you a kiss, you're
supposed to catch it like a falling star and put it in your
pocket.)
Tsk tsk tsk. After that *lapse* in etiquette, I better not
find this fridge empty... A full jug! Of sangria! Ooh
luscious! All right then, you're forgiven for muffing my
blow-kiss. If you'll pardon my expressing it that way.
(Cackle.)
*¡Arriba arriba!* (Clink.)
Hee hee! (Slurp.) Speaking of blows, when I auditioned for
the Nothingbutt Theater this really ugly but super-talented
guy named Joe Biggins and I did that wonderful sex scene
from *Jane Eyre* for them. You know: "I've got a blow-I've
got a blow, Jane!" "Oh, lean on me, sir!" So here I am
staggering around under Joe, who goes and *drapes* himself
over me; it was disgusting but hilarious. Hee hee hee! "My
little friend!" sighs Joe. "Thank you, sir!" gasps me. "Tell
me what to do, I'll try at least to do it!" *Hee hee hee hee
hee!*---
[CLUMP]
'Scuse me. Hee hee! Sorry. Sometimes I've just gotta roll
around on the floor, in *utter ecstasy.* (And dust bunnies.
Have you got a vacuum cleaner? Remind me and I'll apply it
to this nice grey carpet sometime.) Lucky I didn't spill my
drink. But Jeez, that was funny. Joe Biggins! Too bad he was
so repulsive. (Cackle.) I think I saw him once years later
on *The Merv Griffin Show,* but that was during my margarita
phase so who can be sure.
(Slurp.)
That scene from *Jane Eyre,* by the way, is the *second*
most romantic one in world literature. The MOST romantic
scene is the one in *Tom Sawyer,* where he asks Becky
Thatcher if she loves rats and she says no, she hates them
and he says no, he means dead ones you can twirl around on
the end of a string, and she says what *she* likes is
chewing gum and Tom can chew hers for awhile if he'll give
it back to her afterward.
You can't get much more romantic than that.
Or can you? Pour me a little more sangria, and we'll
*scrutinize* the situation... *¡Gracias!* (Slurp.)
Soooo for instance, I like to take these romantic drip-dry
showers.
Hop in, scrub-a-glub-dub, hop out-no turning pruny (yuggh)-and
let Mother Nature take care of the drying part. 'Cept for my
hair; absolutely need a blow-dryer for that. (There I go
coming to *blows* again, har har.) But I don't believe in
towels anymore-can't find any good ones, towels with a RASP
to them, that can put roses in all your cheeks. (Slurp.) I
believe I've already mentioned my preference for red
lingerie. *Bright* red; the color of your true heart's
blood. Though, when I'm feeling demure, I'll unbend far
enough to wear shocking pink. Right now I'm in more of a
magenta mood. As you can spy for yourself... if I just kind
of *loosen*... this one li'l button here. See? Magenta. Goes
so well with my blooming complexion, AND I could spill a
whole glass of sangria down my front and it wouldn't leave a
stain---
Why, may I ask, are you scowling like that?
Oh yes you are! (Slurp.) And yet the very first time I came
over here, the very first thing you did was look *right*
down my front. Oh yes you did! For which I really ought to
have slapped your face (you cad!) except that maybe you were
just staring at the floor, and my boobies kind of *impeded*
your viewpoint.
Men, of course, always tend to zero in on the boobs or the
buns or the legs. And since I'm way down here to begin with,
and the boobs and the buns and the legs are all even
*further* down, you men can give yourselves a regular neck
ache doing the zeroing in. Serves you right, too!
(Cads!)
So let's change the subject, why don't we?-say, to kissing.
(Slurp.)
First guy I ever kissed for real was Jeff Scolley. *No*, not
"Jeff's collie!" Oog! I'll have you know the Scolleys were a
very crème-de-la-crème family in Marble Orchard. And that,
mind you, is the *county seat*---it's not all frog-gigging
and sorghum festivals out there, nossir. Jeff's dad was a
bigwig buyer at Winslow's Department Store and drove a Buick
Riviera, and they lived in a fancy house on Locust Street
with lawn flamingoes and everything. Jeff looked exactly
like Jonny Quest, only with brown hair and an overbite.
Which I got thoroughly acquainted with, har har. *No,* it
was all very innocent, mostly 'cause I left town before my
eleventh birthday. (Just as well too, 'cause Jeff was
getting fitted for braces at the time.)
So then I moved to the big city Demortuis and "took a shine"
to this Cool Boy named Troy Janssen, who was a Laplander
through and through. I mean he had a chin-dimple and hair
like flax and these tell-tale empty-bedroom eyes-the whole
Nordic smörgåsbord. Don't even get me STARTED on Sven-types,
those goddamn slalom-instructors---I've had my ever-lovin'
finger-lickin' fill of them. And Troy Janssen was the very
first one.
Well, not my very first one in *that* sense. Not that he
didn't *try*-and not just with me by myself: he tried to
seduce me AND this friend of mine, simultaneously! But we
(um---was it Natalie? no---*Ginny*, that's right, it was
Ginny Kirschwasser---boy, talk about your virgins) Ginny and
I were too crafty for him, even if he *was* practically a
teenager. We allowed ourselves to be lured up to his
bedroom, where Troy started taking off his clothes---and how
typical! absolutely *tip o' the pickle* that he'd start with
his OWN clothes! But we tangled him up in his own shirt and
pants before piling on top of him and pinning him down and
spanking and tickling him till the bastard hollered Uncle.
Or should I say Auntie, since after that encounter he wasn't
worth half a damn buck. Never did ask either of us out.
Complete waste of chin-dimple talent. Oh, that's a Sven for
you, all right.
(Grrrr.)
I think maybe I'll just refasten this button. The
late-night buffet is no longer open for your sampling
pleasure, and you can lay the blame for that on all those
Cool Boys from Scandinavia. So nyaah to them and nyaah to
you too, Mister Monsieur...
Um, that was the sangria talking last night.
Also that was me flirting, sort of, in case you missed my
drift. I'm a wee bit out of practice. At *flirting*, that
is, NOT teasing-I'll own up to being a Flirty Gertie, but
I'd take a heap of offense at being labeled a tease. Maybe
you don't think there's a significant difference but I'm
here to tell you there *is*, with a big old capital S.
I know what I'm talking about 'cause the Totalbitch Queen
of the Teases was a personal acquaintance of mine, back in
high school. Her name was Pamela Pillsbury and some cockeyed
idiots were stupid enough to say we looked a lot alike.
Untrue! There's more to "looking alike" than both of us
being blonde and short. (And built; I'll grant you that.)
But Pam was a downright trifler when it came to guys, and
a Blue-eyed Meanie too: I remember her making this one guy
Mike (or was it Mark? or maybe Malcolm? probably all three)
break down and *cry* at some dance or other, right there in
the gym in front of everybody. Betcha some shrink's gotten
rich off *that* little incident.
Pamela Pillsbury---I called her The Dough Girl, partly
'cause I'm so clever-brilliant and partly 'cause her folks
had a lot of money but lost most of it, so they ended up in
dear old Demortuis where poor Pammy had to snippy-drip to
the hoi polloi. And her *voice!* She had the nerve to say I
sound like a cartoon chipmunk and maybe I do, but SHE talked
like a big bowl of marshmallow fluff left out in a
hailstorm.
The funny thing is we actually got to be almost friends
(for want of a better word) our senior year, when we ran the
Drama Club and wanted to do *Candide* for Operetta, with Pam
as Cunegonde and me as Paquette. But of course it was
hopeless, what with "Glitter and Be Gay" and the Old Lady's
cannibalized buttock and whatnot. They made us put on
*Flower Drum Song* instead, for crying out loud! I mean "I
Enjoy Being a Girl," but come *on*.
(Cackle.) I *do* enjoy it, you know-being short and cute
and built and all. I don't suppose Pam ever did---not among
the hoi polloi, anyway. So she ended up a totalbitch tease
while *I* got to play Wonderflirt. But even *I* wasn't all
that thrilled Being a Girl the first time I "did the deed,"
which was (cough) with this second-string basketball player
named Punchy Frid. His real name was Christopher Robin Frid,
but he got called "Punchy" by people who called him
"Christopher Robin" first, and he was all the time fouling
out on the basketball court. And not just there, either.
Punchy Frid---no relation to the *Dark Shadows* Barnabas
actor, I'm sorry to say. No, he was another slip-sliding
Swede. Don't know if my first time was his too, but he sure
didn't seem to know which end of the rubber went on where.
For a week or so afterward I was absolutely convinced I was
carrying around Punchy Jr. An empty threat as it turned out
(THANK YOU JESUS!) but, to avenge my virtue, I kept old
Christopher Robin convinced of it for the *entire goddamn
winter*. Every time I saw him I'd double over and go "OHHHhhhh,
I think I felt the baby kick!" (You should've seen Punchy
try to sink free throws that season, with me in the
bleachers clutching my tummy.)
(No, I would *not* call that "teasing.")
Needless to say, I've done a lot better since. Although
there's a helluva lot of Punchy Frids in the world. Not to
mention Troy Janssens. And I'm afraid I'm a bit elderly for
the Jeff Scolleys and their overbites, nowadays. Not to
mention nowanights. A couple weeks ago my friend RoBynne got
me into the BoogaBloo Angel, this breakers club downtown,
and I found myself spinning round the dance floor with these
inner-city boyhunks who definitely weren't Sven-types, fer
shure fer shure. But we're talking beardless, fake-I.D.,
expecting-me-to-drool-over-their-flaunted-lack-of-chest-hair
*kiddies* here! Sorry, I don't feel qualified yet to play
the role of Experienced Older Woman They'll Remember Fondly
After They've Grown Up À La *Summer of '42*.
So, like I said, I'm a teensy bit rusty at flirting.
But every once in awhile...
Um. Well. How do I describe this, without getting too
naughty or racy or anything? Not that it's X-rated subject
matter, necessarily; just sort of-"intimate."
Okay. Let's see. You head out someplace. It could be to a
party, or taking a walk in the park, or---or dropping by the
corner Pizza Hut, maybe. Whatever. Anyway, you're alone, by
yourself, and then OOH: suddenly you look, and you see, and
you *need*---
---and it's like it's meant to *be*.
Know what I mean? Like you're singling each other out. So
then you touch, and you hold, and you *feel*---
---and it's such a feeling you can't hide it, with your
heart going bing-bang-zoom and the rest of you
not-to-get-graphic but turning all-sort-of-melty, like the
very best butter (as the Dormouse said). All creepy-crawl
and goosey-bump and deliciously lavishful---
---but it's not just your ordinary everyday lustdaze. You
know? 'Cause it's *romantic*, it's SO romantic and some kind
of magical. Right? And then---
---this'll sound sappy but it really DOES get all Rodgers
& Hammersteinish. Like some enchanted evening followed by oh
what a beautiful morning after a hundred million miracles
happ'ning ev'ry day!
(I can't believe I just said that.)
(But it's the *truth*.)
(Hee hee hee!)
Wanna know a secret? A beep-beep toot-toot Bad Girl
secret? Lemme whisper in your ear---
When it's good for me, I laugh my fool head off. I go
from grins to giggles to guffaws and finally outright peals
of laughter, the more "intimate" and "lavishful" it gets.
My face feels all tingly. Am I blushing? Oh my God,
you've got me *blushing!* Holy Baloney-I haven't had
anything to blush about for years and years. Or months and
months, anyway.
I forgot how sort of glowy it makes you feel.
Um---
Anything left in that jug of sangria?...
Story by P. S. Ehrlich of Des
Moines, Washington.
© 2001 P. S. Ehrlich All rights reserved.
Contact P. S. Ehrlich
