Putting the Madge in Danna (12 page)

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. Of course, she was helping me.

Thank you, Madonna for guiding me, I
thought. I lay like a baby in Margot’s arms. She undressed me with
a swish, quicker than she’d done it at the store. Thus began the
dance to orgasm. She touched my nip-naps as though she was touching
herself. Like she knew what would please me because she was feeling
it too. Not breast exam like, mind you, but tender and gentle. Her
mouth clasped onto the right one. It felt so nice and soft, no
beard stubble to scratch them up.

She licked as though she was searching for
the summit, in slow swirls. Now she tweaked its twin – no jealously
this time, gathering the nip between thumb and forefinger, which
necessitated a gy-normous moan from me. A drivel of pre-cum leaked
down the corridor of my waterslide. I hoped that Margot had a
second set of sheets because I was going to leave a wet spot for
sure. Margot changed positions like a ballerina. She placed a hand
on each breast and then stretched out, moving her face to my
mon-mons. As she nibbled at the loose skin there, I screamed
out.

I wanted to get up and leave. It wasn’t what
I’d expected - felt like a puppy bite on my privates. But Margot
restrained me via vise grips on my titty-ta-tas. I became her
prisoner, and that was kind of sexy. She began to suckle my
cuntessa in earnest, taunting me with her lady-like tenderness and
her poor, alien in New York passion. We locked lips again with more
pressure this time. With my eyes closed, I started to imagine my
Madonna dream. Is this what it felt like?

In my dream, Madonna touched me like a man -
rough and tumble and such. But this pseudo Madonna felt yum-yummy.
My body fluttered all over with tickly sensations, if you want to
know the truth. I mean, I experienced new pleasurable tingles in
places no tingle has ever lingered. Like she liked to lick the
nubby tender part of my clit, the part I like to touch when I’m in
the shower and the part Zeus has yet to discover. He has plenty of
time to learn, of course. We will have a long life together to
understand each other inside and out. I mean, he’ll find it
eventually.

While my mind conjured Zeus, Margot reached
into the end table drawer and pulled out a vibrator. Ew, I thought,
she better not use that on me. Is it even clean? Where has it been?
I was going to relieve her of it, maybe take charge and use it on
her instead, but the drunken part of me reminded myself that it is
impolite to make demands when you are a guest in another person’s
home. I passively awaited my fate. Dr. Quirkenbush could handle any
gyno emergency. She’s told me. She’s seen it all.

“
Powerful weapon of love,”
Margot cooed.

In went the pink device,
dissolving into the wetness of my pinkiest-pinkerson of a pussy. A
pink for a pink. Oo-la-la! It felt super deluxe good. I’ve never
used a vibrator because my own hand was always sufficient, you
know? Plus when a twenty-three-year-old cock sleeps in your bed,
you can have sex like five times a night, you know, two short
blasts, two of medium duration, and then a long lingering
fuck-a-doo, complete with snuggles and
I-love-yous
and that ever super
colossally delicious looking into each other’s googly eyes and
saying more
I-love-yous
. I know, we can be toxic. Oh, I love Zeus so much, I
thought, as this strange foreign woman pelted my cunt with thrusts
from a fake cock.

Honestly, I don’t remember what happened
next. I remember laughing a lot. Sex is supposed to be fun, and
Zeus and I laugh all the time. But I think Margot thought I was
mocking her somehow, because she didn’t seem amused. I vaguely
remember getting a hold of the pink toy and shoving it into her
mouth. I thought she’d like to suck my juices off of it, yum-yum.
But I heard her moaning, like maybe she couldn’t breathe, the way I
couldn’t when Zeke Feathertoe had clogged my windpipe with Mr.
Skinny.

All this drunken lesbian
sex had pooped me out so I turned to the side (I’m a side sleeper)
and let the sandman work his magic. At the time, I thought Margot
had been singing me a lullaby, but the more I think back on it, the
more I think that maybe she had been screaming at me. It sort of
sounded like the combined whine of the adults on the
Peanuts
cartoons as I
drifted off to sleep.

I was alone in the dingy apartment when I
woke with that vibrator plugging about an inch of my asshole. Ew. I
farted it out though, so no biggie. I hope she cleans it before she
uses it again for the sake of her next partner. Margot left me a
note.

Tank you for try to be for sex. Now get
marry and be happy.

I think I need another
Virgin Mary. Madonna, where are you when I need you? I know what
you’ll say - three down and three to go
.
I know where to find myself a
black guy, but a Dom? An actor? I really hope this all works out.
I’m on a time crunch – there’s only a few weeks left - and I don’t
want to fail you.

Comments: 3

Madge tells me she has
been reading your blog. A-Rod was just a friend. And her gay quest
was just as experimental as yours.
Ro,
Miami, FL

I am part of the BDSM
community and can hook you up.
Ladybelle Mestopheles, Long
Island, NY

I sorry you no like
sex.
Margot, Rensselaer, NY

****

Flower Power

Tuesday, August 11, 2009 - 4:30pm

Irv Goldrodblum is my florist. He does all
the Greek weddings around here. We’re lucky to have such a
prestigious florist in town who knows the ins and outs of the
ethnic Orthodox experience, from the church decoration (no women
inside the altar!) to a lavish sixty table reception. He studied in
France at one of the top perfumeries in Paris. It was there where
he learned to perfect match hand-dyed carnations to any bridesmaid
gown or table linen and to inject them with essential oils of some
sort for lasting freshness. His flowers always have such a strong
fragrance lasting well beyond the wedding reception witching hour,
which in our case might be dawn, what with all the Ouzo fountains
followed by drunken folk dancing on tables.

The shop, called Flower
Power
,
is located
off State Route 7 in Troy, New York. Irv specializes in South
American roses but he also grows a lot of his own flowers, like
stephanotis and those carnations - inside a greenhouse on the other
side of the parking lot.

All sorts of impending disasters await the
unsuspecting couple during a Greek wedding, and it all happens to
the tune of archaic sing-song, like a creepy Scooby-Doo cartoon,
the ghost being holy. There’s the kinky bondage - the binding of
the right hands with a white cloth, which restricts movement while,
wearing crowns that are usually knotted together with ribbon, the
couple must putter around a table and bow a bunch of times. And god
help them if they fall off or worse, if the koumbari lose their
grip on the crowns and they knock together. They will need the evil
eye to make it through fifty years of marriage due to all the bad
luck that will befall them. Oh, and then there are the candles.
It’s always the koumbara’s fault. She’s usually too short and
somehow the bridal veil becomes an inferno of fire – we’re the same
height, but still. That’s why I’m not wearing my hair down – I
don’t want dry fly-aways to clash with that giant wick flame.

It’s all rather stressful, really. I don’t
know why Mom and I don’t see eye-to-eye on this one, because to me
it is all crystal clear. A big bouquet would just be in the way.
Why pay hundreds of dollars for flowers your first bridesmaid ends
up holding? You don’t carry them at the reception. Zeus actually
emailed my mother to support me, and she finally caved. I’m having
Irv do a wrist corsage for all the ladies in the wedding party.
Mine will have a green orchid with dark red flecks, three mini
roses for my middle name, Rose, and two Gerber daisies. Does that
sound pretty or do you think it’s tacky? The last time I went to
see Irv, he and I discussed the designs based on these collages I’d
made from pictures taken from old bridal magazines. He had said he
would make up some samples for the corsages and the
boutonnieres.

So today, I took a half-day at work because
I needed to see Dr. Quirkenbush too. I arrived at Flower Power on
schedule, right after lunch. Irv Goldrodblum met me at the
door.

“
Why hello there, young
lady!” he exclaimed in his Long Island accented voice. “How’s the
bride to be? How’re ya holding up? Won’t be long now till you’re
saddled with the ole ball and chain, am I right?”

“
Nope,” I said. “Just a
couple more weeks and Zeus and I will finally be married. There’s
still so much to do yet though. A lot of planning.” And
Madonna-style fucky-wucks, I thought.

“
Someday, David and I
might do it up,” he said. We were thinking about an outdoor
ceremony under a pavilion at Grafton Park. I see an all white
floral arrangement with bougainvilleas hanging between our favorite
Brazilian roses…and tulle, lots of tulle.” He clapped his hands
with girlish delight then wiped his brow with the pocket square
from his Italian suit jacket. “I don’t know what I’m saying. We’d
go out of business with the amount of flowers I’d want to use.” He
sighed, a heavy one. “Ah, yes, weddings. Don’t know how many years
we’d have to wait to marry here.”

“
It may not be too long,”
I offered.

“
We had a civil service,”
he said.

“
You did?”

“
In Malawi, right next to
the orphanage where we adopted Kai,” he explained. “Performed by
the local Kabbalah rabbi, yes. I carried a bouquet of lavender
wildflowers wrapped with a rawhide string.”

Now we were getting somewhere, I thought,
because time was running out and I needed to seduce my basketball
player - pronto. How cool is it that my florist is a humanitarian
just like Madonna? I asked, “How is Kai?”

“
Oh, he’s doing great,”
Irv said with a loving fondness. “Matter of fact, he’s working with
us this summer, did I tell you? I can’t remember. Dave always says
I need to curb my blabbering, especially when it comes to dealing
with brides. Should be all about them, not me and my wonderful
family.”

He had mentioned it the last time we had
spoken on the phone. I had worn a leopard chiffon top with my
trouser jeans today – cougar style, for what I’d thought would be a
rough and tumble encounter with the nineteen-year-old or at least a
preliminary meet and greet.

“
I don’t mind,” I said,
encouraging him to continue.

“
He works here mainly on
Thursdays but hopefully more, if we can get him weaned off that
darned basketball. He plays for Sienna, you know. At 6’7”, he’s one
of the tallest players. Not only is he a top athlete, but he also
knows his way around a flower shop. We’ve trained him
well.”

Irv turned around and grabbed a white box
from the back counter. He placed it on the table as I squealed with
glee.

I said, “I love-love-love my corsage! The
colors are so summery, all seafoam green, deep red in the orchid,
delicate red-orange Gerber daisies - and a cream colored rose that
looks….” I was going to say it looks like velvet cum, but stopped
myself. I really loved the one rose decision, it was so…perfect.
Irv really is the best.

“
Like?”

“
Like a velvet cake,” I
managed. “Oh, and I love my koumbara’s corsage, too!” It was a
smidgen different, smaller and with the tinier coral-colored roses,
as we’d discussed. “But where are the sample
boutonnieres?”