Putting the Madge in Danna

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Putting The Madge In Danna
© May 2012 by Mia Natasha

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First Edition September
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Putting the Madge in Danna

PUTTING THE MADGE IN DANNA

A Blog by Dannika Elinopoulous (soon to be
Zepkos)

And Toto Too

Sunday, JULY 12, 2009 - 8:30am

Sometimes I end sentences
with
and Toto too
. It’s something I picked up after years of watching
The Wizard of Oz
, my
father’s favorite movie. He’s from the old country, a man with a
dream to come to America, you know – over the rainbow. He did that
when he left Greece for New York then opened his own restaurant and
banquet hall all by himself - no parents or wife (until later when
he met Mom here) or any extraneous baggage, just him and a raggedy
stuffed teddy named Toto. Whenever he tells the tale, I always
say,
and Toto too
? And he says,
Toto
too
.

Naturally, I admire my
father. I guess I’m a Daddy’s girl, since I’m his only daughter. I
love hearing Dad’s stories, which he embellishes more every time he
tells them. There’s always a new tale too, told at the family
dinner table, usually at parties or holidays and always filled with
intrigue and humor, and such. I doubt there was an actual Toto
though – what do you think? I mean, what grown up man brings a toy
on a transcontinental journey? I can see a comic book or two. Dad
loves
Wonder Woman
. Maybe that’s what it was.

The truth about Dad’s voyage to the United
States, according to my Auntie Sofia, was that he wasn’t alone at
all. He was actually with a group of people led by a guy named
Christos, his great uncle or something, who parted ways at JFK
airport and then ended up heading west to become a rodeo clown. I
think he died trying to save a cowboy. A beautiful woman named
Eleni had traveled with them, but she’d returned to Crete after
only two months because of a broken heart, apparently. I heard
she’s a spinster who bakes honey puffs for a living now. That leads
me to believe that Dad had been the heartbreaker, not Uncle
Christos, even though Dad was just a teenager at the time. Food
must have been their common denominator, right? He’s such a great
cook, always coming up with different concoctions for salads, and
easily the best baklava maker in the world. When my Auntie Sofia
told me the Eleni part of the story, she’d sworn me to secrecy. Mom
doesn’t even know - which proves that some things are best kept
secret.

And I’m sure Mom has secrets of her own, by
the way. Yaya has alluded to her less than stellar teenage ways on
more than one occasion, something about bringing a kid named Shaun
Cassidy into her bedroom. Growing up, Mom had often hounded me on
the importance of being a virgin for your intended, even though
neither she nor Dad had ever been issued that advice or taken it
from their parents, as far as I know.

I think everyone has to grab a little gusto
before the big day, just as my parents had done. They’ve been
happily married for twenty-five years now – it’s obviously worked
for them. Testing out hooey-pricker connections makes sense. Makes
a love affair with your spouse even that more special, because
you’ll have had more experience.

Zeus Zepkos is the only man I’ve ever been
with in a fucksy sort of way. We’re getting married at the end of
August. He’s the perfect man, but I’m afraid we’re going to fall
into a rut - same old, same old, until sex gets boring and…old. I
don’t want a rutzie to happen to Zeus and me. I won’t let it. I
need to do something though, because my hoo-ha hasn’t seen much
action beyond the big kazoo, which is the code name we have for
Zeus’ cock.

I have to do something to
justify our love, a top-secret mission of sexual proportion before
the big day. I need to have my wild oats sown so that I can
been there, done that
to
my daughter someday - when we have the
talk
. I wish I could be more like
Madonna Ciccione, a.k.a. Madonna, my musical hero. She had left a
trail of lovers on her way to becoming the superist-duperist pop
star of all time. She fucked like a man and lived to tell the tale.
I love that about her, that unashamed of her sexuality thingy. I
love everything about her, really – her talent, beauty, strength,
and her almost immortal timelessness, which is sort-of god-like. I
touched her toe at a concert once. Zeus and I had front row at the
Madison Square Garden
Sticky & Sweet
Tour
show last year. Our connection had a
God to Moses vibe, like in the Sistine Chapel, you know? It meant
something. Zeus kept calling me Madannika afterwards, as if a part
of Madonna’s spirit had hopped into me.

It’s Sunday morning on the anniversary of
Dad’s first day in the United States of America, a day we always
celebrate with hot dogs and chocolate milk, which was his first
meal on Coney Island. I’m sure there will be more stories. If I
don’t get too drunk, I’ll try to remember to ask him more about
Toto.

I need to get ready for the party. After the
big meal, we usually folk dance in the backyard around the rose
garden trellis to the beat of a kettledrum, but Zeus is going out
of town tomorrow so we’ll have to cut our visit short for some
wham-bam.

We’re getting married in seven weeks! I
really hope our marriage is as successful as my parents’ is and Mr.
and Mrs. Zepkos’, of course, although even better than theirs
sounds much dreamier. My parents are closed lip about their past,
which leads me to believe that what I assume is fact. I don’t
actually know if Auntie Sofia’s gossip is true, and Yaya has
dementia. Anyhow, Mom and Dad do seem happy for two people who were
raised in the 1970s - not drunks or hippies, or
slutsie-whatzies.

Hmm. They are always having some sort of
passionate yelling match that ends in a series of smooch-a-roonies
as they make their way to the bedroom - and this after all those
years of marriage. I’m pretty sure that if I can slap some notches
on my cuntessa, then maybe Zeus and I will achieve that same
happiness. It’s the right thing to do. I will have it all…and Toto
too.

Comments: 0

****

The Vision

Thursday, JULY 16, 2009 - 8:00am

It’s too spectacular for words. Have I
fallen into a Technicolor dream? Yes and yes. The lights flash
blue, red and yellow in the white mist of the concert stage, and
the sea of yellow flames from lighters in the black abyss come with
screams from the ecstatic fans, many of whom have paid hundreds of
dollars to see this spectacle. We’ve practiced long and hard, and
are ready for our close-ups - just my pop idol and me, singing and
dancing in sexy syncopation.

Madonna and I are on the
stage of the Saratoga Performing Arts Center. We have just begun
performing the choreographed song and dance to
Vogue
. It’s very Kalamatiano
step-wise, totally easy for a Greek girl like me to follow. Madonna
would have a great time at a Greek wedding, I’m thinking the whole
time I’m doing back-two-three. I throw in a toe-ball-change as
Madonna turns then I pose with lips pursed before the runway part
starts. I’ve never modeled before, but I’m sure I’ll be able to
handle it if Madonna can do it, because I’ll do whatever it takes
to be just like her.

We are the same height and
look a little like sisters or mother and daughter, really. I have
brown hair just like her daughter, Lourdes. Madonna has her hair in
those tight ringlet platinum curls from the
Truth or Dare
movie. I think her
boobsies are bigger than mine are, but that’s because hers have
been squeezed, prodded and sucked on way more than mine. She’s a
mother after all, not to mention her years of fuck-a-doodle-doos.
She’s just so beautiful though, like the goddess of
sexy-sexy.

We both look super-duper sexy, wearing
matching bustiers that lace tightly to our tiny waistlines and hold
up fishnet stockings with slutty rips in them. Our nipsey-russells
are covered with titty ta-ta tassels that swish when we move. I
love the black velvet mixed with red and green ribbon, and the
white lace of our corsets that she has picked to represent her
Italian heritage. And, I have to say, it feels very comfortable to
move around in the retro Vivienne Westwood five-inch stilettos. Not
at all like those supermodels who kept falling down the runway when
they wore them – I can do this!

Madonna and I face each other and I finally
notice her bare pussy. Wow. It is just like a little girl’s with
tiny little lips dangling a drip to lick. I look down and find that
mine is exposed too, but it’s the regular way, a tidy trimmed dark
cunt cover. I don’t seem to mind this at all. I don’t try to cover
myself, even though I’m not the kind of girl who normally goes for
T & A flashy-flash. I’m not ashamed of my body, especially my
pinkie, which is as clean as you can get it. It has welcomed the
cock of only one man, after all.

I’ve never had the inclination to go lez,
but I can’t stop staring at those wicked lips. They are singing to
me. Suddenly I feel compelled to fall to my knees and offer her
bare mon-mons a kiss. I see it as the fountain of youth summoning a
protégé. It will give me all history and all knowledge – which
sounds biblical, doesn’t it? Because this is like an omen or
something. Madonna holds my head against her hungry hooey and I
lick it. The fluid I catch lingers on my tongue like a salty elixir
that makes me stronger, the way Gatorade does when I drink it after
a run or something. I feel like I am licking the oracle of a deity,
quite frankly, and I will lick-lick forever and a day if I can. I
drink and drink. My tongue worships her.

“
Just get to it...Vogue,”
she raps.

Just get to
it
, I think. Lick the deep recesses of the
hoo-ha and it will give you all the knowledge you seek. Wisdom in
juicy-juice. I throw my tongue into her dark and dirty corridor,
hoping to unleash more secrets. There are so many that my head sees
mathematical formulae, literature in ancient languages and works of
art even as my eyes are tightly closed. It is a powerful and
seductive orifice, I know, one that has seen a lot of action, one
that probably knows how to accept any and all cock, tongue, kink,
and fetish. I feel like I have successfully unlocked its gate. I’ve
been drawn into the inner sanctum, and it feels like
home.

“
Strike a pose,” she says
in her breathy voice.

I drop down on my hands and knees, and wait
like the bitch that I desperately want to be.

“
Teach me,” I say. “Teach
me how to be a better fucker, oh great goddess of pleasure and
music.”

Madonna dances around me as the audience
applauds. They like what they see. They’re cheering like Romans at
the Coliseum, screaming her name, and mine it seems, but only
because they sound so similar. Madonna, Dannika….

I watch her sidle
by.
Please don’t go
, I think.
Don’t leave me. Not
yet
.