Putting the Madge in Danna (15 page)

My nip-naps are turning into conical cones
like in a Gaultier bustier from all the continued manipulation of
them that has not completely ceased since we made our rainbow
connection. It’s a little scary watching them grow like that, but
it doesn’t hurt so much as it makes my pinkie-pinkerson vibrate its
desire.

Her parts look exactly the
same, but Madonna can take the pull, and I’m kneading hers the way
Dad taught me how to make phyllo dough – pulling up then pushing
down with my fist, and finishing them with the bottom of my open
palm. Instead of complaining or directing me, as I’ve heard she
likes to do, she just closes her eyes and hums one of the rhythms
from
Ray of Light
. She must be used to all sorts of prodding and tweaking, and
sexual pleasuring, that it would take extreme measures to
shape-shift her into anything less that the magnificent
self-actualized being that she already is. Needless-to-say, I’m the
one going through the transformation. My hand gets tired, so I’ve
stopped kneading, which is also probably the reason I don’t bake
well, now that I think on it. Instead, I’ve decided on a different
approach. I’m treating her boobsies the way I play with the whipped
cream I squirt on Zeus’ balls during dessert night. I’m stretching
them up then running my finger through them until they both look
like softie ice cream.

I think I could cum just
from this – no pricker necessary. I love having my
titty-titty-bang-bangs tweaked! It makes me want to sing aloud – in
the key of
E
,
like I’m in a porno musical of some sort or the raunchiest version
of a Madonna concert. I really mean it because I can hear that song
from
Ray of Light
that sounds spiritual – Madonna was humming it before and now
it permeates the air like white light from heaven. But I don’t
utter a sound because I don’t want our lips to part.

Her lips are soft, but she’s a rough and
tumble aggressive kisser, so much like Zeus that it’s really so
extraordinary. I start recollecting how the other fuckers’ kisses
didn’t offer that same perfection of lip. This is why she is so
special to me. I slide backwards from the pressure, all the way
against the most powerful jet at the far end of the tub then
slip-slide underneath the bubbles.

I feel like I’m portraying that
Pre-Raphaelite painting of Ophelia, drowning – and the only reason
I know that reference is because Madonna wore her hair in a
Pre-Raphaelite fashion to an awards show so I looked it up on
Google to understand it better. She’s so smart, and fashionable. So
artsy! She’s truly my savior. Before I take my last breath, Madonna
pulls me by my just washed hair and rescues me from the deep.

I say, “You saved me, Madonna. You’re saving
me now. You’re here for me, now and forever, and I’ll never forget
it.”

“
I’m here. Right here.
You’re doing well,” she says. “Only two to go.” She tugs on my hair
and laughs flirtatiously. It hurts a little but no one said this
would be a painless journey. At least, I think, she’s not spanking
me this time.

“
I don’t want to fail
you,” I say. “I would never want you to think that I don’t care.
I’m trying my very best.”

“
Second best?”

“
No! You’re so very
important to me, Madonna. And I’m a loyal friend, I really am.
Everyone thinks so,” I say. But I don’t know what I’m saying,
really. It’s almost like I need her approval more than anything
else in the world.

“
You forgot the to-do
list,” she reminds me. I look around the room and for the first
time I see our shed fishnets and Italian heritage-inspired corsets
scattered on the tile floor. My Westwood heels are sitting on the
toilet seat, hers are resting on the granite counter top of the
double sink vanity. Yes, the clothes look familiar. It must be the
same night and yet, time has passed. Have I, in fact, learned the
secret to time travel? How amazing! I could go anywhere and always
come back home, I think.

“
I remember it, though,” I
say. I’m not sure why, but it’s the truth. I recall that I must
call the electronics store, and send the thank you note to Auntie
Thalia. And I remember that I have to find a Dom and an actor to
fulfill the requirements of this directive. Madonna lifts the razor
to my armpit and tickle-tackles the stubble from it. I stifle the
laugh because I need to get serious. No more robotics, especially
in front of a professional dancer. I need to focus but I need her
help. She will know what to do. “It all seemed so straightforward
at first.”

“
It still is,” she says.
“There’s always a choice. I had so many lovers….”

“
But Madonna, where am I
supposed to find a Dom? That’s way too kinky for Schenectady. And I
don’t think I want, you know, to get forty lashes or whatever. That
won’t look good with a wedding gown.”

“
Think,” she implores. “I
suffered so badly.” She gives me a kiss on the forehead, the way
Glinda, the Good Witch kisses Dorothy. Like motherly love but also
the kiss of kindred spirits. I still cannot wrap my head around the
answer. I blink soap out of my eyes then feel like I’m starting to
slip away. Is this a dream? I look at her again and it almost looks
like a halo of white light surrounds her as she speaks.

“
A substitute for love?” I
say, but I don’t know why.

“
Last night I dreamt
of....”

I interrupt her,
thinking,
I’m about to finish her
sentence
. Zeus and I finish each other’s
sentences all the time. How funny that the two relationships are so
similar, like a soul mate threesome. Wouldn’t it be weird if Zeus
dreamed about her too? Because then I could tell him everything and
there would be no secrets. I blink away another phase-out blast. Am
I merely a hologram of myself? I don’t get it, but then I hear the
song in my head with its Latin rhythms that remind me
of….

“
San Pedro?” I suggest,
although I can’t think how it relates to a man in Madonna’s
life.

“
I dreamt of Basquiat,”
she says instead.

I scrunch up my nose in one of those
reactions that people have when the response is nothing like what
you thought it would be. I say, “The artist?”

“
Of course,” she
says.

Then I woke up.

Comments: 1

Madonna likes to fart in
the tub.
SP, LA, CA

****

No Dom in Oz

Monday, August 17, 2009 - 10:00pm

That dream put everything into perspective.
God, it was so real. How did I do that? Before all of this, I could
barely even remember a single second of my dreams let alone allow
them to control my destiny. But it made so much sense in a weird
way.

I’m not at all the type to go back on my
word, but I’m sorry to disappoint you, bloggers. Because I changed
my mind. I need a substitute for love. I’m crossing off the kinky
Dom experience from my six fucks list. It’s just too hard and
scary, right? I am not going to search the seedy underbelly of my
hometown to find a stranger to offer me discipline. If you’ve been
reading this blog since the get-go, then you understand a little
bit about me and how I’m not exactly the kind of girl who responds
to punishment - because I’ve never actually been punished, spanked,
grounded or in any way disciplined for poor choices or actions. Not
at home or school, or within the confines of a relationship. I know
I’d fail that task miserably. Are you with me? I can’t postpone the
wedding so I can’t fail to complete this mission. There are less
than three weeks left though, and I’m getting anxious.

I’m going to find somebody
else. I’m going to fuck an artist. A quiet but strong brooder,
perhaps, or an action painting wham-bammer. Preferably someone with
street cred, like Madonna’s beau, Jean-Michel Basquiat. Wow, it
sounds like such a relief to say it aloud and write it down in this
blog.
An artist
.
Comments: 0

****

You’ll See

Tuesday, August 18, 2009 - 1:00pm

I’ve been giving a lot of thought to this –
to finding an artist fucker. As I’ve mentioned before, Zeus has me
on a tight spending leash. We’ve had a joint checking account for
several months. It was one of the first things we did as an engaged
couple. That and hooking into the beautiful world of credit cards,
which is super collossally fun, especially when you go into a store
with no money and walk out with a bunch of new stuff and all you
have to say is thank you. But I can’t just saunter into an artist’s
studio and purchase an abstract painting on my way to achieving a
hooey to pricker connection. Zeus knows I can’t stand abstract
anything, including concepts, which is actually one of the reasons
I stunk at math. I only passed because Zeus tutored me in high
school and I have great short-term memory.

“
Here’s your wedding
gift,” I’d say as he unwrapped the crappy painting depicting a
sloppy version of my Madonna-style tryst. Naturally, I see myself
as artist’s muse in the vision.

“
What the hell is this?”
Zeus would reply. “I thought we said no presents until after we
bought a house.” He’d be a lot nicer in tone, because he and I have
more of a sing-songy banter, but I was projecting a worst case
scenario here where we’d end up having an argument over my spending
habits. I don’t like when we do that because it’s the dark
underbelly of marriage and you know how I feel about seedy stuff.
And that wouldn’t be the worst of it because he’d probably go to
the artist’s studio and confront my fuckster and use his
Australian-accented wiles to get to the truth. I can’t have that
happen, especially once we’ve entered wedded bliss, right? That
would be very bad, indeedy-do.

None of my friends are much into going to
artist receptions, so I realize I’m on my own when it comes to the
reconnaissance. Gina and I love shopping together and my Greek
girlfriends and I will hang out at summer-league soccer games or go
to church socials together. My other college friends are scattered
around the US, so when we are together, it’s all about carousing
the night life - preferably in Manhattan - and drinking up a storm.
I mean, I do go to movies and such, but when you are in a
relationship as cozy as mine is with Zeus Zepkos, there’s not
always time for girl only retreats. It’s either groups of our
mutual friends gathering at my apartment or just the two of us,
alone, going to dinner and concerts or staying at home playing our
love games.

So I was beginning to feel like this whole
artist thing was another busted direction. But, you know, I
thought, it couldn’t be if Madonna was directing me. Of course, I
knew about her tryst with Jean-Michel Basquiat, because I was
watching this movie on HBO about him once, which interested me
because it had the flavor of the city in the Madonna-era ‘80s.
There she was, depicted as his girlfriend, by a girl who looked
nothing like her, except for the lace tutu and big tulle bow in her
hair. It was more like a caricature.

I mean, I really hate those unauthorized
biopics about celebs where they have scenes that happened behind
closed doors, especially the ones about the royals, like Princess
Diana. No one can speculate the inner workings of a person in
private, you know? If people saw me walking down the street, I
don’t imagine they would peg me for a bride-to-be – oh yeah, except
for the giant engagement ring. Okay, fine, but they wouldn’t know
that I have been inspired to fuck like Madonna. I have no such
telling signs of my secret life at all. I wear cute sundresses
mostly, with my brown highlighted hair more than likely in a
ponytail. I carry a water bottle with me everywhere. I drive an
Accord. I mean, I’m just about the most generic
twenty-three-year-old Greek girl you’ll ever meet.

Anyhow, I do want this to work, and I’ve
been sitting around all morning trying to figure out how to make it
work. I thought about Japan again. Zeus does love that culture –
was there a Japanese artist somewhere around here? Maybe he could
paint me a scene à la Hokusai or something – not a tsunami or
anything creepy like that, certainly not an earthquake, although it
would be kind of great to get an earth shattering response from
Zeus when I offer the artwork as his wedding gift. I don’t know why
I keep coming back to that gift thing, but maybe it could work
under the right circumstances.

And I think I’ve found them. An artsy-fartsy
photographer has just set up shop in Rye, New York, right near the
offices of Wallace Construction. It’s actually in this renovated
factory building where the city is trying to turn the area into an
art corridor. He’s a Japanese-American. It’s like an omen thingy,
don’t you think? His name is Ford Jitsu and he specializes in nude
portraiture.

You heard right, bloggers. I think it’s a
good idea to have myself photographed in my buffy-buffington,
right? I mean, think about it – I’m in perfect shape, thanks to
Zeke Feathertoe’s training camp. I may not ever be this thin again
once I have kids, although I do burn lots of calories having
sex.

Then there is Zeus’ travel schedule. He’s
made vague promises to me about curbing his work travel, but that
might have been to get me to stop nagging him. Guys do that all the
time. I’ve seen my dad agree to things he has no intention of
doing, just to get Mom off his back. Zeus’ boss could force him to
go to Japan again or Cairo, or San Francisco - all places he’s
consulted on bridge design. And then there is that local travel.
Sometimes he heads upstate for those stupid rafting outings on the
Pulaski River, and he’s gone overnight. He will need a photograph
of me in all my sexy-sexy under his pillow so that the sandman can
supply him with sexy-sexerton dreams of his nudie beloved, always
and forever.