…sunny felix
A few days off work. I went to a spa. Had things done to me that only the female of the species can truly appreciate for their wonder. Foot massages. UNGH. Head massages. Double UNGH. Suntanning in the currently glorious English weather. Burning in the currently glorious English weather.
I love Britain when the sun comes out. Everyone emerges from their little houses like dust encrusted refugees from some atomic wasteland. They rub their eyes a moment and almost immediately emerge with summer clothing that was last worn when the Beegees still had soul. Mostly none of it fits correctly. A silent cheer echoes across the land. It ripples like a heat wave. Sunglasses appear. Hats. “flip flops” as they call them here (I love that) for sandals. In a single day every shop has barbeque equipment on sale. People walk! Walk I tell you. I know, I wouldn’t have believed it myself if I hadn’t seen it with my own baby browns. Teenage mums emerge with their offspring teathered to them with string like on those mommy monkeys in the zoo. Men (of all shapes) discard their shirts in favor of chests so pale that they wouldn’t look out of place advertising bleach. Their whispy hairs crawl upward toward the light hungry for sustenance. I love them all.
And not one of them wears suntan lotion. By next year they are all going to wrinkle up like yesterday’s half eaten apples.
And then in one week they all hate it; redder than Stalin’s pajamas; insomniacs because English houses are designed to keep IN the heat so none of them can sleep; watching the garden die because of a water ban (for the wettest place in the world England seems to drain water like a colander with a hole in it) and sick to the eyes with the happy feeling the sunshine brings…then, it will rain.
As I harken back to the west coast of the US (shock horror) sunshine is not a big riot for me to have sunshine. I love it, yes, but I actually prefer the temperate European weather to the heat back home. If I want a tan I fake it. If I want sun I take a weekend in Spain. But it rarely matters. The light in the UK is different to anywhere else. It’s reserved and glistens in places you least expect it. On my roof balcony I have pots full of daisies. There is a beautiful variety called Sunny Felix. Its blue center sparkles like sapphires in the sunshine. Those are the things I like about the weather here. And the breeze is beautiful….humm…No one has ever brought me sapphires.
I am currently on ‘said’ balcony with a tumbler of nonalcoholic pear cider mixed with a healthy glug of gin and ice. On the table is a cup of freshly made espresso and beside it is my iPhone. I am plucking up the courage to give MR the ultimatum. The peace and quiet and mollification of three days away from the male sex, cigarettes, alcohol, work and food has done me the world of good. I am going to make a decision. MR or D&G. Two weeks. In two weeks it’s going to be one or the other.
Love of life, or man who smells like heaven and fucks like Jesus. Sometimes I think it would be so much more relaxing to be single. Maybe that is the third option?
…marinara
So the weekend gone and the one before I have spent on a small boat type thing in the south of England. D&G brought the thing with his inheritance, which it turns out was not insubstantial based upon the prettiness of it. He is in fact almost entirely self-sufficient due to a wealthy relative back home who is happy to fund D&Gs whims since he is dead and can hardly argue about it. At lease D&G works hard too – I can’t bear those rich types that believe money equates to laziness. D&G wasn’t allowed access to his trust fund until after he got his first legitimate pay check. Hence I discover the ‘clowning’ was something he did to fund himself through school back on the ranch, so to speak, he keeps it up it turns out because he likes it, not for the money.
Like list 1) clearly cool with masses of screaming children. don’t think this can be deemed a bad thing.
But it turns out I am useless on the water and have suffered from an embarrassing bout of sea-sickness (throwing up into a sink is really not attractive on first or second date territory, but he was nice enough to be okay with it) both times we went out on the water. We therefore stayed moored up in the marina 90% of the time. I wasn’t going to complain: good wine; the great outdoors, and an incident that due to some rather aggressive love-making led me to hit my head on the roof of the boat (as they say in ‘rom coms’, “Hilarity ensued”) meant that I was very happy, if bruised, for that particular 90% of the time last weekend.
However (isn’t there always an ‘however’) not so much ‘happy’ this long weekend. Though the weather was hot and the company hotter, the water cool and rose cooler; the only difference between this and last weekend is that I was stupid enough to take my cell with me: and rendering only 30% of my time - until I checked my messages – anything like positive. Because we remained inland I still got reception this weekend, and unlike the seven days previously I began to receive contact from the now estranged Mr Right.
The first SMS was at 9am on Saturday, after a week of radio-silence.
MR 9.01 am
“I am sorry.”
Of course I didn’t receive this message, having at the time both hands upon the undercarriage of a professional clown it was difficult to check my messages. And the device was on vibrate.
MR 9.15 am
“I am really sorry.”
I would have been fretting had I not been, at that point in time nursing a small head wound.
MR 10.03 am
“I miss you, where are you?”
Now I was panicking because I had received the texts while D&G went to get ice. I shouldn’t have checked my cell. MR had called the weekend before while I was away, not texted, not left me a message, but called, about ten times. And I hadn’t called back. I couldn’t. What would i have said? I was so angry still, so heartbroken, so confused, so very happily smiling and waving knowingly at D&G as he breezed past me at work…that smell, and the mental images that now go with it are enough of a distraction for my loins let alone my mind.
There are more messages along those lines but the two that are important are these.
The first of only two responses:
Missy Monday 12.25pm
“You’re sorry for what exactly?”
MR Monday 12:29pm
“Fighting. It was stupid. Can I come over & see you tonight? We need to talk about it. I miss you.”
NOT SORRY FOR SCREWING CLAIRE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Missy Monday 13.00pm
“Fail.”
Still not sure if that was the right response. D&G and I used the ice in an impromtu batch of Mojitos.
But I’m still looking at my cell every 10 minutes. Nothing has been sent in return.
…deserts
So this time last week, and once this morning, I was lying in the tanned arms of D&G. We got a cab back to his and spent the evening inspecting the quality of his mattress. He has a stunning home, a little house on the outskirts of Notting Hill which he used to share with his brother **there are more of them** who was in the antiques business. He doesn’t collect action figures ad I had first suspected, but has a totally fascinating collection of clutter. It’s a breath of fresh air, MR is obsessed with cleanliness, he gets a headache if his books aren’t in alphabetical order. His home always smells of cleaning products. I guess I’m mommy bear in this little trio, my mess is solely confined to my bedroom, which is a clutter of travel memorabilia, a big fluffy duvet,clothes mountains, half read books and dusty jewel cases for CDs long since transferred onto my harddrive.
But let’s not talk about his collection of bottle caps, and dusty pile of international boardgames, his wall of hats or the fourteen umbrellas he keeps in a bucket by the door. Let’s talk about sex baby.
D&G is surprisingly nervous in bed, to begin with at least. Not at all as you would think from his assured behaviour at the dinner table. He is uber-conscious about ‘how long’ he can go. He clearly thinks he’s Sting, and ‘has practiced tantric techniques’, and yes I did have multiple orgasms thanks to his technique, and yes it seems he has some impressive stamina. I’m used to more slow and confident and comfortable love-making from MR (and don’t we girls so love to compare!) so his awkward stylings took me back at first. What a strange thing it is to be in the arms of another man, and try and learn his quirks and hot spots; he must be in the place. Further notes to follow.
I woke up and wandered to the bathroom, being nosy I pried through the cupboards. The closet klepto in me loves to poke through other people’s shit. I want to know what drugs he is on, is he loosing his hair, what sex toys he keeps hidden behind the toiletpaper. Nothing odd apart from a porn mag in the pile of readibles by the toilet seat. So I step into the shower and wash myself in his showergel. i love doing that, smelling of the man I just had all over me.
Breakfast is OJ and English Crumpets. He whipped up a cup of coffee wearing nothing but his boxers and a t-shirt with last year’s festival line up on the back, sat opposite me at the breakfast bar and watched me as I eat. Normally I find that a bit unnerving, but his eyes on me were great. I was wearing one of his towels with my hair scooped up in one of the clips I had the night before. I could see him stripping me down with his smile, it was WOBBLEMAKING.
“Come sailing.” He said. And it was really out of the blue. He had been talking about it the night before, how much he liked to be on the sea, or just drifting up a river with a bottle of wine. I never really registered it. “Just you and me in the boat for a weekend. You just need to be able to pull on the ropes,” I’ve not DONE water you know, flying I can handle, but I’ve never had the inspiration to get on the water. He said he’d drive. I pointed out only have four inch high heals and eveningwear. He said I’d look good in a black bin liner and I blushed. He said I could take some of his sister’s clothes from his room **and another sibling**, that we were about the right size.
I think about it as I munch my crumpet and sip at my coffee, he rounds my back and started to distract me by running his fingers down my back and over my neck. SERIOUSLY Men, don’t they appreciate that boiling hot drinks and flirtation are dangerous? If he had tickled me right then he would have been in trouble, but he didn’t and I said okay. Don’t know what came over me. I just said yes.
…starters
From the distance I have been observing him, and with little less than a few minutes to take in his entire persona (and usually when I am trying to focus on work) I never had the chance to truly appreciate D&G before our dinner on Friday. So while in my mind he had become Adonis like; perfect skin, perfect teeth, exquisite style and hair, piercing eyes, HUGWORTHY torso, SQUEEZWORTHY biceps and thighs so powerful you could crack eggs between them the wrong way around…Michelangelo’s David with a smattering more YES-please and better dress sense.
Closer up D&G is less than perfect.
His skin is a little more weather beaten (turns out he likes to sail and owns a yacht. I’ll get to that). His eyes are less blue and a little more grey. His wardrobe that evening was less tailored (he wears a shirt and suit at work, the only man that does), and that evening he wore a striped summer sweater, grey and black, a dark brown shirt underneath and a pair of expensive looking jeans. This is the man that clowns in a duck costume, why did I envisage he would be the same smart and put together soul in the evenings?
Though my eyes spent longer on the shiny cutlery than him, my psychiatrist knows why (I’m a closet klepto). I took snapshots of parts of him in my head, but never looked at him as a whole. As I looked up from the tableware, across the view of the London skyline, skirted my eyes over the eaves of the restaurant and other guests, I caught the crinkle of skin in the corner of his eye (he is a little older than I thought) and the slight crookedness of his bottom lip, the fact that he has one ear pierced but I have never seen him wearing an earring, he had his hair cut since I last saw him (Today? For me?) and that I think he was wearing a little makeup under his eyes. Nevertheless he was no less stunning. Not the slightest bit less hot to look at, which is why I couldn’t look at him all in one go, I thought I might faint, and I like eating at the Oxo, I wanted to make it to the third course.
He let me bluster through the first thirty minutes, after I had got over my soul crushing mute-iny nervous and desperate conversation took over. I must have told him all my innermost secrets in that thirty minutes, and he just looked on in wonder and tried to pick us a bottle of wine (the final choice was a Bordeaux; Château Montrose, Deuxième Cru).
The salt and pepper shakers were so goddamn cool!
So goddamn fucking cool that I wanted to melt them with my stare. Why could we not have gone somewhere a little less cool, somewhere a little more clunking and normal, or abnormal, does he think I’m one of those women like Claire who thrives on being on top of the latest trend (okay I know Oxo isn’t the latest trend, but it’s still a place she hangs out I’m sure); is he one of them, is that why were we there?
Okay so I was dwelling, my cheeks were flushed, and the server who had by this point been summoned over was looking at me expectantly to order. I set down the shakers which I had been absentmindedly playing with (date wasn’t going really that well so far) and ordered the first thing on the menu I could see.
When she had gone D&G asked me what was wrong. God that voice, creamy, deep, American; it made me miss my Dad (Yes, and my psych would have something to say about that too I’m sure).
I wasn’t about to tell him I should have been in the arms of my partner that moment, but that we’d had a fight, and now…yah yah yah. God how pathetic would that have been.
But what I actually did say wasn’t all that better, I just locked on his eyes for the first time that evening.
“You clown?” I asked, letting myself be ironic. He didn’t even blink.
“I don’t want to talk about that.” He said, hell he loves his own little mysteries. (And in truth that one’s killing me).
“I bet there’s loads of things you like people to know about but never explain,” I guessed, “Like I bet you smoke a pipe, or collect action figures, or…I don’t know…speak Polish or something.”
“Cantonese.” He added. “Like I said, I don’t want to talk about me. I’m playing hard to get.” Seriously he said that. I think I lost all control of my pants right then. They would have gone out on the top of my emptied starter plate if I could have slipped them off without him noticing.
“Hard to get?” I laughed.
He just smiled, god he loved himself a bit much right then. As my little brother says when we MSN, “meh”, because so did I. Love him. A bit. Right then.
“Why?”
“Because that’s what you’ve been doing to me for weeks now. It’s time you had a bit of your own medicine.” He grinned as we got our main course, I had completely forgotten what I had ordered, in fact I had completely forgotten how to use most of the extremities of my body right about that moment.
“I hadn’t even noticed.” I said, really I thought I had been too full on with my flirtation, then again, I remembered, I do HAVE a partner, even if he has gone and made an idiot out of himself, and called me condescending, and whined because I have to be nice to other people apart from him and screwed one of my oldest…
“There you go again. Being all coy.” He said.
COY!
I SHIT YOU NOT! ME! COY? WTF.
“I’ve got a lot of stuff on my mind. Work, you know.” I’m a terrible liar.
He’s so amazingly cocksure he leant forward and straight up took my hand.
“Can we get over the flirtation and just admit that we both want to screw each other’s brains out?” He asked. “I mean it’s fun and all but I’m not a patient person.”
I mean, come on… what would you do?
…preparation
A girl gets ready for a night out. She raids her deep cupboards for everything. Doors lie half off their hinges, across the room shirts and pants and tops and ties lie in knots on the shag pile. Hangers lay strewn Wooden, metallic, plastic with the sizes torn off in a fit of rage.
The music blares on her kareoke/ipod machine that she loves for when those parties happen. She has a ‘date’ playlist, because in this modern world everything has a soundtrack. The soundtrack for this scene is a quicky mix of modern classics, a little of the Beta Band, some Goldfrapp, The Band of Bees and the Postal Service; a smattering of Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, some Bloc Party, They Might be Giants and Madonna’s Immaculate collection tastefully finished off with some old school Daft Punk turned all the way up to eleven.
In order to test the vast array of heals which she abusively flings from the cupboard on the bed she even does a little dance. And finally settles on some 80s’ classics, a little Duran Duran as the sun goes down.
Nail Polish – 10 mins
Leg wax – 30 mins and a little powder, a pair of stockings with a beautiful seam all the way up to a pair of frilly pink numbers with something slightly rude on them.
Hair wash and curl, abuse of various cans of styling products – 60 mins
Getting abusive at the hair curlers - 5 mins
Brushing out and going for something simple (i.e. striaghteners) – 10 mins
Bikini Wax – professionally achieved with the aid of some emergency suck sweets and a friend who does last minute appointments.
Friend X with her magic wax sticks around for 30 mins and helps decide clothing options. Narrowing it down to three while drinking
Champagne that has been in the ice box since New Year - priceless.
Make up, eyes – 10 mins, foundation – 5 mins, covering up that scar she doesn’t remember getting – 2 mins, lippy – choice 1 – 2 mins, choice 2 – 3 mins, choice 3 – 2 mins, back to 1, 20 mins.
It is now 7pm. Thirty minutes to lift off and no closer decision has been made on clothing.
Three skirts beg for attention:
1) A skiny white number with a bit blue button, slightly nautical.
2) A long satin pink skirt that feels a bit too try hard.
3) A hippy flouncy flowery smock dress that makes her look cute but is more about fashion than sense.
She throws herself face down in amongst them, unable to make a decision and eventually goes for a Marimekko smock dress and up-do with earings that seem to be made out of the entire metalurgic content of Madagascar.
The perfume of choice is a light and fresh number, nothing overpowering, a little D&G on the wrists to accentuate and blend with his own choice of scent which is bound to be the ususal. She wonders what he will wear. The scent inspires her imagination. She turns the pictures of the smiling blue eyes of her other half away from her so that her past self is kissing the walls and surfaces of her appartment. That picture of the skiing trip in the Alps where everything was so perfect makes her feel bad but she turns it away and slips into her newly re-healed blue-suede shoes. They feel good to run her hands over and for a moment she stops an thinks again whether this is a good idea.
But the taxi has already arrived and shes out the door, her only worry that the falling rain doesn’t ruin her shoes.
I didn’t let myself believe this was me doing this until I got in the cab. I left my cell on the bed. I did it on purpose.
…reason
So it’s last Thursday and I was fretting. I was a mess.
Not a word from MR, and I was looking at my phone every five seconds. My mind wasn’t on my job, and my COWORKERS were very aware.
I was going out for ‘coffee’ (read ‘cigarette’) every thirty minutes. My hands were shaking. I’m not generally a very impulsive person and every time I think of the argument between me and the man I truly adore I was breaking out in a hot flush. The argument with MR has shaken me so badly. It surprised me. We’ve managed to survive an entire relationship without a major bust up and now one crept upon us out of the blue. I don’t think I was paying any attention to the world around me. I got my coat stuck in the elevator. I spilled my coffee down my nice white Karen Millen blouse. I left the hotel room without my key. I got in a cab without my bag (kerb side – had to go back to collect it). Little Missy Absent Minded.
I couldn’t BELIEVE I said yes to dinner with D&G.
But I did. I took out my phone to cancel the date. What had I been thinking? I was my tenth cigarette break of the morning and I smelled like KACK, and outside in the cold holding the cell in my shaking hand amongst the rest of THE DAMNED shuddering under the eaves. And then there he is, drifting past me in a wave of intoxicating Dolce & Gobana scent. I didn’t know he was going to be here today. I’m destroyed. And what do I do?
Options were the following:
1) Ignore him and send the text to cancel dinner, because I’m in love with a wonderful man who despite our argument is beyond fabulous and will no doubt call me later, or turn up outside my hotel room so we can have mind bending make-up sex.
2) Smile nonchalantly, don’t text and decide last minute tomorrow whether I will do him the favour of showing up or not.
3) Run on him and sex his face off outside the office building, it will mean nothing, it will be raw and goddamn dirty…and then I can get it out of my system and go back to being in love.
4) Denial. Good old fashion denial. What argument? What lust? Everything is just fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine.
Reason would point me in the direction of one of the above.
But reason had abandoned me. I am Reason’s Dumpster Baby.
I waved back LIKE AN IDIOT.
And what did this heavenly man do? He smiled with confidence, a knowing nod of his head and wafted inside the building. His blonde hair all ruffled and tousled in a way I wanted to chew! And those eyes…regret meant nothing for a minute. My cell in my hand was something to squeeze in place of his thighs. MR who? What IS it about this man that makes me act like a teenager? I’m a strong woman. I intimidate people, it’s what I do. I don’t do it on purpose, it just happens. I’m the Addams family (yes I still had that song in my head). I am as cold as stone and the only person who has ever been able to get blood out of me is MR. He is the one that I am meant to go wibbly for. He is the one who I committed to. Mr Right. The One. The Yin to my Blah. Yet I spend the next ten minutes swearing and playing with my hair the adrenaline in my glands swooning.
I smoked the last three cigarettes in my pocket and clutched at my cell as if it wass a grenade I needed to keep hold of to stop blowing me to KINGDOMCOME…I’m begging the Shoe Gods to send me a sign. A blessed sign to tell me I shouldn’t feel this way.
And then it rang. My phone in my hand started trilling like a crazy thing. My fellow Damned in the shade of the building give me evils, apparently I missed the memo that suggested we needed to smoke in silence. I don’t even contemplate apologising and answer the call.
…weakend
Wow.
I have no words to describe it at the moment. I’ve just come down from a three day high.
D&G. Impromtu Weekend away.
I’ve gone all bubbly in the knees.
I will report back when I have regained the ability to describe it all…
…Coulrophobia
I had a virtual fight. Unfortunately not of the Street Fighter kind. I got K.Oed by mac mail.
Mr Right and I had an argument last night, via email. My heart is breaking. Being away from each other so much is difficult. He down there. Me up here, under there, in out in out shake it round about…
It’s hard to share those ins and outs of the day to day. I spend so much of the day talking the last thing I want to do in the evening is gas about it, and so long at whatido that when I finally get through to the other side of the day I can’t talk about it, not about work, not about play, not about doing what I want to do. Saying what I want to say becomes the last thing I have to achieve and the first thing I forget to do. Too many people to see, too little time to see them. Living how I want to live is hard on the people I claim to Love (he says, hence the fact I have had MC Hammer in my head since last night). That was what started it. Not MC Hammer. He said, “Living how I want to live is hard on the people I claim to Love”
He think’s I’m condescending. I’m not. It’s all in his head. He’s just…hummm…I don’t know, jealous? MR isn’t what people would call confident, or sociable. He doesn’t like company (typical writer) except of the people he stakes a claim on. He won’t propose, and I don’t want him to, but he has staked a claim on me, planted a flag between my butt cheeks for me to wave at him as I pass by. HAILTHECONQUORINGHERO. When he’s here, with me, he is my world, every last gorgeous bit of him. Truth is though that I have to be shared. I have to see other people. I might have a burning brand saying ‘property of Mr Right’ on my soul but my work forces me to be pleasant and sociable, flirtatious, to make friends and influence people. I don’t talk about MR with them because I need to seem attainable.
I know I’m the one in the wrong here. I know I am. I’m not a nice person. I should be with him more often. I shouldn’t flirt. I should tell the world I am in love because I am. My beautiful Mr Right, who I love and adore and who …
Love List entry #6) wrote a love note and got PA to deliver it me on Monday in amongst the morning mail. (the PA is interesting, will tell you all about HIM asap.)
So we had a fight. I said things. He said things. I may have mentioned I was toying with the idea of fucking a professional clown…
As far as nails in the coffin of an argument go, admitting to crushes on children’s entertainers who smell of sex and make your knees tremble is sort of a period point. Especially given that it turns out MR has an irrational fear of clowns. Who knew. It’s called Coulrophobia.
And so I made a decision. Love be damned.
I called D&G. Friday, dinner at a prominent London restaurant. Clowning is paying (if all the desperate housewives knew what he was spending his money on). Should be interesting.
…menthol melodies
Affinity with tissues and melodic mellifluence last night has today has rendered me cured. hoorah. MR insists it was a the bucket of chocolove he forcefed me while we watched cop-show reruns and played junior monopoly (he purchased the game for his niece and has a rule that all games/DVDs/toys etc should be played with once to ensure their safety for with six year old windpipes), but it wasn’t the chocolate…it was the rum.
Friend-E has just returned from The Angeles and has a tan. Bitch. I am hating. He came over to show off his new record he has pieced together in the sunny vales. He sends me love from my mother, whom he was ordered to visit, and brought some of her home made liqueur chocolates. We listen intently to his music while drinking the most delicious tax-free rum, deconstructing the amorphous chords and busting the strings on my notoftenAIR(ed)GUITARuntil morning. I love that thing, but I love my nails also, and if I turn up to work with callusy fingers I will get fired…so I save it for the abuse of my more tunefully minded and talented members of my fettered clan. He plays, I sing…badly, I may as well have stuffed all the mentholated mucus ridden muck rags up nasal passages for all the acoustics my sinus were producing it would have been equally reverberant.
Friend-E and I have history. The kind of way I mention to my Gyno kind of history. He’s not so much a ‘high school sweetheart’ as a ‘high school drop out fuck fest’ kind of a friend. I hate to define him as such, it sounds so crude when I put it like that, but in truth with hormones on the cards we were hardly going to spend every day writing each other sonnets*. When I hit nineteen and ambitious and he was still scraping the fluff out from between his toes to pass the time of day we parted ways. It was beautiful while it lasted, and every now and then it is beautiful again….
When I’m not backed up with green/orange goo and the chocolate cakes my Love made me arn’t within easy view it might be beautiful again. But as for last night we just passed out on the couch after devouring the rum. He woke up with one of my yucksome tissues glued to his shirt and left it with a nice note and his first CD burn on my kitchen counter top.
“My record company thanks you kindly for my germs
…Totally worth it. As always.
Your ma says call more often. E x”
Rice krispie cakes, coffeetime and memories of listening to Ultravox during teenage sex in the back of a VW for breakfast.
*(In truth he did write me a sonnet once, but I’ve no idea where it is, I’ll see if I can search it out for you oh electronic confessional)
**Am I liking the newbloggy searchy facility a bit too much?
…Clowning Around
Fuckaduck seems popular. So I should explain.
D&Gboy occasionally moonlights as a clown. Or a duck, who is actually a clown. He makes balloon animals.
It amuses me highly. He goes to all these kids parties and corporate events in his duck costume. He makes balloon animals. He keeps a hip flask with Scotch scotch-taped on the inside, and half way through the proceedings will leave one wing limp while he steals his arm inside to sup at the liquid.
I think of all these beautiful domestic housewives, tupperware divas, these sexually repressed women who hire him for their kids parties. How amused does it make me that there is this hot man in a duck costume entertaining their middle-class spawn with slightly phallic latex creations.
I hope he messaged me from inside his duck costume, his phone against his sweaty flesh, while children looked on through his yellowfeatherwoven gauze belly…okay, maybe NOTHOTCOWORKER#1 was right. Maybe I do want to screw him in the costume. It would certainly be something to tell the grand children…
