Thursday, March 8, 2007


At home, I shower, shave my bits, get dressed in gym clothes, put on as much makeup as I can get away with when "leaving the house for the gym" (mascara’s the biggie, hard to do in the car), kiss Husband and pretend to still be basking in yesterday’s afterglow.

At a stoplight, I realize that I am applying lip pencil to my eyelids. Fortunately, it’s brownish. Estimated Age: Mummy calls me en route, he’s running late, which is good because I am, too. I’ve booked this one for two hours, asked right up front, do you want to book more time since it was so nice to be relaxed last time? I dash into Mega-Lo Mart and grab packets of fruit, pineapple, strawberries, raspberries cut and mixed, and at (of course) the extreme other side of the store try four lotions before settling on one that I can stand the smell and texture of, not too sweet, not too pungent, he can’t smell of it on the way out.

In the suite, I set out candles, a welcoming trio on the entrance table, two scented on the bedside table (I should start putting one in the bathroom). Put on the soundtrack to Amelie, powder my nose, fluff my hair, gym clothes off and folded and into a drawer – 7 minutes to go – sexy panties, sexy bra, little socks (my feet sweat or get cold or both), spike-heel boots, my favorite necklace (one day that’s what’s going to out me), Amelie’s starting to fucking depress me, off it goes and I agonize over Peggy Lee that I had on last time, Bif Naked, Alanis, the Killers (all totally inappropriate) and finally settle on Leonard Bernstein. Condoms and lube go into the bedside drawer next to the Bible. Purse into the drawer with clothes, whore-bag into the closet with my street shoes. He calls, another fifteen minutes that I’m thankful for. I check email.

I look up, she’s looking at me over her laptop, red hair fluffy, not the way I like it but the way men like it, pouty (isn’t there a better word?) lips, pupils dilated, they always have been, I used to constantly be asked if I was on drugs. I look at her. She’s thin. She’s pretty. Lovely, even. A little fragile. Steeling herself in a grey Urban Outfitters jersey dress, that clings to her curves, three-quarter sleeves, calf length with a slit, covering everything, hiding nothing.


Blissfully Wed said...

As always...Wow.



Tom Paine said...

You write with such naked hunger and vulnerability. The question, though, is whether it's a real emotion or simply your skill with words? What was it my college Shakespeare professor joked about Will and "King Lear"? How The Bard and Ben Jonson probably went out for a grand drunk afterwards to celebrate writing a fucking great play?

Are writers anything but emotional whores? Do we convey real emotions, simulacra or are we just fucking con artists?

"Mega-Lo [mania] Mart." There's always at least one nugget of gold in every post with you. Sometimes I can see you working, sometimes it's just seamless.

Anonymous said...

Whores are like onions. They've got layers.

Thanks for coming back, but thanks also for being gone. Your absence helped me find Gilette.

Oh truant muse, what shall be thy amends?

Mandy said...

I thought about making amends by posting a really naked HNT photo, but then I chickened out, figuring I was too tired to make that I'll get back to you!

It's not, for me, being an emotional whore. I can't do anything but tell the truth, and I'm lucky to be brave enough to tell it and well-read enough to have the words I want to use. In the sense that I'm using my emotional (and actual) life for an effect, yes, it's commerce, but I don't think all commerce is whoredom. It would be a con only if I was good enough to write naked without being naked.