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sublingua | |||||
| The heart with a mind of its own.(Be present.) | The mind with a heart of its own.(It's past.) | The dream that is your waking life.(Go there now.) | |||
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The Long-Winded Demon With The Fuck Me Shoes
The Demon Who Likes It Raw I went in to take the Aisho his piece. (I gave him a choice between "What did you think of me then and what do you think of me now?" and "Where to find what is lost too soon" and he took "What did you think...") I was planning on just saying hello and dropping off the piece and getting out of Dodge, but I ended up staying for dinner. ("It's dead," he said, referring to the largely empty restaurant, a statement that I always interpret as "Stay and entertain me.") I went out to the car, got my book and phone (phoning Max (who I had dropped off at x's house to help pack) to say that I was staying for dinner. I invited him and x to join me, but they declined). I went back in. "So I went and looked at your diary," he said. I said, "Oh, yeah? What did you think?" He said, "That's some pretty wild stuff." He told me he had spent three hours looking for entries with his (nick)name in them, reading them. I mentally delivered a kick to myself for some entries that I found a couple of days ago that I should have pulled back into the private folder. We talked for a bit about other things. Later, I asked him what had stuck in his head of the entries that he had read. He mentioned the gym, how I engage in the usual girl watching there. He mentioned the part about my lips being sore. I touched my lips. "Yeah," I said. We established the true identities of the people in the diary (those who he's met anyway). And that was it. He told me that his ex had shown up at his house at 10:30 on Saturday night for some kind of visitation with the dogs that they still have in common. There was a lot of discussion about how he wants to be free of her, but there are the dogs to consider--as well as the small matter of this grudge he holds against her. My take (delivered only because he asked) was that I would walk away from everything that tied me to her, the dogs included. (If I didn't learn anything else from leaving Max, at least I learned that no one possession--pets included--is worth my freedom. Sometimes the cost of your freedom is everything you've ever known, every bit of safety you've ever had, every possession you've ever owned. And, as far as I'm concerned, that's a fair asking price for anyone's freedom, which is, after all, a priceless thing.) Because he hangs on to the dogs, he's still involved with her, however much he claims he wants to be free. I asked about what he thought it might mean that she showed up at 10:30 on Saturday night. That's prime booty call hour in Sublingua's (and everyone else's) book, kids. But he didn't see it that way--or was reluctant to admit that he saw it that way, anyway. I asked about what they had talked about. He told me that they had argued. Then she asked him if he wanted to see a gun. She showed him a desert eagle pistol that she said belonged to some cop. He asked if she were dating a cop. She answered something like, "Yeah, so what if I am?" but then mumbled "We're just friends." He told me that she had dated a cop before him and one after him. There was a lot of discussion about her and his feelings for her and her feelings for him. He claims that it's over, that he wants it to be over, that he did just walk away from her expecting that, having done so, that it was now was over. So it's over, right? Except for the thing with the dogs, except for her coming to see him, except for his holding a grudge against her, except for his wanting to "win," except, except, except. There are too many exceptions in that equation to make his assertion that it's over with her a true statement. I said, jokingly, "Do you want me to have a talk with her?" "I'll let you know," he said. I said, seriously this time, "No, I wouldn't get involved." And I wouldn't get involved. And no sane person could possibly find a reason to step into the middle of a mess like that. I suppose my job was to listen and make sympathetic noises, something I'm not very good at, but there it is. I tried. Lo ciento if I failed. We talked about the studio and about what he planned to do over Memorial Day weekend. He talked more about the dog/ex situation, what his options are. He wants to keep the dogs, but knowing that she can lay some claim to them, wants to find out what kind of legal rights he has. Fair enough. (Let me know when all that's settled, right?) I paid for dinner (aji, a crispy roll, uni, squid salad, a diet coke) and left, saying simply, "Bye." And I'd offer some interpretation of the situation, or some explanation of how I feel about the whole thing, about where I stand on the subject, but you know what? See above, in re: what a sane person would do. A Sane Person Would Buy Herself Some Puta/Fuck Me Shoes The Demon Who Always Does The Right Thing and I had planned to go shopping for dresses to wear to NicI's wedding. We ended up at Target, where NicI's bridal registry and cheap clothes ("You're not shopping for quality," The Demon reminded me when I pointed out the crappy workmanship of the linen skirt I was trying on) can be found. The Demon ended up buying a skirt and sweater and I ended up with a Diet Coke. Neither of us bought anything for NicI, which was the result of the ambiguity of the Target Bridal Registry purchasing directions. Then we went to ShoeCo. ShoeCo is the home of the fabulous shoes that I want, the polka-dotted, open-toed slingbacks that are reminiscent of every shoe that ever graced Minnie Mouse's foot. I showed them to The Demon, and she had one of those reactions, that reaction of holding in the laughter even as I gushed over the ugliest pair of shoes she had ever laid eyes on. She was unimpressed by the shoes, in other words. So I laid them, yet again, back into their sad little cardboard box and we continued to try on all the strappy little high-heeled sandals that screamed "You'll wear me once to the wedding and then relegate me to the back of the closet." We wandered up and down the aisles, discussing the sad fact that The Demon is addicted to Birkenstocks and I am a Doc Martins kind of girl, which means that the appeal of all those strappy little high-heeled sandals are truly lost on both of us. But then The Demon made the find of the day. I had told her about these stripper shoes that I had seen the day before, these stiletto-heeled nightmares with the most fetching ribbons meant to be wound up the legs and tied like ballerina shoes. She laughed and kept looking at the wall of shoes. While I was off trying yet another pair of ugly mid-heeled montrosities, The Demon found a pair similar to those I had described only with leather(ette) straps instead of ribbons. As a joke, she put them on, and teetered over. I took one look at them and fell in love. (With the shoes, mind you. I have enough to worry about Demon-wise already.) They were the kind of shoe that you don't actually ever wear on the street--unless you're trying to make your living on the street. We both agreed that The Demon Grrlfriend would love them. So I bought them. You may be asking why The Demon didn't buy them. Well, she did offer to pay for half, but I was not too into owning a shoe. I'm more of a pair of shoes kind of girl. Also, I'm thinking of the future in those shoes, a future which may or may not include spending some time on my back, wearing those shoes. So, You've Got The Fuck-Me Shoes, Sublingua. Now What? Well, of course, there has to be an outfit to go with The Fuck-Me Shoes, right? So The Demon and I headed down to Frederick's of Hollywood to try on The Fuck-Me Corsets and g-strings. The Demon and I each picked out a corset to try on and then waited for a dressing room. And we waited. And we waited. There are only two dressing room at Frederick's of Hollywood, and the women in there had apparently decided to stay in there until they had starved themselves down to g-string wearing size, right? We seriously waited for about fifteen minutes just to try on corsets. Finally some middle-aged diva came out of one of the dressing rooms carrying about twenty outfits, including one of the teddies with the freaking dyed red feathers across the boobs that are designed for those girls without boobs who date men who could easily mistake feathers for boobs. I ran for the dressing room door, followed by The Demon Who Always Does The Right Thing. "We'll share," she informed me. We stripped down and zipped up our corsets. Hers was too big--a problem that she almost never has with lingerie as she's quite fetchingly stacked. Mine was too big too, but only in the cups. The bodice fit quite nicely, making me lament the loss of my boobs what with all the weightlifting. (Damn you, Navy Seal training guide!) "You should drink more milk," The Demon suggested helpfully. She settled on a g-string to go with a lacy black push-up bra (that I had given her earlier because I'd grown too small for it) and while she paid for it, I wandered around looking at all the polyester see-through monstrosities none of which I'd be caught dead in. ("Can you imagine one of these being your fantasy?" Magdalene once asked, fingering a rack of tasseled red bikinis, when we went shopping together for sex toys.) Anyway, The Demon, having a steady partner, gets first crack at The Fuck-Me Shoes. And then I guess I'll take them home and put them in the closet until she needs them again. And I've just thought of all the women I've been sex toy or sexy lingerie shopping with, which is kind of strange if you think about it. Sophistica and I cruised Victoria's Secret one afternoon, digging our way through several bins of sale panties. (She held up a pair of boy shorts made out of what looked like brown-and-white mattress ticking with hot pink machine lace sewn around the leg openings. "These just look confused," she said, prompting me to burst out laughing and the skinny-assed salesgirls to frown disapprovingly at us.) I've been to Frederick's and Victoria's with The Demon in pursuit of corsets I don't know how many times. (And later, she introduced me to a naked woman in the changing room of Betty's Spa, saying, "This is my friend ________. She knows where to buy a good corset." I looked at the woman's perfect figure (perfect tits, perfect waist and hips) and thought, yeah, right. She needs it why?) I've shopped for lingerie at a local place with Mayflower. I've looked at the outfits at Fantasy World with NicI and Ama, The Demon's Ex-Grrlfriend, who wisely shunned the clothes in favor of spending her money on private dances from a hot chick who looked a lot like Paula Abdul. I shopped for sex toys with Magdalene, which is when I purchased my glow-in-the-dark vibrator and she bought some crazy toy that had a four-feature remote and a plethora of moving parts and lights for chrissakes. ("Do you know that there's a Hello Kitty vibrator?" I had asked, pulling down a toy from The Wall O' Toys. "Yeah," she said, "I have one.") What's The Worst Thing You Ever Did To A Boy? At the studio last night, The Demon told me the story of The Worst Thing I Ever Did To A Boy. I won't retell it (The Demon Grrlfriend heard the beginning, said, "I can't listen to this one," and promptly stood up and returned to the throwing room), but it included a large television set, three flights of stairs, a religious youth group, and a grandma kiss. It began with, "This all happened about two weeks before I kissed Ama," and ended with the admission, "I made him cry, Sublingua." And I was, like, big deal. I made The Italian Stallion cry. I swear, while he was with me, his chest hair was always damp from the floods of tears he let loose with, like, every ten minutes. ("Aren't they an endangered species?" The Demon asked of Italian Stallions. "Not endangered enough, is my feeling, Demon," I thought.) It got me thinking about the worst thing I ever did to a boy. I couldn't really think of anything. "You left Max," The Demon said helpfully. But that was more of a blessing in disguise for all parties involved, really. So I can't think of what's the worst thing I ever did to a boy. (A Closet Demon? We'll see.) Damn This Is A Long Entry. Are You Sure You Need A List? Well, hell, yes, there has to be a list. I am grateful. I am grateful for bumblebees. I am grateful for an hour on The Demon's porch this afternoon, during which time I read The Parable of The Mustard Seed in my book of basic Buddhist texts. I am grateful. I am grateful for birds. I am grateful for sushi. I am grateful. I am grateful for cherries and for a religion that recognizes the primacy of meditating on the cycle of life and death. I am grateful. I am grateful. I am grateful and this is how I show my humility. I am grateful and this is how I show my obedience. I am grateful.
More lies:
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