Straight No Chaser

Queef

and then i promise, this is my last update of the day.

the little cube-shaped package reached shreveport a day early, which basically means i wasted seven hundred thousand dollars on postage, because the woman at the post office swore it would be a stretch, getting it there by christmas eve, unless i chose express. and i believed her, is the thing of it; the same woman who lied and told me krystle would get her adorable blue-topaz-and-amethyst ring three days ago--it is still not there!

anyway, though, marcus got his thing. good, good. i spent untold hours hand-cutting a paper snowflake, slipped it in the red envelope with his robert frost-themed tagboard card. he claims my present is coming. he claims. probably, though, he will end up forgetting, and it will be hand-delivered in january, in atlanta. which, i'm not picky. a present is a present. and anyway, all i professed to want from him, this year, was a little bit of extra cooperation with the phone thing, which is frustrating for us both, yes, but which has to work when it has to work, and really isn't so bad when both of us are trying. that's what i wanted. he wanted "light," he said, and a couple of other intangibles, and materialistic me, i translated those requests into items, and spent my entire life's fortune shipping those items express.

this, this cynicism, this is me insulating myself against the possibility of his not appreciating what i tried to do for him, this christmas. he might appreciate. but if he doesn't, at least i will be able to laugh at my own foolishness, and everything will be all right.

no. it's okay. it'll be great, it's about the giving, he already called to prepare me for his call later on tonight, he sounds excited. it'll be fine. i keep having the weird dream from november, the one with the marble pillars and the security guards and the sex; a nod, probably, toward our surreal stint as exhibitionists, earlier this year. in the dream, we're touring this museum, except it's not so much a museum in the sense that there are no actual exhibits and nothing to look at; just museum-style architecture--most notably the marble pillars and bright white lamps casting individual spotlights on the wall. security guard is nearby; we can't see him but there are audible footsteps pacing back and forth. he wants to have sex under the glare of one of the lights, i say okay. no foreplay. unending, languid sex on the ground; cold marble floor warmed by his bright glowing fingertips that scramble around behind my head, looking for something. looking for a flashlight. finding one, except it turns out to be a shoe, buffed black patent leather, southernmost accent to a law enforcement uniform. caught again.

i get this weird little thrilled feeling, waking up, like we got away with something. when obviously we never did, just got caught again. and again and again. i haven't told him about this one because he wouldn't like certain elements, and he's got this idea that i'm manufacturing these dreams through the way i focus my waking thoughts. partially true, actually. he knows a lot. about me and otherwise.

in other news, no one ever believes me when i say i have nice body parts, because i am small. it is a source of endless frustration.

well, ha. they just don't know, is all.