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By Misti Date: 2001 Sep 17 Comment on this Work [[2001.09.17.00.35.15292]] |
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Raquina sighed and blew out the candles. Her camo camisole and g-string didn't do the trick, after all. And so much for that sixty dollar bottle of Happy cologne. Sigmund was not impressed. He was a sullen presence in Raquina's hot pink leopard print queen sized bed. Like a dissatisfied sultan, Sigmund sat propped against the pillows with his arms crossed. His red silk boxers were much too placid for a balmy Saturday night. "What happened to your sequined g-string? The one you were wearing when I met you at Fantasy Ranch?" Sigmund asked with an Adonis pout. "I burned it that night you cheated on me with that slut from SMU. I can't believe I don't turn you on. Look at me! It has taken a lot of sweat and Slim Fast to achieve this effect! Somewhere in between Madonna and Kate Winslet! Hard but still curvy! You must be gay." Raquina sat down at her vanity and brushed her long strawberry blonde hair with furious strokes. Her mascara was slightly smeared but she thought she looked decidedly edible. "You're no cow. That's for damn sure. Maybe it's the Prozac. It's screwing up my libido," Sigmund said with a sigh. "I don't think it's the Prozac. I think I need to give you some space." "Do you have any potato salad? I love your potato salad." "Don't change the subject, you fucking recovering anorexic." "Excuse me, sweetest one- I was never anorexic. I had a brief bout of bulimia. Thanks to my personal relationship with Jesus Christ, that's a thing of the past. The nightmare is over. God, you say the tackiest things. It's as if you relish hurting me." "You're the one who won't fuck me! You make me feel ugly and dispensable! Like a Daisy razor! Like an expired AARP card! Like a Walgreen's receipt! Like a loofah!" "I've had the same loofah for six months now, actually." Raquina put down her hairbrush and whipped her head around in disbelief. "What did you just say? Don't tell me you just said you own a loofah." "Yeah...so what? I like to slough off dead skin cells. Big deal." "That confirms it. You need to rent some videos, watch some Emeril Lagasse on TV, start rollerblading around the park, get a poodle, go to auditions. I'm not the one for you." "So you think I'm gay? Lovely. Just lovely. I don't need this duress. You've got my number. Call me. You'll probably get the machine. Unless my lover Pierre answers. I keep him in the closet with all my Richard Simmons posters." Two weeks later, Raquina was sitting on the altar at Stonehenge thinking about her myriad issues. An epiphany popped up dancing in her muddled mind. "I know what it is...I'm not meant for relationships. I'm too much of a woman for most men. My destiny is to take a microphone around the world, singing to the masses about the truth as I know it to be. If I'd known at five what I know now, I would've od'd on Flintstone vitamins! It all began with Barbie and Ken and Skipper and 'Gilligan's Island'! I don't have to be Ginger or Mary Ann, and certainly not Mrs. Howell. My choices are limitless! As are Sigmund's! Yes! Suddenly...it's all so clear! It doesn't all come to Eros! Or breeding! Or needing! It's all about individual growth and determined ebullience and a steadfast dedication to the pursuit of true liberty. I'll sing Buddy Holly covers, of course. But mostly I'll sing about being stuck in the middle of North Central Texas during football season and not knowing the lingo. This isn't about money. It's about my voice. It simply MUST be heard!" Fizzy with enthusiasm, as if she were a 2 liter bottle of Dr. Pepper shaken up with wild abandon, Raquina got on her Schwinn bicycle and pedaled toward the setting sun. "Sometimes life hands us melted chocolate. We can toss it or make a mess. I want to always, always make messes!" Raquina thought. She laughed and her hair blew behind her. The wind was her friend. As were her aching muscles and frenzied synapses. Party time indeed. |