Note: Another snippet from the work-in-progress for NaNoWriMo, this one involving one of our heroines, Tiffany, sharing a lusty dream that may or may not have anything to do with the plot…
“I had barely pulled the beauty mask over my eyes when the dream began. If memory serves, the opening credits involved one of those foreign directors who is world-famous for roughly two movies and then no one ever hears from them again. I don’t recall the exact name, because I was too busy looking for my own.
The opening scene involved the camera following a ray of sunshine as it filtered through the trees of Central Park and landed on a concert stage, where preparations were busily underway for a free concert that I was giving later that evening. Everyone was very excited about how many people might show up, with some of them predicting that the turnout might be even greater than when Paul Hymen and Art Beltbuckle gave their infamous concert in this same park years ago, back when people remembered who they were.
I wasn’t there yet, because true stars never show up until the last minute, just to see how many people have anxiously wet themselves, wondering if their careers will be destroyed if I don’t show. It’s just one of my many powers. Instead, I was ensconced in a lovely little coffeehouse in the Village, on Christopher Street, near that famous bar that all the older gay people are always mentioning when they babble about their history. I think it’s called the Stoneball Inn. Something important happened there once concerning pissed-off drag queens who rioted. I don’t really know the details, but it wouldn’t surprise me to learn that they had grown weary of appearing as Cher and Judy Garland and they were ready for a new icon. Like me. Sadly, I was only one year old at the time and my enviable brilliance was not quite evident.
As I flipped through a menu the size of a phonebook, perusing the 547 things the staff could do with a coffee bean, the bell over the door tinkled and a man entered. Due to the glare from all the sequined blouses of the drag queens around me, I couldn’t quite discern his appearance and therefore did not know if he had anything to offer that might minimally interest me. Interestingly enough, the sequined glare caused the man to not see me. He slammed into my table, knocking over a clever little vase with a single daisy, water gushing into my lap.
I immediately took offense, as I don’t appreciate it when a man makes me wet without my permission. “Must you be such a pig!”
The pig turned out to have an astonishingly deep and sexy voice. “Please forgive. My eyes have not done adjustment and focus I could not. How can I make the happiness for you?”
Deep and sexy and possibly foreign and willing to accept responsibility. So many bucket list items. Things looked promising. Still, without a visual inspection, this ship wasn’t leaving port. I decided to take a chance. “Well, since you’re already here, why don’t you join me for a few minutes so we can discuss the terms of your punishment.”
He chuckled. Deeply and sexily. And foreignly. He pulled out the chair across from me and gracefully but firmly assumed the position, unlike so many American men who plunk down in a chair with the belching gusto of a wildebeest. As he finally came into view, more bucket items were checked. Bronzed skin, silky dark hair, light blue eyes that spoke of the Aegean Sea, and a t-shirt that was just tight enough to hint at bulging chest muscles but not tight enough to confirm steroid abuse.
Momma might need some more of this. I quickly tossed aside my menu, as there was no longer anything in that mess of any real concern. (The menu whacked the back of the head of one of those slumming Upper West Side women who tramp down to The Village just to show how trendy they really aren’t. She gasped and muttered something rude. Girl, get over it. This is New York City and you should have better reflexes.) “What brings you to this part of town?”
Yummy Man: “I wanted the coffee because my soul it is. But then I see you, and now coffee is not my soul need.”
I could have banged him right there.
Sadly, my phone chose that moment to request validation, buzzing and chirping. I was on the verge of hurling it in the same direction as the menu, further traumatizing Upper West Side, but I stupidly glanced at the display. It was my agent. It doesn’t matter how fabulously world-famous you might be, you have to take calls from your agent or you might end up losing the chateau on Lake Como. I looked at Yummy beseechingly. “I really have to answer this.”
He nodded his understanding. “Beauty is worth the waiting. Eternity I will endure.”
I barely suppressed an orgasm as I punched a button on the phone. “This better be important.”
Agent: “It depends on your definition of important. If important means you wish to continue having a career, then yes. If you want to die alone and unimportant, then no, you can ignore this call.”
Me: “Why must you always be so dramatic?”
Agent: “Because legal authorities do not allow me to take the drugs that I really want to take. And why must you always be late?”
Me: “We’ve discussed this so many times I could scream. If I show up late, it increases the anticipation and my fans love me even more when I finally show up.”
Agent: “That might work for Madonna. But you, m’am, are no Madonna. There are only five people in the audience right now. And two of them look like twins. So there’s really only four people.”
Me: “Four? That can’t possibly be right. Didn’t we sell more tickets than that?”
Agent: “It’s a free concert, honey. There are no tickets. But there are news cameras, and right now they are showing a vast open sea of nothing. So you need to get your ass over here. Hopefully the mere decibel level of your voice will attract more people like mosquitos to a bug-zapper.”
Me: “I really can’t stand you sometimes.”
Agent: “And for the record, I can’t stand you, ever. But I’m a whore for a paycheck. Sound familiar? Are you coming or not?”
Story behind the photo: I’m repurposing a previously-used photo of oddly-colored water in a pond. I suppose I could have been more inventive, but sometimes you just have to say, screw it, let’s run with this, I have to get my oil changed in the morning…
Categories: Work In Progress