Cheating is not Cheating if You are in an Open Relationship

Of course there are accidental "relapses," my partner and I just wouldn't call them that.  They are slips here and there, usually for a good reason, and sometimes not, but nodding off in the middle of a conversation with a stranger on the subway is not the worst thing in the world.  We have each had our fair (or more than fair) share of second chances, and this simply doesn't count -- as long as you survive and get right back on your hobby horse to prance around the room and pretend to be better than everyone else (or at least riding a prettier horse).  I have once and for all sworn off cigarettes, which I never smoked in the first place.  So if I inhale some of yours second hand, does that make me a junkie?  I have always hated coffee, so if I smell some on your breath, does that make me a double addict?  To y'all who say no, you are total hypocrites!

I was a newbie to the Rooms when I disclosed my atheism.  I desperately desired to have a deeply religious belief in doorknobs and light bulbs when it occurred to me that I might as well be watching Bedknobs and Broomsticks because of all the hocus pocus I was expected to fake believing in.  I was actively (verbally) attacked by an old bald gay fat guy with a very instrusive parrot one shoulder and a big chip on the other AND a genuinely effeminate twinkle in his unpatched eye -- How can you be an atheist and expect to get anything out of this program?  Well, that sort of accusatory animosity drove out of the rooms and into the arms of my current lover Brenda Velasquez, and we have had a merry ride ever since.

Take that, you pea minded holier than thou assholes!  

My tube tops

I have a huge collection of post 1950's tube tops.  They are wonderfully tight and rather garish.  A few of them are bursting at the edges.

Yes they are too tight for my body, but if I cared, why would I be telling you?

I'm very happy to have hoarded them because I really can't find them anymore.

I suppose I could sell them to normal sized people if I cut them into thirds.

Tube tops are for easy ladies only, thank you very much.

In fond remembrance

The way I remember slavery was that it was very hip and cool at the time. I got to wear fashionable rusted jewelry that white folks wouldn’t dare to unless they were in blackface.

I would swim (or pretend to swim) naked in the mud flats of the Mississippi delta, an antecedent to chocolate diva Karen Finley.

The appearance and smell of having freshly bathed in excrement had a sexy appeal to me.

I also made angels in the Mud, knowing nothing about snow. But I did eventually know about leeches and tapeworms, and they loved me for myself, and taught me how to safely diet and lose extra body fat.

Milestones

After I left the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, which was after I had run away to live with some Seventh Day Adventists, God decided that I should embrace the Christadelphians and subscribe to Milestones Magazine.  That decision sat nicely with my uppity parents, who always wanted me to follow Joel Osteen's path into a life of wealth, fame and a life on air.  While those goals have yet to coalesce, I do now have a primary porpoise in life:  Not unlike the bleach blonde pseudo black uppity Katie Roiphe, I was born to be a streetwalker, to walk the streets, listening to catcalls and whistles and business propositions.  No matter where I go or whatever else I do in life, my life shall be spent hell-bent working ev'ry stag party, strip club, street-corner, needle-littered back-alley, and seedy smoke-filled bar, fulfilling God's destiny that I honor my duty to the person within: the authentic pole-dancing person inside me and underneath all my drippy-from-sweat Goth makeup, bleeding piercings, and shiny new tattoos, still raised above my skin like scars from Satan's other worker-bees.  And so I walk the streets wherever I happen to live and whatever my nominal occupation might be.  I could even be a Keystone [state] Cop, stripping down to my super-tight fishnet stockings at the whim of Wim Wenders, or flying over flyover country on a toilet seat six sizes too small, or perhaps bend down pantyless deep inside an ancient cave dimly lit for Werner Herzog by a phosphorescent stalagmite, where such sexually charged rituals were once commonplace among locals and sheep.  My kind has been around forever (not just the Upper East Side), and with God's explicit X-rated NC-17 unrated approval.  Having had almost enough of the coy but playful delphinian oracles of the Sea Org, perhaps I shall next subscribe to Guideposts, to show me where my next journeys might lay.

My Lobotomy

The truth of the matter was that I was born into a family of modest intelligence, while I continued to score magnificently on IQ tests practically from birth.  As it was explained to me, my bursting beauty and smarts must have a pathological origin, not unlike a pituitary tumour but instead probably growing between my brain's sex and adjacent areas of logic and comprehension.  Quite against my will, I voluntarily offered to knowingly undergo a lobotomy so that my disorder of precociousness might be thwarted.  Alas, by the time surgical technology and precision had caught up to my development, my entire brain had been taken hostage by this nasty cancerous nebula.  It was shown to me, crablike, through a stereoscopic electron microscope, and it was impressive indeed.  It looked like Tokyo and Hiroshima and the Bikini Islands combined, complete with detailed formulas and recipes for nuclear destruction as well as templates for fashionable one and two piece bathing suits fit for the runway.  I was six years old and had never done a drug in my life - or any of my past lives.  My parents were shocked and awed; my doctors couldn't get enough of me.  I was the sexiest six year old they had ever seen, and they assured me they had seen many.  I was neither a toddler nor wore a tiara, but I was going through post-graduate puberty like nobody's business, approving and rejecting dissertations this way and that, teaching courses in metaphysical mumbo jumbo and holding court at the finest Speakeasies of the day.  Galleries were constantly calling me asking me to curate this show or that, until I finally agreed to confront all of it with a head-on, no-holds-barred, Q & A at a secret location to be interviewed one-on-one by my personal hero and confidante, Charo.   No questions from the audience, no film, no tape, no video, no transcript, no coverage, no transliteration, no broadcast, no radio, no television.  For this was but practice for the big events:  Dr. Oz, Dr. Drew, Dr. Phil, and anyone else with an honorary doctorate.

The public restroom

I love public restrooms, especially the smelly ones where I can take a deep breath and rest assured that I'm still alive.  I don't mind the lack of a toilet seat and a moist ceramic rim either.  I don't even mind when there is no more toilet paper, or the commode has seemingly refused to flush for days on end, or when the flies and mosquitoes are thick as rain.  I can sit and just meditate and think about Brenda having to wait to use the loo -- when I don't even need to right now!  My loo, with my imaginary gone fishin' sign dangling on the doorknob warning the world to "do not disturb."  Brenda knows better than to knock.  Every knock will cost her another ten minutes.  This is my me time.  Now, you might think that my power play is less effective if there are multiple loos.  Not so.  Brenda knows better than to not wait her turn to use my station.  But I am not evil.  On my way out, I drench the loo with Lysol all the better to let Brenda enjoy the surprise as the deodorant dissipates over the next hour or two.  Meanwhile, I enjoy a pineapple wine-cooler, a full Xanax, a thick doobie, and a Suboxone.

Brenda

So I took Brenda back into my life only to discover that her entire body reeked of stale semen, fresh urine, and day-old feces.  At first I thought it was dried crab paste on her panties but when I tasted them I knew right away that she had been sleeping around with the Enemy.  I haven't done anything about it yet but I'm plotting some sweet revenge, like giving her real crabs.  BTW her last name is Velasquez, if anyone cares, and she loves dirty dancing at the slutty bars in Tijuana.  Brenda Velasquez, Brenda Velasquez, Brenda Velasquez . . .

I awake majestically smelling the sweetness of my own feminine perfume, wafting visibly through my trashy cabana, carried by the wayward winds of the West Indies, aka Catalina Island.  Having neglected to close the door or dissemble & disrobe under the protective romantic shadow of my bloody mosquito netting, I am now blistered head to toe, itchy, sore, and ostensibly ready to face the day, for only I know how to deal with this trauma:  I need only smother myself in fresh urine, for I am an educated gal-pal, awaiting a better half to replace Brenda, my prior sassy concubient rube.
Should you find yourself in her company, may I suggest that you keep close tab on your hygiene and your belongings, because - as a kindred spirit - she won't.  She is an adult child born of the Midwestern cornfields she abandoned along with her family, shortly before Stephen King wrote those dreadful books.  She saved every dime criss-crossing the country in a haphazardly south-westwardly direction until she discovered Mendocito and turned its smashed-cockroach-laced margaritas into treasure and further decided that I wasn't her cup of soup du jour.  But who is? 

My partial birth abortion

Dearest child; please forgive my stone cold heart for having you callously dislodged from the comfort of my tummy limb by precious limb with a sharp wire coat hanger.  As a Pakistani streetwalker of ill-repute, my decision was fraught with controversy, and was not an easy one to make.  If it is of any consolation, I pray every day for you to return to my womb where we might reunite over a cup of hot tea.  It is poppy season here, and I wish you were here to enjoy it with me, staring at the horizon on into infinity.  You are my silent partner and eternal hope.  I do not expect forgiveness or understanding, only your undying deformed 1979 koala bear-like pinchy clutch.  If you were here now, I would hang a Bonne Bell giant lip gloss necklace around your thick neck, and an alligator-clasp with a leather strap and a blue feather from your frail and limpy baby head of hair, and pray that you stayed off the well-worn beaten path of all of the sad sacks that I have known only all too well.  Bless you, my forsaken child.  You make me proud with joy.