Neuro-trash Grrrl…I love the growly way my voice sounds when I roll the r’s in your name.
We are at the Muncie, Indiana Straight Dope Festival, along with the largest group of Dopers assembled in one place since Woodstock. I walk into a bar and see you across the room, sitting alone at a table. I recognize you instantly. I walk over and say, “Mind if I join you?” Your gaze flickers across mine and instantly drops back to your drink. “Why would you want to do that?” you say. Glancing around, I notice a couple of people watching and wonder if you’ve already shot down a couple of suitors tonight.
I tell you who I am and sit down uninvited. I say, “I love your screen name - it sounds like it has spikes all over it - but it’s kind of long; mind if I call you by your real name?” Still not looking up, you say, “It’s Christienne.” “lovely,” I reply.
We talk for a bit about the parallels between Esprix & me and Abby & Ann Landers, and then with your usual disdain for social niceties, you flip your hair out of your face, fix me with a penetrating stare, and say, “Chef, what are you looking for out of this conversation?”
“Two things, one of which I already got,” I reply. “What?” you say. “The first thing was to look you in the eye,” I say with a grin. A ghost of a smile briefly touches the corners of your mouth and disappears immediately. “What’s the second thing?” you say. I lean over and whisper in your ear, mindful of the people at nearby tables who are eavesdropping. You laugh incredulously, while I sit waiting for an answer with a crooked grin. Your laugh tapers off and you smile again, a real one this time. “Why the hell not?” you say, and lead me out of the bar.
“What did he say to her?” asks a man at the table behind where you were sitting to his companion. “I think he said he wanted to serve her every physical whim this weekend, but it might have been something else,” she replies with a shrug.
J’ai besoin de vous parler. Mon coeur est cassé parce que vous m’avez oublié. Comment pourriez-vous oublier la nuit où nous avons rencontrée dans le bistro sur la Rive Gauche et sommes allée à votre maison avec l’équipe du football brésilienne?
J’attendrai dans notre petite bistro et boirai des litres de plonk tout en se sentant désolé pour moi-même jusqu’à ce que vous acceptiez de coucher avec moi pour la nostalgie.
(for a translation, copy and paste this into The BabelFish Translator at this spot. It won’t be perfect but you’ll get the idea.)
How tragic for us that we are connected yet separated by technology…I long to step through the glass and appear by your side. Slipping your blouse down off your shoulders, I admire the Celtic complexity of your tattoo, and fantasize that it is a magic talisman that transports us to a druidic grove of ancient yew trees, the packed earth within the grove marked with cabalistic earth-magic symbols. It is time to perform the most powerful of white-magic rituals to propitiate the gods of spring: sex magic. We drop our druid’s robes and reveal ourselves to each other as the chanting conjures up arabesques of eldritch energy, enfolding us and bringing us together with the intensity of a thunderclap. For ourselves and our people we perform the rite, our movements abetted by the power of the earth. At the ultimate moment a tiny quake rocks the grove. The power coruscates around us and then floods into the ground, radiating out in all directions. The crops will be bountiful.
We fall apart and kneel, facing each other; I reach out to touch your face…but my fingers encounter only the glass of my monitor. I ache to touch you, darling…but then, perhaps I DO touch you.
I didn’t need to see 9 1/2 Weeks to know that there’s a strong link between food and sex…I just need to think of you.
Let me satisfy your desires. Perhaps a light beginning…I’ll bring a tray of bite-sized puff-pastry cups filled with shredded chicken tossed with pesto, sun-dried tomatoes and minced red onion. I’ll feed them to you one at a time; your lips graze my fingertips and you close your eyes with pleasure. Then it’s my turn to close my eyes and enjoy the sensation as you tenderly take my fingertips into your mouth to get the last of the pesto.
As soon as you swallow, I’ll cup your face in my hands and kiss you hungrily. My fingers plunge into your hair and I feel one of your hands on the back of my neck.
We break the kiss reluctantly and reach for strawberries and champagne. I select a berry and dunk it in the champagne, my eyes meeting yours across the top of my glass. I slowly raise the strawberry to my lips and lap droplets of champagne from its surface, then nibble on the end, holding your gaze…there’s no question what I mean to suggest by my actions. Choosing a larger strawberry from the silver bowl, you do the same.
I wonder how long we can tease each other like this. I chose an entree that will keep in the oven for a while, just in case…shall we devour it, or each other, darling?
All the other people in the straight dope chat room tell me not to torture myself, that you’re not really interested in men but like to tease them. They don’t understand the special bond we have. Sure, you frame the things you say in a jokey way to allow yourself a line of retreat if you lose your nerve, but we both really know what you want.
Ever since I realized that the letters of your name can be rearranged to spell SCROTUM DEI (ball-sac of the Gods), I knew you were trying to send me a message about yourself. Then I realized they also spell M.R.I. SCOUTED, showing me that you’ve examined your deepest desires as thoroughly as if with a magnetic resonance imager.
Looking further, I saw I COURT MEDS; apparently you are turning to drugs to try to fight your desires. Then I saw MICE OR STUD, which I took to mean that you are wavering between bravely taking the plunge or fleeing with a squeak of fear. Finally, I saw ICED TUMORS…I must admit I’m not sure what you meant by that.
Demo, honey, when you’re ready to quit hiding behind anagrams and face your craving for a hunka hunka burnin’ Chef, you know how to find me. wink
Looks to me like what you really need are smiley lessons…
Anyways…
Dearest Shirley,
Please don’t tear up this letter like you did the last five. You have to believe me when I say that I’m sorry about the smartass remark I made about the accidental smiley in your post. I never thought you’d take it so hard and refuse to see me. I’m sick with longing for you. How can you just cut me off after all the things we said (not to mention did) to each other? Think back to those early days in New Orleans when we met in that seedy little club with the drag-show production of Caged Heat. That first night down on the boardwalk below the Café du Monde, I was in an agony of indecision about whether to kiss you; my every nerve ending felt exposed and it seemed like I couldn’t breathe in any of the humid Crescent City air. Finally I couldn’t stand it any longer, and I lowered my lips to yours. With a whimper you crushed me to you and returned the kiss with a ferocity I couldn’t have anticipated. I’ll never forget the tiniest nuance of the frantic passion with which our hands explored each other’s bodies, or the look of raw lust we shared with each other before almost sprinting back to my hotel in the French Quarter. Your pale, creamy skin practically glowed in the light of that swollen N’awlins moon as my trembling fingers freed you from your clothing. Below the open window with its shutters flung wide, a street musician’s plaintive saxophone music wafted in on the soft, moist, jasmine-scented air.
You can’t tell me you don’t still shiver when you recall the two hours we spent in that huge four-poster bed, oscillating from tenderness to violent passion and back again, exploring each other with hands and mouths, then entwining our bodies together and moving in time with the music.
Now, Shirley, I ask you. Do you really want to throw away a memory like THAT over one smartass remark? Please forgive me. I’ll be waiting at Galatoire’s on the anniversary of the day we met in hopes that you’ll show up.
Seriously, Satan, my designs on you do not go beyond Scrabble. Anyway, I have my hands full writing mash notes to the people who have requested them. I’m certainly not to include one uninvited.
Which reminds me, here’s a list of people that haven’t asked for a note that I was hoping would want one:
Ayesha
Commander Fortune
Zette
CanadianSue
Phouka
Am I too late to throw myself in your pan and ask you to turn up the heat on the skillet, cheffie? Better yet, put me in your crock pot and just let me simmer. Pretty please?
“How wonderful it is that nobody need wait a single moment before starting to improve the world.” - Anne Frank
“Mom, he’s a neo Nazi! He’s a doctor also? Well…” - WallyM7
Although we met under chaotic conditions (i.e., the “Guy Stuff” thread), I was immediately drawn to you. Despite the “last days of Pompeii” atmosphere surrounding us, I ignored the bedlam. I simply and quietly wanted you.
I made fresh pork rinds for everyone to distract them and walked up to you. I introduced myself and tried not to appear too obviously smitten, but it was no good. You immediately saw through me and casually worked a mention of your husband into the conversation. Crushed, I left the thread (just before, it turns out, everyone was arrested). I thought for sure I’d never have the chance to romance you. Imagine my delight when I heard that your husband will be jumping off a bridge soon!
I’ll be there at the funeral – you always look so sexy in black – and I’ll bring a casserole to the house afterward. One by one the mourners will leave and soon I’ll be alone with you.
“I never thought he’d take it so hard when I went to the moon with a bunch of drunken reprobates and a hairless cat,” you’ll wail as I put my arm around you comfortingly. “What am I going to do without him?” “Funny you should ask,” I’ll reply. “I have a list of things right here.” Then I’ll do my level best to take you from mourning to moaning as quickly as possible.
Hot damn!
