Friday, August 05, 2005

being a lady

I have to admit, Steph had to convince me to be in on this blog. I was fairly reluctant about posting intimate details about my life on the internet, but she assured me that everything would be fine, and that people would love us (unlike that whole devastating sorority mess at NYU). And you do! You really do! Thank you all so much for the lovely notes and comments you have been leaving. Your support and love means so much to us, especially since we are having such a hard time right now, being so far apart from eachother.

I think that Steph is a little more traumatized by the whole fat camp/former fattie thing than I am. I sort of take it in stride now, whereas she never shuts up about it. It’s almost like a broken record sometimes…but it’s one of her quirks that is just so adorable, you know? I love you, Sissy! It’s also safe to say that I have my yo-yo under control a teensy-weensy more than she does. And by yo-yo, I mean my weight. She fluctuates a little more than I do, mainly because she just can’t seem to grasp the brilliant method I have down for contolling my weight: yogurt.

That’s right, yogurt. Specifically, smooth, creamy, deliciously tart yogurt. I refuse to eat anything else for breakfast. Every morning I wake up, slip out of my Dior nightie and into the steamy embrace of my shower. Then I wrap myself in a silky, fluffy, high-thread-count towel and head to my kitchen. In my stainless steel refrigerator there is a shelf filled with neat rows of small, gleaming white plastic containers. Strawberry Kiwi, French Vanilla, Mocha Latte, Key Lime, Apricot Mango, White Chocolate Raspberry Cheesecake: flavors as unique and delightful as I am. I choose one and peel back the top, exposing the shiny underside. Like the proverbial silver lining in every cloud, the seal reminds me to look on the bright side. I smile as I dip my gold-plated spoon into the container, and watch it emerge, dripping with thick white goodness. I trace the spoon's contours with my tongue, gently teasing, before I lick it clean. Delicious.

All that sweet fat-free yogurt keeps me in the fabulous shape I am in now, as well as having some extraordinary side effects, my favorite being that you don’t poop anymore. I don’t like pooping; futhermore, hot chicks really shouldn’t poop. EVER. It’s a disgusting bodily function that should never be performed by any beautiful woman who wants to be socially accepted. And you know what else? It makes my passion for back door action so much more enjoyable, and so much less embarrassing. I mean, who wants to deal with the awkward grossness of dealing with – quel horreur! – poop after a a fantastic session of anal sxe? Certainly not I.

I remember the day I discovered another use for yogurt. I was wearing cashmere, so it had to be winter. In a rush to get to work, I had skipped my shower that morning. My hair was piled messily on my head; my makeup was half-done. As I waited for my colleague Erin to meet me for lunch in the cafeteria, I unzipped my purse and pulled out three yogurts. Lemon chiffon, butterscotch, pina colada. Two too many choices. I was tired from my previous night's activities, and the labels blurred in front of me.

I don't remember how he introduced himself, or what I said in response. Maybe something about my yogurt; I'm not sure. All I know is that we ended up licking each other's creamy leftovers from the same spoon. Butterscotch, I think it was.

Erin arrived and the focus shifted, became less intense. Light banter replaced flirtatious dialogue. The yogurt kept coming. When Erin left, he said "I hope you're not going back to work, too. I want to keep talking." I said, "I won't leave", and he understood my deeper meaning. "Come back to my office, it's not as cold in there." We were, after all, in an airconditioned office, and I was, after all shivering. Okay, let's face it, had I been warmer than a bowl of chili on a hot stove, I would have feigned hypothermia to follow this man back to his corner office.

He's standing in front of his chair, I'm bent over the desk, facing him. He has a lovely view of my cleavage. I'm saying, "I'm a lady, you know. I'm not have sxe with you." When a lady says this, she means vaginal intercourse. Everything else is permissible; he knows this, and opens his desk drawer, pulling out a bottle of Astroglide. Ewww. Somehow, Astroglide just signals all the wrong things. He shook it and watched, frustrated, as a smattering of drops landed on his desk. "Damn, I'm out."

I left the room and returned with my spare yogurt, the French Vanilla I always kept a spare in my cubicle.


Afterwards we lay naked and sprawled out on his antique chaise lounge. We talked about everything, and this part I recall clearly, the details lodged in my memory forever like bits of licorice in teeth. Before I knew it, it was early morning and the sunlight was making kaleidoscope patterns across our bodies and the mess on the floor. "Wow", I say, gingerly walking across the floor. Our clothes are everywhere, like dirty dishes, and then I see the empty container of creamy white French Vanilla yogurt.

"Yeah, it's a great view, isn't it?" He's looking out the corner window. I stood naked, dazed and confused. At least it wasn't Wildberry; that stuff is impossible to get out of carpet.