I just saw Memoirs of a Geisha. In the movie, there’s a scene where the geishas play a drinking game with their clients. Somebody tells two stories, and then everybody else has to guess which is true. With that idea in mind, I have two stories for you this month.
Story #1 goes like this. Some gals send their fellas off to work with a sweet note in their lunch pail. I’m a little more extreme. It started out innocently enough. My guy forwarded me a dinner invitation from a couple we know. He’d added a flirty line at the bottom of the email asking me to be his date.
I thought … well. I thought, you know what? It’s going to be a busy week for the both of us. We won’t have too much time to spend together, but I can stoke the fire and make him wish he was able to spend more time with me. So I wrote him a dirty email. The filthiest, as in Specialty Magazine Filthy. I can’t even begin to tell you all the sordid details. Just take the raunchiest thing you can think of, multiply it by ten, and pretend you’re tailoring it uniquely to your lover’s eccentricities. Just take a moment and do that. Get the pictures in your head. That’s what I wrote. It wasn’t just a short paragraph, either. Nuh-uh. It was a full page in brilliant, widescreen, black-and-white sleaze-o-vision.
Screeching and giggling at my own audacity, I read my “scene delicate” over once, and, before I could lose my nerve, hit “Send.” I discovered later that I’d hit “Reply All” and sent the note not only to our prospective host and hostess, but to the entire e-chain of dinner-party invitees.
Now I find myself considering what to bring as a hostess gift. I’ve got it narrowed down to either a Barry White CD or a block of sno-cap lard and a shower curtain.
And here’s Story #2. I got into an argument with my husband. This argument was in no way related to the dirty-email story. It’s just that we’re married, and sometimes we argue.
So, we were in this stupid argument, but we both had to go to work. I had an evening class until 9:00 p.m. and since I had the car, I was supposed to pick up my husband from his office at 10:30 p.m. After class, I decided to take myself out for a glass of wine during my free hour and a half. I chose a place that I’d heard of but never been to before. A nightclubby kind of place.
It was a weeknight, so the club was a total ghost town. The atmosphere was more than a little bizarre because even though the place was empty, they still had the thumpa music blaring and full disco lights swirling around. I sat at the bar, pulled out a magazine, and ordered a glass of red. Within ten minutes, a woman sat next to me. Before I could even get out a hello, she blurted out her entire life story to me. All the while, the music thumped and the lights swirled. It took almost an hour, and was quite fascinating. After she ran out of gas, she begged me not to tell anyone what she’d just confided. She was absolutely manic about it. I assured her that I wouldn’t tell a soul, that her story was so outlandish, who would believe me? She flashed a mean smile, and threatened to curse me with a poltergeist if I breathed a word of it to anyone. Those were her words. She said, “I will send a poltergeist to you if you so much as breathe a word of this to anyone.”
I motioned to the bartender for my tab. The woman sitting next to me insisted on taking care of it, because I’d been such a good listener. She pulled out a clean, one-inch-thick bank stack of two-dollar bills. A bank stack. Like in the movies, with a paper band around it. She cracked the band, peeled off five bills for the bartender, and handed one to me without a word. I took it and scooted out of there as quickly as I could. I picked up my husband from work.
The next day, he asked for a couple of bucks to take the bus to work. I gave him the two-dollar bill. He said, “Where’d you get this?” I told him, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
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