I part her slit that’s glistening and give her one long, luxurious swipe with my tongue, causing her to moan. “You’re right, I do like it.”
Chapter Twenty-One
**BELLINI**
I feel bad for anyone who has to be around me on a daily basis. Not because I’m some deviant looking to cut a bitch with every turn of the corner. No, I’m a saint in a sweater set with high morals and a heart of gold. I feel bad for people because I am the epitome of everything beautiful, inside and out . . . but mainly out.
I don’t care what society tries to tell us; we judge people by their looks. It’s human nature. I’m guilty of it. I refuse to be served by the giant mole with a residing black hair poking out of it at The Brown Derby—it’s where all the celebrities go—despite the wretched waitress who refuses to see Dr. Kevin downtown who can laser off such monstrosities. Honestly, I’m at the point of taking my father’s state-of-the-art samurai sword and chopping it off myself, only to serve it to her on a platter. See how she likes it.
Thankfully, I was born with perfect bone structure, flawless skin, and hair as golden as the sun. I’m beautiful, an integral cog in this world for making it a more suitable place to live. Could you imagine if we had pot-faced platypuses walking around this earth, their lips plucked out and unshapely clothes that would look better on a homeless asshole caressing their bodies? Harsh? No, it’s the truth. That’s how I see the people around me. Most of the time, the human race is too offensive to look at. You think I’m being a little severe? I’m not.
Fact one: high-waisted pants have come back around in the fashion world. Sure, they look cute on Taylor Swift but on everyone else, they’re a picture frame to the art you’re mounting between your legs. The camel toe. Ladies, if your lips are defined by your pants, it’s time to make a change. No one wants to see the crevice to your private parts. Positively ghastly!
Fact two: glitter. It will never be in style, despite how you want to paint it. Oh, it’s unicorn farts, it’s the rain at kitty’s play palace, Leprechaun sneezes are just glitter spreading around the world. No mythical idea will ever make glitter okay. It’s made for whores, prostitutes, and drag queens. Unless you’re one of those, then your glitter use should cease immediately. You’re no longer a menstruating tween making poor decisions that will affect your social life forever. Cut it out.
Fact three: tattoos. What an appalling idea. You want to express yourself? Here’s five dollars, go get a diary and write it down. They’re hot, they’re symbolic, they represent who I am . . . false. If you are a trash bag dug up from the inner depths of the graveyard of biker’s anonymous, then sure, get a tattoo. You’ll fit in perfectly.
Fact four: cat shirts. So you’re wearing a sock hat these days with jeans so tight that when you bend over, they stretch to the point we can see your skin. You’re a hipster, congratulations, oh, I mean, whatevs. I won’t even go into how hipsters are just geeks trying to act cool, but I have to mention the cat shirts. No matter how much you try to spin it, it’s a cat on a shirt. I don’t care if it’s flying on a Pop-Tart, if it has laser beams coming out of its eyes, or its face is mingled in a pepperoni pizza. It’s a cat on a shirt and should never be worn by a grown adult unless your name is Aunt Milly and you can’t remember if you put your dentures in your mouth or in your butthole. Burn the damn shirt and ask for repentance.
I could go on forever about the poor choices made by the human race, but I’m already bored.
Back to me.
I’m gorgeous. I wonder what it’s like for someone like Mauve—a tattoo person—having to serve me every day within the beauty that surrounds me. Does she go home and draw mustaches on her own pictures, hating the fact that a black dick broom would actually make her look more appealing? I wouldn’t be surprised if I stopped by her apartment and saw discarded pictures all over her floor.
I would never do that though, go to her apartment, that is. No doubt in my mind that it’s a hot bed for vibrating wannabe man wands and a soiree of bed bugs. If you want to stick something up your whoo-ha, why not just wait until you’re married to a man to have him up in your business? It makes no sense to me.
I’m pro-choice over sexuality—I’m so progressive. If you want to smack two doughnuts together, that’s your business. It’s the people who try to fill one single woman in all her holes at the same time that should be exiled. You know, the people who enjoy foursomes. Pope Francis prays for them every night, as it’s on his list of sinners, along with chefs, people who live with more than four cats, and individuals who enjoy eating Cheerios—no one should eat a bowl of vaginas.
“Tic Tac,” I shout, pointing to my mouth as I walk down the stairs of my mansion.
Mauve appears at the bottom of the stairs with a container in her hand ready to pop one in my mouth. She really has become more efficient over the last few days. She’s been organizing me, taking care of all of my menial tasks, and even cutting my toenails when I’m too lazy to bend over to do it myself. It is a little unsettling why she is doing so well, even when I start to test her. Does she know about the lady I found for her? If so, she must be extremely grateful, seems like my plan is a smash hit, not that I’m surprised. I’m great at everything.
“Jasper will be here around noon, so in about fifteen minutes. He wants to discuss Rio and his plans for shooting activities.”
“Ugh, Rio, that’s all anyone ever talks about anymore. What’s the big deal?”
“It’s the Olympics . . .” Mauve suggests but I wave her off, blowing by her to head to my living room.
“Melon,” I call out, needing someone to brush my hair. Pocket has some kind of vaginal infection right now. When she told me, I banned her from being near me until she could provide a certified letter from a doctor stating she no longer has the buildup of yeast in her crevice. Apparently it’s from sitting in a vat of tomato juice but I refuse to take responsibility. “Melon,” I shout again. “Where is that damn cantaloupe when you need her?” I mumble.
“She went to go pick up lunch,” Mauve answers.
“What for?”
“Because people need to eat,” she says under her breath.
“Excuse me?”
Plastering a smile on her face, Mauve says, “Jasper called it in. I thought it would be best if Melony went to get it in case you started to feel faint and needed some more Tic Tacs.”
Eyeing her skeptically, I try to gauge her intent. Is she being a sarcastic ass? If it wasn’t for her recent track record of doing everything correctly, I would think, yes, but she’s been so helpful, maybe she’s telling the truth.
“Fine,” I answer, turning on my heel. “Will you wait at the door so you can let Reese in when he gets here?”
“Reese is coming over? Why didn’t I know that? I should know that. That should be on my schedule. Who made this decision?”
I hold up my hand to stop her incessant jabbering. “If I wanted a lice-coated parrot to be squawking in my ear, I would have asked for one. Before I start throwing stale saltines at your face to shut your trap, just do what I say and wait at the door. Honestly.”
Storming off, I sit in the porch swing and rest my head against one of my cream-colored Sferra Abbey throw pillows. They cost one hundred eighty-five dollars each, but they’re well worth it. Instead of pressing your skin against a poorly crafted polyester cotton-filled sack, you can rub your face over the velvety smooth fabric while playing with the stitched variegated color fringe. It brings relaxation to an entirely new level.
“Bellini, there is a woman at the door waiting for you.”
“Who is it?” I snap, hating the vagueness. Whatever happened to servants announcing people correctly?
Attention, please welcome Scott Eastwood of Malibu.
Looks like I’ll have to put everyone through another Downton Abbey training if I want anything done right around here.
“She says her name is Lauren but you call her Litter Box.”
I sit up, from the mention o
f the woman I handpicked for Mauve. I completely forgot she was coming over today. I can feel my eyes glow with excitement as I adjust myself on my cushiony swing, fanning out the silk robe I have on.
“Send her back here.”
Leaning forward, Mauve asks, “Do you really call her Litter Box?”
“That is none of your concern. Now bring her back here, I have a surprise for you.”
Skeptically, Mauve eyes me and then says, “Okay . . .”
“Popey, Popey!” I call out, hearing the jingle of his heavenly bells ring out as he approaches. Everything I do in life is for my dog, to impress him, to make him feel proud, to make him love me more and more every day. This is a moment I don’t want him to miss, my most humane act so far.
“There you are. Come here, you little disciple of Christ, come to Mommy’s bosom.”
With his paws on the edge of the swing, I quickly snatch him up and snuggle him close, taking in his cologne, loving the way he smells like an old church, like he just came from scrubbing grime from church pews. I wouldn’t put it past him. I once saw him lick the floor of an altar, his way of blessing the sacred grounds of Saints Constantine and Helen Greek Orthodox Church.
We’re not Greek but we are lovers of Christ, so we go to all the churches, blessing them with Popey’s tongue, despite our Catholic origins.
“Hi Bellini,” Litter Box’s voice calls out as I sniff Popey’s paws. They always smell like corn chips, they soothe me.
“Litter Box, how nice of you to join us. Mauve, please grab us some waters, one for you as well. Oh, and I need a Tic Tac.”
Pulling a pack from her back pocket, she puts one in my mouth and then goes to the outside bar to fetch us some water.
Litter Box positions herself on the swing across from me and adjusts the flowy top she’s wearing. Examining her short black shorts and matching high heels, I wonder if Mauve will find her attractive. Who am I kidding, of course she will. I’m a brilliant matchmaker.
“Did you find the house all right?”
“Yes,” she answers with a smile. “Pocket gave wonderful directions. Is she here today?” Litter Box looks around.
“No, she has yeast coming out of every orifice of her body.” I shiver. “She’s been banned indefinitely until she gets everything cleared out.”
“That sounds unpleasant,” Litter box replies.
“Tell me about it. She was near me when things started to fester in the inner depths of her folds.” I gag. “I can’t imagine what I would have done if I caught it.”
“Yeast infections are not contagious, Bellini,” Mauve says, handing me a drink, acting like a know-it-all. “It’s not like an airborne virus.”
I see right through her, Mauve is trying to show off in front of the piece of meat I brought here for her. Fair enough, I will let this slip by, because I’m all for gay pride.
“Sit down, Mauve.” She takes a seat, just as Jasper and Reese walk to the back of the house where we are all convening.
“We let ourselves in, hope that’s okay,” Jasper says.
“Oh, you’re here,” I say, ignoring Jasper. “Come here, sweetheart.” I hold my hand out to Reese who looks confused from my term of endearment. I purse my lips, trying to get him to notice our company. He glances to the side and sees Litter Box so he clears his throat and holds out his hand, which I take and pull him to sit on the swing with me. Placing my legs over his lap, I force his hand down on my thigh as we swing together. We make such a good couple.
“Jasper, sit down. You two got here just in time to witness a very magical occasion. Melon,” I shout, forcing Reese to cringe and cover his ear. “Where is that woman?”
“Getting lunch, remember?” Mauve says, a little concerned.
“Oh, right.” I clear my throat. “Thank you all for joining me today.”
“How long is this going to take? We have a meeting, and Jonathan is coming over to hand me some paperwork from Wally,” Jasper says, cutting me off rudely.
Trying not to raise my voice or snap at him, I say, “This is just as important, Jasper. You are about to witness love in the making.”
“What’s going on?” Reese tenses up, trying to remove his hand from my thigh, but I stop him and instead hold his hand. Mauve’s eyes search out our connected hands and I feel pity for her; the poor girl just wants to be loved. Very soon she will be, very soon you, bologna-eating monster.
“A few weeks ago, I was privy to information about a certain someone in our little circle here. I was told that we have someone who likes the same sex in our presence.”
“What?” Who? Jasper?” Reese asks. “I thought you were married to Meredith.”
“I am,” Jasper answers.
“It’s not Jasper.”
Standing up quickly, Mauve says, “Bellini, can I talk to you? It’s kind of important.”
I wave her off. “Sit.” She doesn’t listen to me, and there is some sort of begging coming from her eyes, but I ignore her. “I said sit,” I snap, causing her to fall back in her chair. “Now, where was I? Ah yes, there is a homosexual in the group. Being a good Catholic girl with a dog of God in my care, I found this to be a little startling at first, to be so close to someone who prefers common-like sexual organs touching. But with the help of Pope Francis by my side, I’ve risen from the stereotypes that all Catholics hate gays and have accepted the fate of the gays. Mauve, I accept you being a lesbian.”
“What?” Reese asks, a twist of confusion in his eyes. Poor man, so close-minded, I will have to open his eyes, teach him the lessons Pope Francis taught me. Love thy neighbor.
Chapter Twenty-Two
**PAISLEY**
Oh, Jesus.
This is happening right now.
I should have known better than to tell Bellini such a lie. I should have known that in her crazy, demented brain she would take someone’s sexuality and make it into a promotion for herself.
I’m so glad Reese is here right now, listening to all of the crap coming out of Bellini’s mouth. This isn’t awkward or uncomfortable at all. Note the sarcasm.
“Bellini, it’s completely inappropriate and uncalled for to out one of your employees,” Jasper states, anger in his voice.
“Oh, please. Everyone knows just from the combat boots she wears and the way she sits that Mauve is of the lesbian kind.”
“I don’t think she is,” Reese suggests.
Bellini pats his face with her palm. “Oh, you’re so naïve. She is a lesbian, sweetheart. She told me herself, in a state of dire need to get the information off her chest, she just blurted it out. Isn’t that right, Mauve?”
Everyone turns to me, looking for answers, even Litter Box . . . I mean Lauren. I can’t bear to look at Reese right about now because after what he did last night and this morning to my body, I can’t imagine what he must be thinking.
“Well, Mauve, are you going to tell us about being a lesbian?”
Clearing my throat, I twist my hands in my lap and stare at the ground. “I did say that to Bellini.”
“See!” Bellini throws her hands up in the air. “Honestly, would I really lie? Especially with Pope Francis on my very lap? Lying is one of the Ten Commandments just in case all of you sinners didn’t know that.”
Jasper pinches his nose. “Christ, Bellini. You can’t just announce to the world when someone is gay; that is their business, not yours.”
“Psshh. Everyone is so sensitive these days. Let’s call a spade a spade; Mauve likes vaginas, marijuana is the miracle healer, and there is a new trend bouncing around high schoolers where they eat out of dog bowls and pee on fire hydrants. The more we become aptly aware of our surroundings, the more we will be accepting and less sensitive to being told by society that you are in fact an ugly cod face.” She pets Pope Francis, gives him a kiss, and then continues. “So with Mauve exposed as her true self, I’m here to tell you that Litter Box is not here to talk to me.”
Oh, shit.
Sweat starts to pool
in my armpits, the back of my neck tingles, and I can feel an utter sense of dread creep over me.
“Before we went to that godforsaken homeless-man’s state where the children of the corn live, I interviewed a bunch of women to become your lover.” She says that so naturally.
“What?” Lauren asks, looking just as perplexed as the rest of us.
“Oh Christ,” Jasper mutters as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Just stop.”
She doesn’t listen. “I created a fake document, interviewed these women, letting them think they were interviewing for a job at Pothead Pizza, when in actuality, I was seeing if they would be the perfect match for Mauve. Brilliant, I know. I’m such a do-gooder.”
And there it is. In all honesty, I’m not surprised.
“I spent mindless hours watching over Pocket as she read me profile after profile. I was looking for someone who knew style, who had a nice car, and a good Pothead Pizza topping idea, because I had to get something out of this as well.” She leans over and touches Reese’s cheek, gazing into his eyes. “I really wanted to find her the kind of love we share.”
“And seeing what kind of car they drive is a great question to start out with,” Reese says sarcastically.
“Sure is,” she responds, not hearing the condescending undertone of Reese’s statement.
Every time Bellini touches Reese, I feel my heart sink just another notch. It’s beyond fake, but I don’t like sharing, and right now, Bellini has her hands all over my man, telling him how I’m a lesbian. Not my best moment. But sure as hell not my worst either.
“My choices for Mauve came down to two women: Litter Box and another woman not worth mentioning. I chose Litter Box because she’s well versed in hair and can help with that mop on your head, Mauve. Maybe teach you how to brush it?”
I grind my teeth . . . hard.
If I wasn’t so terrified about losing my job and making a bad impression in front of Jasper right now, I would tell Bellini off, and then leave, because, hell, I’m on the verge of not being able to take her crap anymore.