Fat Mattress

Various and sundry friends, casual acquaintances, 2 guys I screwed, and occasional strangers tend to comment how nice it must be to sleep in, to have time to do whatever I wish, how very nice it must be to read all day ... and, frankly, though boredom, tedium, malaise, and ennui are my words of the day(s), it is. I do enjoy reading. I am becoming extremely well-acquainted with the prison rape story-line on "General Hospital" and developed more than a reasonable interest in the half-hour soap, "The Bold and the Beautiful."

My trips to the local library swelled from once or twice per week to daily meandering to the unfortunate branch on the East side, the very media-friendly Central Library - where I actually managed to find 5 copies of Gogol's The Overcoat, or my favorite (home) branch, Landa - another local institution, like the McNay, built within, and from, a long-dead socialite's palatial home. I seldom speak to anyone, tend to have books on hold and usually know exactly where to find whatever else I'm seeking (mysteries, mostly - lots of mysteries). My computer's old and thus not wireless, so I don't even spend the lingering hours pretentiously tending to my great American novel. Essentially, the libraries provide me a place to go - not my own bedroom - without TV but with air conditioning.

And then there's the sex.

I was reading the dust-jacket of a book on Michelle Obama, in the political biographies new books section at Central, when I caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of my eye. The homeless-looking man, with a laptop case, and scraggly hair, who I'd seen earlier in the stacks, stood at the end of the aisle - his fly down and his erect penis hanging out ... and waving at me. He seemed quite proud of himself, as men with hard-ons tend to be; I would imagine he was less than thrilled that I finished reading the dust-jacket and wandered off to validate my parking ticket. Perhaps as a hormonal teenager, I would have enjoyed - or rather he would have enjoyed - my appropriately porn star reaction ... but, at 30, and minus a drink first, I was non-plussed.

Meanwhile, the Frenemy is presently stalking 'truck full of Mexicans' - a designation given to at least three separate listings in his BlackBerry. Tori has been on a roll of late, if one considers 6 tree trimmers a roll, but that was last weekend. In anticipation of this weekend's newfound freedom (unemployment - and the unemployment checks that accompany it), the transexsite I've come to think of as Fat Mattress went to get her nails done and acquire a new wrap - something along the lines of a pashmina, only cheaper and for the express purpose of hiding her hairy back. This being summer, there were no wraps at Wal-Mart, only scarves - all deemed too small for Fat Mattress' purposes; in jest, I suggested a chenille throw. She was nicely sold on the idea, but there were none of those around either - this is, after all, summer in South Texas. Eventually, a trip to a fabric store yielded the necessary item - 5 feet of polyester, vaguely floral and two shades shy of Blanche Devereaux; I looked on in some horror as Fat Mattress nee the Frenemy preened and tried to fold, drape, swaddle and wrap his new wrap as it blew in the wind in the Brooks City-Base parking lot.

He never needs a drink first. I am (so) often non-plussed... but the stories just keep coming.

Mark

Night of the Trans-sexsite, a Moral Tale

the Frenemy came by the other day - begging for food and with a fresh story - and the faint stain of the previous night's Revlon - on his lips. He prefers to tell his tales over a cold, fast-food cup of Dr. Pepper, so I got into his new car for the first time since the test drive. True to form - and function - the passenger seat was fully reclined and upon the seat, a lube stain ... and beneath it, a cucumber. I was seconds away from asking a question the Good Lord knows I did not want answered; unfortunately, upon catching sight of my raised eyebrow, the Frenemy gleefully launched into a night's tale.

Tori discovered a halfway house, somewhere in the endless reaches of the West side. And between the bad lighting, and the fact that these men haven't seen a woman in nigh-on 5 to 10, the one 'woman' sex show into which Tori launched herself apparently got them going. Fellating a vegetable is not exactly my idea of a good time, but I stopped the story when the subject came 'round to the topic of insertion.

I was low on cash two weeks ago, so when the Frenemy offered to buy me a martini and a pack of cigarettes, I agreed to split his wig ... well, cut it down anyway. Owing to the types of activities in which he engages, the ill effects of spilled beer, spit, et al. on synthetic hair-pieces, and the fact that once done, Tori kicks off her heels and her hair into one small corner of a good-sized walk-in closet, his red wig is a hot mess.

I soaked it in the kitchen sink, in a solution of tepid water and Fabuloso, and lieu of a Styrofoam wig-stand, donned the unfortunate mop myself, whereupon - armed with kitchen shears (the sort with which one cuts through chicken bones) - I cut it down and combed it out into something that fell short of the Raquel Welch wig-line but came in just ahead of a Halloween head of hair.

I was out of the room when the Frenemy retrieved the kitchen shears to cut the crotch from his dollar store pantyhose, but I reappeared long enough to suggest that he shave his shoulders - which looked a bit wrong outside the spaghetti straps of his leopard print slip. The solution he suggested was low lighting and a paisley wrap procured from his mother - a heretofore seldom discussed holy roller who blessed his (short-lived) union with a part-time drag queen crack hooker but still believes that I am my own twin brother.

A pound of foundation, daintily applied with a makeup wedge, several layers of blue eye shadow, and a lipstick three shades too pink for his skin tone later, Tori slipped into Carlos Santana leopard print heels and clomp-clomp-clomped into the living room, where she sat on the couch, not unlike a linebacker, and returned phone calls (in falsetto) while waiting to leave the house under the protective cover of sunset.

Perhaps it was the blue eye shadow, or the fact that sex show involving a cucumber is a one-night only performance, but that night - when Tori got to the halfway house the result was not lust ... but laughter.

He wanted sympathy ... but again, all he got was laughter.

Mark