Last weekend, after a date with a sweet boy who didn’t want to put out, I came home and invited a stranger online to come over for some action. In his online pic, he looked butch, meaning hairy, meaty, and dressed down. I signed off, looked around my room, and panicked.
I had 10 minutes to drop my wigs into the closet, put away the posters from my last show, and drape a T-shirt over the purses to look like it was casually tossed there and not hiding eight handbags. I also have new celebrity photos of me, two 16×20 prints taken at the punk-rock shoot, which I bought because I doubt I’ll ever look that good again. I bought them big. They went back in the box they came in.
There wasn’t much I could do about the pink four-drawer filing cabinet, or the fuschia curtains, but I considered getting rid of the pink gingham bedspread, and decided that was just too much to sacrifice. I’ll just throw the covers back, I thought, and he’ll never notice. I lit a few candles, not too many, so the light would be dim. Maybe the pink would look gray by candlelight.
I answered the door with my shirt undone so my chest hair showed. I didn’t find him handsome but he kissed me right away and pulled out a nice dick. We made out less than I like because his lips were dry. They moistened up after he blew me for a while (I moistened up too), and it got a little better towards the end. A climax always helps to make a good last impression.
Still, it was a lonely night. A couple of years ago, I figured out that I didn’t crave sex as much as intimacy. I had them confused for the longest time. They were like twins I couldn’t tell apart. Intimacy was the sweeter brother, but sex, the tricky bugger, often masqueraded as the other. I’ve always liked the threesome best, tagteaming the twins.
That night, I had a man in my room, and sex, but not much else. It was boring. After an hour, he went home, and I was relieved.
The next morning, I woke to an empty room. No dresses, photos, purses, wigs or Cookie to be seen. I felt like I’d disappeared. No wonder I was bored, I realized, and no wonder it felt impersonal. I’d locked away a big playful chunk of myself, which wasn’t going to make me any friends. At least not the kind I like. It’s not that I wanted to have sex as Cookie, but I didn’t want sex without her, either.
* Check out the Fringe Festival for Miss Cookie LaWhore’s first one-woman show, Privates, a Public Unveiling. www.vancouverfringe.com.
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