“Lemme see,” mused Darnell, looking over George and I. I was grinning, enjoying the back and forth with my friends, but George was certainly not as amused as I was. You could read it on her face. She actually did seem offended. And you can’t give comedians that kind of fodder to work with. The less you want to be involved, the more we involve you.
“I’m no dyke,” I said putting my hands up in the air.
“Cute little girl in skinny jeans, nice hair,” said Darnell, giving me an up and down glance. “Look like her shoes cost more than my car. You what we call a lipstick lesbian.”
“Hey!” I protested, looking down to my shoes. “Where’d you get $200?” I quickly looked back up to him and flashed a toothy grin.
“And this chick,” he said, looking over to George. “Greasy hair, white t-shirt. You got some smokes rolled up in your sleeves, girl?” said Darnell with a quizzical look on his face. George didn’t answer. “Oh, I see. A stoic James Dean motherfucker,” he said. George gave a short laugh, almost as though it were done as a courtesy, and then looked off.
“How can you tell that she’s a dyke?” said Petra, looking up to Darnell. “What are the key signs?”
“She too cool for school,” said Darnell. “That’s one. She look like she spent an hour to look like a schlub. That’s two. This chick definitely likes to primp that messy hair.”
“C’mon man,” said George shortly, trying to maintain a cool facade. I was beginning to feel a little uncomfortable as Darnell continued to rib at George. Uncomfortable for George. I mean, comedians can take this kind of needling, it comes with the territory, but George was just a victim of circumstance in this one. And she really did look like she was getting offended.
“Uh huh,” said Darnell, nodding his head. “I got a joke for you, baby. How’s a dyke like a construction contractor?”
“How?” said George, slightly bemused.
“Super demanding when they need their carpet laid, but nowhere to be found when you need yours!” quipped Darnell. George chuckled and looked down, trying to stifle her laugh. “C’mon, man, this girl a dyke! Macy, this girl a dyke,” said Darnell in a jokingly serious tone.
“But she’s my dyke!” I beamed, latching my arm around George’s and pulling myself close.
“Girl, you need yourself a strong black man,” said Darnell. “Guys in my neighborhood, they’d rat out they own mama just to give your little ass one single, solitary sniff.” I burst out laughing.
“I’ve got no ass!” I protested, standing up quickly and showing off my backside. “Look at this,” I commanded. “Nothing. Flat. It’s almost inverted.”
“Sit down, sit down,” said Darnell. “It’s a figure of speech. I’m just saying they wanna get they nose real close to your asshole and get a whiff. I don’t know about y’all, but ass just drive me crazy.”
“I like ass, too,” said Petra, raising her hand.
“Course you do, Petty,” said Darnell, smacking Petra on the ass with a loud clap. “It’s so close to the pussy hole, you can sneak yourself a little lick.”
“Hey,” said Petra, slowly lowering her hand. “No, I mean—“
“Petra’s opinion: it’s her duty to lick that booty,” said Darnell interrupting.
“Okay,” said Petra. “How do we turn this guy off?”
“I don’t think we can,” I said, bumping my hip into Petra’s. “Once Darnell gets going, the only way to stop him is to say that Obama hasn’t actually been a very good president.”
“Oh, I know you didn’t just talk shit about my president,” said Darnell.
“Are you all really always like this?” said George, infringing on the banter. It was like a record skipped and we all looked down to George where she sat. “I feel like I’m in a sitcom or something.”
“Oh, excuse me,” said Darnell affecting a very straight, proper-sounding, almost English accented tone. “I shall henceforth drop my impediments and speak as thou decree.”
“I’m just saying,” said George. “It’s like you’re all talking a lot but not really saying anything. It’s just jokes.”
“Just jokes?” I said. “I believe you’ve forgotten where you are.”
“Just jokes,” repeated Darnell, waving his hand at George. “This chick crazy. I’ll catch you all at the bar,” he said, shaking his head and turning away from us, hefting himself toward the bar.
“I didn’t mean to offend him or anything,” said George with a shrug.
“I’m gonna go get a beer with Darnell,” said Petra. She looked over to me and put on a serious face for a moment. Our eyes locked as we sized each other up, trying to figure out what the other one was thinking. Then, finally, Petra spoke up. “Are we good?”
“We’re good,” I said with a smile. I nuzzled up next to Petra and she slung an arm around me, the two of us locking together in a side hug. I rested my head against her shoulder and closed my eyes.
“All right,” said Petra, breaking from me. “Looking forward to your set, Macy.” Her eyes moved to George and she nodded. “George.”
“See ya, Petra,” said George, giving her a return nod.
Petra smiled at me, with a bit of sadness in her eyes, reaching out and tenderly squeezed my arm. Then she turned away and followed Darnell up toward the bar. I watched Petra wistfully as she walked.
“So I’m recently in a new relationship,” I said with a put-on embarrassed grin, bending slightly at my knees to indicate excitement, tilting the microphone out from my face slightly. “But you could probably already tell that from the cum stains on my jeans.” The crowd laughed and I smiled abashedly. “No, no,” I corrected, looking down at my jeans. “That was just a joke. The cum stains are really on the inside,” I said mock-seriously, delicately placing a hand on my chest.
With that, the audience laughed even heartier and applause rang out. I felt the slightest hint that I was a phony, that I was working against myself, that I was digging myself deeper into a hole that I shouldn’t be going down. But the laughs boosted me back up.
“No!” I protested over the clapping. “Guys, c’mon. Not like that. I mean, there are cum stains on my soul.” More laughter. I could tell I really had the audience where I wanted them and it felt terrific. It made the pain go away.
“Isn’t it romantic?” I mused softly into the microphone. “Young love, right? Right ladies? You start dating a new guy and you take extra special care with all your beauty routines. Shave those errant hairs out of your ass crack. You finally start putting the ointment on,” I said with a grin, tilting my head. “Doctor’s orders.” Laughter. “And you make sure, come hell or high-water, that your new man never ever sees you without your eyebrows. You’re hopping up out of bed, first thing in the morning, rushing into the bathroom to look at yourself in the mirror. ‘Are my eyebrows still on?’” I said frantically. “If there are any younger girls here in the audience,” I continued. “Take note from the models in the J.Crew catalog. Leave ‘em bushy. You’ll thank me when you’re older.”
“You can shave this, though,” I said, motioning my hand in a circle around my crotch. “This will definitely grow back. Sometimes you even catch one that’s migrated above your belly button,” I said, shaking my head. “My bush shouldn’t be that high!”
“But yeah,” I went on, after the next burst of laughter died down. “Back in a relationship for Macy. The worst part about being in a relationship is that it’s really going to cramp my comedy style. I mean, how can I bang a bunch of guys and tell you all about how shitty it was if I’m banging the same guy every night? You’re going to get tired of hearing how shitty that same bang is.” I paused for the laughter, hearing some hoots from the crowd. “You people need a little variety, am I right?”
“But the married people, they know,” I said. “They know how shitty that same, predictable bang is.” I put on an affected, straight-laced voice as I went on. “Once a month, on a Friday, after half a bottle of wine, missionary, nothing too weird, and now l
et’s go watch TV and finish that bottle. I mean, that’s when you really see that sex is meant for procreation. Adults can make anything boring. If sex has gotten boring, you might as well squirt a kid inside there to shake things up a bit.”
“No,” I corrected through the laughter. “If sex has gotten boring, I mean sex, the best thing that God or Mother Nature or, uh, evolution gave us lowly humans, if that’s gotten boring for you, repetitive, predictable, then you’ve got to take a long, hard look at yourself in the mirror and say, ‘Self, you done fucked up!’”
I paused as the audience clapped and laughed, taking a little bow, smiling, mouthing “thank you.”
“I’ve been considering this whole monogamy thing for a while,” I said. “You know, it’s just not sustainable. It really isn’t. C’mon, married people in the audience, raise your hands if you’re tired of having sex with your partner.” As just a couple people put their hands in the air, the rest of the audience chortled, mixing in with some varied clapping, looking over to those brave enough to answer my question. “We can see who’s out alone tonight,” I said, inspiring the audience to laugh again. “The rest of you married folks, I know you’re just playing dumb. ‘Uh, I don’t know what she’s talking about, dear. Of course I love our scheduled, infrequent moments of passion!’”
“And God forbid you shack up with a partner that withholds sex when you’re bad,” I said, shaking my head, wagging the microphone. “I mean, can you imagine? You go to work all day, pushing papers around your desk to organize them by color, the way your boss with the hairy ears likes, you drive home in awful traffic and try not to stress out from the drivers who think they’re getting ahead by speeding down the shoulder to cut in line, and once you walk in your front door, just hoping to get a little bit of wetness on your parts, your bitch-ass partner gets on your tits about not taking the garbage out that morning.”
“You didn’t do this inconsequential thing!” I bemoaned in a criticizing voice through the laughter. “You are definitely not getting laid tonight!”
“Friend, if that’s your reality, you fucked up!” I said. “Luckily we’ve got such great divorce laws in this country. I mean, great for women. Not you guys,” I said with an evil grin. “You get scah-rewed!” The laughter and applause from the audience at this joke was mostly female-sounding. “I think, if I ever do get married, I’m going to marry a rich old guy. Like ancient. Like so old his dick doesn’t work anymore and our relationship is just basically about me walking around the house in skimpy underwear, like he’s living in a porno. You know, doing the dishes topless, bending over in loose short-shorts so he can catch a glimpse of my snatch. Just reminding him of the good ol’ days when he could get a hard-on. A couple years of that, all while fucking the beefcake Mexican gardener — or maybe fucking the young Mexican cleaning lady,” I said raising an eyebrow, giving a hint. “The old man croaks, and Macy Maxwell never has to get up on stage and dance for you folks ever again!”
As the crowd cheered, laughing loud and boisterously, I felt complete. I felt like this is where I was meant to be. I don’t think a lot of people get that feeling. I mean, most people just sort of let fate or other people or whatever decide their life for them. And then they walk this path that’s, you know, okay and acceptable, but it doesn’t bring them real, fulfilling happiness. Do you know what real happiness feels like? Take a moment and try to imagine the last time you were really, truly happy. Can you do it? I get that feeling every time I have a successful comedy set. Every time the audience loves me, laughs at my silliness, applauds for my cleverness, this feeling builds inside of me like I can do anything. Like I’m in charge of this world. Oh God, is it great. All it takes is making a firm decision, some hard work, and a little persistence. This could be you up here on stage, loving your life, living your dream, feeling joy. Why don’t you join me?
“You’ve been great!” I called out at the height of the laughter. “I’m Macy Maxwell!” I raised my hand high with a smile, replaced the microphone on the stand, and crept off stage.
“Damn girl,” said Darnell as I ambled up to the bar. Darnell and Petra sat together, both with a beer in front of them, and as he saw me approach Ralph quickly poured a bourbon and set it front of me. I grinned at my friends, sliding up next to Darnell and wrapping an arm around him, hugging onto him tightly. Both Petra and Darnell had smiles on their faces and I could feel the joy in our little circle. It almost brought a tear to my eye.
“Macy,” said Petra, leaning down a bit toward the bar to look past Darnell and catch my eyes. “That was really good.”
“You think so?” I said, still beaming, happy. “They really seemed to like it.”
“Macy Maxwell,” said Darnell. “I’m just worried that we ain’t gonna see much of you anymore.”
“Oh stop,” I said, actually a bit embarrassed, a little out of character for me.
“I think we’re gonna be seeing too much of her,” said Petra with a twinkle in her eye. “I think soon we’ll be seeing so much Macy Maxwell that we’re gonna want to puke.”
“Petra!” I said, with fake reprimand in my voice. I scurried around Darnell and slammed my palm onto Petra’s shoulder. I then smiled at her, stuck my tongue out, and wrapped my arms around her tightly. “I love you guys,” I said, still hugging Petra, resting my head on her shoulder.
Leaning her face down, Petra’s lips hovered near my ear and, speaking in a whisper that only I could hear, she admitted to me something she must have been holding inside for a while.
“I love you,” said Petra softly. I immediately lifted my head up and backed off from her, smiling at Petra still but now with a hint of sadness, and then I moved back around Darnell and took up my bourbon.
“Um— a toast!” I said, changing the subject, but my mind still dwelling on Petra’s admission. “To the shrill mistress of comedy! May we all suckle at her sour, floppy tit!” I hoisted my glass up and clanked it against Darnell and Petra’s bottles, inspiring the three of us to drink simultaneously.
As we drank, Howie came toward us from behind the bar and walked toward me with a happy grin. Removing the unlit cigar from his mouth, he leaned over the bar toward me and spoke up through the commotion of the busy club.
“You got the middle, doll,” he said to me, giving me a knowing nod. “Don’t fuck this up.”
“I certainly won’t,” I said with a smile, taking another sip from my glass. “You’re the best, Howie!”
And with that, he put the cigar back in his mouth and sauntered off.
I returned to my revelry with Darnell and Petra, self-consciously trying to avoid meeting eyes with Petra, still attempting to process what she had said to me. All of this was happening far too fast for me. I mean, look. I know I’ve sorta talked shit about Petra to you already, about our past together, and how I wasn’t so nice to her. But damn it I love Petra. She’s been such a good friend to me and I credit her with inspiring a lot of my comedy. Petra’s someone I’ve been able to bounce ideas off of without fear of criticism, especially criticism of being a lesbian comic hiding in straight material, she’s someone I don’t have to be embarrassed around. And with her charged admittance to me, I just felt really fucking confused.
I took in a big sip of bourbon as George walked up to our group. She smiled at me, strolled up next to me, and threaded her arm through mine to bring me in close for a hug.
“Hey,” she said coolly, moving in and putting a kiss on the side of my head. It felt different.
“Hi!” I said. “Not bad, eh?”
“This girl going places,” said Darnell, raising his bottle up and pointing at George. “You better grab onto her coattails, James Dean.”
“I enjoyed it,” said George. “You really had the crowd going.”
“I know!” I beamed. “I mean, I can’t remember the last time I had a set so good. Man, I’m super keyed up!” Still absorbed in my joy, I tightened myself against George’s body and squeezed into her. As I hugged onto George, her
lips closed in on my ear and she whispered.
“Do you wanna get outta here?” she said in a low voice. “We could go get a drink somewhere and then head back to your place.”
“I’m celebrating,” I said, looking to her and finding myself evoking a serious expression. Like, did she not get what was going on or something? “I don’t want to leave yet.” Darnell obviously overheard me, widened his eyes, and looked away.
“That’s cool,” said George. “But I don’t want to stay here too long.”
“Let’s just do one more drink here,” I said. “Then we can take off.”
“Fine,” said George, averting her eyes, obviously nonplussed but knowing not to push it any further.
Pulling away from George, I slid over toward Darnell and Petra, pushing between them to set my empty glass on the bar.
“Ralph!” I called. “Gimme another! And one for her, too,” I said, nodding my head to the side toward George. I resolved myself back to my joy, my satisfaction, my euphoria of delivering a great set and the positivity it brought me. Smiling, I looked over to Petra and caught her eye. She raised her brow knowingly. I could read it all loud and clear on her face. It’s like she was saying to me, “Macy, what the fuck are you doing?”
“Lucy!” I said suddenly, smacking the bar, looking around. “Did anybody see Lucy yet?”
After that night at the comedy club, George ended up back at my place, hot and heavy, once again grinding up on each other in naked lusty activity, breathing stale alcohol against each other’s lips. Don’t get me wrong, it was a lot of fun. George, for all her, um, personality foibles was pretty damn good in bed. Nice breasts, good with her fingers. A lot of nice pressure inside me, at the risk of getting too graphic. But all during our lecherous little act, I couldn’t get what Petra had said to me out of my mind. I desperately wanted to. I wanted to forget all else, be in the moment, succumb to a nice wet fucking. Sometimes even one too many full pours of bourbon can’t make you forget the troubles on your mind.
Salacious Stand Up: A Funny Lesbian Romance by Nicolette Dane (2016-06-22) Page 8
