seven (sexy times gone bad…)
Victoria’s Secret and its awe-inspiring images of soft femininity have come to my rescue during many a bad moment in my life. It’s because of this lacy empire and its lingerie-clad deities that I’ve been able to dream of a mother who appears to be both real and present to me through their models. This day is no different than any of the other days I’ve woken up needing their comfort and guidance.
On my nightstand, I have a stack of their glossy pages ready to offer just that. I need my imaginary Superwoman-styled mom in her form-fitting girdle to come to my rescue once again. Maybe with any luck my mom, like Wonder Woman, will have a lasso of truth created from the girdle of the Love God, Aphrodite. Then I’ll finally be able to get to the bottom of all my conflicting feelings concerning not only my dismal life but also my newfound desire to do the horizontal mambo with my forever best friend.
As I’m thumbing through the sleepwear section of their newest catalogue my phone dings, alerting me to an incoming text. It’s my brother, Connor, asking me if I’d be willing to have a guest. He wants me to meet his new lady, Liddy. Though I’d love to, other than the pizza guy, I haven’t had anyone but my brother and Ashton in my house for more than a year now. The idea of having a panic attack in front of a stranger - much less someone my brother cares so deeply about - is the reason for this particular rule. That’s one of several new rules I’ve added over the past twelve months. I really should write them all down and hand them out to my loved ones (all two of them) for reference.
I quickly text him back that I think I may have the flu, can we try for another day (I have barfed more than usual lately, so maybe I do). There’s no response for a couple minutes, then there’s a loud rat-a-tat-tat coming from the front door. NO WAY!
Jumping from the comfort of my bed, I grab Victoria’s newest PINK hoodie and slip on its matching velour track pants. I hear a second round of thundering knocks as I walk down the hall pulling on the jacket.
“Jesus,” I say exasperated as I swing open the door and see my brother standing there looking pissed off. What he has to be pissed about I’ve no clue?
“What the hell Connor?” I grumble turning to the side to let him in.
That’s when I see the petite blond standing behind him. She’s not moving and is considerately waiting for me to invite her into my home. I have no clue what my brother has told her but looking at the nervous expression she’s wearing on her lovely face I can only assume she knows the full extent of my crazy. This is both comforting (because she’ll already know about the panic attacks when I have one) and embarrassing (Seriously, I’m not stupid. I know it’s awkward for people to be around someone like me. Hell, I’m awkward around me.).
Connor knows he’s forced my hand here and I’m sure he’s aware that when we talk alone next he’s toast. But in the meantime, the one thing I still have intact - despite the ever-present panic disorder that dwells within me like a menacing Jack in the Box - are my good manners. I reach my sweaty, shaking palm out to this new girl on my stoop and shake her outstretched hand. Then I use my other equally sweaty hand to usher her inside with an exaggerated swoop of my arm. I’m comforted by the fact that this charming looking girl seems to be as nervous as me, and all I can think is thank God.
She hands me a pretty pink bag overflowing with tissue paper and I look up at her in confusion, eyebrows pulled up in their ‘what’s this?’ pose.
“That’s just a little something I made recently. Connor told me you like this sort of thing and, well, I was hoping we could become friends,” she finishes her speech quickly, sweetly and looking a little embarrassed.
Smiling, I take the bag from her as she gives me a go ahead nod, apparently wanting me to open it now so she can see if I approve of what she’s done. After pulling out the top layer of tissue I see another round of equally beautiful fine paper wrapped around a bundle that feels soft to the touch as I take hold of it. My eyes go wide when I peel open the paper and see the extraordinary satin and lace creation inside.
In awe I ask, “Did you really make this?”
Her face alights with a blinding, golden smile, “I sure did,” she says excited by my obvious approval of her gift. “Your brother told me you loved lingerie and I’ve been sewing my whole life. I even have my own line of clothes. I don’t know if he told you,” she says pointing over at my lovesick brother.
“Well anyway, I never made lingerie before and knowing I was going to meet you inspired this new pursuit. This isn’t the first piece, there are quite a few attempts gone bad on my sewing room floor, but this is the first one that came out right and I wanted you to have it. I hope it fits.”
In my hands is the most lovely camisole and panty set I think I’ve ever seen. The colors are soft, as if the thin, delicate fabric dictated them to be, and all I am capable of feeling in the moment is gratitude for her thoughtfulness.
My eyes are watering as I’m struck by the fact that this is the first time I’ve seen another woman, hell another person, other than Ashton, Connor or the pizza guy in well over a year. Before that there were a couple of times Ashton foolishly tried to sneak in one or two of his skanks late at night while in the midst of a drunken, horny stupor. But, no worry, they never made it over the threshold before I sent them packing, called them a cab and left them to think about their questionable life choices while waiting alone on a strangers front porch. That never did go over too well, but those are some long stories better saved for another time.
This encounter is different in every conceivable way. First off it’s obvious that this girl of my brothers is no skank. Immediately I can see that she exudes a genuine kindness and warmth. She has been blessed with one of “those” faces. You know, the kind that makes you want to give her a hug and then invite her in for a cup of English tea upon your first meeting. I believe the first word that comes to mind if I had to pick only one to describe her is lovely. Obviously my brother agrees because he’s looking at her with the word SMITTEN written clear as day across his handsome face. What a beautiful pair they make. I’m suddenly feeling… happy. This is a revelation. I can feel happy and not be playing a video game at the same time. Hmm.
Over the last twenty four hours I’ve felt a lot of sensations other than panic. I’ve added some positive emotions to my repertoire for the first time in many years, lust being at the very top of that list. I decide this surprise meeting is okay, that I’m okay and I surprise us all when I ask them to stay and have some coffee with me (I wish I did tea, but it gives me a stomach ache).
“So, sis? Liddy here was hoping to get your advice on the lingerie business. That’s why we’re here, right babe?” he says looking at his “babe” launching a serious set of goo-goo eyes her way. I’ve never seen my brother like this. It’s adorable and kind of gross but mostly adorable.
“Yes, exactly!” She says excitedly. “I’ve been really struggling getting enough sales to grow my brand but lingerie is something I can use to set myself apart. I was hoping with your expertise and knowledge on the subject we could talk about some ideas I’ve been having and you can give me your thoughts, opinions, stuff like that. What do you think?” How does my brother ever say no to this sprite? My goodness, she’s like a living, breathing, fairy princess only she’s cooler and wears Converses.
Smiling, I take a sip of my still-hot, chocolate-infused coffee and give her the truth, “I’d really like that, honestly I would. It’s just I haven’t been out in awhile,” (putting it mildly there) ”and, well, I’m not sure if I’m the most qualified to be making current fashion predictions. My current knowledge would be based solely on TV commercials and the reality TV I sometimes shamefully imbibe.”
“Truthfully, that’s what makes you perfect. Fashion, at least to me, is doing something different. If you aren’t being influenced by what you see, you’ll have the rare ability to come up with a creation that’s new, unique, distinctive!” I can tell that she’s thought about this and she’s gen
uinely excited by the idea that I have no discernible knowledge of what’s hip. I’m glad one of us is.
“So, what you’re saying is you want to work with me, the agoraphobe,” (I just put the lurking elephant on the table and he lifted his trunk in salute) “and what? Be partners?” Am I reading into this?
“Yep!” She’s doing this cute little bouncy thing on the couch with her feet firmly planted on the floor in front of her. “I can just come over here and we can draw out our ideas, and once we’ve come up with our first set of concepts I’ll shop for the fabrics and start to bring them to life.”
“So, what’s in it for you, other than a fresh perspective from me of course?” This is the million dollar question.
Holding my brother’s hand, she leans over her legs, elbows resting on her knees, both their hands joined in front of her. “I’d like to get to know my boyfriend’s sister. I’d like to use you for your talent, and if you have a couple dollars to throw in at the end to help I wouldn’t turn them down, but that’s it. Is friendship too cheesy?” I see why Connor loves her, because it’s obvious he does, and I can also see that she’s brought the smile to his face that I hadn’t realized had been missing for so long until now. I want that for him. I want that for me, and because of the smile wanting, I’m compelled to agree to her cheesy terms.
“So, friendship and art and money? Those are your demands?” She’s looking at me hopeful. “Okay. I’m in. I’d like to split all the expenses fifty-fifty though and make this a real partnership with all the same risks. I love lingerie that much.” She reaches her thin, pale hand across to me and we shake on the friendship-art-money pact that I suggested and then surprisingly, for the first time in a long while, I feel… hopeful.
***
I’m dying to tell Ashton about my new business venture, but I know his schedule and tonight he’s got a gig which means I won’t be seeing him until the wee hours of the night/morning. Since there’s no rush, I open my email to check out what new work I’ve had come in, and then I check my excel timetables to see where I am on the several outstanding projects I still have going. Then it’s time to get to work on what’s currently due.
My inheritance is nice to have as a back-up in case I fall on hard times, but I plan on using some of that to invest in the lingerie business with Liddy. My bank account is kind of like a security blanket, so if I plan on spending money, I need to make money. Otherwise, I may be forced to depend on someone else one day and that is not in any one of my future plans.
It’s been several days since I’ve checked my email so it’s heavily congested with junk-mail, spam, and requests to join all sorts of social media groups. I spend what feels like hours sifting through all the garbage before I get to a subject line that reads: “PLEASE OPEN, it’s your mother,” again. You’d think I’d panic reading that, but I’m no stu-nod. I’ve had enough of these emails over the years to know a scam when I see one. I delete it from my inbox like I always have and continue on with my schedule for the evening as planned.
Oddly enough, one of the books I’m ghost writing a chapter for is about anxiety disorder. The book’s working title is, and I promise you I’m not kidding, The Game of Life: How to Stop Beating Yourself and Become a Winner. BWAHAHAHAHA! It’s a ridiculous title. Every time I say it aloud or even think it in my mind, I have to use a news reporter’s tone and give a big, cheesy thumbs up at the end, it’s that corny and, P.S., a complete waste of time.
After finishing my designated chapter on Cognitive Behavioral Therapy Techniques I’m mentally drained. While researching I came across an article that talked about something called Trauma-Based Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. In the research, the doctor talked about children who have lost a parent or who have journeyed through a significant illness with their loved one and how often the child experiences PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder) and if not treated can lead to a difficulty adjusting to normal life. If I could meet this genius I’d say, “DUH!”
All I want to do after my thought-provoking research is to escape for a while, thus applying my go-to behavioral therapy technique of choice: avoidance. Apparently this technique is frowned upon by “the doctors” of the world. They all seem to agree that dealing head-on with your issues is the “best way,” but to each his own is my go-to philosophy. So, in true PrettyPanties fashion I go to my room, doll up and prepare to kick some pansy ass online. I find black cat-eye makeup is the most effective in reinforcing my butt-kicking mood. I wish I could explain why but, it just does.
Lying across my purple duvet are my gorgeous new handmade undergarments from Liddy. Since “the girls” are still young and perky, I can wear the camisole sans bra, paired with my dark denim skinny jeans and VIOLA! PrettyPanties is ready for action, fellas! Best put on your big boy slacks and prepare to meet your maker, at least until your character respawns.
There he is… (long pause for a moan/sigh/whatever sound is hotter to you). His characters are even handsome. Swoon. I’ve been able to put aside the facts I’ve learned about him. 1. His name is Christian (so hot) and he hooks up with British bombshells (so, not hot). 2. He works crazy hours but won’t tell me anything about where. Is he trustworthy? And 3. He hooks up with British bombshells. That one counts for two because I have to work twice as hard to forget it; he’s exhausting me with all his mental games.
With my sparkly headset in place, hands on the ready, I press enter and I’m logged in, ready to join in with my band of brothers in battle. Christian finds me easily. I try really hard to make my character stand out, plus my name - PrettyPanties - appears above my players’ head, so there’s that. The rest of the crew are here and already involved in some pretty serious combat. I see GamesWood and PaulGayman practicing trick-shots while running for cover, then I see a NOOB (new guy) following them, apparently looking to join our team. Poor thing, he’s got that look going like he wants in with the cool kids (I know you’re wondering how I know his electronic look, but I can read players’ body signals. It’s a skill I’ve mastered. Ask anyone on my squad, I’m legendary). Then, running towards me wielding a crazy amount of sex appeal is Mrnotsosmall@all, and I’m instantly reminded of the girl in that “10” movie, backpack bouncing in the air, electronic hat getting blown by the wind, Ahhhhhh……
“Hey, where you been? We’ve been getting killed here.” Oh, he wants to know my whereabouts, nice. It’s important that I play it cool here in order to add to the charade that my life is full, eventful and carefree.
“Been crazy busy. Lots going on. Have you been here long?” Suddenly I feel like I’m at a bar and not on some animated, deserted Chernobyl-styled battle field.
“Yah. I’ve been waiting actually.” HOLY CRAP!
“Oh... Cool. I just had work to do, but I’m all caught up now so, guess I’m all yours. Where do you want me?” Say under me, do it… SAY IT!
“Under me.” YES! That’s my big boy! He’s laughing and so am I, but the tension in our electronic relationship is starting to buzz. His guy nudges my guy and we take off flanking each other’s players’, protecting one another’s blindsides.
We’re heavily flirting and killing for one another, outward signs of our harmony, so obviously I’m way too caught up in MrNotso to hear Ashton come stumbling in a few hours later. When he finally stands in front of the television to get my attention I see a peppering of lipstick smeared from one corner of his mouth to the other and although I’m in a serious “thing” with MrNotso right now I still feel heat rise up from my chest as I experience a sobering moment of jealousy.
“You gon juz nore me all nigh?” Ashton slurs while clumsily looking from me back to the screen over his shoulder, “or you an diz guy gon a fineely do it?” I’m stunned a second later when he abruptly screams out for MrNotso to hear, “She wans you man!”
I hear a tinge of disappointment in Mr.’s voice a moment later when he asks, “Is that your boyfriend?” Horrified and delighted that he cares I answer quickly and without hesitation.
&
nbsp; “Best friend. Sorry about that. I’ve gotta,” then I’m interrupted yet again by a disorderly Ashton shouting, “Yah, sheeze busy! With me! Da bes friend! You know bout the fren-zone budy, cuz im livin’ in it. But don you worry tho. Nope, cuz sheeze always here. Hot pans is all yous, I mean y…o…u...r...s,” he spells it out extra slow to make his point clear seeing that he obviously can’t enunciate well enough through the beer-brained haze he’s currently existing in.
“Well, I’m going to let you go, PrettyPanties. Or should I say hot pans? You appear to have your hands full at the moment.” His laughter calms my nerves and it’s clear that he’s not at all worried by my relationship with my “friend” here. Which only makes one of us?
“Thanks. This is not uncommon, no worries. I’ll catch you soon. And I am not a hot pan, I assure you.” Then using the most attractive voice I can muster I simply say, “night” before signing off.
Looking down at Ashton’s long, limp body sprawled out in the shape of a human-sized X on my living room floor, I roll my eyes and groan aloud with frustration. I have two choices in this scenario. The first and easiest choice is to leave him be, cover his lovely, irritating body with a blanket and set a garbage pail beside him for his morning puke. The second and more humane choice is to somehow get him up, move him to my room and strip him of his sweaty, filthy clothes all while using the newfound herculean strength I was previously unaware I possessed. In this scenario I could really use some of Wonder Woman’s other attributes, such as her Amazonian size and the strength she garnered from all those years of hand-to-hand combat.
After much deliberation it is clear that the humane version wins. While contemplating my plan of attack I kick his foot to check for any kind of reaction and as I both anticipated and feared, nothing. As I sit staring at my bull of a best friend, I come up with a plan inspired by a game I used to play with my brother as a child: sheet and slide. Connor’s always been at least a head bigger than me, but when we were young I could still drag him around the house on a sheet so I’m going to do just that here and apply that same technique. We’ll title this Sheet and slide: the drunkard addition.
Single Player: Humor, Love, Breast Cancer and a Gaming Girl... Page 8
