bottle and not real lime, so I had to put the Tecate back. Finally I decided on an Oakland IPA microbrew. I don’t know why the bottle has a cute drawing of artichokes on it. Hopefully Patrick will like artichoke-flavored beer?
7:30 p.m.: I’ve showered and shaved my armpits and legs, but despite societal pressures, I’ve left my power triangle wild and ungroomed. I was wavering on my commitment to this wild thatch of hair until I recently read Mario Vargas Llosa’s “In Praise of the Stepmother.” In the novel, Rigoberto is always delighting at having his wife’s full pubis up his nose. I found it very inspiring in a manner utterly lacking in twenty-first-century American literature and film. The mention of pubis is absent in early twenty-first-century literature, while in film women are always pressuring one another to wax or go full Brazilian in the manner of prepubescent girls. Luckily for me, I’m sure the bush will make a comeback. It’s great to be on the forefront of a fashion trend for once. Oops! It’s 7:52 p.m. Where is my hairbrush?
8:03 p.m. Humph. He’s not here yet. Will have a quick shot of bourbon to boost morale. This rushing around makes me feel ridiculous and slightly incompetent, in the manner of feminist anti-hero Bridget Jones.
8:13 p.m. Sign materials are out. I’m making a boycott sign whether Patrick shows up or not.
8:27 p.m. Doorbell ringing! Roscoe ecstatic! I think he’s here!
Hurray!!!
Roxy
August 6, 2012
Dear Everett,
Patrick arrived last night without mentioning he was twenty-seven minutes late. But he pet Roscoe right away and seemed really happy about it. It’s hard enough to date without wondering whether or not a man will fit in well with the furballs. And some guys can be such dicks about Roscoe’s miniature stature. Patrick engaged in some gentle wrestling with Roscoe—one of his hands versus the little guy—then I put Roscoe outside, latching the dog door behind him, and poured drinks for us. I explained my hatred for Lululemon and my ideas for the protest, which will take place on Sunday, September 30. Patrick was very enthusiastic and we ranted together about the general downward trajectory of Austin.
“I feel like the city is, like, turning on us, man,” Patrick said, “so that we can’t even afford to live here anymore.”
I did not want to tell him that I haven’t drawn or painted in over six months—Venus gifted me with the insight that carrying on about Brant Bitterbrush, moisturizer, and betrayal would not be aphrodisiacal. So I boldly began to outline words on a sign. The first one read:
HONK IF YOU LOVE YOUR BODY
I gave Patrick very detailed instructions on exactly how the words should be filled in with paint. My next sign read: NO $100 TIGHTS, WE WANT OUR RIGHTS—TO BUY LOCAL. With Patrick’s encouragement and the beer and bourbon lowering my inhibitions, I drew curvy girls, dollar signs, and symbols of the Austin we want to live in on our two signs. It felt glorious to put pen to paper. I found that drawing something totally low stakes (i.e., boycott signs that will not bear my signature but will rather be carried in the streets “by the people”) was rather liberating. As Patrick and I passed each other markers and paints, electric sparks of sexual tension jumped between us. I have to admit, Everett, that while I have missed you at times, it was a relief to know you would not be barreling through the front door. Thus I would have no need to explain to Patrick who you are and how you fit into my life.
We got so drunk that I’m not sure who kissed who first, but he fucked me on the floor of the living room. (We had to pause the proceedings for me to find the donut pillow and properly position it beneath my bruised coccyx.) He was on top and I didn’t come, but I told myself it was because my tailbone hurt a little. It was still hot, especially because of that totally ripped little skater body of his.
We went for Round Two in my bedroom, doggy-style, and I was SURE he’d give me the reach around, but he didn’t so I rubbed my own clit. However, I’ve been using the merman so regularly that non-battery-powered stimulation was slow going and Patrick came before I could. (There’s a movement among witchy women to use sex toys made out of crystals such as rose quartz and amethyst, thus avoiding the overstimulation trap