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Home for Thanksgiving: CoverGirl |
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By Margo Perry
People clutched from the brink of death report that their lives flash before them, a slow motion film of Self that manages to lure them away from an impatient grim reaper. Mine flashed before me as my father lay dying, back on Thanksgiving Day, and all these months later, I’m amazed and humbled by my survival.
“Sassy, you’ll be fine,” my father said.
“No, I won’t!” I argued.
“I’ll always love you.”
“I love you, too, but please, don’t go,” I begged.
He smiled, died anyway, and I couldn’t take it.
My memories are vague after that. It’s like I was emotionally kidnapped en route to my own death, only to be returned months later, alive and almost well, in Dayzee’s employ.
I’m learning to be grateful; I long to feel mad passion again.
Every eye was on us as my boss Dayzee and I strode through the Marquis Hotel lobby en route to the spa. Twice weekly, we’d sign in for massages, chat while Dayzee was worked on, and then, instead of claiming my turn, I’d be dismissed, leaving her in the then idle hands of Masseur Jacques. I was her beard for what happened next. She called me her Cover Girl.
Watching her being smoothed and pummelled by a man of gorgeous proportions wasn’t my idea of prime entertainment, but I reminded myself that I was lucky to have this job. I squared my shoulders, lifted my bald head high, and freed one trademark dangling earring that had settled on my shoulder. We were the tall and short of it, the bald and blond-wigged beauty of it, the coffee and cream colors of it and we made waves wherever we went. I was a busy world away from sitting on my bedroom balcony staring out to sea, my Dad’s picture clutched to my breast like I’d done for months. I was thankful to be on my way back.
Dayzee, her phone attached to her ear as usual, had fallen behind. I slowed my pace. She was the picture of glamour, reality star that she was, while I, her humble assistant had put on ten pounds since coming home and, IMHO, I looked ridiculous. Everything, even my skin felt too tight, my jeans girdled my still tight ass, and my humongous breasts bulged out of my bra and top. I promised myself more hours in the gym and a massage where hands actually touched my body.
I’d had no part of sex since I’d found Thom making love to Honey and I’d cast myself as Governor Rex Morgan’s lover, a role that ended the day it started, the day my father died. I don’t know how Rex had managed it, but he immediately became the kindest, most dependable guardian a grieving girl could ask for and we never again mentioned the escapade that had begun in his limousine.
Since then, I’d existed somewhere in between abstinent and sexually comatose states. Dayzee, in sharp contrast, chose from an ever-expanding banquet of lovers: Poet, her mysterious main man and lifestyle guarantor, Margie, her yoga instructor and, of course, Jacques. I envied her fluid and capricious dedication to self satisfaction and worried that I was becoming an old fogey who’d never have fun again.
I was getting a headache. The clicking of our matching high heeled sandals on the marble tiles echoed in my brain, while our strut and style were eye candy magnets for every male in the room. I wasn’t in the mood for the attention we were demanding.
“My feet are killing me!” I said aloud to no one in particular.
It was almost five o’clock and we’d been shopping for hours. My cramped feet were screaming out of their red-tasselled stiletto Gucci heels.
“We’ve got to have them! They’re almost your size and they look great!”
To my agent’s dismay, I hadn’t had enough energy or focus to go back to my real work, so my present commitment was to Dayzee, to doing anything Dayzee wanted, and that included wearing shoes that were too small. She was paying me more than I’d made in either movie or my stage run and, while the bottomless money pit she drew from puzzled me, I was happy to escape financial stress, at least for a while. What if I was pre-menstrual, bloated and miserable? What if she’d insisted we dress in the same jeans, low-cut top, bag and shoes like I was her pet poodle? I direct you to my bank balance that, pre-Dayzee, had become almost as depressed as I was. Post Dayzee, I was flush.
“Sassy!” a handsome young porter called out.
I waved back, my smile remote. He would ask for an autograph next, so I tapped my imaginary watch, shrugged, and kept walking. Dayzee didn’t like my signing autographs that had nothing to do with her.
“That was Poet,” she said, stuffing her cell into her Fendi bag. “He’s flying in for a few days; in fact, he’s just about to land.”
Poet was rich and famous, she’d often informed me, keeping his real name down low on the QT because her very generous patron was still very married to his estranged wife. It was most important that Dayzee not rock the boat until they’d settled on the terms of their California divorce. In the meantime, she was here in pre-production for The Real Sirens of Pageant along with a mixed cast of local and foreign talent. I’d been picked up as her assistant and we were due to begin shooting in a week. I had to admit that after dancing, singing and acting eight shows a week, this was one peachy job.
We’d almost reached the spa entrance when Dayzee stopped.
“This is tricky!” She took off her shades. Her blue eyes were cloudy, her face flushed, and her collagen lips pouty and tense with irritation. “Poet’s made eight o’clock dinner reservations at Treats, but I have plans with Margie and her girlfriend tonight. I don’t want to disappoint, besides I’m lookin’ forward to that sweet, sweet lovin’, if you know what I mean.” I hadn’t a clue, nor did I care about her lovin’ plans, but I nodded my head enthusiastically. “I need you to have dinner with Poet. He knows you’re my assistant and he loves your movies! It’ll be a gas! Tell him I got caught up in meetings for the show and I’ll see him tomorrow!”
Every word out of Dayzee’s mouth was an exclamation and her every wish was my command; that’s why I was paid the big bucks. I followed, as she returned her sunglasses to her lying eyes, and walked into the spa.
“Make it a long night. I don’t want him lonely and looking for me!”
“I’ll do my best.”
“What would I do without my Cover Girl?” she shot back over her shoulder.
I kept my mouth shut, but wondered what kind of fool this Poet was to both finance and tolerate her shenanigans.
“What does Poet do for a living?”
“Poet writes poetry, silly!”
What poet, including William Shakespeare should he resurrect, made the kind of dosh that kept Dayzee in wigs, wardrobe and plastic surgery? Silly Me just couldn’t negotiate such fanciful economics!
Anxiety had raised the pressure in my skull and I was dreading the onset of a migraine. Dayzee didn’t like air conditioning, so the sliding glass door was open to the hot air that smelled of jasmine, a salty sea and the barbecue smoking on the beach. She undressed quickly and climbed onto his table, just before Jacques arrived, dressed in Dayzee’s uniform of choice: A chocolate towel that was wrapped around his tiny waist like a skirt, showing off the beauty of his evenly tanned, sweat painted body to perfection. I was the only one dressed and superfluous.
I started to sweat and tried to breathe away an oncoming anxiety attack. The room was too small, the action too intense for a third party. I sat in the one available chair, feeling as useless as the shopping bags and purses clients usually dropped onto it. Jacques brushed my knees and smirked, as he moved around the table, and I had the distinct feeling that he felt as pressured by my presence as I was by his. His ginger cat’s eyes kept glancing at me and I felt a stirring I hadn’t felt in a long time. Gorgeous Jacques gently massaged Dayzee’s temples, but his eyes never left mine. He slowly licked his lips, cruised my body, and I felt it. My nipples began to tingle and my pussy twitched with excitement. This bad boy was trying to tell me something that I couldn’t afford to hear, but all that mattered was that he was a man and I was feeling like a woman again. I ended the eye contact, shook my head in mock disgust, and protected my job.
Jacques’s hands were large and strong, his body a graceful curve as he bent over Dayzee’s back. She groaned with pleasure, twisting onto her back without warning. Her towel slipped toward her waist and her giant boobs spilled over the sides of her narrow torso.
“Oops!” Her seductive smile penetrated Jacques where he lived and I laughed when his cock stirred beneath his cotton wrap. Dayzee winked at me before slowly pulling her towel back up over her perfectly liposuctioned hips and tummy.
“Be careful what you’re doing!” Jacques whispered. “These large new puppies of yours are gettin’ my fingers all excited!”
As if I couldn’t hear. As if he didn’t want me to hear.
“I’m so glad I took you shopping today! My assistant has to look glamorous, like she appreciates the good life!”
Dayzee was babbling in my direction, but her attention was elsewhere. She writhed beneath the well oiled, expert hands of Jacques who held on to decorum with a tight-lipped, glazed-eye determination, even as his huge cock saluted its betrayal. Dayzee arched her back and her chest swelled like a giant wave. Then she lifted both knees only to let them fall open, an invitation to paradise if ever there was one.
I’d had enough.
“Let’s call my massage a wrap.” I didn’t care that sarcasm marked my every word.
“Sassy, you’re the best. I couldn’t do without you. Take the rest of the afternoon off.”
It was past six o’clock. It would take me almost an hour to get home and I was meeting her Poet at eight.
“What time off?” I asked myself. “Cool,” I said to Dayzee.
“You don’t have to dress up for Poet,” she instructed. “He’s my man and you’re hardly his type. Just keep him occupied!” My already bruised ego considered this last jab gratuitous. “Okay, Cover Girl, do your thing and I’ll text you early tomorrow.”
Jacques’ fully erect cock was tenting his towel obscenely and Dayzee’s eyes were glinting with impatient lust. I accepted my walking orders and bounced, happy to be rid of them both.
I took the back roads home to avoid the rush hour traffic. My feet were a little swollen, but I enjoyed the feel of cool metal under my bare foot. The western seascape calmed me and, on my other side, the architecture changed rapidly from high rise, to open fields, to pastel coloured cottages with white limestone roofs. The air conditioning had done its magic, so I turned it off and opened my windows to the breeze and the screeching of gulls overhead. A familiar calm settled over me and my headache eased.
I was careful to keep my speed within the 35 kph speed limit and gave a kid the finger as his motorbike roared past my left side, just as I was negotiating a dangerous curve. Out in front of me, he turned around, waved and apologised with the peace sign. I recognized him as a neighbourhood kid.
As much as I loved Pageant’s quiet beauty, I missed the freedom that came with anonymity. Here everybody knew everybody, and everybody’s business was up for grabs. By morning they’d be buzzing, speculating about the man I’d had dinner with at Treats. Right now, I was wondering about him my damn self. I had no idea what Poet or the night would bring, but one thing augured well: I was starving and Treats had the best chef on the island.
I made it home with twenty-seven minutes to shower, dress and present myself at the restaurant. The smell of freshly baked cornbread and chicken fricassee wafted from the kitchen.
“That smells so good, but I have to meet a client for dinner at eight,” I said, giving Neely a quick hug. “I think I’ll take a cab.”
“You get dressed. I’ll take care of that for you,” my mother said.
I kissed my mother’s cheek and a humming Neely limped back to her pots. My depression had frightened her, frightened both of them, and they’d come together, one loving force to cajole and feed and love me out of it. There had always been friction between myself and my mother, but my Dad’s death had changed her and she’d shown me more love and attention than ever before in my life.
“Go on now,” my mother said.
A taxi was waiting when I came back downstairs, dressed and ready, and I made it to the restaurant with two minutes to spare. It wasn’t until I joined the short waiting line that I realized I didn’t know the name of the man I was supposed to be meeting. Dayzee’s pet name, ‘Poet’, was all I had.
“Sassy Sassy!”
Melvin Sharp or Sharp Melvin, so nicknamed in high school for his flair for all things fashionable, sashayed toward me in his double breasted white Topman maitre d's jacket, V-necked T and matching relaxed pleated pants. His long eyelashes were the envy of every woman who saw them and his subtle eye makeup was flawless. I had to laugh with everyone else when he made a beeline right for me, hips twitching with a pirouette thrown in.
“You are just as gorgeous as ever, girl.”
“Fat, you mean!”
Melvin stepped back and studied me head to toe before performing a walk-around.
“Not!” he exclaimed. “You were a little too female-flesh-deprived after your show closed and your Daddy died. Now, you’re perfect! But, we’re booked up tonight. I’ll have to squeeze you in somewhere.”
“My boss, Dayzee, was supposed to meet . . .”
“Got your number, you lucky girl,” Melvin interrupted. “Come with me.”
The smile on Melvin’s face was full of mischief and piqued my curiosity to the max. He led me through the bustling dining room toward a small private balcony. “You look stunning,” he said. I was wearing a simple black, off one shoulder Versace dress because it covered, without clinging to my every curve. “Your dining mate got here early. He’s been waiting.”
The man was sitting, his back to us, gazing out to sea when we stepped onto the little piazza. He rose and turned toward us, hand outstretched.
“Welcome, Sassy.”
I was five-eleven in my heels and he towered over me. His plump bearded face and kind twinkling eyes had graced the cover of last month’s These Commercial Times Magazine and I’d read every word of his profile. I’d met a few men of power in my travels, but none so immediately magnetic and compelling as Stanford Major. We shook hands. His skin was soft and warm and his brown eyes looked right through my flesh, melting my bones, and awakening something deep inside me. I almost fell into the chair that Melvin held out for me.
“I’ve seen both of your films and your stage work,” the man said, without preamble. “Why on God’s green earth would you take a job with an outfit like Real Sirens?”
“Honestly, I wanted to ask her that myself!” Melvin said.
I glared at Melvin and chewed my lower lip, searching for a socially acceptable response.
“Bring us some nibbles please, Melvin. Sassy’s been working all day. And what would you like to drink?”
“I’d love a glass of white wine, Mr. Major.”
“Call me Stan,” he said.
I tried to collect my thoughts as he and Melvin discussed food and wine. Stanford Major, only scion of John Major & Elizabeth Whyte-Major of Major & Whyte Industries, had been described as the hardest working and most prolific fiction writer of the decade. His novels were contracted for film even before he finished writing them and the family business he’d turned his back on was a self-sufficient machine that fed his momentous holdings despite his disinterest.
“Thanks, Melvin.” He watched Melvin walk away, his face glowing with genuine affection. “What a delightful man. He’s been working on a women’s clothing line and I’m anxious to have a look at his sketches.”
“Melvin’s been into design since high school,” I said, “and he certainly has flair.”
I was feeling resentful of the easy friendship that seemed to have already developed between them. I was feeling left out again.
“Now, back to you,” Stan said. “What do you really love to do?”
“Both, film and stage,” I said, sounding defensive even to my own ears.
“Then why are you prepping for a half-ass reality show? Why are you here instead of on the boards somewhere honing your craft? I’m working on something now that you’d be great for, but you’re not quite ready and Sirens won’t get you ready.”
A bit harsh, if you ask me!
He was leaning across the table, his hands clasped tightly in front of him. The man was intense and I didn’t know whether to be scared or pissed off. I chose pissed off.
“What about your girlfriend, Dayzee?” I blurted out before I could stop myself. “Real Sirens seems good enough for her.”
“Maybe, but I was trying to talk about you. If you don’t want to talk about yourself, we could discuss sex.”
“Why would I want to talk about sex to you?” My voice was raised, along with my pulse. This man was getting under my skin.
“Sex is an important part of an adult relationship. Why wouldn’t I want to talk about it?”
“Because you belong to Dayzee and she wouldn’t like it.”
I couldn’t let it go; I sounded like a jealous teenager. An uneasy silence fell over the table, or so I thought, until Stan burst out laughing. What was so amusing? I wanted to leave, but I didn’t know how to without looking even more ridiculous than I already did. He finally broke the silence.
“Sunset in Pageant is my favourite time of day.”
Anchored offshore, the smooth lines of a white yacht were outlined in brilliant contrast to the blazing orangey-red sunset. Our table candle flickered in the cooling breeze, glowing ahead of the descending dark.
“So, you know the island! This is Dayzee’s first time here. Have you vacationed here previously with your wife?” I sounded like a stuffy schoolmarm.
“I might have if I had one, but, after fifty years, I’m still a single man.”
I didn’t know how, but I knew he was telling me the truth. This Dayzee connection was just not making sense. I tried to read his expression as his eyes bored into mine. He seemed exasperated, amused, bored and impatient, all at once.
“Dayzee, bless her heart, has never managed to get through one book that I’ve written, but insists I’m a poet. She’s also invented a wife to explain why our relationship doesn’t fit her fantasy of it.” He leaned over the table again, frowning, his lips tense. “Don’t ever doubt my fondness for Dayzee or my willingness to help her, but I wouldn’t put any stock in anything she says about my life. Now, enough about Dayzee; why are you here? You were on your way. There has to be some reason for this insane career choice.”
He wasn’t going to let me escape. I tried to speak, but the lump in my throat turned into a flood of ugly tears. Stan was out of his chair and bending double to hold me before I knew that was what I needed. Melvin had returned and stood mute and still, laden tray in hand, as the weird scene unfolded. The dam had burst and I babbled on and on about my father’s cancer and death, my pitiful love life, and what had amounted to my nervous breakdown.
Eventually, Melvin served us with grave dignity. As the sun set, we drank a couple of glasses of fine wine and ate our mushroom risotto appetizers in perfect silence.
“You know, these are the events and feelings from which your great art will spring, if you don’t hide from them.”
Stan’s voice was so rich, so full of empathy that my tears started again. Melvin lurked in the shadows, afraid to move.
“Excuse me for a minute.”
I watched Stan and Melvin conference, their foreheads almost touching, their faces as sombre as undertakers’. I almost laughed. Stan went into the dining room and Melvin joined me at the table.
“Don’t get yourself fired,” I blubbered at Melvin, accepting the wad of tissues he magically produced.
“Maitre d’s don’t get fired for looking after Stanford Major or his date,” Melvin said, lowering himself onto Stan’s chair with haughty grace. “Girl, that man is so into you. I want you to listen to him, trust him, and be open with him. He’s a wise and generous man who’s about to change my life. Let him change yours.”
“Let’s walk,” Stan said, rushing back to the table and offering his hand. “We’ll eat soon.”
Hand in hand, we left the restaurant and descended the wooden steps leading to the beach. He stopped before we reached sand, and helped me off with my shoes.
“Your feet are a little swollen,” he said.
As he took off his grey suede oxfords and socks, I shared my shopping story.
“Guess, Your Shoes’ Too Small or Your Feet's Too Big!” His bass voice boomed his coined lyric to the Fats Waller tune and I joined the chorus, as our song and laughter rolled out to sea.
He put a casual arm over my shoulder as we walked. It felt intimate. I liked it.
“You be careful,” he said, “that Dayzee’s not afraid to ask for things. Her father has been one of my family’s drivers for years. His wife was alcoholic and committed suicide when he and Dayzee needed her most. Dayzee was about thirteen and retreated into her own world. We tried, but psychologist after psychologist failed to cement any permanent connection to the real world. She’s taught herself to function at some level and we have her back. Please, keep your eye on her and let me know if there’s trouble. Are you happy with your salary, your hours?”
“I’m being paid better than I’ve ever been. Guess how much? You should probably know, since you’re probably footing the bill, at least till taping starts and our salaries kick in.”
“As long as you’re happy and she’s happy; that’s all I need to know.”
I listened to the waves breaking against the sand and watched Stanford kick white sand into the gathering black.
“I had no idea that Dayzee …” I didn’t know what to say. “Can I call you Stanford? You’re much too big for Stan.”
“Perhaps you’d prefer Stout Stan, or Fat Fanny Stan?” he countered, laughing again.
I liked a man who laughed and Stanford laughed a lot.
“I was referring to the grandness of your heart.”
“Wow, a compliment from the lady! Please, allow me to sit and gloat!” Stanford dropped onto the sand, before continuing. “We can’t make love, though. Not on our first date, so don’t even ask!”
“It hadn’t crossed my mind!” It was my time to laugh. “You have a one track mind.”
“Your fault; you made me your sexual slave the first time I saw Sassy, Female Detective.”
I dropped onto the sand beside him. The night had cooled, but we were hot, very hot.
He kissed my neck and ears, cheeks and brow so lightly and with such promise that my panties were soaked and I was compelled to capture his mouth with my own. We hugged, rolling in the sand on top of one another, kissing more and more passionately, until that wasn’t enough.
On the empty beach, he opened me up and made love to my pussy and clit, until I came and came again. He grunted with pleasure when I forced him onto his back, released his rigid cock and, using both my mouth and hands, delivered all the pleasure he could take without coming. I needed him inside me and he needed to be there. There were no condoms, but he promised to be careful and that was enough for me.
Sand irritated my head and back, as he pounded into me, but I didn’t care. Sand scratched his ass and back as I rode him, my huge, naked tits bouncing and swinging with abandon. Rolling onto our sides, he fed both nipples into his mouth and suckled them until I came for the fourth time. He held me close, swearing to never let me go, and groaned as great gobs of come burst out of him and onto my thigh.
“You’re a miracle,” he whispered.
“We’re a miracle.”
We rested awhile.
“What now?” I asked, as we began to dress, not wanting the night to end.
“Have you noticed that condo over there, jutting over the ocean? It’s only five minutes walk from here.”
“Who hasn’t? The whole island’s been talking about it ever since it was finished.”
“It’s mine,” he said. “I’d like to take you there. I still have much to say and I want to know your every thought and feeling.”
“I’d love to see it!”
“I’ll call Melvin and he’ll have our dinner delivered. You must be starving.”
“For food, yes, but in every other way, I’ve never felt more fulfilled.”
“Me, either. Love’s like that, or so they say.”
“Love, definitely love!”
I couldn’t help gushing, when I was feeling such mad passion again!
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