Putting the Madge in Danna (2 page)

No, she is only over by
the speaker grabbing a drink of water. Now she’s buckling on a belt
of some sort, changing costumes I think. She’s so fashionable, I
wonder if it’s a Gaultier piece? I look up. Turns out, it’s a
leather belt with a gy-normous black rubber dildo attached.
For me?

“
Everywhere you look, it’s
heartache,” she sings.

She stands behind me. Madonna grabs the
microphone snuggled behind my ear like a Bluetooth - and slaps my
ass with it! It tingles but not with pain. It’s more of a cunt
ignition, if you must know. My hooey is salivating at the bit. She
starts a count and gets the fans involved.

“
One...two...three...four...five...six!” My ass is on fire –
ouchie!

Her voice is loud, very old-school Madonna,
with the nasally Michigan accent, not the British thingy she’s been
doing lately. It resonates like the voice of the announcer at the
soccer game Zeus and I went to last month, filling the venue and
making me crave popcorn for some reason.

She wraps her arm around me placing the
microphone up to my lips.

“
Do you want something to
remember?” she asks.

“
Yes,” I say into the mic.
The word echoes as though a series of clones of me have been
strategically placed throughout the room, like a bunch of fem-bots
about to share in a collective experience and I will feel them
all.

Now Madonna shoves the mic inside my wet and
juicy pinkie-pinkerson. Yikes! I wasn’t expecting that. I hope I
don’t get electrocuted, I think. No, electrified is more like it.
She startles me with her strength and power. Madonna has just
presented me with a gift. I feel her fingers twiddling around
stretching it hokey-pokey style the way Zeus likes to do when he’s
drunk and playful. Yes, yes. Beautiful!

I begin to feel serene
like a yogi practicing extreme meditation –
ahhh yesss
- before she dislodges
them and the device. I think I have just solved the riddles of the
universe that will transform my life. It’s all up my ass and inside
my hoo-ha.
Namaste.

“
Six fuckers,” she says.
“Get your fuck on, and then be free to live your life.”

Wait. What does she mean?
Is it what I’m thinking? Does
she
want me to have more sex and with a variety of
men? Is she giving me her blessing? “Tell me how, Madonna,” I
plead. “Give me a kick in the ass.”

“
What do you say?” she
demands.

“
More, please!” I reply as
she tugs on my hair.

The cheering crowd goes
wild. Turns into a sort of mob, repeating Madonna’s words to the
melody of
Like a Prayer
as they clap Russian-style as well, rhythmic and
all together-like.

Madonna kneels behind me.
She sticks it to me. Hard. The dildo is slick and slippery with
lubricant that smells of patchouli oil. It bobs against my rose
bud, tickling the tight opening, forcing it to open its anal
gate.
What am I doing?
It hurts, but nothing in this world is easy, right? I mean,
that’s what I’m thinking.

I’m not normally the kind
of girl who follows the crowd. Some would actually say that I’m a
bit of a wild card. Zeus does. He loves my silly-willy descriptions
of life and all of my zany opinions. But this is different. I’m not
the one offering my quirky one-liner advice. I only want Madonna’s
wisdom. I have to have it. And it’s coming into my back end via a
mega black rubber cock. The bulbous head drives forward now and
stretches the doorway for the rest.
Ow,
mother-fuckers and lucky charms!

“
Open wide,” she says,
“and get the treatment reserved only for my special love. It’s what
I used to do to Guy, to all my guys.”

I’m special to her. She likes me. She really
likes me! Yay! This is the greatest night of my life.

I gasp as the fake pricker fills my anal
cavity and meets my rectum, stretching and taunting its way to
completely possessing me like a fuck demon. It fills me up and
makes me cry out.

“
Madonna, Madonna!” I
scream with tears in my eyes. The mob begins to climb the stairs to
the stage. The muscley security guards in the yellow fluorescent
shirts can’t hold them back. They have gathered, as if to stone me
or something – probably not, maybe it’s just to see an up-close and
personal version of this unorthodox education.

The strap-on pushes in deeper and deeper
with Madonna’s impressive thrust. Its scent has consumed me and I
feel like we are close to becoming one. The dildo ekes out and it
sounds like a giant fart as it thrusts in again. Mortified, I move
my booty-boot up a little higher, shifting so that my shoulders lay
on the stage downward doggie. My hands fumble with the tassels on
my titty-titty-bang-bangs. It soothes me somewhat, reminding me of
my femininity. I then shift my right hand to my clit and begin to
masturbate. Yes, this is so much better. I am a fuck slave.
Everyone knows it now. Everything else is just irrelevant.

Now another thrust comes, and another, and
soon I’m being fucked in the back end just like it’s my hooey. It
feels so, so good. It’s falling from my fingertips, chasing away
the pain or whatever those lyrics are. My idol is giving me the
kick in the ass I desire, the fuck I need as I help myself to a
pinkie invasion of the orgasmic kind.

“
Who’s the deity now?”
Madonna asks. “Me or Zeus?”

“
You are Madonna,” I say.
I don’t have a choice. It’s not as if it’s a toss-up or whatever.
Zeus has never done anything like this to me. I certainly wouldn’t
mind it if he did, so I start pretending that Zeus is giving it to
me, his strong hands on my hips, his beardy face rustling across
the back of my neck, teeth bearing down like a vampire the way we
play all
Twilighty
and stuff sometimes. Then I hear her voice again and I
remember where I am.

“
Six fucks,” Madonna says.
“Six men. That’s all you’ll need.”

Six fucks.
Yes, that makes perfect sense, I
think.

Last night I fucked
Madonna. Then I woke up.
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Introductions & Such

Friday, JULY 17, 2009 - 9:00am

Hi everyone or no one, or whoever is out
there. Call me Danna. I live in Schenectady, New York via Greece.
That’s where my parents are from. I’m a first generation American,
which is weird because aside from the culture immersion of church,
food, dancing, travel and dating a Greek guy, I’m perfectly
American. I have a New York state accent - nothing strange about
that, because I don’t think it’s an accent at all. I sound just
like broadcast journalists and movie stars. Some say I write
exactly the way I talk, that they can almost hear me when they read
my emails and thank you notes, and other correspondence. So this is
me.

I barely speak Greek, but I can - only when
I have to like when my foreign relatives come to visit or when Zeus
and I take vacations to the islands. Zeus Zepkos is my fiancé. We
are childhood sweethearts. I love him very much. How could I not?
He’s my soul mate, after all. That’s what everybody says.

You’re probably wondering what I’m doing
here. I thought this would be easier than writing in a diary that
my mom could infiltrate, the way she had with that little cherry
leather one I’d kept during eighth grade where I had divulged the
spring fling kissing and stuff that happened between Zeus and me.
That was when she’d given me the stern virgin talk. I vowed never
to disclose information like that again in such a careless manner.
But I do like to write – and this way, blogging on the internet, is
much better. No one important will read it (no offense) and I can
do it anywhere, like at work at the travel agency, when there’s no
one in the office. Cyberspace is actually the greatest hiding place
of them all, isn’t it?

I’m positive that no one will find me here
in plain sight, because everyone that matters has sworn an aversion
to the computer. To them, it’s like an evil entity, a malevolent
mythological titan or something. So what if they find me? That’s an
easy fix. I’ll just say that I’d been hacked, my identity stolen.
It happens, like that time someone stole my purse out of the
grocery cart at Price Chopper. Zeus believes everything I tell him.
It won’t jeopardize our relationship.

I’m honest, except for when I try to hide
clothing purchases I make on our joint credit cards. Other than
that, Zeus and I have the greatest relationship in the world. We
share nearly everything. I mean, I don’t ask about his business
trips, because I don’t really understand all that bridge design
talk anyhow. Boring! Naturally, he only half listens when I spout
off travel agency gossip or anything to do with 2012 doomsday
travel plans unless the conversation is to do with our honeymoon or
something. Then he listens with both ears.

I got the idea for this
blog from that one about Julia Child and all that French cooking.
Really – I thought at the time - women
like
to cook? No Greek woman with a
father in the restaurant business bothers with that. The kitchen in
my apartment has brand new stainless appliances and these warm
sandy colored granite countertops. It’s merely decorative - I don’t
actually use it. It’s more like set decoration for when Zeus and I
play our
Spank the French Maid
game. I wriggle around on the counter in a
crocheted hostess apron while he pretends to punish my naked
booty-boot for not passing the white glove test.

I only ever go grocery shopping for
microwaveables, like popcorn or blowjob practice foods like bananas
and ice cream fudgies. That purse snatch happened when I got a
nipsey-russell stuck in the ice cream freezer. I guess my top was a
little low cut and my tit-tat’s little salmon pink face peeked out,
latching onto the cold wall like an anteater’s nose searching for
its next meal. It was so embarrassing that I had to put myself into
a self-imposed exile from food shopping altogether for a while. I
would still be shuddering at the thought of a shopping cart, if it
hadn’t been for that time Zeus brought one home and used it to cage
me like a wild animal. Good times.

I don’t really clean either, obviously. I
never actually learned how thanks to a mother and live-in
grandmother who considered it grown up work. I’d play with my dolls
in my room on a Saturday morning while simultaneously watching
cartoons and they would sort of clean around me – fix my bed with
me on it sort of thing. When I got older, my room was always tidy
by the time I got home from cheerleading practice so that I could
concentrate on phone sex with Zeus.

Thankfully, my future in-laws own a cleaning
business. They send a lady named Petra over every other Saturday to
dust and vacuum my apartment. She even does the window blinds and
that nebula that is the back of the toilet bowl. Should I even be
telling you this? Does it make me sound lazy? I do need to save my
energy for sex, mind you, because I have a lot of it, but I know.
I’m one lucky girl who will never cook or clean. That or I’m living
in Fantasyland, I’m not sure which – Zeus does tend to raise an
eyebrow or two on occasion when I don’t lick the big kazoo clean
after an exceptionally long round of bobbing for balls and pricker.
One of these days, I’ll probably have to learn to be a better
cleaner upper, like when we have kids.

I can’t think that far ahead though, because
my head is currently consumed by this dream inspired mission. I
love the idea of following in my celebrity idol’s footsteps. It
just makes perfect sense, it really does. I will channel Madonna,
her sex life to be exact, just like I did in the vision. It wasn’t
just a dream. I think it was one of those message in an omen
thingys that you have to listen to and if you don’t – well I always
listen because I don’t like consequences, and consequently, I’ve
been very lucky in life because of it.

Zeus is in Japan on
business. He works for a big engineering firm –
Tungsten & Smith.
He left Monday
morning and will be away for the next six and a half weeks. No more
fucky-wuck until the wedding – for him at least. I’ve decided to
use this time to form and execute a plan to replicate sex acts with
partners who parallel the significant men in Madonna’s
life.

I’ll blog each week to
share with you strangers every lurid detail of what I hope will be
an educational summer. I need this. I don’t have a choice. I’m only
twenty-three and I’m getting married at the end of August. Sunday,
August 30
^th
, 2009 at 2:00pm, to be exact.

Mom seems to think that marriage is the
beginning of my life, but come on! Everyone knows it spells the
end, doesn’t it? The beginning of the end. I’ll get…comfortable -
fat just like all of my Greek girlfriends from church. I’ll end up
preggy-preggers right away, like my sister-in-law, Penelope, and
have an ungrateful baby. And if it’s a boy (and it better be
according to my in-laws) he’ll get spoiled and turn into every
other misogynist Greek man on the planet Earth. I’ll be too busy
raising him to make fucky anymore.

On the other hand, maybe not. I shouldn’t
worry, should I? Mom’s not that fat and has kids – me and my two
brothers, Demetrios and Dean. And Madonna has a son. A daughter,
and a son, and a little Malawiian too, and she still gets it on
with all sorts of lovers. She really has it all, doesn’t she?

I want to learn from Madonna, to learn to be
a better person, you know, a humanitarian and such. But most of
all, I want to learn to be a better fucker. It’s the greatest
wedding gift I could give Zeus. I just love him so much. He
deserves a woman with experience who will blow his fucking mind
every time we do the cuntessa-kazoo.