Putting the Madge in Danna (5 page)

“
My wife and I barely have
sex anymore,” he said instead.

I blurted, “Why not? Is there something
wrong with your cock?”

Yeah, I know, I should
work on that thinking-before-opening-my-trap routine. I must have
sounded like my great-grandmother, Yaya Mellania, from Mykonos, who
is a Greek version of Sophia from
Golden
Girls
.

“
Uh, no,” Chad Mavis
replied. “She just lost interest in it, I guess.”

I felt kind of sorry for him for getting
stuck with a Mrs. Frigid, but the truth was, I thought, TMI alert.
I’ll let you in on a secret, bloggers. Women love sex. You just
have to push the right buttons with us - everybody knows that, or
else it’s just shut down time, like the way you shut down when math
is too hard.

I had to keep my arms at my sides because I
had that urge to play the self-destructing robot. You know, arms
bending slowly up and down at the elbows while legs do a sort of
moonwalk. Zeus likes that dance when we role-play Sci-Fi. Then he
sticks it to me from behind and I regenerate to the tune of his
massive pricker.

Should I abort the mission, I wondered?
There was an awkward silence in the garage studio as I digested his
words. I looked down and noticed he had added a green shag rug
remnant to the floor. I thought it was grass at first but that
would have been weird.

“
So,” he said finally, “do
you want to try that song? I have the instrumental track set up.
It’s in the same key as Madonna’s version. It’s in
E
. Does that work? All
you have to do is put on the headphones then sing into the
microphone.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Okay,” I said.

I entered the recording booth and popped on
the headphones. Then I was all “Test, test,” into the
microphone.

“
I can hear you fine,”
Chad Mavis said into his desk lamp style mic on the other side of
the glass.

It was difficult to climb onto the stool he
had there wearing my tiny mini dress. There was no way to remain
demure as I hoisted myself up. Felt like that Lily Tomlin lady when
she plays that baby in an oversized high chair – saw it on TV Land
just last week. I hiked up the dress so that my bare booty-boot
cheeks landed on the hard wood of the stool (he, he, hard wood,
which is what I was expecting shortly in my hoo-ha).

When I heard the music, I felt more at ease.
I can do this, I thought. I sang the whole song, hitting every note
as Chad Mavis sat on the other side of the console adjusting the
bass and treble levels.

“
That was great Miss
Elinin..in….”

“
Elinopoulous,” I said.
“Call me Danna. It’s like Madonna except without the Ma and with an
A. D-A-N-N-A.” I flashed him a big toothy smile like a Miss America
contestant. I have great teeth thanks to several years of braces
and a barrel of whitener strips.

“
Okay, Danna. That was
aces,” he said. “But I want to try something else. Can you take it
from the top?”

“
Something else?” I asked
trying to sound seductive-like. “What did you have in
mind?”

“
I want to do another
take, just to make sure we got it,” he replied. Wow, I thought.
Should I quit my day job and become a lounge lizard? Am I that
good? Maybe I should try out for American Idol! “We can do a splice
and have you harmonized with yourself. Madonna does it all the
time.”

Do it
again
. Hmm, I thought. That’s the one
thing that I
don’t
really like about singing. It’s like you give it your all
then you have to do the same thing assembly line style just like a
factory worker - over and over.

And then what, I wondered?
Thirdzies and fouthzies? I must admit, it seemed kind of boring to
be so repetitive. I would have much rather sung a different song. I
thought, why would anyone want to sing in rerun all the time?
Madonna’s been doing it for thirty years or so, longer than I have
been alive. Wow. She’s a real trouper, isn’t she? This actually
made me appreciate her even more. It was
work
, I realized,
not just fun and (in my case) sexy
games.

I watched Chad manipulate the gadgets on the
recording equipment as I sang the song again. I couldn’t really
tell if he liked my singing or not. He seemed so serious. Perhaps
he’d created a poker face from years of pretending that he liked
his client’s singing. I didn’t want to do it anymore. I had to make
my checkmate move.

I said, “You know, I bet I
could hit the high note a little better if you came over here and
tweaked my clit. I heard that was part of Madonna’s regimen when
she trained her voice for her role in
Evita
.”

Gee, I thought, he seemed so easily
persuaded. I was obviously making that up. He nearly hit his head
on that light fixture dangling from the ceiling. I’m not even sure
he set the record button because he dashed over lickity-split. But,
fucky-doodles, I wasn’t really there to sing, so I didn’t care.

He came into the little recording booth and
approached me from behind. I tried to pretend he wasn’t there, as
if I was in the middle of an MTV music video. I kept singing the
ballad, as I would if I had been singing in the shower, because I
wasn’t really thinking about the lovely-dovey words. I knew them by
heart. Chad Mavis put his arms around my waist, lacing his hairy
knuckles there. Then his hands found their way to my nips. He tried
squeezing them but my halter-top kind of reined them in too much. I
reached for the left side zipper and started to undress myself. Too
forward? WWMD, what would Madonna do, right? It was already 1:30pm
and I had other things to do, you know? Time was of the essence of
fucky-wucky-doodle-doos.

Chad helped me lose the dress and the
headphones. I couldn’t tell if he liked what he saw because of that
damned poker face. But please! A twenty-three-year-old pseudo
virgin in white lace and cha-cha heels? I admit I have a bit of a
jiggle in my tum-tum, not like Chad Mavis’ of course, but a little
lady poochy-pooch is good, especially when I do some belly dancing
on harem night with Zeus. It gives a guy some leverage (when he’s
pushing his way into my hoo-ha) - something to hold to steady
himself.

At least that’s what my
gyno, Dr. Martha Quirkenbush, said once.
Dani, the jigs give a man leverage
.
She’s full of quirky one-liners too, like
never say no - you never know when Tom Jones will be walking
into your neighborhood.
I’m not sure who
this Tom Jones character is, but he must be über-sexy if he appeals
to a testosterone filled woman like my mustached doctor.

My record producer put his head against my
cheek and I could smell the faint scent of Mr. Wino reeking from
his pores. I hadn’t noticed that before. But it wasn’t a big
dealio, especially due to his expert handling of my upper body. I
love having my titty-ta-tas tweaked - tweaking in general is always
a good thing. It sort of sends a telegraphic message to my uterus
that an army of man-seed is approaching, and I need to send the
secretion troops out to intercept and defend the egg queen.

“
Baby, you are hot,” Chad
whispered into my ear. I was a little off-put since I was still
trying to sing that stupid third track. I didn’t want his voice
showing up on my recording. If my song was truly any good after all
of this, I kind of thought that I might actually play it at my
wedding reception – really late at night after we’ve broken every
plate and are dancing on the tables.

He moved his hands back down to my waist
then lower and lower. I uncrossed my legs to help him find his way.
Sliding my thong aside with his thumb and index finger, he used
them to clamp my hoo-ha open, and simultaneously my voice hit that
note. I’ve never sung so well! Chad rubbed me out slow and steady,
rhythmically, I guess. Now it really felt like singing in the
shower because I always did that to myself in there, which is why I
take such long showers. Zeus always complains that I use too much
hot water. He’s so practical.

Chad moved around to face me. He squatted
down and kind of took in the whiff of sex emanating from my hooey,
just like one of those wine experts who sniffs the liquor and then
announces the fragrance - fruity, nutty, and la-la-la. What would
Chad say about my smell, I wondered? I haven’t been eating a lot of
meat lately because I had read that a cunt smells more lady-like on
veggies alone. Would he say I smelled fresh or pungent? Hmm. Well,
he didn’t say anything at all. He just smiled.

There was something so
provocative about singing the words
I’m
crazy for you - you know it’s true
while
being prodded by a relative stranger. It made me think about
Madonna again. Could she separate sex from emotion, like a guy
could? It was weird, I thought, but if she could do it then I could
do it too. I couldn’t really pretend that Mr. Mavis was Zeus. Zeus
doesn’t smell like cheap wine. So I pretended that he was going to
provide me with a piece of the puzzle of worldly knowledge, and I
would accept the gift with cum and a smile.

Once I’d finished that
third rendition of
Crazy for
You
, Chad Mavis rose and lifted me off the
stool. Maybe he had weak knees or something, because he didn’t
carry me around like Zeus does. He immediately put me down and I
spread-eagled on the grass green carpet. I was so like a virgin
circa Madonna 1980s at the VMAs! Like reincarnated, only she’s
still alive.

He placed his pubic style
goatee on my tidy mon-mons and used his tongue to dart about my
pink tunnel (Dr. Quirkenbush says it’s the pinkiest she’s ever
seen, by the way). He worked as if he was getting paid to do it,
like one of those Victorian professional massages for hysterical
women, sucking my lab lips and reaching deep inside. I was wrong
before. Chad didn’t have a Mick Jagger look, it was more of a
Steven Tyler thing, like the mouth you enter in the tunnel of love
ride at the fair, you know? Giant-like. His tongue thrust deep
inside me, practically licking me dry I believe, like a tongue
cock. I thought, why doesn’t his wife like
this
? It’s a pretty fucking great
precursor to a hooey-pricker rainbow connection!

Once I was all tingly and on the yellow
brick road to orgasm, I decided to go after his cock. Because to
me, sex isn’t sex without the presence of a clean healthy pricker.
Am I right? Before this day, Zeus’ big kazoo was the only one I’d
ever seen except for that time in fifth grade when Tim
MacGillicutty’s pants fell down and I saw the whole teeny
shi-bang.

I jimmied my way to Chad
Mavis’ zipper and slid it open. Finding his thingy only slightly
erect, I touched it to pump it up a bit. Maybe it didn’t see well
in the dark, I thought. Light flutters with my manicured magic
fingers boosted him into manhood. Yes and yes! Then I pulled him
down on top of me. He penetrated me with a one-two punch
(wetty-tastic!). I began to yell obscenities the way Zeus likes,
all
fuck me, big man
and then…wha-whan! He turned Mr. Softee! Definitely weird, my
friends. What the hell, right? I forced it to go in again but it
was a sloppy no-go. Squish-squash. He slid off me and I watched him
frantically try to slap it into form. He was doing this insane
masturbating thing. But nothing came of it. Nothing, my
friends.

I said, “Don’t you like me?”

“
You’re beautiful, Danna,”
Chad Mavis replied.

“
I don’t get it.” I said.
Literally, I guess, which was humiliating, especially since I had
committed to the bit. Once Zeus or I commit to a role-play sex
game, we stick it out until the end. It’s one of our Greek
commandments. “Does this happen often?”

“
Not exactly... well...
sometimes,” he said. He stopped trying to force himself into an
erection and looked like a soldier in a ceasefire without the white
flag. I am not fond of quitters of any sort. We Elinopoulouses are
hard workers. Hard. Get it?

“
Well try harder,” I said.
“I need a cock to finish me off.”

Then, and this is where it gets weird,
bloggers - he started crying! Like a pussy. I have known Zeus since
church school when we were both eight years old, and I have never
seen him cry.

“
I can’t please you,” Mr.
Mavis said. “I’m sorry.” He retrieved a white hanky from his shorts
pocket and nearly blew his brains out discharging mucous into it.
The white flag. It was over. I thought it would have lasted longer,
but oh well. While he was bawling, I got up and casually wiggled
back into my dress.

I said, “Hey, no. It’s totally cool. This
was great. Thanks for the opportunity to cut the record. You did me
a favor, not the other way around. Don’t sweat it.”

I gave him a pity kiss. I let him slobber my
lips with my own cunt-drenched juices that were still lingering on
his. I tasted like robust sugary koulurakia cookies. We left it on
amicable terms, I think. He pulled up his pants, went back to the
console and prepped the tape for me. We shook hands. He said he
would mail me an additional tape of the songs we’d discussed for
the processional and a mix for the reception, for when the Greek
folk band takes a break.

Tomorrow I’m headed to my future
mother-in-law’s. I should probably buy some creamy colored towels
when she takes me to Macy’s. Something that easily hides the cunt
residue of my soaky-wetty and naughty hooey.