Horizontal Lives

True Tales of the Infamous Courtesan: Persephone N. Hades and her Horizontal Life underground. How she got there, her mis-adventures and her struggle to re-surface.

Sunday, April 17, 2005

"Women in their 30's are at their Best. But Men over 30 are Often too Old to Recognise It.


He: I had to save up to come here.
Me: You did? Oh my god! I feel terrible now.
He: Why? It was worth every cent.
Me: Really? You’re not just saying that? Eeee, sweetie, I really feel bad.
He: Don’t. I’m tellin’ you; its a memory burned into my brain forever.
Me: Only your brain?
He: Ha. Look at your face. Don’t feel bad. I shouldn’t have told you that.
Me: No. No. I’m very flattered but I just feel bad.
He: Think of it this way: when you save up to go on Holiday, don’t you save and spend more beyond your budget?
Me: Unfortunately.
He: And do you regret it?
Me: Not until the Visa bill comes in and I have to work seven days a week for months to pay for it.
He: Even then?
Me: Point taken. No. I don’t regret it. But you know I’m not the most expensive gal out there.
He: You’re up there.
Me: I am, but I know several girls in the business that charge $2000 dollars for just One Hour.
He: Are you serious?
Me: Yep. And they get it. But they’re really tall. Like 5’8 and up.
He: So, what? You pay by the inch?
Me: I guess so!
He: I don’t get the attraction.
Me: What?
He: To just Tall.
Me: No. I know. You like us petite gals.
He: I do. Easier to flip around on the bed. Better torsos. Usually.
Me: Well, I guess it’s a Trophy/Mannequin type of allure.
He: Lucky they don’t make men pay for the lack of inches.
Me: Ha! What do you mean Mister?
He: Every inch below 12 and the price goes up another hundred.
Me: You men and your dicks! I swear to god. Who ever tells you these things? Huh? First of all, you have an amazing Penis and second of all, you are just the right size—unless of course you are forced to copulate with a female horse—then, ok, I would say, then, you might be coming up a bit short.
He: You could charge that and probably get it.
Me: What? A thousand or two for an hour. No way. Don’t have the height. Or the beauty. External, I mean.
He: What are you talking about? Are you nuts? You’re one of the most gorgeous women I know.
Me: No darling. I’m not. You just think I am because of the proximity of my lips to your cock.
He: No!
Me: Aaaannd, because my brain got to you and bewitched you. That’s all. In ‘real-life’ I’m actually quite ugly. Or average. And very disposable.
He: Are you blind? Why is it all pretty girls are blind to how attractive they are?
Me: Aha! See! Attractive. What a horrible word.
He: It’s not.
Me: It is. It implies ‘mediocrity’. It implies: ‘she’ll do’. I HATE that word.
He: Geisha, whatever it was, or whoever it was that made you feel that way was just stupid. Or blind.
Me: Or didn’t have my face close enough to his cock. It wasn’t just one person or one event, I found it out. I found it out several times over. But I remember the first time and it was a real shock. Before that, I really thought I was ‘a catch.’ (I sit up on my knees and re-create with my arms and old cheerleading mantra,) "Oo ungawa, we really got the pow-a"!
He: You were a cheerleader.
Me: I was. Did you imagine otherwise?
He: Forgive me!
Me: A Champion Cheerleader. Back when Cheerleading involved some serious gymnastics.
He: Oooo.
Me: You bet ‘ooo’. "Oo ungawa, we really got the pow-a!" We shrieked from the sidelines and when it was half time, we ran proudly out onto the field to perform the routine that won us the Cheerleader championship. Our football team that we cheered for was called ‘The Commandos’.
He: No kidding?
Me: No. Why? Don't tell me you belonged to a team called that?
He: Believe it or not, I played 'kiddie football' for a team named ‘The Commandos’.
Me: No.
He: Yeah.
Me: Not in Illinois though right?
He: No. Hawaii.
Me: How weird. Small world. The 'Kevin Bacon Theory'? Six-Degrees of Separation?
He: Ummm. Something like that.
Me: Well, on the last game, our team, 'The Commandos', won. Of course all of us on the squad cheered wildly although we really didn’t understand the rules of the game and really hadn’t a clue what we were cheering about. But that wasn’t the point.
He: Women.
Me: Hey. We were girls. And who really cared about the game. We cared about our own sport. Take it easy.
He: I’m chillin’.
Me: Okay then.
He: So how does this have to do with you being ‘ugly’.
Me: Okay, I’m getting to it—long story a bit shorter, it was the last game of the season and apparently it was called the ‘Homecoming Game.’ And we won.
He: You said that.
Me: Am I boring you darling?
He: Never.
Me: Good answer. Smart answer. So, when the game ended, they ushered the boys from our team to one end of the field and the cheerleaders to the other. Apparently, there was some sort of ceremony that was about to begin. Only I was unaware of what was going on so I whispered to my friend and she told me they were going to crown the Homecoming Queen.
He: Ahh ha. And you didn’t know this?
Me: You know me. How can you even ask?
He: Right. Right. Living in your own little world, 'blinders' in place.
Me: Exactly. Anyway, the crowning ceremony was about to begin. So I whispered again to my friend next to me, "Did we vote on a King?" And she said, "They don’t have a King. Only a Queen." Which was confusing in two ways. One: how did she know this was happening and I didn’t? I mean, where was my head? And Two: why aren’t the boys subjected to the same torture?
He: And how old were you at this time?
Me: Maybe 12. Maybe 13? I’m not so good with dates and chronology. So in the same hushed voice, I asked my friend, "Did they vote on us?" And she shrugged and said, "I guess so. Maybe they voted before the game." Then some loud music began and our Cheerleading coach, Mrs. Pascarelli—
He: You still remember her name?
Me: My love, my brain is filled with all sorts of unusable facts.
He: I don’t know about that.
Me: Too kind you are. But it is. I even remember your birthday.
He: No. What is it?
Me: Virgo. September 12th. Is that right?
He: How do you remember that?
Me: Am I right?
He: Yeah. How did you remember it?
Me: I don’t know. Strange brain. But also, I’m born on the 13th and you’re just one day before me but a different month.
He: And year.
Me: And year. So Mrs. Pascarelli arranges us girls from tallest to shortest. And of course, me being the shortest, I’m on the end and my friend is on the other end cause she is the tallest. Although I have to say, I never thought of us as different heights. Strangely enough. I always thought we were the same.
He: Wait! Are you gonna pour that champagne?
Me: I am.
He: No, let me.
Me: Why? It's my only great skill. I thought I would apply it.
He: You always spill it.
Me: You’re such a Virgo. God!
He: What’s that mean?
Me: Who cares if it overflows? That’s why the table is glass. Listen. There are at least two things in life that should definitely, always overflow: Bra Cups and Champagne Flutes. Let it go my Virgo boy!
He: (as I pour and the champagne bubbles over the top) See.
Me: See? Now I’m wet. Are you telling me you don’t like it when I get wet.
He: Oh my.
Me and He: Salute.
Me: (kissing him) Thank you for bringing it. It’s lovely.
He: I like showering you with gifts.
Me: And I like how they get me wet.
He: Oh my.
Me: Should I go on or is this boring.
He: No. I want to hear how a girl like you came to think she was disposable.
Me: It wasn’t just this time though, you know. It took re-enforcement. This was just the First Time I realized I wasn’t what people thought of as ‘beautiful’.
He: Tell me anyways.
Me: Well, ‘The Ceremony’ begins. Katie, my friend, goes first because she is the tallest and therefore at the front of the line. The boys from the football squad come marching down the field in pairs ready to escort us girls to the center of the field. Each of the girls are presented with a big white mum corsage with a "C" in the center of it, made from a yellow pipe cleaner.
He: How romantic.
Me: It was! And quite honestly, it surprised me that I had this sick fluttering feeling in my stomach.
He: Why? I could understand.
Me: You could—now. So could I—now. But I was so young and I couldn’t understand it. I mean, why be nervous for this? I wasn’t nervous for the most important thingthe Cheerleading Competition. So I tried to ignore the nerves and instead I focused on the two smiling boys approaching Katie. One gave her the corsage. The other helped her pin it on. That took a minute as none of the bunch had nimble fingers.
He: They should give boys classes in that.
Me: They should. Probably. And a few other things.
He: Let’s not get into that.
Me: You’re right. Then I watched as the two boys, both grinning ear-to-ear, extended their arms to Katie. I saw Katie’s shy grin as she wound her arms through theirs and then they put their fists on their hips, turning around, and proudly walked Katie out to center field.
He: Sounds sweet.
Me: Then it was Lynne’s turn.
He: Oooh. You don’t like Lynne.
Me: I liked Lynne. I didn’t NOT like anyone. I just didn’t ‘get’ Lynne. She was just kinda ‘Lynne’. Big-boned. Always on the bottom of the mounts. Not very out-going. Boring at slumber parties. Couldn’t tell a scary story if her life depended on it. Didn’t get jokes until a minute after everyone else. She just seemed sort of nebulous. But anyway, Lynne loops her arms through the space between both boy’s arms and promenades on to the field.
He: I knew kids like that when I was growing up.
Me: Right. You know what I mean. I liked her, but I just didn’t have any closeness with her. So then, it’s my turn. I’m the last to go. And my face is beaming as the last two boys came down the field, and I step forward to meet them. My eyes meet theirs but they have no smiles.
He: Aww no.
Me: I know. I know. The tragedy of childhood! Ah me. So, the boy with the flower dumps it in my hand, then stands there looking away as I struggle, with the little pearl-tipped straight pin to pin it through my thick uniform sweater, myself. My chin is bruising my collarbone as I’m trying to see enough to pin it on and I can feel it’s taking way too long. Finally, Mrs. Pascarelli comes to my rescue, managing to pin it enough, though slightly tilted, so we could make it out to the field. Grudgingly the unhappy boys put their arms in the proper positions. I slip my bony arms through the space they leave for me, but when my forearm accidentally brushes the bicept of the boy on my left, he violently shakes off my touch and never puts his arm back in place. Lopsided like this, I am ‘escorted’ to center field.
He: I’m gonna cry.
Me: I’m gonna bash you in your head.
He: No really. It’s so sad. Kids are so cruel.
Me: Oh come on. I’ve been treated worse by grown men. And I would bet you’ve been treated worse by grown women. It’s all the same.
He: They have no idea how they’d kick themselves later if they knew you today.
Me: I don’t believe I ever met any of them again to make them suffer.
He: Too bad. So who won?
Me: Who do you think?
He: Katie?
Me: Interesting. Why Katie?
He: We started talking about the ‘tall’ thing.
Me: Actually, a lot of it was a blur. My heart thudded before the announcement and fell just as hard when I heard the name. It wasn’t that I was a sore loser.
He: Not you.
Me: I wasn’t. Is that how you think I am?
He: Actually, no. So what was it?
Me: It was just so confusing. So stunningly shocking. I was so narcissistic. So in my own world that it hadn’t occurred to me. I thought I was beautiful. I had no reason to believe otherwise. Lynne. It was Lynne.
He: Ah. Lynne.
Me: Lynne? Big-boned, gawky, clumsy, saggy-shouldered always-defeated-ahead-of-time Lynne? Uncreative, unimaginative, laugh-after-everyone-else-does Lynne? Lynne who falls asleep at slumber parties? Lynne, who in Girl Scouts has only two badges and can’t sell more than five boxes of cookies? Lynne, who at twelve already weighs 112 lbs., probably because of her big fat boobs, and can’t even do a "C" jump, Lynne? Lynne, whose hair was so blonde, even her eyebrows and eyelashes were colorless? And besides that, everyone knew Lynne was the last one chosen for the squad and everyone knew she was chosen mainly because she could support a mount. And when Mrs. Pascarelli told the girls to smile, everyone secretly knew it was Lynne she was talking to.
He: And you were—
Me: Well okay. Factually, I was 85 pounds. I sold the most Girl Scout cookies. A hundred seventy five two years in a row compared to Lynne's two. AAAnnndd! I had so many badges that not only did they cover both sides of my sash, but my Mom actually had to purchase me a second sash. Which I wore with a great deal of pride mind you.
He: None of that surprises me.
Me: Do you really want to get laid later?
He: Sorry. Sorry. I’m listening.
Me: Really though. It made no sense to me. In my own perception, I was vivacious. I was the ‘social butterfly’ my mother thought it imperative to be. I was compact, weighing only eighty-five pounds. I was graceful and limber and energetic and had perfect posture. I had long long hair that touched below my butt and was obviously as lush as any fairy-tale Princess. I was the one that told the jokes and the stories at slumber parties—the ones Lynne laughed at, eventually. And I had skills for goodness sake. I was always at the head of the squad. Always starting the cheers. Always on top of every mount. And I was a really good gymnast. What was all this compared to Lynne? I just didn’t have any place to put it. It was unfathomable. It was incomprehensible. And it was life, forever more.
He: It wasn’t Life ‘forever more’ you Drama Queen.
Me: Okay okay. But, admit it! You like how dramatic I am. My stories come with the territory.
He: (snickering) ‘and that was life forever more…’ Ha!
Me: Now I’m mad at you. No! Don’t touch me. Don’t try and kiss me. Don’t!
He: Geisha. That was then.
Me: I know. But it affects the way you know and feel yourself. And there were other incidents to re-inforce this one besides!
He: Geisha. (Takes my face in his hands and waits until my eyes settle on his.)
Me: Hmmm?
He: I’m probably one of your older clients—
Me: No---
He: I’m 66.
Me: I know.
He: You know what you do?
Me: Yes I know what I do!
He: To me.
Me: What?
He: You put a smile on my face.


I kiss him for that.


He: You put a ‘bisou’ on my lips—


I kiss him again.


He: You put a lilt in my step—


Another kiss with a shy, grateful smile.


He: And you put a ‘hitch’ in my ‘giddee-up’.


Big juicy kiss.


Me: That’s so sweet. Thank you.
He: I’m not being ‘sweet’. I mean it. I had no 'hitch' and no 'gidee-up' left before I met you, What was that thing you once said to me?
Me: When?
He: You don’t remember?
Me: When?
He: When I first called you.
Me: I don’t remember.
He: We talked and then I asked you how old or young you were.
Me: Oh Yes! I told you I was 33—
He: And I said you sounded younger than that on your voicemail and on the phone but I assumed from the way you spoke that you were much older--
Me: And I just assumed you were insulting me—
He: Which I wasn’t—
Me: No, I know that now but—
He: And you said--


He and Me: "Women in their 30’s and 40’s are at their best, but men over 30 are often too old to recognize it"!


Me: Oh my god! That’s right. I can’t believe you remembered that!
He: I have a strange brain too.
Me: Virgo. I know.
He: It’s true.
Me: What is?
He: What you said.
Me: Yeah? Do you really think so?
He: Boys have to have Girls. And Men have to have Women.
Me: God I’m crazy about you right now.
He: So I’m restored? I get to go into the Inner Sanctuary?
Me: This way.
He: Lead on. I follow.
Me: I love when you ply me with Shakespeare.


A week later I receive a Chrysanthemum with the letter ‘C’ attached to it.


The only note reads:

"Forgive me. Forgive us all, this blind gender I am a member of for you will always be my ‘Commando Queen’."


And he thinks I’m dramatic?!


1 Comments:

At 12:43 PM, Blogger ali said...

i'll never understand the tall thing. i think it must be you americans with your supersize mentality... in my high school, the consensus hot girls were always the little ones. maybe canadian males have some sort of bizarre superiority complex. but what guy wants to be with a girl who's taller than he is? one of my oldest friends is just straight up gorgeous and over six feet all, and has been just left out of the pretty-girl ranks forever because of it. in any case, even the prettiest tall girls tend to be gawky, and awkward, and you feel (more) insignificant around them. j'aime les petites!

btw, i've been lurking about ever since your very earliest posts. consistently the most intriguing thing on the internet, keep it up! you liven up my shitty workdays.

 

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