“Harry Ford and I are engaged to be married,” Amity states, proudly, “and we’re here to register ourselves.”
“I’m pleased you’ve chosen Maxwell-Grey.” MakeswillGry. “My name is Kiki Cartwright. I’ll be delighted to help you.”
Kiki Cartwright. Great name. We follow her, staying back in case she falls, into a special area within the wedding department, where a tasteful, bone-colored sofa awaits. We sit. She offers us white wine or Perder water.
“Champagne,” Amity tells her. “We can’t shop without it.” Kiki gives her a squinty saccharine smile and disappears. “Look at this place,” I tell Amity. “Everyone here is dead.” It’s true. There’s not a single stained piece of clothing, a scuff mark on a shoe, a hair out of place, or a pockmark on the skin of anyone in view. No one except the mannequins and Kiki seems to have any kind of expression on his face. “Whatever happened to the love children of the sixties? Married people used to receive poetry as gifts.”
“This is all a part of it,” Amity explains, as if she’s done this many times before. “Don’t worry. We’ll be out of here in no time.” “I’m giving you poetry as my gift,” I tell her resolutely.
Amity smiles. “I can’t think of anything I’d rather have from you, babe.”
Kiki brings an open magnum, pours, and hands us the crystal glasses. “Do you like these glasses? They’re available in the store. Many of our couples list them so that they can remember this special day.” Special die.
“Very nice,” Amity says. “Who makes them?”
“Baccarat,” Kiki answers, seating herself on the edge of a chair across from us.
“I’m a Lalique girl,” Amity says, no apology.
“Of course,” Kiki says. “You look Lalique to me.”
I notice another couple, who appear to be concluding their meeting standing not ten feet away with their own sales-package woman, who is shaking their hands carefully so she won’t break a nail, lest antifreeze ooze from the breaking point. The guy, who looks miserable, gives me a sympathetic nod. I nod back, even give a little wave of camaraderie. What’s a straight guy to do? This is only a game. This is only a game. This is … “Let’s start with bedding,” the sales package says. She’s sitting so far out on the edge of her chair, I’m sure she’s going to fall off and break, and I’d hate to see that happen because she’s quite possibly the mother of a little girl who looks just like her. “Often our focus in the first stages of marriage is in the bedroom,” she adds, trying to give a folksy wink. She doesn’t pull it off, but I offer her a laugh to help her along. “Do you have any desire for linens, comforters, bedspreads?”
“Ralph Lauren all the way,” Amity dictates swiftly.
I have a feeling that Kiki is the kind of woman who has inter course standing up. So she doesn’t mess up her hair. I don’t blame her-. it’s a masterpiece. More curves than Central Expressway, but much better planned. “I like your hair,” I say.
“Why, thank you,” she says, nodding pleasantly. “I style it myself.”
“Good job.”
“You’re so sweet.” She looks at Amity. “You’ve landed your self quite a gentleman.”
“I certainly have,” Amity answers. “If more of us gals married gay guys, we’d all be a lot happier.”
“Aw, shucks,” I say, smiling at Amity.
Kiki’s face freezes with a deer-in-the-headlights look. Then she
glances back at her printed forms and hastily asks, “Do you have specific needs in the bedroom?” She’s instantly horrified by her timing.
Amity growls sexily, “Are you reading off the form? Or is that an open-ended question, darling’?”
Kiki holds up the form and points to the question. “Right here on the list.”
“Just put us down for everything,” Amity giggles.
“Of course,” the woman answers, nervously making a note.
“Does this go into a computer or something?” I ask, trying to smooth her out.
“Yes, Mr. Ford. You and your bride will get a computerized printout of everything you’ve listed, as well as a final printout of everything purchased,” she answers.
I nibble a sassy little cucumber and red pepper sandwich from the tray on the table in front of us, look at Amity, try not to laugh. “Let’s move into the kitchen,” Kiki suggests. “Together?” I ask. She doesn’t get it.
“Yes,” Amity says. “Harry and I aren’t like those couples who focus on the bedroom. We like to focus on the kitchen.”
“How marvelous,” Kiki says, breathing a sigh of relief. “Do you both like to cook?”
“Heavens, no. We’re horrible cooks. We use the kitchen for sex!”
Here she goes , shaken not stirred.
Kiki looks pained. She smiles a forced smile. “There’s a place for everything,” she says, trying to be a good sport.
“That’s the trouble. There isn’t. We need a big ole chopping block for Harry to lay me out on.”
“Maxwell-Grey has them. We’ll put it on the list,” she says, refusing to be offended.
Amity leans forward so that both she and the sales package are
on the edge of their seats. “And a sterling silver garlic press,” she whispers. “It’s nothing but a fancy nipple clamp, darling’. You’ve got to try it.”
“Great. Thank you,” Kiki answers as if Amity has shared a stock tip.
I’m slamming my champagne. Looking around. Anything to keep from laughing.
“Oh! And a food processor! We definitely need one of those.” The saleswoman, assuming there’s a catch, doesn’t write. Amity looks blankly at her. “For processing.” Kiki looks relieved.
” “Course, you’ve got to be careful what you put in those things,” Amity adds. “After all, one little pureed weenie and there goes the marriage.”
The woman finally stiffens, loses her grace. “I suppose.” Amity sings a Tammy Wynette hybrid:
That’s what pureed weenie means to me.
I’m spitting champagne through my nose. Amity’s smiling. And Kiki is sliding back in her chair. Giving up.
“Look. Just put us down for everything,” I say, using my little cocktail napkin to wipe my nose. “My mother will probably buy it all anyway.”
Kiki Cartwright slides right back out to the edge of her chair, fully rejuvenated. “Yes, Mr. Ford!”
Amity has this thing about first dates. She prefers they be brunch or lunch. You can much easier steal yourself away from lunch than dinner in case the date turns out to be a nightmare. Nawtmayor She suggests we invite the waiter boys over for brunch and make nasty fruit plates.
“Nasty fruit plates, Harry! We slice the bacon into pieces and fry them up until they’re nice and curly. Then we cut a banana in half, lengthwise, and lay it on the plate. Two big round slices of kiwi underneath, and you’ve got a nasty fruit plate!”
We sip champagne and take hits off the bong while we fry the bacon in the kitchen. It’s only 10:00 in the morning and we’re getting looped. After the bacon is fried, I slice the bananas down the middle and Amity peels the kiwi.
It isn’t until we fix them up, on four different plates, that I see the curly bacon is pubic hair, the banana is a big penis, and the kiwi slices are testicles.
“Just look at those bad boys!” Amity squeals, referring to our creations. “Now, the finishing touch.” She takes the bottle of creamy salad dressing, and pours a dribble down the shaft of each banana. The phone rings.
“Hello?” I say, into the receiver.
“Hi, honey. Is Amity there?”
“Nice to talk to you too, Mother,” I answer, loading the semen dribbled bananas into the refrigerator.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Harry, but I’ve a limited amount of time today. I have to go to the clinic for a followup.”
Of course. She’s still recovering from cancer. I feel guilty. “Sorry, Mom. How is everything?”
“Wonderful, honey. Bud Orenstein says that it’s the best tummy tuck he’s done and that I look like Suzanne Sommers. He just wants to check my muscle tone, but I’m running late. Is Amity there?”
Duped again. “What’s going on with your cancer tuck?” I ask.
“What a perfect way of saying it! Everything’s fine. Now really, darling, give me Amity.”
I hand Amity the phone.
“Hi, Susan! How can I help you? Uh-huh. Right. Oh, yes. Great! I can’t wait. I’ll mark it on my calendar. See you then. Love your guts!” Amity hangs up the phone.
“She loves her own guts. They’ve been tucked away so nicely.”
“And I’ll do the same when the time comes,” Amity says resolutely.
“So what’s the skinny?” I ask.
“She’s coming down to Dallas. We’re going to go gown shopping.”
“Just warn me so I can be out of town. Now look,” I state, changing the subject. “You, me, and Nicolo are going to get off on eating these nasty fruit plates, but what about Thomas? He’s straight. He doesn’t want to eat a big dick dripping with jism.” “Oh my God, Harry! Should we have made him a pussy?” We laugh so hard we fall on the kitchen floor.
“Come on, come on!” Amity says, pulling me up. “We’ve got to whip up an edible Libby.”
We find out that kiwi is actually very vagina like when squished into shape. And with the green color and the black seeds, we wind
up with something wet, juicy, and so visually stunning that Georgia O’Keefe would be proud. We crumble the bacon on top of it and use a little round slice of banana as a belly button above it. Amity cheers, “Voile, y’all!” “Voile, y’all!” I imitate.
She jumps into the bathroom for a mini poo, the abbreviated version of the poo up. The full version takes two hours, and she doesn’t have time. She takes off her clothes and squats in the tub. She’s dark from yesterday’s sun, and her tan lines make her look as if she’s wearing a white bra and panties where her breasts, ass, and crotch have been shielded by her swimsuit. As water flows out of the spigot, she unabashedly uses a washcloth to wash her Muffle or Lady or whatever it’s called today while I sit on the tub’s edge. “We gotta make sure this isn’t an all-day thing because I’ve got a date with Kim tonight,” she says, now washing under her arms. “Don’t worry. The waiters probably have to work tonight.” She finishes up, and we both get dressed. I wear linen shorts with a belt and a starched, shortsleeved button-down. No shoes. It’s too hot, and besides, my feet are tanned, so they do match my belt, as Amity insists they should. I’d really just like to wear a pair of gym shorts and a T-shirt, but Amity makes me dress Winstonesque. The boys arrive together in Thomas’s convertible Mustang. Amity is turning up my short sleeves, making cuffs, while we watch them from the house. “Look at his car, Harry!” She smoothes my collar. I’ll have to wear a scarf when I go riding with him, or my hair could fly loose and kill someone in the next lane.” We bolt from the door so they don’t see us watching them. When they knock, Amity has me answer and then casually strolls into view behind me, wearing linen shorts of her own, a melon-colored blouse, and expensive European sandals over her tan feet and painted toes.
“Hi, y’all.” She’s resting her head on my shoulder, allowing it to be her frame.
Nicolo stands there, wearing a light yellow polo shirt, his dark
skinned biceps bursting out of the short sleeves while his muscled legs press against the faded button-fly jeans. The guys come in. Thomas kisses Amity, and Nicolo shakes my hand. When Amity reaches out to shake hands with Nicolo, he quietly says hello and shakes hands dispassionately. Like the night at the restaurant, I can tell he doesn’t really like her. I think she can too. We show them the house and then bring them right back near the front door to the sun porch, and serve them mimosas. Then Amity pulls out a pre twisted joint, and we all get stoned. Then Amity and I announce the nasty fruit plates. Nicolo and Thomas are relaxing, digging it, and we laugh while we all eat our fruity genitalia.
“We almost served you a dick,” Amity cheerfully confesses to
Thomas, who’s slurping up his New Zealand-grown vagina. “Yes, your pussy is very last minute,” I add.
Amity tilts her head and takes a sip of champagne and orange juice. “Harry’s so thoughtful. He helped me shape it just this morning.”
“That’s why it’s so fresh,” I claim.
“So what happened to my dick?” Thomas asks, jumping into the game with his very slight, very sexy European accent.
Amity smiles and tilts her head even more. “I ate it, darling’.” And so our conversation goes, remaining on the light side to the extent that it almost escapes gravity. And I notice that the lighter it gets, the less patient Nicolo grows. Every time he tries to make a stab at something real, whether it’s the Russian boycott of the Olympics or the ongoing presidential debates, Amity steers the conversation back to sex. And I can see that Nicolo doesn’t really respect her, and in fact, I sense that he thinks she’s rather shallow. It’s not anything he says, but I can see it in his eyes when he looks at her. He even tries to discuss the Air Florida bankruptcy, perhaps thinking that Amity would at least be interested in something that has to do with the airline industry, but she steers the conversation back to sex again and gets no protest from Thomas, who eventu ally picks her up and carries her into the bedroom while she pretends to kick and scream like a cave woman
Nicolo and I walk to my bedroom. Nicolo lies down on my bed, which is no longer the blow-up mattress, but a queen-size mattress and box springs that sit directly on the floor. Before I close the door, we hear from Amity’s bedroom, “Oh, Thomas, you drive me wild!” Nicolo chuckles while I close the door and pull the shades. I light two candles and turn on the radio. Cyndi Lauper starts into “Time after Time” as I turn to Nicolo. He smiles, pats the empty bed next to him, and says, “Let’s talk.”
“It wasn’t exactly what we were doing on the porch, was it?”
I answer quietly.
“No,” he claims, “we didn’t saying anything. I want to learn of you, Harry.” Never mind that he’s gorgeous. His Spanish accent alone makes him sexy. I lie down beside him, and he takes my hand. “You said before that Kansas is your home. Tell me about Kansas.”
His hand is warm, and his dark skin is reflective with the slight sheen of natural oils. I’ve never been with anything but white boys, but I’ve always craved his type. I like the feel of him and how he looks next to the white sheets. “Kansas is flat,” I answer. My erection isn’t.