Sunday, December 05, 2004

Have yourself a sticky little Christmas:

The Black Table recently ran my piece, "Ivory Christmas", in its monthly "Waxing Off" section. I've posted the link here, as well as the original version, which I prefer. (Two of my favorite lines were cut! Who dares to alter my story of adolescent fake masturbation?)

Anyway, enjoy!


I was a teenage art-geek. Frizzy haired and studious, I hadn't yet learned to work a prodigious vocabulary and ample rack to my advantage. But I had my first real boyfriend, Pete. We discussed Dylan Thomas at lunch and he played King Crimson riffs for me over the phone. I was in love.

My parents, both Greek, both prosecutors, insisted on meeting him. I balked, but relented when my dad threatened to run Pete's license plates. "This house is like a cop show!" I yelled and stormed from the room.

The next day after school, Pete loaded his books into my used Mustang and we drove home. It was two weeks before Christmas and I'd told him my folks wanted to include him in a traditional Greek holiday meal. Once inside, we sat on the living room couch by the Christmas tree. Mom and Dad wouldn't be home for a couple of hours and I thought my brother was at soccer practice.

"You're my other half," Pete said and put his hand on my knee. As we kissed, a moaning sound wafted down the hall. Barely audible at first, it grew louder. I realized it was my brother. "It sounds like someone's jacking off," Pete said, alarmed.

The bathroom door flung open and my brother raced into the room. "Aaaahhhhh!" he yelled and ran toward Pete. His hands were coated in viscous white liquid and he waved them around maniacally. "Pete! I love you, Pete!"

"Is he retarded?" Pete asked frantically, tripping over the hassock in an effort to get away. "I want to give you my baby juice!" my brother continued and chased Pete into the kitchen. I heard my mom's planter knock into a wall.

By now, I knew what was going on. My brother, a smart-ass and more than slightly nuts, was hazing my boyfriend. My boyfriend, however, had no clue.

"Goddamn it, George! Leave him alone!" I called after them. I sprinted into the kitchen, caught George by the shirt and yanked. He stopped and burst out laughing.

"Oh my God! Dude, you should have seen the look on your face!" he told Pete. "Lighten up there, pal. It's just Ivory Liquid. I would have had to crank it eight or nine times to get that much jizz."

"What the hell's wrong with you?" Pete cried, visibly shaken.

Later at dinner, Pete endured my parents' inquisition with aplomb. He made polite conversation with my brother as if nothing had happened. And he left me the next week for a cheerleader.

He said it was because she would blow him. Though perhaps Pete liked his Christmases white, not Ivory.

No comments: