Hi. Hello. Happy Super Incredibly Belated New Year. Trump is President, and we're not dead. Yet.
I need to tell you something. Yes, you, the person who is reading this for whatever reason. This is the first in a series that I'm working on -- my Cast of Characters. I'm doing a study of all of the important people in my life. The next few entries will be descriptions of the most important, memorable, loved, hated, revered, quizzical people in my life. So much of what I'm about is silent observation and just taking everything in, before diving into the deep end. At least the next six posts of this blog will be about my lovers, friends, family, and well, one really fucking crazy boss. So... away we go.
A Boy of Ivory
My boy of ivory glances at me from the little dark hallway between the living room, and kitchen, where he has just made me my fifth gimlet of the evening. We are leaning in. We have decided. We have become Us. He smiles at me, with that sweet sly shy smile, the one that will become my favorite thing to look at, in all of space and time, the one that assures me it's all going to be ok. The one that I saw through the window on the Upper East Side, in that Italian Cafe, the one I reference all the time.
My boy of ivory does not take up much space, he is slight, wiry, smaller than I am. My hips are wider than his. My weight comes in at about 60 pounds more than he does. I however, never felt more feminine in my life. More adored. More in tune with another. My boy of ivory glances at me again, stunning me out of my lost gaze at him, winking at me, asking me if I'll have another gimlet. Yes, I say. He's wearing the eyeliner I put on him. My doll. He's wearing the red fishnet body stocking I put on him. Pushing him to the limit. Even in his small delicate frame, he is work of art. He is my boy of ivory. He stands like a Roman statue come to life, gazing at me, seeing right through me, owning me completely. I get caught gawking at least fifteen more times in the next few days. I count them, he doesn't know this. He asks me again, would I like another? I'm in my corset, garter belt, and stockings, the set he bought me, specifically for tonight. Although he is wearing the collar, I am completely his. Yes, I will have another.
My boy of ivory comes back into the living room, mounts me, lets me sip the gimlet, and looks at me with those limestone green eyes, the ones I've become accustomed submitting to completely. He wraps his legs around me, and says "How's your drink?" I sigh, take a sip, pull his small beauty frame toward me, kiss him, and the rest of that night becomes a beautiful blur.
My boy of ivory deserves all of the attention and affection I have to give. I am certain of this. I have been certain of this for almost 700 days and counting. Each morning he texts me with a few short lines that only we would understand. We already have our own language. As I write this, right now, even now, even in this quiet, dark, literal eleventh hour moment, he remains my closest confidant. Never has there been anyone who knows the cracks and crevices and canals of my soul and flesh the way he does. My boy of ivory understands my penchant for indulgence, even in text. Even in blogging.
My boy of ivory can be very serious. So very buttoned up. Shoes shined. Pants pressed. One time, as I got out of the shower in his house, I saw that he had hanged a beautifully and perfectly starched shirt, a perfect shirt, a white shirt, cuffed already (his cufflinks waiting on the bedroom credenza), this perfect shirt hanging from the ceiling fan, gerry rigged to genius proportions. He had done this many times before. He effortlessly removes the shirt from the hanger. I of course, almost stumble out of the shower. He buttons up his shirt, he winks at me and tells me how much he loves my dark hair slicked back from the shower as I almost trip again, over my own pile of mess in the bedroom. He catches me, kisses me deeply, and kisses my cheek as he grabs his cufflinks. Serious business.