June 23, 2003

• Last night was interesting.  Brett got in at six with a headache from driving all day and didn't feel like going to the restaurant, poor baby.  I kissed his chest through his moist hot shirt, feeling his heart beat hard and fast like a puppy's.   I wanted to fix him one of my favorite dinners instead, fettuccine alfredo with sour dough garlic bread, stuffed artichokes, and nonfat gourmet chocolate ice cream, but he was so overwhelmed with the hearty Romano cry of "Eat, eat, eat, eat, EAT!", what with Daddy's trying to pressure him to go out over the telephone and Mom's ravaging the shelves for "something light, then," he looked as though he were going to vomit.  So I got him some aspirin and iced tea, swaddled him in a snowy thermal blanket on the fainting couch downstairs in the study, and began making the dinner anyway.  Knowing the Brettster, he'd be hungry as a bear after a good nap, and was.

  
  

  Dad stopped by at eight just in time to catch him in the shower.  And what was I, young lady, doing hanging around the bathroom with our guest in his "birthday suit?"   He winked.   Huh?   HUH?!?   Mmm, nothin'!   And down in the kitchen:  What's this, domestic Parmesan cheese?   No olive oil on the artichokes?   That much vinegar in the salad dressing, again?   All in his typical brusque, hurried style.   Hadn't he told me......"Nevermind, just don't expect to get a blue ribbon for it," he mumbled, standing over a generous scoop of pasta on a dessert plate, wiped clean with a piece of garlic bread.   "Sauteed garlic, minced.   Not bad, not bad."   He winked apologetically.  "We'll make a sous chef outta you, yet."  

  
  

  This small gesture of approval was enough to make me happy.   "Mom picked up the mascarpone crepe at ________'s,"   I said, setting it on the snack bar so he could wolf down a piece and evaluate it.   Though he has a bottomless stomach with the metabolism of a humming bird, Dad has only a small paunch to show for all his gourmandising.   He just never sits still long enough to get fat.

  
  

  "Oh, that."   He frowned, lifting the box by one corner and letting it drop as if it were a piece of garbage.   "I can't stand to look at another dessert after supervising the pastry chef all day.   Save it for me, okay, honey?   I hate to be rude to your friend, but really I gotta get back.   See ya!"

  
  

  Hugs and kisses, and gone.

  
  

  It happened that my friend was still quite sleepy after dinner and a cable movie in the study.   Though he was there for me, never fail, he really wasn't in the mood.   I, however, had become totally sex-starved during our one week absence and was all over him.   I knew it was inconsiderate, but rarely do I get to set the pace, and my lover's being so slow had me perfectly primed.   Plus, with his being pinned beneath me on the firm chaise and my getting excellent leverage by placing one foot on the hardwood floor, the position was optimal.   I could really grind, grind, grind.  But "Ooops,"  I heard him breathe, and the exquisite fullness inside me melted right just as I was about to stretch into the finish.

  
  

  Brett looked up at me in the darkness through droopy eyes.  "Sorry, babe, but you're too sexy," he said, and fell asleep.

  
  

  Determined to "have mine," we made another attempt at lovemaking in the front room after we enjoyed a midnight snack of coffee with chocolate ice cream.  By then Dad was home and I expected the man to shut himself in the second upstairs bathroom any minute for a good gargle.   Filled with a mischievous spirit, I complained that the sofa was "too squeaky."  We relocated to the Persian rug near the foot of the stairs, my partner unaware of my father's routine.   I knew they could hear my passionate moans and cries echo up the stairwell.   Tina's a big girl now, I was conscious of proclaiming.   Daddy, look down.  What do you see?  But no one came out of my parents' bedroom.   They really didn't want to see.   Not any more.  Damn.   But all for the best!

  
  

  Not much doing today, but my boyfriend's back to his usual rambunctious self.   After brunching with my parents at the restaurant, in which he was very impressed and Dad just beaming with pride, he wanted me to escort him to the nearest badass hill where he could try to kill himself on his skateboard.   I pleaded too many tourists in the way, so we hanged out in Golden Gate Park.   He left at four.

  • 12:12 am
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