Paul and Mary and Eveybody Else….

My name is Mary and I am writing this blog with my best friend and roommate Paul.  We share a two-bedroom apartment in Santa Monica, with Paul’s dog Maximilian and my fish, whose name is Mo.  This “Fish in a Pond” is all that remains from 8 years with my ex-boyfriend John.  He left me a bunch of his dirty socks in the washing machine and his fish Mo.  In memory of my love for him and out of respect for our “committed relationship,” I washed the socks and UPS’ed them to his new address.  I also contacted him several times about picking up his fish.  He sent me a thank you note for the socks but never mentioned Mo.  I think it was his evil plan from the start.  He knew I would never throw away a living creature, so he left me his fish as a constant reminder of his jealous and competitive nature.  And, Oh Boy!  Mo is one of a kind.  We tried to buy other fishes to keep her company, but it never worked out.  Big, small, beautiful or ugly, none of them survived.  I believe this was due to Mo’s competitive nature.

From the moment Paul moved into John’s office, we have tried hard to create harmony in our little household.  I work on my relationship with Maximilian, trying to accept his ugly looks and strange habits.  Paul flatters Mo with compliments on her beautiful, intelligent features and compares her constantly with Maximilian (definitely a winning strategy).  The dog is for sure ugly, but very sweet and blindly attached to Paul.  I don’t use the word “love,” because in this case Maximilian’s understanding of love is much broader and more complex than my own.  I believe he sees himself as a Prince Charming, because he makes sexual advances to all the most beautiful and pure-bred dogs, regardless of size or gender.  It may seem that Maximilian is a gambler at heart, with a “hit or miss” strategy, but in reality he always has a plan B.  If the high-profile relationship doesn’t work out, he immediately moves on to a lower-class dog, or just humps everything that he can find, including Paul’s boyfriends.  Surprisingly to me, Paul has never showed any frustration with Maximilian and actually finds him amusing.  He tells his dates that the dog’s behavior results from a difficult childhood, since Maximilian came from an animal rescue shelter.  Paul likes to invent all kinds of horrible stories about Maximilian’s past and tells people that his dog is undergoing therapy with a famous L.A. dog psychic, for which he pays big bucks.  None of this is true, but it adds an edgy touch to the conversation.

I met Paul 3 years ago at the “Golden Bridge” Yoga studio.  Obviously, you don’t expect to meet a straight guy at a Belly Dancing class.  He immediately declared that he had joined the class to explore his feminine side.  He looked hot and sexy in his tight black leggings and white tank top slightly covering his torso, as though he just stepped out of a Gay Fitness magazine.  We clicked right away, and soon I found myself dependent on his charming company.  When John moved out, it happened that Paul was looking for an apartment in Santa Monica closer to his office.  He works as a massage therapist two blocks away and walks to work.  It has worked out well for both of us.

For the last 5 years I worked as a freelance web designer, but when the economy went sour I got a full-time job working for corporate America, joining millions of L.A. rush-hour commuters.  Like all situations in life, this has its positive and negative aspects.  I enjoy the financial stability and have stopped having nightmares of not being able to pay my rent on time.  On the other hand, corporate politics frustrates me.  I feel like a little ant among thousands of other ants just like me, jostling around in a great big pile of shit.

Since high school I have written short humorous stories, as a kind of a spoof on the reality I experience.  It has always worked as therapy for me.  Now, I have decided to blog about Paul’s and my real life.  Paul promised to illustrate my posts, since he took a lot of art classes in college and loves to draw.

Let’s see what comes of it..

Would you like to have Pontius Pilate in your two-bedroom apartment?

Revolution is not going to look good on my resume

In a good mood and ready for action.

Sunday, 1. August 2010 17:08 | Author:admin | edit

Saturday morning I called Ben to confirm our dinner for that night.

The phone was ringing for some time before he picked up.

- Did I wake you up? This is Mary; remember, we met in Urth Cafe.

- Of course I remember you Mary. I even remember that I invited you to audition for my new Retirement Community reality show, laughed Ben.

- Yes, I am very interested in auditioning for your lead role.

- Sure, My main character is Miss America from 1935 with a slight touch of Alzheimer’s. Would you like to be her?

- No I don’t think so. That would be too predictable. How about a beautiful, 16-year-old, very rich widow blown in from Kansas with her entire estate by mistake into a Forever 21 Beverly Hills retirement community?

- Sounds original, but that would be another reality show. You could be a 20-year-old, gorgeous blonde Biological Weapons researcher for PETA with a bra size of 32 DDD?

- I could be inspired to play that role as well; it’s can happened only in Hollywood.

- I can the audition for you today around 8pm at the 24/7 Restaurant in Standard Hotel downtown. Will that work for you?

- Need to work on my bra size a little, but I will be ready by 8.

- Look forward to seeing you.

- Bye.

I was fantasizing about my future date with Ben in a million different ways, but each of my fantasies started with the question of what I was going to wear. I had just received flyers from Loehmann’s for a 40%-off sale, and and I decided to act. My friends were always asking me what is it with you and Loehmann’s. It’s just my love for designer clothing I cannot afford. I consider myself a working body of contradictions, and I need to find middle ground. Shopping in a discount store gives balance to my desires.

Paul was interested in doing some damage with me as well, looking forward to his new date with Ivan. It was like a new moon of love for both of us.

Recently, the Loehmann’s on La Cienega had moved its Men’s department across the street, so we needed to go our separate ways. It was a bummer, because we were on a mission together to capture the bargains before Russian, Hungarian, Polish, and Persian spy rings could get to them. It was a major discount store conspiracy; Paul and I were in the middle of it and we both knew too much for our own good.

My first stop was in the Women’s Lingerie department. That is where any love affair starts for me, with inner beauty. I was looking for something sexy but classy. I picked up a pricy black La Perla bra with matching panties. I usually don’t have sex on the first date, but Ben was a good candidate for an exception. So, if this was going to happen, I needed to feel fully equipped and in charge.

In fact I had had no sex since splitting with John, exactly 11 months ago. And yes, I did try to find some dates on the Internet and even bought a membership on Match.com, but I never met anybody I even remotely liked, and the last thing I wanted to do with a guy I met is to have sex on the first date when I knew there no chance it would go any further. I heard some success stories from my girlfriends about Internet dating, but I had never been so lucky. Maybe I just wasn’t ready for a new relationship.

My next stop was in the backroom of the designer section. Most clothes I liked were still too expensive, but I picked out an asymmetrical, open shoulder black and white checker dress by Yoshjii Yammoto. I liked the fact that the dress was not flashy but very stylish and sexy, and I already had matching high heel Prada shoes.

I prefer not to wear black dresses when I go out at night in LA. I think the concept of the little black dress has been blown out of proportion. It feels like a black dress sorority with some kind of overwhelmingly large membership.

Don’t get me wrong, I love the color black; I just prefer to wear it during the day, when people can actually see you and appreciate the design.

I took all my booty into a big common dressing room, where everybody dresses and undresses in public. I don’t want to come across as judgmental or snobbish, but you really can learn a lot about women’s anatomy and the differences in taste.

My mother always told me that dressing yourself is an art. The trick is to choose clothing that highlights your beauty and covers your imperfections.

It was fun to observe women in that room with what they had selected.

Next to me was a young Russian lady, I think maybe size 10, trying to fit into a size 4 short dress. She he got into it all right, but she could not move freely, and the dress was so tight that you could have used her as nude model. She asked me if it looked OK on her; I tried to be polite and said it might be a little small. Surprisingly, she responded that she REALLY liked her clothing tight.

Across from me was a middle aged woman with dark hair, too skinny and too much Botox, was trying on a very revealing shiny gold evening dress. Looking at her, I could not stop thinking about an exhibition of Egyptian mummies I had just seen at the L.A. Museum of Science.

The Yoshijii Yammoto dress looked great on me. Some of the ladies in the room gave compliments. I decided to get it.

When I paid the cashier, even after I gave her my 40% discount flyer, the bill was still $180.00. It was a little high, but I thought it was worth it.

Paul bought some good stuff as well: a tight black pair of Rick Owens pants and a Comme des Garcons long sleeved purple T-shirt to die for.

We return home in a good mood and ready for action.

It did not took me long…

www.paulandmaryblog.com

From the moment I saw Ben in his red cashmere sweater with long dark curls lying wildly on his shoulder, my first thought was, What took you so long?  I was ready to have sex with him right then in the hotel elevator.  Thank God, Standard Hotel had 22 floors, and we would probably have had a great time in transit.

It didn’t happen in the elevator, but much later in his downtown loft.  Were he able to explain to me in colorful detail why the female orgasm is so complicated and strange, it could come only from God himself.  I felt his magic touch in every part of my body, and 11 months of virginity were broken into little pieces.  Finally I could make the proper connection between oral sex, Ben’s art studio table, and the tribulations of being the lover of a street artist.  As our liberated parrot Pontius Pilate would say, “Free love my friends!!!”

In between my sexual liberation in Ben’s loft and our dinner conversations in the hotel I had a great time.  He was incredibly funny and a great story teller.  This is what I found out about Ben:

When he was in elementary school his mother took him to a lot of classical ballet classes; that is how she saw his path to success and personal wealth.  Of course, that was far from realistic, like a lot of things in his mother’s perspective on reality.  First of all, Ben born with 2 left feet, and had to wear specially made shoes until he was 6 years old.  Ben’s dad was one of the most successful trial lawyers in New York.  They lived in Martha’s Vineyard, and his mother did not work a day of her married life.

Since the dance classes cost tons of money, his teacher never even discussed with Mrs. Bronstein (Ben’s mother) that her son was not about to become the next Mikhail Baryshnikov.  He had to leave the dance academy later, when his teacher caught him sneaking to the girls’ changing room to watch them undress.

Mrs. Bronstein was absolutely determined to give Ben the best possible upbringing.  She spent most of her afternoons in PTA meetings and the morning hours with her shrink, Dr. Katz.  Ben did not remember his parents’ ever getting into fights (probably because his father was never at home much).  He did remember arguments about Dr. Katz’s enormous bills, and later on the story of how his father tried to write them off as a business expense.  The IRS did not allow it, on the grounds that Dr. Katz was entertainment, not business.  Mrs. Bronstein saw him three times a week, and shared with him every detail of her personal life, even digestive issues, which were not exactly Dr. Katz’s specialty.  She discussed everything but sex.  Dr. Katz happened to be gay, which may have been the cause for this reticence.

When Ben was in the 6th grade she took him to a career counselor, and he had to take the Meyers-Briggs test.  Based on the results, the counselor told her that at Ben’s current age he could pretty much do anything, except work with agricultural products.  That was OK with me and satisfactory for Mrs. Bronstein as well.

He graduated from Columbia University with a degree in Creative Writing.  He took a lot of abstract courses like Truth Now and Absolute Beauty; as a result of his fine liberal arts education, he came to consider himself a true intellectual.  His parents were sure that their money had been well spent.

I could go on and on, but it’s getting late.

My next post will be about Ben’s graffiti art and street art community.

Ben’s art:

Another way to save on your grocery bill, and much more.

(Especially helpful during the recession and housing crisis.  Could be the solution to all of America’s problems.)

Paul and I were SO inspired recently by Sarah Palin’s moose hunting (moose killing) episode on her reality show.I think she is a political genius.  Her appeal to the target audience here (no pun intended) is very powerful.

Paul and I were fantasizing about what would happen if we were to follow her example in Los Angeles or some other urban area.

First, we could open a nonprofit organization with a name like “Urban Hunting Coalition.”  Membership would be private, with special discounts for tea party members activists.  I would be in charge of fund raising campaigns in the Los Angeles, Chicago, and New York areas.  (Highly profitable and less profitable areas would be equally divided among the other hunters.)  It would focus on equal opportunity employment for hunters; I like to be politically correct and avoid potential confrontations with Hunters Union members.  If I raise enough money, I can quit my corporate job (which I don’t like that much anyway).

Training Manual for Urban Hunters:

(Especially recommended to Whole Foods shoppers, for major grocery bill reduction, and to Tea Party activists, because it is the quickest way back to traditional American values.)

1. Prepare and plan your road kill trip carefully.

2. If you have a dog, you can train your pooch to be a hunting helper (cats, not so much).  We recommend taking your dog to hunting classes at your local dog fashion boutiques.

3. If you wish to buy a hunting dog, the most recommended breeds are:

Poodles (all sizes, including tea cup poodle).  Don’t be afraid that tea cup poodles are too small; they especially good for hunting pigeons.  Pigeons may not be so great as food, due to their toilet habits, but hunting them is good for the environment.

Chihuahuas.  They have proven to be a good hunting dogs, especially for skunks.  Skunks are known to have a special sexual attraction to urban Chihuahuas (they get so aroused that they forget to fart, and if you are quick you can kill them with a knife).

4. The best hunting outfits can be purchased at Neiman Marcus, Bloomingdales, on Rodeo Drive, Sunset Plaza, and Fascist Island; by now, we assume there are also good spots in the Manhattan area.

If you are a bargain hunter, we recommend use Loehmanns, Fifth Avenue Off, and Nordstrom Rock.  For online shopping, try Guilt.com: they have some special road-kill jewelry, shoes, and clothes on sale.  You can shop there while at work.

5. Please use Japanese Samurai blades.  Very sharp, quick, and easy to wash blood off.

6. Do not hunt for dogs; you could end up killing your boss’s dog.

7. Squirrels are good road kill.  They are adorable, and you can reuse their skin for fur coats or short jackets.  The more squirrels you kill, the longer the jacket you have.  Something to be proud of.

8. The best brand of jeans for urban hunters is True Religion.  They have a lot of pockets in the back; you can keep your bullets and other ammunition there.  Your ass will become a weapon of mass distruction!  Tip: you can also use false breasts for this purpose.

9. Use American made weapons; avoid Kalashnikovs and Uzis.  We don’t buy products from our competitors (probably most of them are made in China anyway).  We don’t want to move American jobs to China and India.

That’s it for now.  We are currently working on additions and modifications to our training manuals.  Please feel free to share your thoughts and ideas on the subject.

I almost forgot.  Sarah Palin, thank you very much for the inspiration you give to all of us, and feel free to share all your current and future ideas on this subject and other subjects as well.  It is our pleasure to offer you completely free membership in our newly established “Urban Hunting Coalition.”

Little Butterfly
Paul met with Ivan in a gay club on Saturday night. He came home next morning all exited and upbeat.

I wanted to know everything about his first date with Ivan. For the last eleven months all my sexual discussions and fantasies had been around Paul’s personal life. Today it was different, however. I had a lover of my own, and I was ready to share experiences. After all, Paul and I were best friends and best confidants for each other.

This is Paul’s story, very slightly edited. I have tried to find the proper substitute for his constant use of the word “fuck.” I actually checked the meaning of the work “fuck” in Wikipedia, and here is what I found: “Fuck is an English word that is generally considered profane which, in its most literal meaning, refers to the act of sexual intercourse. However, by extension it may be used to negatively characterize anything that can be dismissed, disdained, defiled, or destroyed.”

But Ivan and Paul definitely did not defile or destroy anything so far. So, I will use the phrase “making love” instead of the profane word “fuck.”

This is Paul’s story edited by me:

When we first met, Ivan sounded pretty tired, and I thought maybe he did not find me attractive. His jacket was tightly buttoned, and he looked more like he was going to a business meeting than to a gay night club.

To my surprise, he already had a reserved table waiting for us. Ivan was no stranger in this club; in fact, it sounded as though he knew a lot of the guys. What if he did make love to some of these guys? So what? Life was beautiful, and I was ready to enjoy it without analyzing it.

I ordered a glass of wine, and Ivan ordered a straight up shot of vodka. He started with one and then kept ordering more and more. I was afraid that he would get really drunk, but to my surprise he did not. Later, Ivan shared with me one of his many secrets on how not to get drunk. His recipe was very simple: just do not mix drinks and do not drink on an empty stomach. He was living proof that this works, since he probably had around 15 shots of vodka and was OK.

First we talked about gay rights organizations that he and I actively supported, and then our conversation moved to the recent Oscar Nominations. I was shocked to find out that Ivan saw almost all the Oscar-nominated movies, and when I asked how he found the time, he replied that movies had always been his passion and he watched almost every movie he could find; he also read three newspapers a day and compared their treatment of the news. (Christian Science Monitor, L.A. Times and N.Y. Times). I listened to his political comments with great interest. He struck me as an intelligent and cultured person, and for a moment I felt even a little intimidated by him. All of a sudden he changed the topic and started talking about his acquaintances with different Hollywood celebrities (supposedly known by me) and his personal relations with them. He spoke so fast and with such a heavy accent, mixing English words with Hollywood slang, that I had a hard time understanding him. I decided just to let him talk. He was probably getting drunk, and this was the only one way he showed it, I thought.

Finally, Ivan decided that the small talk was over and he could relax and enjoy himself.

He took off his jacket and revealed (to my surprise) a very tight, almost see-through pink shirt. Now he looked just right for a Hollywood gay club. His shirt was so tight that I could almost see the contours of his perfect body. God was definitely gay, and he probably looked like Ivan, I thought for a moment. The slow jazzy music started, and we joined the dancing crowd. Our bodies embraced for the first time and I felt as though an electric shock passee all over me. Our faces touched and we fell into a long passionate kiss. I felt his full lips, his milky white skin and soft yellow blond hair. We were dancing and kissing; then he softly whispered in my ear with his sexy Russian spy accent: “I only want to be with you now and always. Your kiss is so delicious and the sounds of your voice are like music to my ear. For this moment you my joy and all for me. I am jealous of you.”

His words were like dialogue from an old foreign movie. I wanted to “make love” to him right away on the dance floor. I was definitely losing control, and I started taking his shirt off, but he stopped my hand and whispered in my ear, “I don’t think this club is ready for my naked body, but I can assure you that my body has some wonderful parts which I would love to show you later in my apartment.” “Sounds good to me,” I replied. “Are we ready to go?” “Sure,” replied Ivan, “I just want to finish our dance. You are such a good dancer.” And he was right, we were dancing beautifully. We defiantly looked like a hot couple, and a lot of guys were checking us out. Ivan was a hot blond Russian, and I was a dark-haired Brazilian.

That night I learned a lot about Ivan’s body. I been introduced to a small tattoo at his left thigh that said “Little Butterfly.” We “made love” so hard that we turned his apartment into a “no-fly zone.” In the middle of the night, naked, I went to the bathroom, and to my surprise I found a skinny guy in glasses sitting on the toilet and reading a book. I was shocked, but he did not show any sign of emotion and continued to read. When I told Ivan about my restroom encounter, he said that this was his roommate Allan, a UCLA medical student. He was apparently very quiet and studied all the time, and they didn’t have much interaction with each other. He didn’t even notice strange naked guys in his apartment? “Well, don’t worry about him,” laughed Ivan, “He is writing a research paper on ‘Increasing heterosexuality among homosexuals’.” “I don’t think you are a good subject for him.” “Probably not, but nevertheless we live very peacefully together. He has accepted my lifestyle, and I don’t care about his ideas. I even gave him an original idea to improve his own lifestyle, namely, how to turn hemp milk to marijuana. Allan is a big fan of marijuana and constantly complains that it is too expensive.

When I was ready to go home, I finally realized that Ekaterina the Great (Ivan’s dog) was not present. Paul explained me that Ekaterina the Great was visiting her girlfriend in Orange County and that he would pick her up later today.

I gave Ivan a kiss and promise to call him next week. As I was driving home, I repeated “Little Butterfly” over and over.