Posts Tagged ‘cleaning lady’

Very small lines

April 10, 2009
  • Delores my cleaning lady is now on “Big, Beautiful Women.” It’s a dating site. She found a match from Seacaucus.
  • I finally stained the back porch door. It’s only been three years.
  • When you order a “fresh pork” at the butchers and ask that they de-bone it and give you the skin, they look at you with respect and awe, like you’re a chef.
  • D and I are going into the city tonight, across the river, with dark sunglasses on and black clothes.
  • He bought me a little plaid schoolgirl skirt, but it doesn’t fit. Still, I like to imagine wearing it while sitting on his lap.
  • I am working on a blog for PBQ about “disintegrating culture.”
  • My ex-husband and his fiance are coming to Easter dinner on Sunday. They will meet my new boyfriend and actually eat at my table. 
  • I dreamed about a guy who looked like Russell Brand and drove a red and white, 1956 Belair convertible. I was in some rundown suburb of Paris watching fireworks from a hilltop with him and a bunch of other seedy looking characters. I asked him to drive me to the Eiffel Tower and he did. 
  • I’m still reading Lauren Grodstein’s book, “Reproduction is the Flaw of Love,” but I prefer “Spining Will,” by P.M. Woods
  • There is no more S. 
  • I’ve signed up for my first graduate class. A Fiction workshop with Lauren Grodstein. 
  • Work is actually bearable this week. 
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Ten miles of bad road

March 9, 2009

duster01dailyiconDelores, my cleaning lady, was over this morning and thank god she was loaded up on all that good diabetic and anti-depressant stuff she takes or my house probably would have taken her four hours to clean and not two. She’s been rather chipper since being falsely diagnosed as a schizophrenic for insurance purposes. Believe me. Delores is no schizophrenic. That’s for sure. But her doctor gave her a whole bunch of medicine to take which turns her into Wonder Woman the Cleaning Lady; not to mention a great storyteller.

Her first order of business, before cleaning, was getting her profile off Match.com. She wasn’t sure how to do it herself and so she asked for my help.  “It’s just not for me, Tracy. There’s too many three-hundred-pound weirdos out there. Can you please delete my account?”

Two weeks ago she was all about men and thought it was a good idea. “I’m ready for a little boy friend,” she said. And so, in her words, some white-trash, crack-whore friend of hers got her started.

“I’ve slept with ten mens since I been on. All black men, because I like the big cock,” this woman told Delores. But Delores found that to be rather disturbing considering that one in three black men (according to her) are infected with the HIV virus. “And what’s a white woman doing chasing after black men anyway? Stick with your own kind,” Delores told her.

Anyway, by the time she got to my place, she’d changed her mind about online dating and didn’t want to do it anymore. She doesn’t have a computer. She can’t type. And besides, her only match seemed to be this one, over-weight black guy whose profile claimed he was a “thrill-seeker” and up for “deviation and fun” as early as the first date.

That’s definitely not Delores. Or at least not the Delores that I know. She lives in a little apartment with her little dog Max and her interests are watching TV, shopping at the mall and going to church.  “I prefer to meet men at the grocery store,” she said.

Anyway, I deleted the account for her and as she went about her work she imparted motherly advice as she always does, and told me this great story about “Alden,” someone whom she met in her apartment complex, which makes me think all that talk about a little dog, shopping and church is a cover. Delores might not be so innocent after all…

Here’s her story:

“Miss Tracy [I swear she called me that. To this day I have no idea why], you always got to watch yourself. Men are crazy. Only wanting one thing. Like this man over in Apartment B, ‘Alden.’ He comes out and starts talking smack ’bout wearing silk underwear. Ain’t no man I know wear silk drawers. That just ain’t right. He’s been living with some woman for twenty years but he catches me walking past his place with Max in the afternoons and stops me all the time. Always wantin’ to talk. “What you doing today, Delores?”or  “How’s Max today, Delores?” Hell, I don’t want no trouble. And then, just last week he told me to close my eyes, “Just trust me Delores, I want to show you something.” What the hell you gonna show me with my eyes closed? I said. I don’t wanna see nothing. But he grabbed my hand and stuck it down his pants. And lo an’ behold that man was wearing silk drawers. Just like he said.

Maybe it was mansilk, I said.

Child, he was nothing but ten miles of bad road.

And then, a long pause.

And then, while pulling Curious George out of the sofa she says, “But, damn. So sexy. I ain’t got much in the way of fantasizing, you know. But I keep playing that one over and over again in my head. I could use some Alden every once in a while…”


Sex

February 27, 2009

 

For the past few night or so, I have been dreaming incessantly of sex. Not the usual, missionary kind of sex. Not even the unusual dirty, kinky kind of sex that oftentimes accompanies some sort of physical follow-thru on my part. No. This stuff is just plain bizarre. Three nights ago I had sex with my cleaning lady. And though I love her dearly, there’s something about an overweight, diabetic black woman who wears a wig and a false tooth that, in reality, I just don’t find very attractive. But apparently, in my dream, she came at me hot and heavy and I said, “What the hell.” 

Two nights ago I dreamed I had sex with my ex-husband. I actually find that slightly more disturbing than the cleaning lady. Although, I have to admit, he resurrected some of his old moves, and I might have even had a little dream-gasm. 

Last night though was by far the strangest. I was lying in bed atop white sheets and all these animals hopped up onto the bed and started licking me all over. I realize that, to some, this may seem freakishly erotic. But a dog, a cat and a mouse? I mean, what the hell would create in me the need or the desire to have sex with a mouse? I can maybe understand a dog. But a mouse? A cat? 

Gross. 

So, I broke out my dream-analysis book. And not surprisingly, there were no entries on “sex with mice” or even “sex with cleaning ladies.” Fearing that I was on my own in my interpretations, I started to combine entries. For example: The cause and or source of sex in dreams may be “a direct result of your own thoughts, desires and wishes that you are aware of; but at times there can be hidden or suppressed desires you don’t care to admit.” Harboring secret fantasies for Delores is highly unlikely. However, the book goes on to say, “Since everyone is highly telepathic, especially while in the Alpha state, it is not at all unusual to find yourself involved in a sexy dream with someone you do not even care about.”

OK. Fine. That explains Delores and the ex. But what about the animals?

I skimmed through the book for an entry, and this is what I found:

“The animals we find in our dreams often represent the animal instincts, urges, habits and aspects we attribute to them which are also found in ourselves [or others]. That would include the good and the so-called “bad…” Cats and dogs can both represent strong sensory powers and telepathic abilities as well as faithfulness, loyalty, and disciplined behavior. Cats are intuitive, aloof and detached…sensual and sometimes uncaring…dogs represent loyalty, protection, courage and companionship…”

This makes sense, and yet, I think it’s a little simpler than all that. I tossed the book aside and came up with my own theory:

I’m not having sex. I haven’t had it in a while. But it’s hovering over me.  Right around the corner. Inevitably on its way. But D and I have pretty much made a conscious decision to wait. All very exciting. I’m very much enjoying the wait in a sort of imposed painful way. Yet there is something that bothers me on a deeper, more buried level. I’m honestly afraid that our notions of sex, or rather, our sexual needs are vastly different. In plain language, I’m worried that I am too wild for this particular man.

The reason I am probably having sex with women and exs and animals in my dreams is not so much who they represent as “what” they represent. They are all taboo in the realm of what is normal and acceptable in matters of sex. Not to me, of course. At least not subconsciously. But in my mind, I worry that simpler things are highly taboo to D. These dreams, then, serve as guilty triggers to remind me of who I am and how I am perceived. 

For the record, I don’t like sex with animals. Nor would I probably ever “do” a  full-figured black women or my ex-husband. Not so much for reasons of morality as much as preference. However, I am far more liberal and experienced than D and this has me vexing about it, even in my sleep. 

Am I wrong? Am I dirty? Am I bad? Will I be perceived in a dark, evil light? These are all the things I have begun to question about myself. And why on earth do I see him as so pure and innocent and unsullied? Because he tries to come off that way (which he is not entirely, by the way)? Or because I see myself as such the opposite extreme. I hate this about me. I hate that I am this way at times. I am ashamed. 

And yet, I’m not. 

When D and I began talking about seven weeks ago he mentioned that he wanted to “exorcise” his “lust for crazy women,” and that sometimes he chooses “purity over happiness.” I barely knew him then, but I quickly shot back, “I hate to be the bearer of great news, but having/wanting/craving sex and/or falling for crazy women is not evil or impure and therefore NOT the polar opposite of “goodness.” It’s (surprise!) synonymous with goodness AND purity.” This then led him to tell me, among other things, that he doesn’t equate sex with impurity, but by then, it was too late. I had already formed my opinion. 

I need to state something here, which may not be entirely obvious: I am discussing the SUPERFICIAL. None of this has anything to do with matters of the heart. To me, there are many realms of sexual expression, all of which I enjoy and desire; that which arises out of a deep connectivity between two people in love, spiritual sex, tantric sex, enlightened sex; plain old missionary sex and quickies that tend to be self-serving but fulfilling; passionate sex, make-up after a fight sex and so on. The sex I am talking about here is the edgy, experimental, psychological kind. The kind of stuff at which you arrive when you’re curious about the underworld of sex. Ambiguously taboo stuff. Even more so, the kind of sex that you “suggest” one night in the bedroom only to be met by a comment like “aren’t people arrested for stuff like that?”

The kind of sex that drive feminists to institute laws protecting women against it. 

You get my point.

At any rate, here I am, seven weeks later, dreaming of sex with animals and trying desperately to believe in the purity of my own lasciviousness. Hoping there might be a middle ground between his perceived innocence and my so-called…experience. Hoping too that I am not running the risk of seeming weirder than I actually am. The more you draw attention to something the bigger it becomes. Right? It’s at this point that I wish to exhume all my old boyfriends and say, “Can you please help me out? Tell D that I’m not as strange as I’m making myself out to be,” to which they all reply, “you were a little bit crazy, but definitely hot.”

That’s the gist of all this. I’m hoping D thinks I’m “hot,” not weird. Among other flattering things, of course. Is that asking too much? I just don’t want to give up my fetishes, that’s all. I mean, wouldn’t it be great if there were a guy out there who accepted even the darker, more questionable side of my nature? Wouldn’t it be great if someone said, “give me what you’ve got, Tracy. I’m not afraid…” 

He and I have talked at length on this subject. Maybe not enough. Whatever the case may be, there’s really only one way to set my mind at ease and purge the guilt and fear. And that’s to do it. To have sex and lots of it. And after months of doing it and learning about each other and experimenting and talking and crossing lines and pushing envelops (or shall I say buying dildos, renting movies and breaking out the Catholic School-Girl outfit?), I will either be satisfied or I won’t. Plain and simple. Until then, I suppose I will remain the victim of guilty, animal dream sex and the telepathic lust of my cleaning lady. Let’s just say I’m hoping this issue is resolved quickly.