This outfit is just made of win, if I do say so myself, I thought as I strolled down Second Avenue with my Captain Kangaroo cone of Rocky Road and marshmallow fluff mixed in with peanut butter cups -- thanks to the lovely, talented ladies at Cold Stone Creamery. I totally tipped those gals a pretty extra penny, and they totally sang to me as I moseyed out the door. Awesome.
Why Captain Kangaroo? Well, cause he's just kick ass, and why the fuck not Captain Kangaroo? Ray-Ban sporting marsupials are the shiz nit, dawg.
I caught my reflection in a store window and smiled. Ohhhh yeah, I nodded at myself with the universal head bob that all guys throw out as their go-to sign of greeting. The perfect bit of body language to convey thoughts like: "sup?", "yo", "how's it going?", and "catch ya later, home skillet." Yes, it could say all that, and yes, I just shot myself a head nod in acknowledgment of my decked out to ze max threads that were currently gracing my mad groovy bod.
I didn't grow up working out to my sacred VHS tapes of Mousercise for nothing. I was a lean, mean, Mouse karataaay chopping machine.
In a fit of pure, sugar-high induced joy, I did a little spin kick on the sidewalk and almost took out a poodle. I shook it off and walked on, ignoring the glare of the frizzy haired owner. Whatever, lady, I gots me cone and me hoodie. You gots a poodle. I so win.
I smiled again at myself as I walked past another shintastic store window that reflected my hilariously awesome testament to hipster fashion:
Yellow Transformers hoodie, with the Bumblebee racing stripes shooting down my back? Check. Eat my dust, Megatron.
Plaid tie that I stole from Grandaddy's closet? Check.
Day-Glo neon kicks that give just enough retro flare adornment on my person to sate my need for all things nostalgic? Double check. That's right, cause there's two: Lefty kick and Righty kick. Score.
My sister's Seven jeans? Totes, and check. I stole those direct out of the dryer that morning too. Bitches were hella snug in all the right places.
The only drawback to this mad awesome look? My glasses. My sister's boyfriend had accidentally (on purpose) elbowed me in the nose last week, and my poor Buddy Holly's just went crashing to the floor in two pieces. I'd been keeping them together with electrical tape, much to the amusement of my sister's BF. Dude still calls me Potter.
Whatever, I've got the Captain and Bumblebee on my side today, and I look fucking swank!
Twenty minutes later, my kanga-cone happily in my belly, and my hoodie now unzipped to accommodate the noon day sun, I was strolling along St. Marks Place just off 8th street, flashing the pearly whites for the adoring tourists. Such is the nature of my profession: I'm a walking mannequin.
That's right, I wear clothes for a living, and then when curious peeps ask where the hell I got my rockin' threads, I point them in the direction of the fine establishments that have dressed me for the day.
Needless to say, my job was awesome. Sending hipsters on a wild goose chase for too-expensive clothes, that they could probably make in their kitchens with some spray paint and their parents old rags if they even exercised the one iota of creativity they all pretended to have, was one hell of a fun way to spend the day. And bonus! free Cold Stone, cause I gave the ladies behind the counter discount cards for UO, AA, and BI.
Speaking of Cold Stone... Mr. Kanga wasn't tiding me over in the slightest. It was time for a pudding snack pack. Oh yeah!
I had some shiny Sacagaweas weighing down my pockets from the subway ticket booths eating up my sweet Jacksons and pissing out coins at me after picking up a new metro card for the month. Might as well put these lovely little Lolitas to good use and pick up some fine rice pudding from the Automat...
There has never been a finer establishment erected on St. Marks than the BAMN! Automat.
Well, actually, that's subject to opinion. But right then, my tummy was a'grubbling , and the pink monstrosity was staring me in the face. Perfect.
As I walked into the glorious, open air, fuckhuge vending machine I stopped short. There, backlit by the glow of the florescent pink walls, was a vision; a man.
Nay, a man-boy. (Perfect for me, since I was of a similar pseudo-ambiguous age ) Tall and lanky, with wide shoulders and a tapered waist that barely held up his 501s. His hair, a shock of pink. Well, everything was a shock of pink in this place. It felt like you dropped acid and decided to spend your trip inside a Pepto bottle, but I digress....
His hair looked red, and dirty. But a good dirty. The kind of dirty that makes one want to pronounce the word with two R's like that bleach-blonde ho did with the crazy good pipes. The kind of dirty that makes one want to grab a'hold and never let go, while yelling obscene things like "Ride 'em cowboy," and "I am Spartacus!"
The kind of dirty that had my fucktight jeans suddenly that much more uncomfortable to stand in.
I shifted from neon nike to neon nike, performing a subtle pee dance, but really I was attempting to ride up my erection into my waistband, so I could hide it beneath my belt. Thank god I liked to rock a buckle the size of a double-wide to hide my lonesome dove behind.
Oh don't worry, lonesome dove, you won't be lonesome much longer. Watch papa work. Time to release the Kraken -- and by the Kraken, I mean the swagger. Oh yes, the swagger is deadly, the swagger is bold, the Swagger. Is. Sex.
But, I only managed to enact about two steps of my sex swagger when the dirrty-man-boy turned and I saw the full force of his beauty. Between the pink florescence and the house music pumping through the speakers in the ceiling, it was almost as if Brian-Fucking-Kinney, himself, had just descended from syndicated Showtime Heaven and bestowed upon little ol' me my own fuckhot man made in his image. Except, he was... just... UNF! Can we say pretty?
Please, Brian, don't smite me, but the dirrty-man-boy was so much more. A jaw so sharp that it could probably elbow someone in the chest and they wouldn't know the difference. Eyes so piercing, and broodily intense, the Bronte sisters were jilling in their graves and squirming in their long ago decayed skirts. Sideburns so perfectly trimmed to exude a turn-of-the-century feel, I would have to ask why the fuck he didn't shave them because they were douche-tastic, and yet, he made them work. They fit his face. His beautifully large, square shaped face.
I was in love. I was in lust. I was in... the Automat on St. Marks Place. This was not the correct venue to propose to your future husband--who technically wouldn't be able to marry me anyway since New York state wasn't "liberal" enough to pass that whole equality law. But whatever, I'd still get down on my knees and "propose" to him. Oh yes I would.
I hadn't realized it, as I blatantly ogled and fantasized about finding my source of protein for the day elsewhere from the many options laid out in front of me behind glass, but I'd apparently fallen onto the vending machine wall during my stare-fest. The jostling had jarred free a packet of Jell-O. It was sitting at my feet.
Dirrty-man-boy was also sitting at my feet, his face directly in front of the lonesome dove in my pants and my double-wide buckle. I groaned unexpectedly.
How did he get there? When did he get there? How long had he been down there?
Oh sweet baby jesus eating leftovers, he's on his knees in front of me. I closed my eyes and swayed on my feet. "Whoa!" I heard somewhere outside my intoxicated brian, high on dirrty-man-boy lust, and felt two strong hands hold on tight to my hips. They bucked forward.
It was an involuntary reflex; I couldn't help it.
"Ha," the voice chuckled lightly, and I opened my eyes. There he was, still at my feet, holding my hips and smiling up at me. I must have died and gone to heaven. Brian Kinney, the god of all gay men, really did give me the man of my dreams on a coin operated platter.
"Marry me," I said, dazed and confused. Oh wait no, that was just the Led Zepplin song that had started to play at exactly that moment. Perfect! Zepplin is fuckhot boom-boom music.
"Edward!" Someone with a sugar-sweet voice shouted towards us, and I turned my head away from my own personal Jesus boy.
God must have been fucking with me for all my inappropriate usage of his name, because there, standing next to a white, legitimate Rolls-fucking-Royce was a nun. No, not a nun, a woman dressed as a nun? She was wearing a habit, complete with the whole Sound of Music tunic, and had paired it with fuckhot red heels.
I had a sudden urge to pull a ruler out of my back pocket, bend her over my knee and ask: "Sister Mary, have you sinned today?" for kicks.
Regardless of the strange imagery my mind was making up, during my ponderings I felt the glorious pressure of dirrty-Jesus-man-boy's hands leave my hips and my entire body slumped from the loss. I turned back to see that my dirrty-Jesus-man-boy was no longer on his knees in front of me (a travesty) and was, instead, walking towards Sister Mary.
What the... ?
"Wait!" I shouted, not ready for my future husband to abandon me so soon. We hadn't even had the chance to fight or complain about money problems to each other yet.
Dirrty-Jesus-man-boy, stopped at my request and waved me over with his beautiful long fingers, a crooked smile and a wink. It was casual, it was camp, it was... the closest I'd ever been to receiving an eye-fuck. Guh!
I almost jizzed in my pants.
"Edward, who's this?" Sister Mary asked with her sugar-voice and bright eyes, as I practically fell into the boy from my urgent scramble to get back into the same vicinity as him so I could share his oxygen.
"Dunno, I haven't asked him yet, but he wants to marry me," Edward responded, smiling. Sister Mary gasped and put a hand over her rosary-covered heart.
"Awww... Get out! I've always wanted my boy to marry someone pretty." She then stepped forward and hugged me.
The nun is hugging me... it's about time to wake up now, Jasper.
But I didn't wake up, the nun continued to hug and I continued to boggle. The nun was a mother? The nun wanted her boy to marry someone pretty? The nun was a mother!? Wasn't that against protocol in the Sister's handbook? Like, I'm pretty sure they all jilled off every once in a while, but actual fornication didn't seem like something the Pope would be chill with for his ladies in waiting.
That, and I'm pretty sure she'd just called me pretty.
"This is your mother?" I mouthed to Edward over her shoulder. He chuckled silently and nodded in the affirmative.
"So, what's your name then?" Sister Mary--aka Edward's mother superior--asked me.
"Jasper."
"Oh! I love that name! Okay, well, you must come for dinner," she said, turning from me before opening the front door to the Rolls. "Charles," she called to the driver--fuck the Rolls had an actually driver! "We're bringing Edward's boy home for dinner. Be nice to him."
"Hop in sweetie," she said, before she stepped her sinful heels back into the Rolls and disappeared behind it's massive door which I'm sure had been buffed by some form of man-servant that morning.
I looked over at Edward. He looked at me. I smiled. He smiled back.
"Your mother's a nun?"
"Long story. I'll tell you at dinner."
And with that, my dirrty-jesus-man-boy-fiancé named Edward put his beautiful ass into the air and crawled into the back seat of the Rolls, gesturing for me to follow once he was comfortable.
I turned to the glorious pink facade of the Automat, saluted my departure and dove in, head first, onto Edward's lap. Hallelujah!
more more more! i need more - wtf is up with the nun? Will they eat pudding cups at dinner? and really...do people actually still wear neon nikes? sigh. Zigs, that was wonderful, hysterical and i want more crack like the fucking addict that i am. Thank you SO much for setting this up and whatnot. ILY you hard girl. xo
ReplyDelete