Adoration of the Nymph

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All Friday night I had pleasant dreams of Lo — dreams that kept me on the disorienting threshold between wakefulness and sleep. If she could only see my dreams. Those nights are like a holy vigil in which I spend the hours thanking God for the goddess next to me. I repeat how much I love her, how much I need her, how I am flesh of her flesh, bone of her bone. When our bodies are together, naked in that proximity, it’s almost as if I can hear the genes within my cells calling out to be unified with hers. My body yearns to melt into her soft matter and form a single entity.

When I awoke from this night-long adoration of the nymph, she awoke too and I asked her, begged her, pleaded with her to let me have her. She denied me! Yes. She did. Can you believe it?

“You kept me awake all fucking night!” she complained bitterly.

“No,” I corrected her, “you kept me awake all fucking night.”

“Next time, just cum and get it over with. I can’t handle these sleepless nights.”

“Well that’s why I’ve been saying ‘separate beds, separate bedrooms.’” This is a running joke between Lo and me. Every time she rebukes me for keeping her awake, or when I rebuke her, I remind her of the quaint, twentieth century practice of married people sleeping in separate twin beds. In fact, many of our friends — mostly queer couples — have not only separate beds, but separate bedrooms. This makes eminent sense to me, but Lo swears that if I ever sleep in another bedroom, she’ll just follow me.

“Fuck you!” she said, evidently not in a loving mood that morning, even though it was said with love — but a love that could only be heard by one who knew the ridiculous backstory to this joke.

“Well, I’m hard-up and I do want to fuck you!”

“No, you’re being punished.”

That was that and I got nothing for my prayers that morning.

That afternoon one of her school friends came over so that, when I got home from a few hours at the office that Saturday, there was no having her at that time either. She teased me whenever her friend was out of the room — licking her lips, grabbing my crotch, pressing her breasts up against my arm.

Her friend had come over to help cook for a little soirée Lola was hosting that night to celebrate the end of midterms. I say, “Lola” was hosting, even though we live together, because I actually didn’t even know about it until I asked about the savory aromas in the house that afternoon.

“Oh,” said Lo innocently as if in passing, “didn’t I tell you that we’re having a party tonight?”

“No, Lo. You neglected to mention it.”

“I put out a Facebook invite.”

“Apparently I wasn’t on it.”

“Of course you weren’t on it, silly, you’re my boyfriend,” she said in front of her friend.

“Which is all the more reason why I should have known about it — in person.”

“Well, now you know about it.”

This unexpected necessity to be gregarious had put me into a more foul mood than I had been in due to Lo’s refusal to satisfy my more pressing needs.

“Don’t be a grump,” said Lo, looking at me with those eyes that said, “Oh, Daddio.”

“I’m not a grump!” I said as I stormed off to the bedroom, contemplating what movie I might catch that night — alone.

I could hear Lo’s giggle echo down the hall behind me — it sounded like her Scarlett “Fiddle-dee-dee,” laugh.

I changed and, much to my better judgment, the smell of butternut squash soup and the roasting chicken with quinoa, cranberries, and arugula suppressed my intention to spend the night alone in a dark theater.

“Where are you going?” asked Lo when I returned to the living room.

“How long till your friends arrive and dinner is served?”


“Just answer me.”

“I don’t know — I told people to come by around 7:30.”

“And dinner is?”

“Oooohhh,” sang Lo as a light bulb incandesced above her head, “I know — you want to eat, don’t you?”

“Can you please answer the question?”

“That’s it,” she asked, rubbing my tum, “isn’t it?”

“OK, so I’m hungry. That doesn’t change the fact that you planned a party and didn’t have the common decency to invite me — to my own home!”

“Don’t you worry,” she said, getting up, “if it will help you to get out of this crabby mood. . .” she began and scurried to the kitchen. As she ladled me a bowl of the soup she said, “That should hold you over, Daddio,” and she gave me a little peck on the cheek.

I enjoyed my soup alone, but was interrupted by the arrival of the first guests. Soon enough, our home was overrun with partygoers — all of whom graciously brought beer and other beverages with them, to which I helped myself.

Gradually, with food in my belly and a fourth cold beer in my hand, I was having a tolerably good time.

I sidled up to a lovely couple — two lesbian friends of Lo’s from her grad program — and we made some small talk. I began to notice that one of the two kept looking across the room, right at Lo who was doing a lovely job playing hostess to her company.

“You know,” she said to me out of nowhere, “your girlfriend looks a lot like Mary Louise Parker.”

I laughed and said, “Yes, a lot of people say that. . . and she hates it.”

“Why?” inquired our friend.

“Well, you should ask Lo that sometime,” I said, knowing full well that the real reason was simply because Lo thinks that I have a bit of a crush on said actress.

“I just might do that,” said our friend, “but she does look a lot like her and. . . Mary Louise Parker is hot.” She practically licked her lips as she said it — looking not at me, but directly at Lo. “You’re a lucky man,” she said.

I laughed and said, “I know, but if that’s how you feel, you really should tell Lo yourself.”

Amongst Lo’s colleagues, word is out that Lo is out and is free to play. Whatever remnants there were of a dark storm cloud about my head were dissipated by this lovely compliment paid to my dear Lo. The rest of the night I wandered about with the hint of a smile on my lips, replaying that conversation on a loop in my head.

By the time all our guests had departed for the night, Lo and I were both exhausted. Lying down next to each other in bed, I told Lo what I was told and asked her if our friend got up the courage to tell her directly. “No,” said Lo. “She really said that?”

“Yes. Why would I make it up?”

“Mary Louise Parker?”

“I’m not kidding.”

“I’m hotter.”

“Oh, I know, Lo. I know.”

We both fell off to sleep.

[From the blog:]

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Just your average nymphomaniac next door. I love fan mail:

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