Empty Coffeetable

Today I had to pick up boring wife stuff at the store. And instead of picking up the razors and toothpaste that we need I turn 360 and grab - The DaVinci Code.

In the supermarket. Between diapers and condoms.

And herein lies the real problem. People I know, people I work with, don't know I'm a reader. They seem surprised that I have read every single Jane Austen novel three times, and almost have all of Shakespeares tragedies memorized - and half of the comedies. They about drop dead when I mention articles I've read in the newspaper.

I wasn't sure why people didn't know I didn't read. A quick look in my car will reveal a pile of books for "on the go emergencies" and a bunch of papers with lists of books I need to find and read. Likewise my side of the bed looks like a bookcase threw up. So why don't people know I read?

Because you can't lay a copy of a pretentious, fad-y, smug, semi-religious novel on a coffee table when it's in paperback form and has a big $2.99 with Safeway Club Card" sticker covering the title.

Well you can't unless your thong is drapped over it...and then you're not the "book girl" anymore.

Fifteen Minutes with a Pornstar

"So, at the concert people kept coming up to these women, who you know, were very very - nice to look at. They were hot. Real hard bodies. But people kept taking pictures with them..."

My boss is on minute three of his story about something that happened on his last trip south. So far he's talking about some random concert and describing every single person there. Well every single woman. And honestly I think I should feel flattered. Finally he's comfortable enough with me to talk about women in front of me, almost as if I was one of the boys. The thing is I'm not one of the boys, I'm a girl, a girl still wearing her wool coat and holding a bag full of melting cheesecake. And still the story goes on.

"So I like to play, you know I like to play, so I go down to the casino and start me off with a Ketel One..."

I always wonder why people need to give me a run down of every drink they have had. Even when the story has nothing to do with the alcohol, they still insist on telling me at what point they ordered a Irish Car Bomb and when they switched from rum to vodka. My boss especially, now knowing that I happen to be something of a micro-brew connoisseur, will tell me exactly what he had at each party, each bar, each club. Is this something people do to embellish the story? Or is it the equivalent of dropping names? Status isn't implied by who you know, or what you're wearing? Now it's all about what kind of vodka is in your martini?

"And then this really tall Jamaican woman comes up. And she's wearing these boots that make her tall too. Just high heels and the front has a few inches added..."

He continues to describe the boots and I toy with the idea of telling him I know what kind he's talking about because I have a pair of black patent leather platform boots and clear plastic platform heels in my trunk right now. I bet it would shorten the story, but it'd probably shorten my employment status too - so I bite my tongue and watch the strawberry on his cheesecake melt onto his desk. It's getting hot in this office...

"...and the bartender isn't paying attention so I help her order a..."

Here we go again...

"...we're talking and her friend comes over, another real tall beautiful girl, she comes and sits on the other side of me. And the first girl her name is Kia and her friends name is Mercedes..."

My head snaps up. Did it just get five times hotter in this office? Kia and Mercedes? Kia and Mercedes two girls in platform shoes and scanty outfits? Is my boss about to tell me about how two, not one but two, hookers tried to pick him up over a glass of Ketel One?

"...and I say 'I feel like I'm in a used car dealership'. They thought that was hilarious..."

Oh I bet they did.

"Then Kia says 'You don't know who I am? I'm a pornstar.'"

Yep, it's definitely hotter in this office. Suddenly I don't care about the cheesecake or my coat, my boss has a story filled with mistaken identities and embarrassing situations. He also has a lot of information on the latest Hustler shoot. I get the whole skinny.

"That is the coolest thing I've ever heard." I finally exclaim at the end.

"It's not cool. It was horrible. Can you imagine if you found out your husband spent the night with pornstars?"

I think about all the pictures of naked ladies from my husbands last deployment and the late night call he made to me after he had accidentally stumbled into an Australian Sex Club "Katy...you'll never believe what they did on stage!"...

I think I'd be okay with it.

In fact I think it'd be pretty cool. I would love to spend the evening talking to someone with an interesting job like that. Especially since they were so forthcoming with the particulars. I could come up with a hundred questions. I toyed with the idea of asking my boss some of them...but I think that might have gone over worse than the stripper shoes in my car.

But nonetheless I'd still like to know.

Are their fluffers for girls as well as guys?

Is kissing better than sex?

Do you ever actually feel truly sexy when you're having sex? On camera? Off camera?

When you're off camera do you feel the need to perform like a pornstar?

How do you keep your nipples erect if you're not turned on?

How many takes per scene do you do?

Do you ever yell out the wrong name?

What's the most fun part of being in a porn?

Does fore-play really matter?

Come to think of it does size?

Do you ever get sick doing it upside down?

and finally...

Why did you choose to sit next to my boss?

You know we're right

Seattle is gray and overcast, like always, and we're driving through another random neighborhood listening to the radio and searching for something out of my boyfriend's past.

The radio is playing Nirvana's "You Know You're Right" for the first time ever. The next day headlines will be about Courtney Love's anger at the song being released before she wanted it too. And how independent radio stations are filled with delinquent, criminal, losers. Of course they're right, but as the spot in between each consecutive playing of "You Know You're Right" says:

"Fuck you Courtney Love, we have the new Nirvana song!"

My boyfriend is giddy over the fact that they are playing the song ten times in a row. Then choosing the song for the "Top of the Day" and playing it ten times more. After Number 17 I'm getting a little sick of Kurt's whining. But my guy is busy railing against the machine that is ClearChannel and revelling in the big middle finger "the man" just got.

Weeks later, when we have finally tied the knot he buys the CD and plays the song over and over again. Since Seattle I've had my fill of both Nirvana and Salmon. I look over at him and wonder if we are matched as well as we think we are.

A little over three years later and Maryland is sunny and chilly. We're driving through fields and farms, looking at cows and searching for a winery out amongst dairy-land.

I have a Broadway Show soundtrack in my CD changer that I spent a good portion of the week prior wearing out. Driving to and from work, switching between two songs I really liked, replaying them over and over. Bothering no one but myself. My husband found the CD when he was taking my car for a spin.

Now as I count the number of horses and look out for bare grapevines my husband is playing one song over and over again, listening to it, then flipping it to the beginning before the next song changes.

It's the same song I was listening to the week before.

I may have had my fill of Nirvana's missing song and Broadway's leading man belting out hell-fire, but I'm not annoyed. I'm happy. I'm floating. My head feels a little disconnected, the same way I felt the first day I met him.

We really are a good match. We really do belong together. It's a nice feeling.

Somebody Else's Story

We're in the pole class again. The cute blonde in front of us is talking about the Level 1 class and showing off her fancy spins. I'm wearing stripper shoes and she's taller than me without them. Her clothes look adorable on her and her hair, after an hour lesson, looks perfect. When we stretch me and my girlfriend look like pretzels folding the wrong way on the pole. She looks like some exotic rainforest animal just hanging out for a nap. I'm a little surprised that I'm not harboring fantasies of kicking her mid-spin. Must be the calming effect of the disco ball.

We break and as I and another woman start laughing about vacuuming in our platform shoes the cute blonde bounces over to my girlfriend.

"Do you remember me?!" She chirps.

I watch the group for a while. My "girlfriend" is actually a lot older than me. Her oldest son is only two years younger than me. The cute blonde is more my age. I'm trying to place where they may have met. Apparently so is my girlfriend because her face is a puzzle for a few moments before her eyes light up in shock and she remember.

"Well of course I do!" she babbles, they hug, then my attention is pulled away again by my fellow shoe wearer. We talk about San Diego, the army base, the teacher and before I know it, it's time to get going. I've missed all of the cute blondes conversation with my girlfriend, but I'm not in the dark long.

"I can't believe I met her here."

"Who was that?" I ask as we roll up our mats and get our coats.

"That was my son's ex-girlfriend!"

I look around at the room filled with gold poles, red walls, and a fancy disco ball at the top and can't help but start laughing.

"The IM's are going to go crazy tonight!" She says as she starts giggling with me. "Guess where I saw so-and-so's mom last night!"

"He's gonna be mortified." I say, thinking aloud of the boy going to college and giving his mother no end of trouble as he does.

Sure enough the next morning my girlfriend gets an email and announces it to all of us in her area. It's from her son.

"Mom...you're not really taking a....that class. Are you?"

In a surprisingly sassy moment my very reserved, very sweet co-worker zaps back the email:

"Well you knew I was looking for a new job!"

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I wonder if her kids will stop letting her play with me cause I'm a bad influence on their Mom.