One minute it’s the most anticipated event, then next you know it’s come and gone. What else but Christmas and its followup holidays. (Hopefully you got most of what you had on your wish list, real and imagined.). Me? I’m still kinda woozy from overdoing it with over-spiked eggnogs and rum punches that packed too much punch. Or was it de rum dat do me dat? I stayed away from my usual watering hole. Privately sharing Yuletide joys with my Looshan friends, left me too dizzy for anything else.
I’m still not fully recovered but what rocked my boat in the worst way was the special gift my other half chose for himself, all by himself. No requested hints from, no nothing. With the economy as it is, I guess he decided to save himself further stress in the season of joy and happiness. I know what you’re thinking, but trust me, you’re wrong. He’s not into such joy toys. Then again I had no idea he was into photography. Which is why I almost fell off my chair as he unpacked his gift to himself on Christmas morning: a GoPro camera! I mean that shit can put you back upward from three hundred bucks. And I’m not talking EC, you understand. (So much for our Courts and WASCO bills!) Christmas be damned. Let me tell you, I was livid. “What in the heck do you want a camera for?” I almost screamed. “And such a fancy one too? When did you take up photography, anyway?”
He was neither stirred nor for that matter shaken by my rum-soaked outburst. “I want to record you between the sheets,” he almost whispered. And I said: “You want to photograph me sleeping?”
He shook his head. “No, babe, I want you wide awake.”
And I said: “When I wake up in the morning, with my face a mess and hair all over the damn place?” I mean, how naïve can one girl get, right?
Suddenly it hit me. “You saying you want to shoot us . . . while we’re doing it? A sex tape?” He nodded affirmatively. But what assured me my Mr. Godddy-Goody Two Shoes was dead serious was that certain look in his eye that I’d not seen in years. Suddenly he had turned into Hugh Hefner, Tinto Brass and Ray J rolled into one horny super perv. He actually wanted to shoot us shooting for the moon!
Still I asked him to repeat himself, half expecting him to say he’d been kidding. He wasn’t. In fact he made certain I’d received his whispered message loud and clear. “I want us to make a sex tape,” he said.
People, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel the urge to grab that damn camera and bang it against the side of his the head. But based on his newfound affection, chances are he’d get off on the pain. I poured him a stiff one instead, then softly reminded him the only Paris that turned me on was the capital of France, not that bimbo heiress who could think of nothing better than to show the world how good she was at heating up a boudoir. I also reminded him that whatever resemblance he’d seen between Kim Kardashian and me was a booze-inspired mirage.
I couldn’t believe what next I said. It could easily have been the rum-and-Coke talking. Who cares? I told my everlovin’ that if he wanted what folks like Russell Simmons wanted, then he’d have to splurge like Russell Simmons. By which I suggested he put his money where he wanted my mouth. Even in my hung-over ears I sounded like a hooker. But what the heck, we were talking sextapes; no time for niceties!
I mean this is the same man who’s so prone to Trump tantrums should he even imagine I’d gone with a girlfriend to one of our favorite fleshpots. Besides, who can compete with over-endowed school kids when it comes to acting out some perv’s fantasies before his stolen Samsung? Not I. And anyway, as many a 15-year-old dummy has discovered, you never know in whose unmanicured paws your sextape might fall and I, for one, was not about to encourage more serial rapists in our midst . . . Anyway, that’s my Christmas story!