Hello dearies. Thank you for the vast floral tributes, notes of empathy, texts of support, drive-by well-wishes, and the general outpouring of compassion and sympathy regarding my last post here. Yes. I survived the mask-less party of four or five weeks ago wherein post-soiree I felt very much dead-man-walking with regard to brushing shoulders with Miss Rona. Quelle surprise! I am still minus the virus!
And, yes, I semi-quarantined myself after that party. I mean, not like I was going anywhere anyways except to the market and back. A couple friends who also attended that party texted that they were safe, too; we were counting down the 14-days to get on the other side of all the stress associated by attending a risky, close quarters party scene.
Two days after my 14-day semi-quarantine, I accepted a lunch invitation. Party of five; outdoor seating. I figured this was an ideal scenario as (a) outside with the air moving (b) i felt lucky that I’d already dodged a CORONA bullet. Yes, I know. Insert gay eye roll cuz’ Mary I’ve lived a lifetime knowing and understanding that I am NOT the sharpest knife in the drawer. But I have a girth-y cock and dress impeccably. So those considerations have served me well. My father once said “…boy, that mouth will land you in trouble some day.” It actually landed me a two-bedroom condo in a luxury zip code but that’s an entirely different tale.
The luncheon was last Saturday. On the surface I was fine but internally my mind was racing with just exactly when the dry throat tickle would occur and what moment my body would convulse with chills. It must have been somewhat evident as one friend turned and asked “…are you comfortable like this?” I stated that I was fine but in my head I flashed Joseph Gordon-Levitt suds lathering and shaving my boi hole and punch fucking me till I giggle peed myself as something I’d be more comfortable with. Plus, I was a bit moist around the collar as I was wearing a watermelon pink, gingham checked, long-sleeve dress shirt, a navy sport coat, and beneath the most preppy white-summer-jeans in town–a nude colored body shaper. Or, in other words: male Spanx. Judge me. Because I really have zero fucks to give at this age. It’s all about optics and the body shaper tightens the belly and moobs rather well. Getting into it is like wrestling a meth head anaconda but getting out of it parallels something akin to projectile pink flab wherein one can lose an eye. But I digress.
Today is Independence Day. I have zero plans. Much like everyone else, I gather. I will probably more than likely walk the nearby park and soak up some vitamin D. The apartment is in an uproar as I received some artwork I purchased on ETSY recently, hence the entire gallery wall needs a smidge of an adjustment. The eye has to travel, as Diana Vreeland once stated. And since I have zero vacation plans anytime soon…pretty pictures will fill my travel void. Stay safe. Wear the damn mask!