Putting the Madge in Danna Read online

  We professed our love to each other that night and vowed to follow The Chad Mavis Band on their tour as our honeymoon someday, the way my Auntie Dodie followed the Grateful Dead one summer with two girlfriends. It’s funny thinking about this now, because it reminds me of roast beef sandwiches and red wine, and the smell of that old inn mixed with the stench of lubricated condoms.

  Our love has remained strong but Chad Mavis’ career tanked. My guess is drugs and such. It’s a shame he gave up so soon. I mean, I’ve only been out of high school for like five years. He obviously didn’t believe in self-efficacy or else he would have tried harder to be the man we all thought he’d be. Quitters are kind of a bummer.

  Well, now he runs a tiny recording studio in Albany. It’s mostly for vanity CDs, people willing to pay top dollar because in their minds they will be the next American Idol. I bet Chad Mavis would have loved to have won on Idol had he ever thought to try out. I sincerely suspect that he’s a little like those contestants - vain. Most people who seek fame have that glitch, like they like their weird psycho fans better than the people in their life who really matter. Poor Cherilyn or whomever he ended up with, I think. Zeus would never pick someone else over me. He’s not much of a taste-tester.

  I’m sure Chad Mavis would be flattered to have a groupie like me, right? Especially now, because he’s not exactly Mick Jagger anymore, and because I’m not your run-of-the-mill average freak. At least I don’t think I am. I’m not a freak at all.

  I have an appointment this Friday to meet with him. I’m using my wedding as a cover. You know, I’ll say I’m thinking of having CDs made with our favorite music to give out as wedding favors. Zeus and I talked about this so it is legit.

  How hard is it to seduce a man like that – my Tin Man, the heartless record producer who only wants to make a quick buck? I’m feeling very confident and so is my hooey. Let the seduction begin.

  Comments:1

  I’m an actor. Please fuck me. Rob, NY, NY

  ****

  First Contact

  Friday, JULY 24, 2009 - 6:00pm

  I made first contact with Chad Mavis. He seemed the same as he had the night of my prom – the sparkling eyes, the huge lips, only now he has a goatee and mustache combo and he looked about twenty pounds heavier in his madras shorts with protruding tum-tum and faded Chad Mavis Band T-shirt. His hair appeared thinner too.

  The recording studio is actually in the detached garage of a house in an upscale city neighborhood around the corner from the Crossgates Mall. You go through the side door and there’s a little bell that rings to notify Chad Mavis that he has a customer. I’m pretty sure no one walks in off the street to do this kind of thing without first phoning. Still, I half expected him to be sitting there without his pants on or something, like I had caught him with his pants down on my way to taking his pants down (ha, ha). I guess because every time Zeus and I have sex it’s like a porn video. I was already constructing the script in my head for this scenario after reading so much about Madonna, you know?

  But he was in there, alone, sitting hunched over one of those tall stools in the recording booth, in front of an unplugged microphone strumming a guitar. He nearly fell off his chair when he saw me.

  I was wearing a raspberry pink floral sundress to match the color of my pinky-pinkerson, which was pretty juiced up at the thought of my devious plan to connect via hooey-pricker with this man. I had just come from a mani-pedi, so my nails were still a little wet – not really, but you know how it is when you pay all that money and they still seem sticky even though the Vietnamese lady says you can go.

  He had a pretty large console set-up, very Jay-Z worthy, filled with all these gadgets that control volume and tones. It reminded me of big penis jokes for some reason, like what they say about guys who drive big cars or whatever. It looked like it took more than one engineer to run it all, but what do I know about the technical aspects of making music? There was a glass enclosed booth, sort of the size of one of those photo booths at the county fair. No, it was a little bigger, actually. Big enough to fit two singers on high stools and maybe a couple guitarists standing in back too.

  The whole room still reeked like a garage, complete with a rake, lawn mower, snow blower and other gadgets for outdoor chores. The walls had foam lining them, sort of a homemade soundproofing that seemed to create a kind of fortress (of kink, I thought). Pot halogens dangled from the unfinished ceiling like air masks that pop out when a jet’s about to crash. Was this entire mission a wreck in progress?

  As he approached, he must have noted that strange look I get on my face when I think something is odd. Zeus is always tells me things are written all over my face – not literally of course, but you know. Like when my nose scrunches up all funny when I drink wine. I’ve been trying to get out of that habit, drinking a little bit every day or so to get used to it because I don’t want to look like I don’t love Jesus when I have to drink his wine blood at my wedding. That would be very unorthodox.

  “We’re still putting the finishing touches on a shed out back for that stuff,” Chad offered as an explanation pointing to his landscaping tools. “Then there are plans to finish the walls and paint them yellow.”

  I said, “Mellow yellow.” I had been thinking it but then it just popped out aloud. I hate when that happens.

  “Yeah. That’s right,” he said. “It’ll help calm people if they feel nervous. Sometimes seeing a professional studio space is daunting.” God, I dislike the word daunting! It makes me think people who use it are trying to be smarter or something. Then I thought, maybe Chad Mavis was trying to impress me with his big words. Could he be harboring a big, juicy cock beneath his big vocab – a kind of a put-your-money- where-your-mouth-is thingy?

  I said, “Hi. I’m Dannika Elinopoulous, soon to be Zepkos. I’m getting married next month. We spoke on the phone?”

  “Nice to meet you,” he said as he offered his hand to shake. “I’m Chad.”

  I made a slight fist and we knuckle bumped instead. “Manicure,” I said sheepishly. “I know who you are, Mr. Mavis. I’m a huge fan of your work.”

  “Really? How so?”

  I laid it on really thick. Thought it would be a good idea to shower the old guy (he’s about thirty-five) with all sorts of mega compliments to butter him up. I shared some tidbits from prom, and how Zeus and I had followed his career some, and la-la-la. Then I proceeded with my cover story, you know, about the music for my wedding. He showed me a sample of a tape he’d put together for some Russian couple. I think he had it in his head that all foreigners are interchangeable. Well, maybe the religion is the same but the culture – come on! That’s such an American thing to think and it kind of bothered me. Oh well. Sorry. I know – it wasn’t a biggie, and it’s not like I’m going to marry the guy.

  I don’t even have to like him or any of my potential fucksters, although that would certainly make this journey more fun. Madonna wasn’t in love with her record producer, of course. I just need Chad Mavis’ pricker in my hoo-ha – Madonna’s rules and I must abide by them or else I will have a pitiful life full of the cum of only one young man.

  I said, “I’d like some Madonna for my processional, the older stuff, like Crazy for You.” Then I started singing it, a cappella. This time it was an aloud, on purpose thingy because I love to sing and Madonna’s songs fit my range perfectly. I looked into his eyes and just belted it out, which I think impressed him.

  “You sound amazing,” he said. “Have you thought about singing it yourself? You could have your voice recorded and have it playing as you waltz down the aisle. Or it could be used as your first dance. That would make the reception unique and memorable. And personal. People love making their weddings more personal or so I’m told. I wouldn’t know. My old lady and I eloped.”

  I blurted, “I don’t know, isn’t that kind of tacky? I mean, sorry, not eloping or anything. That sounds kind of good, actually. All of this wedding planning can be stressful. I meant the sin
ging – hearing my own voice like a narrative in a movie or something. It seems a little Bridezilla.”

  “Why don’t we lay a track down, see how you like it?” he said. “I have an opening tomorrow.”

  I said, “Will that cost a lot?”

  I knew Zeus would kill me if I went off budget. Mom and Dad are supposed to be paying for the whole wedding, since I’m the girl and the bride’s parents traditionally pay, but Zeus’ parents are chipping in too. Zeus didn’t like the idea of being the child still – he forbade us from using the words children of on the wedding invitation. He insisted on contributing most of the money for the wedding expenses himself since he has such a high paying career and all, but I think my parents have this plan to replenish our joint bank account with anything Zeus spends. He doesn’t actually know that, so he has me on this stinking budget, and he’ll know if I trip up, because he’s a money cheapo.

  Sometimes he’ll interrogate me with tickles until I confess to buying a new pair of shoes (the last ones were fuck-me Steve Madden’s, and I really bought them for his pleasure because they went so well with my sexy red riding hood get-up).

  “Maybe we can negotiate something that works for the both of us,” Chad Mavis said with a smile. I thought, what a relief - all this worry for nothing! He winked or at least, I thought he had. It could have been something in his eye like an allergen – my eyes do tend to get bloodshot when I wear colored contacts then my brother, Dean thinks I look like Medusa. I don’t really know.

  Regardless, I took it as a sign. I had to go for it. I asked, “Do you take cunt currency?”

  “Did you just say what I thought you said?” he asked.

  “Indeedy do,” I replied.

  And that my friends, was that. We kissed! He kind of did this slobbering thing, like he was too excited or something. I let him fondle my titty-titty-bang-bangs a little, and when he did, he shoved his hairy leg against me and I could feel a full blast Mr. Hard-on nudging against my mound of fuck-me.

  Then I said, “This is nice. Thank you. But I have another appointment to get to right now so, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “I look forward to working with you, Dannika Elin…Elin…,” he said.

  “Elinopoulous. Soon to be Zepkos,” I added. In my giddiness, I tripped over the microphone stand and nearly bumped into the foam-lined wall on my way out the door. “What’s that doing there?” I muttered the way my bestie, Gina Romano, does when she experiences a clumsy moment.

  Wow, this is going to be easier than I thought. I am on my way. Need to groom up for my encounter. Wish me luck.

  Comments: 4

  Good luck. Anonymous

  Why you are using Dannika’s name for this vulgar writing? She is good girl.

  Auntie Sofia, Toronto, Ont. Canada

  Call me. I’m your guy, your actor guy. This isn’t a joke. Rob, NY, NY I believe Madonna’s record producer friend was Mark Kamins, who sent a copy of Everybody to Seymour Stein at Sire Records, thus launching her career.She didn’t fuck him, as far as I know. Antoinette, Little Rock, AK

  ****

  Crazy for Fucky-wuck

  Saturday, JULY 25, 2009 - 8:00pm

  You might want to have an Ouzo first before you read this entry, because hard liquor is the only thing that helped me after it happened. I drank half a bottle of the brandy my Dad had made from apricots last summer. It was pretty good for moon-shine. I think he was saving it for the family night-before-the-wedding party. Oh well. Hope I don’t sound too inebriated, as I attempt to recollect this adventurous encounter.

  My appointment with Chad Mavis was scheduled for noon today, but it had been very difficult to shake Connie Zepkos, Zeus’ mom. She had wanted me to meet her at Zepkos Cleaners then she’d planned to take me out shopping for sheets and towels. She kept me on the phone for hours talking all sorts of Suzi-homemaker shitilda. Needless to say, but I wasn’t about to shoo her away. She’s my fiancé’s mother, and I do love her like a mother. Like my mother’s best friend, really, because that’s who she is. She’s like my mom’s twin only a little more foreign. I think that’s because she was born in Athens and not Albany like Mom was. I promised to meet her tomorrow, which would have given me time to wash the fuck off my other face (referring to my hooey there).

  I doubt she’ll notice a change in me, but she is known to believe in the evil eye and that kind of freaks me out. She wears these eyeball necklaces all the time, even gave me this gy-normous blue one at my bridal shower. I hope she can’t sense the smell of another man on me. That would be weird though, if she could. I might have to start wearing the creepy eyeball to protect myself from her.

  I had barely enough time to dress for my first Madonna-style conquest. I wore the La Perla white lace bra with matching thong from my wedding trousseau, and my strappy stone encrusted wedding shoes (hey, I have to break in my Jimmy Choos if I’m to do hours of folk dancing at my wedding, right?) The white eyelet sundress with the halter straps didn’t cover the bra straps but that was the idea. I was my own version of Like a Virgin, all done up in gold coin, pearls and a diamond cross around my neck. I wore my hair in a loose bun that I could yank out at the fucky-wuck witching hour.

  I met Chad at 12:45pm. He looked like he was packing up for the day when I walked in. I guess he’d thought I was just a tease, with my smarmy cunt currency sexy-talk, and I didn’t blame him because I was forty-five minutes late. I’m not normally so unprofessional, but like I said, it was sort of Mrs. Zepkos’ fault.

  I said, “Hi. Sorry I’m late, wedding stuff, you know.” I could see a look in his eyes that said he didn’t really care what my dealio was, but I still decided to throw Connie under the bus. “Zeus is always telling me that I should be prompt because it’s a sign of maturity, but my future mother-in-law and I….”

  “You sure you want to get married?” he asked, interrupting my explanation.

  “What do you mean?” I asked back. I thought he was about to hit me with his best come on seduction. Would it be something like him yanking at his erectasaurus and saying, because you have more gusto to grab, darlin’! And then, you want a piece of this?

  “My wife and I barely have sex anymore,” he said instead.

  I blurted, “Why not? Is there something wrong with your cock?”

  Yeah, I know, I should work on that thinking-before-opening-my-trap routine. I must have sounded like my great-grandmother, Yaya Mellania, from Mykonos, who is a Greek version of Sophia from Golden Girls.

  “Uh, no,” Chad Mavis replied. “She just lost interest in it, I guess.”

  I felt kind of sorry for him for getting stuck with a Mrs. Frigid, but the truth was, I thought, TMI alert. I’ll let you in on a secret, bloggers. Women love sex. You just have to push the right buttons with us - everybody knows that, or else it’s just shut down time, like the way you shut down when math is too hard.

  I had to keep my arms at my sides because I had that urge to play the self-destructing robot. You know, arms bending slowly up and down at the elbows while legs do a sort of moonwalk. Zeus likes that dance when we role-play Sci-Fi. Then he sticks it to me from behind and I regenerate to the tune of his massive pricker.

  Should I abort the mission, I wondered? There was an awkward silence in the garage studio as I digested his words. I looked down and noticed he had added a green shag rug remnant to the floor. I thought it was grass at first but that would have been weird.

  “So,” he said finally, “do you want to try that song? I have the instrumental track set up. It’s in the same key as Madonna’s version. It’s in E. Does that work? All you have to do is put on the headphones then sing into the microphone.”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “Okay,” I said.

  I entered the recording booth and popped on the headphones. Then I was all “Test, test,” into the microphone.

  “I can hear you fine,” Chad Mavis said into his desk lamp style mic on the other side of the glass.

  It was difficult to climb onto
the stool he had there wearing my tiny mini dress. There was no way to remain demure as I hoisted myself up. Felt like that Lily Tomlin lady when she plays that baby in an oversized high chair – saw it on TV Land just last week. I hiked up the dress so that my bare booty-boot cheeks landed on the hard wood of the stool (he, he, hard wood, which is what I was expecting shortly in my hoo-ha).

  When I heard the music, I felt more at ease. I can do this, I thought. I sang the whole song, hitting every note as Chad Mavis sat on the other side of the console adjusting the bass and treble levels.

  “That was great Miss Elinin..in….”

  “Elinopoulous,” I said. “Call me Danna. It’s like Madonna except without the Ma and with an A. D-A-N-N-A.” I flashed him a big toothy smile like a Miss America contestant. I have great teeth thanks to several years of braces and a barrel of whitener strips.

  “Okay, Danna. That was aces,” he said. “But I want to try something else. Can you take it from the top?”

  “Something else?” I asked trying to sound seductive-like. “What did you have in mind?”

  “I want to do another take, just to make sure we got it,” he replied. Wow, I thought. Should I quit my day job and become a lounge lizard? Am I that good? Maybe I should try out for American Idol! “We can do a splice and have you harmonized with yourself. Madonna does it all the time.”

  Do it again. Hmm, I thought. That’s the one thing that I don’t really like about singing. It’s like you give it your all then you have to do the same thing assembly line style just like a factory worker - over and over.

  And then what, I wondered? Thirdzies and fouthzies? I must admit, it seemed kind of boring to be so repetitive. I would have much rather sung a different song. I thought, why would anyone want to sing in rerun all the time? Madonna’s been doing it for thirty years or so, longer than I have been alive. Wow. She’s a real trouper, isn’t she? This actually made me appreciate her even more. It was work, I realized, not just fun and (in my case) sexy games.