Betwixt My Mistress and Me

Don't puke, but when I was in Vegas for the Adult Video News Awards—when I was, in other words, staring into a disposable camera, my left hand squeezing Jenna Jameson's supple, exposed waist, where the upper hip curves so delectably inward—I missed my girlfriend. Don't be sick, either; this is not some disgusting story about how horny I was and how unavailable the porn stars were. (We'll save that one for another time!) No, I really did miss my old lady. Maybe it was her parting bouquet of heartfelt words, perpetually blooming in the recesses of my consciousness: "Don’t let Aurora Snow suck your dick!"

Or perhaps it was the frenzied voids of the casino interiors themselves, stripped of clocks and daylight, of time's very passing, bells clanging and coins showering; perhaps it was the too-perfect fanboy-starlet relationships on display, all autographs and ambiguous exploitation; or perhaps it was my big sore nose, the result of a minor barfight which took place but a few hours before my flight from JFK, playground fisticuffs stemming from my, um, insulting two guys who talked (!) to my girl. Did this make me feel manly? You bet it did! But who knows what the nose knows: Sniffling or simply sore, this sensitive protuberance stands always at attention. Wifey might've instructed me to avoid Eskimo kisses.

And maybe I smelled a rat—my own twitchy-snouted self, ready to record conversations with loose women while jumping to condemn loose lips. Still, all things are not equal, and self-appraisal isn't absence. We talked—cell phone to cell phone, my static indistinguishable from hers—as I looked down on the strip from a pedestrian bridge, stepped outside of the Expo's orgy of promotion, and sat on a bench in the Venetian's actual re-creation of Venice, with its sky-painted ceiling, pool-water canal, and lighting system approximating the time of day. And I kept her in mind when collecting freebies ("Deep Throat Gel"—she'll surely appreciate that!) and signatures ("Wish you were here! [heart symbol] VioletBlue.org"). None of this could substitute for watching television with her.

Suspense: The artwork for the original series “Sex and Lies” was created for an exhibit at the gallery Le Lys in Paris. More of this art can be viewed at mirkoilic.com.
Artwork by Mirko Ilic´
Suspense: The artwork for the original series “Sex and Lies” was created for an exhibit at the gallery Le Lys in Paris. More of this art can be viewed at mirkoilic.com.

I’m reminded of the dirty joke that closes Laurence Sterne's A Sentimental Journey Through France and Italy: "Upon my word and honor, Madame, said I—stretching my arm out of bed by way of asseveration—[ . . .]— But the fille de chambre hearing there were words between us, and fearing that hostilities would ensue in course, had crept silently out of her closet, and it being totally dark, had stolen so close to our beds, that she had got herself into the narrow passage which separated them, and had advanced so far up as to be in a line betwixt her mistress and me—So that when I stretched out my hand, I caught hold of the fille de chambre's—" The book ends mid-punchline, but surely you’ll have no problem inserting your own body part—a supple, exposed waist, say.

 
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