That little slothful bastard had the right idea.
Anyway, as I haven’t really dished about Catalan Man’s trip, I’ll do so…..now!
Highlights of Me and Catalan Man’s Wacky, Madcap Adventures in America
1. The Outfit
I want to meet Catalan Man at the airport when he arrives, so I---always late and this day is no exception---rush around my apartment, trying to tie together an outfit that includes sexy skivvies that I bought from Frederick’s and a big silky trenchcoat over it so I could execute my plan of showing up at the airport and flash him my naughty no-no’s and then make him wait to tear my clothes off the entire time in the cab on the ride home. Except the thigh-highs are either too long or too tight around the thigh (both causing obscene sausage leg action) and the trenchcoat, when I sit down, doesn’t leave much to the imagination, unless you are legally blind.
I frantically cut a pair of old fishnets into thigh highs, attach them to my garter belt underwear, decide to throw on some clothes in addition to my trenchcoat, and while I’m walking through my former workplace stomping grounds in Midtown, I realize I cut the thigh highs not quite high enough and they’re pulling down my underwear, and I literally have to stop in Bryant Park and pretend to find a “Park Hours” sign absolutely fascinating so I can grab my underwear with both hands and yank it back up over my buttcheeks in a relative amount of modesty. Of course I run into a oldtime patron of the restaurant I used to work for and I stop to chat, during which conversation I learn that New York Public Library workers like him refer to the NYPL as “Nipple”. Lovely. Gotta go, byeeeeee!
2. They Meet
I rush into the airport terminal, 15 minutes late but figure he’s going to be tied up in customs and baggage claim for awhile anyway, so I don’t look for him in earnest and instead plunk myself in front of the Arrivals board to predict the time of his grand debut.
I’m filled with both nervousness and excitement. My friends kept telling me time and time again to enter into this with NO expectations, as you’ll relieve the pressure and let things unfold more naturally, etc. But how can you NOT have expectations when someone’s gone to the trouble of traveling halfway across the world to see you, and you’re going to spend the next 10 days in a tiny studio apartment in extremely close proximity (like, think of the proximity of Hans Solo and that furry white thing when he light-sabers it open to crawl inside of it to keep warm, and you’ll get an idea) with someone who has made the trip so you can both determine together if you’re in love and keep things rolling along?
Eyeglaze drips down my face as I stare blankly into the Arrivals board. I have too much on my mind to make heads or tails of anything.
Some jackass I can see out of the corner of my eye is standing next to me, looking at the board too, and says in a pathetic attempt to hit on me, “Lots of flights coming in today, huh?”
I mumble “uh-huh” and turn to him to give him a look of “leave me alone; can’t you see I’m busy being wound up like a tightly coiled string of love and desire for my Catalan Man”, and realize that it’s…..Catalan Man!!!
We hug and kiss and hug again and are smiling but don’t 100% know what to say to each other so we link arms and walk out to the cab queue. I’m walking slightly in front of him, and that’s when he notices.
“What are you wearing?” he says with pervertedly piqued interest.
I smile and tell him he’ll learn more about it in the cab.
3. Close Encounters of the Catalan Kind
We get home and get busy.
I decided not to wear my diaphragm, as Aunt Scarlett wasn’t quite out the door but she was definitely saying her goodbyes and I was hedging my bets that she would go unnoticed….plus it still kinda freaked me out, to stick a weird alien-looking rubber bowl up my cooch; call me crazy.
At one point, he stops and says to me, “I don’t think Aunt Scarlett has totally left yet” but he seems more bemused than grossed out, thankfully, so I thank him for the information and we continue to attack each other.
<violins swell. camera pans from lusty about-to-hump-like-jackrabbits couple to the awning of the Pizza/Kebabs joint from out the window. fade to black.>
Afterwards, naked and in long-awaited, post-coital bliss, we exchange presents. He had smuggled in some Manchego cheese and Serrano ham from Barcelona for me, and I make him close his eyes and take a big whiff from a bottle of Lagavulin 16 year scotch (he had told me it was his favorite smell and favorite drink in the world) and we are both appreciative and happy.
Later, we go grocery shopping to get edible supplies for the Spanish Tortilla he’s going to make me that night, and I introduce him to my beloved liquor shop guys downstairs (they make eyes at me secretly, like, “Oh, *he’s* the reason you’ve been buying all this Spanish wine these days) and we pick up a couple of bottles, and then he cooks me up the most delicious, gooey, savory and rich meal I’ve had in god-knows-when and we make love again and again and finally fall asleep in each other’s arms, exhausted and full and glowing.
Oh dear lord---I’m a whole 5 hours into his trip and I’ve already hit my maximum word limit for Ye Olde Blogge---so will give the highlights of the highlights next week.
<cue big pompous-sounding sports music here.
Next week: the first “I Love You”, the first Catalan Man/JoJoDancer’s friends meeting and a resulting spat, the Fuzzy Boots Incident, and the “dating other people” conversation…you don’t want to miss it.