Page 25 of Stroked by (Stroked)
“What lady lover?” Pocket asks.
“You can be such a daft cow at times, do you know that?” I lift a cucumber from my eye to look at her. “I saw you lurking at the door with my flowers shoved up your nose. Mauve likes women. She confessed it to me today.”
“I thought you were worried about her and Reese together.”
I slam my hands on the bed out of frustration. “I was, but since her confession, I know it’s nothing to worry about now. Keep up, won’t you? It’s not worth having a minion if you’re going to sit there with a hole between your ears, no brain to be found, and a look on your face that reads, ‘Please don’t speak to me, I only know four words: penis in my mouth.’”
It’s such a hardship, running an empire like mine, creating a line of religious wear for dogs, and having to babysit nitwits like Pocket. I feel exhausted from this conversation. I wonder if the Kardashians have such a hard time finding decent people to blow steam up their skirts. I can’t imagine they struggle on a day-to-day basis like I do; they have Ryan Seacrest at their helm. Who do I have? Wally Rose? He’s not famous for anything, other than my riveting show. Ryan Seacrest at least dyes his hair, just the tips. Wally Rose has no hair, and in place of the six-pack I’m sure Ryan is sporting, there lies a pot belly full of ten-year-old Twinkies and processed bacon fat.
“I don’t like that girl, Pocket. I don’t trust her.”
“Is it because you don’t know anyone in the gay community?”
I’m about to verbally lash out at Pocket when her words sink in. Do I know anyone in the gay community? My hair and makeup stylist is a girl, could she be gay? How can you really tell these days?
I sit up on the bed, and cucumbers fall from my eyes and onto my chest. “I don’t think I know any gay people, besides Mauve. Is that a crime?”
“They’re nice,” Pocket adds, smiling down at my feet and poking them.
I whack her hand with the top of my foot to make her stop. “What are you trying to do? Irrigate my foot? Stop that.” She pulls away immediately. “Do you think . . . I should meet some gay people? If I immerse myself in the culture, maybe then I will understand Mauve more and her intentions for ruining . . .”
I pause. A light bulb as bright as the sun shines above my head, indicating the most brilliant idea I’ve ever had. I grab Pocket by the shoulders and look her in the eyes. “Pocket, do you think Mauve is trying to make my life miserable because she’s miserable, because she can’t find a lady for herself?”
Pocket’s eyes flash wide, realizing what I’m trying to convey to her. “I’ve heard the lesbian dating circuit is hard.”
I don’t even bother asking her how she knows that, as I’m too consumed by my brilliant idea. “Pocket, I think it’s time I play matchmaker. Mauve is just a lonely hot-box, she needs a boob to squeeze at night, and I’m going to make that happen for her.”
Being the good minion that she is, Pocket praises me. “Bellini, you are a genius and a humanitarian.”
I really am a humanitarian. Add that to the list of things I excel in. Maybe if I can find the one for Mauve, I can turn my generous gesture into a philanthropic empire.
Love for Lesbians.
It has a nice ring to it.
“I need to talk to Pope Francis,” I shout, looking around for my dog.
Pocket springs from the bed and bends over, reaching her arms to the floor. Of course that silly dog is on the floor, he knows nothing more than living on just the bare minimum. If I could be more like my dog, I would call myself the luckiest person alive.
“Here is his majesty.” Pocket presents me with my mini white schnauzer. “Such a prime example of religious royalty.” Bowing away, Pocket steps aside, hands clasped in a prayer.
Idiocy radiates off her, making me wonder why I keep her around. “He’s not the actual Pope, you annoying cowbell. How many times do I have to tell you that?”
She just bows in a “namaste” kind of way. The urge to throat punch her is real.
Instead of releasing my anger, I tamp it down and gaze adoringly at Pope Francis, the love of my life. His brilliantly white hair is fluffy, like a bunny’s fur, so I bury my face in it and take in his frankincense and myrrh. He’s perfect in every way with his beady little eyes and paws that smell funnily enough like corn chips. Silly puppy.
“Oh Popey, I have such a great idea I think you will be very proud of. Remember that garbage-bag-looking lady from the photo shoot the other day, the one with the combat boots?” Pope Francis sneezes, and I take that as his memory cluing him into who I’m talking about. “Well, she told me a secret today.” I whisper into his ear, “She likes women.”
The non-judgmental dog resting in my hands nods his head, not even thinking twice about my comment. He really does God justice—love thy neighbor. I learn every day from this little white fluff ball.
“Just from the mere sight of her, I can tell she’s ornery, missing that aspect of love in her life she so desperately wants to find. It’s the only explanation I can come up with as to why she was rudely setting up moments for me to fail in front of the camera today. But instead of being bitter, and harping on how she’s ruining my life, I’m rising above her spiteful prejudice against me. I’m going to find love for her.” I pause for dramatics and take a deep breath. “I’m going to become a matchmaker.”
From the other side of the room, Pocket holds her phone up in the air, a wave of clapping echoing out of the speaker and into the room, giving me a sense of accomplishment. Maybe she’s not that bad of a minion after all.
“What do you think, Popey? Should I help out our lesbian friend and find love for her?”
The room falls silent as both Pocket and I wait in anticipation for his answer. With a side tilt to his head, he licks his mustache and blinks.
