Page 68 of Stroked by (Stroked)
“What the hell are you doing with your pants?” I ask her, utterly disgusted with the way she’s breathing out of her mouth, as if she’s Shrek after a one-mile run. It’s revolting just being around her right now.
“I was going to the bathroom when you called,” she answers, her breathing heavy.
“For heaven’s sake.” I sit up on the chaise. “Put yourself together, you merciless ape. What makes you think I want to see you with your pants practically around your ankles and your floppy clam eating up your crotch-stained cottons?” I shiver and avert my eyes from the uncivilized blockhead.
Mumbling apologies, she tends to her pants and then presents herself properly to me. “What’s wrong, Bellini?”
Dramatically, I rest my arm over my head and twist on the chaise lounge. “It’s all over,” I say, just as my dad walks in the room.
“Angel puss, is everything okay? You seem upset.”
Grabbing on to the back of the chaise lounge and sitting up, I take in my father. He’s wearing a white tank top that’s tucked into his Burberry pants while a plethora of gold chains hang from his neck. He’s so gaudy, but he has the right to be. He’s seen the gates of heaven during his near-death experience of being brutally humped by Orson, the demon pig. After such an act of the devil, my father can wear and do whatever he wants—since he got a second chance on life.
“Oh Daddy,” I whine, “everything is falling apart.”
Deep concern crosses his face. “Oh, angel puss, tell me everything.”
Flopping back down on my chaise, my gaze directed at the wall in front of me rather than the two people behind me, I hold up one single article of clothing in the air, as if I’m waving a white flag in surrender.
I hear both Pocket and my dad step forward to take a look at what I’m holding up in the air.
“What is that?” Pocket asks.
Tossing it to the side in exasperation, I say, “What is it? WHAT IS IT?” My voice rises as hysteria ensues me. “It’s a mockup of a clergy shirt made with dry clean only, Mulberry silk, intricate gold inlays, and a hot-pink clerical collar, that’s what it is.”
“It’s beautiful,” Pockets says. I’m starting to get really uncomfortable with how far she’s trying to stick her head up my ass these days. I’m pretty sure Mauve is starting to give her a territorial complex.
Flipping my legs so they hang off the side of the lounge, I stare up at her ordinary face. “Pocket, do you not see how the stitching is all wrong? How the sleeves of the shirt don’t have enough give in the shoulders? If I put this on Pope Francis, he’ll be walking around like some kind of fabulously dressed robot. That would be humiliating to him because if anything, he’s a man of God and deserves the respect of loose-fitting clothes to accommodate his doggy shoulders.”
“This is outrageous,” my dad says. Grabbing the poorly sewed clergy shirt, he tosses it on the ground and stomps on it with his Bellucci genuine alligator zipper boots, trying to turn it into dust. “I refuse to let my angel puss be subjected to such poorly constructed doggy clothing.”
“It’s so poorly constructed, Daddy,” I whine.
His face starts to turn red as his fists clench at his side. “Who did this? Who made this piece of clothing? I want names and addresses.”
“Ethel Morris,” I state, my fist raised to the air for justice. “She is the owner of Granny’s Garments. That old cotton-haired mistress conned me. She took my money and gave me a product that’s not even worth looking at. Not to mention, she wasted some of my Mulberry silk fabric. Oh Daddy, what am I to do?” My breathing is heavy, and I can feel a spell coming on. “I feel faint.”
“Pocket, tend to my daughter. I need to have a conversation with Ethel Morris. Don’t worry, angel puss, Daddy will take care of this. In the meantime, rely on Pope Francis for strength.”
“Where is he?” I ask, looking around. “Popey!”
Down the hall, the clang of Popey’s nametag against his collar rings out as he trots toward me, a look of sainthood on his face. Instantly I start to relax from his presence.
Jumping up on the chaise with me, he presses his paws against my heart and stares me in the eyes, his energy filtering from his little doggy paws straight into the center of my displeasure. We stare at each other for a couple good minutes and I know right then and there, he’s saying a prayer for me, it’s written all over his face.
When he pulls away, I say, “Amen” and then hug that little white furball to my chest.
“Such a blessing.” My dad smiles down at me and then takes off. Calling over his shoulder, he says, “I will seek revenge for you, angel puss. You have my word on it.”
The door slams behind him just as I turn to Pocket. “Please tell me I’m all packed for my journey today”
“You’re all set. Mauve made sure to have everything ready before she left. I double-checked because I don’t trust her.”
I nod. “Very good, Pocket.” Sighing, I squeeze Pope Francis and say, “Being a humanitarian is hard. I never thought Love for Lesbians was going to be so difficult.”
“But look at the good you’re doing. Just think, when you introduce Mauve to the new love of her life, she’s not going to be so ornery anymore and then in return, she’s going to be so much nicer to you.”
“It’s true, she’s lonely. You can tell by the way she doesn’t brush her hair.”
