When you wake up on a Sunday morning singing Shelly West’s “Jose Cuervo” and laughing about it, I guess you’ve had a good night.
My Conduit was in fine form all evening, and I’m satisfied that I could not have picked a better man to minister to the needs of my followers. (However, if his recent behavior is any indication, my followers are all single lawyers with dogs.) He was wearing a jaunty scarf and explaining how he’s decided to become a libertine. I’ve never met a jaunty-scarf wearing libertine before, so I’m hugely excited that I now know one.
Sadly, I must report that my cute neighbor offered to make out with me only after I’d been smoking a big cigar (provided by a delightfully attractive tall blond man who knows more about Arnold Schwarzenegger than necessary) and doing shots of something foul from the kitchen with some non-discript guy with beautiful eyes, and so, I had to decline politely, because, when one has to see someone all the time, the last thing one wants that person to think every time he sees one is “Egad, that woman’s mouth tasted like a used ass.”
Happily, Dr. Watson came to dinner with us and then on to the party afterwards. He has this disconcerting way of standing a little apart from the group and staring somewhat behind you, as if Moriarty has unleashed a deadly cat or large orangutan that he must keep an eye on, but I laced my hand through his arm and pulled him in tight so that he would feel safe every time I saw that he was distracted by some unimaginable concern that weighed heavily on him. I kissed him as I left, just to startle him. I think it worked.
The Libertine (my conduit) has this friend who taught me the most fun game ever, in which you look around a room and each try to describe someone. However, you have to set up your answer in this form: “He is something/something.” For instance, the cute blond with the cigar was clearly an action hero/singing telegram. I kept hoping the friend (lumberjack/gay playwrite, according to him) I was playing the game with and the blond with the cigar would start making out, but they never did. Maybe next time!
There was some dancing, though I wish there would have been more, but for some reason, after a good song to dance to, something impossible would come on and there was only one girl at the whole party who could dance to anything. It was pretty amazing, really, because she looked so ordinary that when she and her friends were sitting on the couch, she was utterly unnoticable, but when she danced, wow, she was so beautiful that you just wanted to watch her. It didn’t matter what kind of song it was, with what kind of un-dancable rhythm, she had this innate sense of how to match her body to some part of the song none of the rest of us could hear.
The most amazing thing, though, was the Professor. I kept thinking that, if she’d been Buchanan’s niece, things would have been very different in that administration. She is a little live wire, sizzling in and out of rooms and conversations and situations. Everyone in the whole house seemed constantly aware of where she was, hoping that she’d come by and zap them just a smidge.
She arranged our dinner before hand–her, me, my conduit, Dr. Watson, and her friend and his girlfriend–and we went to this fabulous Turkish restaurant and were having such a good time that our waitress kept trying to join in. The Professor decided that Dr. Watson ought to have a puppy dog calendar in his new bachelor pad, in order to balance it somehow, her own version of feng shui. I decided she needed her own show on the Home and Garden Network. They all laughed, but I’m right.
Judging from the ways that crowds organize around her, people would watch her.