The Most Popular Companion

Thea CornwallHiya, Thea here.

 

I have a confession to make: I’m a nerd. I know, I know, complete surprise, right? I like computers, comic books, and sci-fi TV. I watch just about everything I can get my hands on and I speak fluent Klingon. Seriously. It’s a real language and I spent a couple of months learning it when I was a kid.

When the blog wasn’t even started yet, I talked Lacy into going to Comic-Con with me last July. Lacy’s kind of a closet nerd, which means she is but won’t admit to it anymore. Now she’s too sexy to be a nerd, in her own mind. She became pretty nerdy in high school because her boyfriend at that time, Frankie Mazzo, was a big sci-fi/fantasy fan. She wore a Star Trek sweatshirt through most of her senior year, and it was exactly like the one Frankie wore that year too.

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Couples who dress alike are to be avoided, in my opinion. There’s something a bit off about people who say “We’re a couple, and if you can’t figure that out because we’re holding hands and doing things together, we’re going to make it more obvious by trying to look like clones holding hands and doing things together.” Worse is when they’re a Trek fan couple who dress alike. Lacy and Frankie were bad enough, but go to enough of these conventions and you’ll eventually see a Kirk and Kirkette holding hands, looking like a very kinky episode of the Original Series. Those people should be forced to wear mental health warning labels in four languages, including Klingon.

We had fun at the convention, watching old movies and TV shows, attending interviews, and going to panels. The panels were the most fun because Lacy and I prepared a bunch of questions to ask the guests. A lot of them get the same questions over and over, so we wanted to make sure we asked questions they had never heard before.

We asked Mark Evanier why he was secretly bringing in Rush Limbaugh to voice a very special Garfield cartoon; the Disney panel if Walt was secretly a Nazi, was Goofy patterned after Mussolini; and the cast of The Avengers which one of them was playing Emma Peel. I swear, I thought Evanier was going to explode. Hehehehehe…

The last day of the convention was a Sunday and Lacy had spent Saturday night drinking and dancing a little too hard at various parties. She had a mild hangover the next day and she slept in a bit. When she awoke, I was already dressed and eager to see the last things on our agenda.

“Come on,” I told her. “I don’t want to miss the Women In Comics panel.”

“Lemme alone,” Lacy mumbled. “I’m not going anywhere without a Starbucks double latte in my system.”

“Way ahead of you.” I handed her a cup.

Lacy had gone as a green Orion slave girl to the various parties, and most of her body was still an emerald hue as she greedily grabbed the cup and smiled. “I knew there was a reason I married you.”

“Yuck! Don’t get weird.”

“I think I already was last night,” she said, inhaling the coffee’s aroma. “I was a little drunk.”

“Did you have fun?”

She took a sip. “I think so. I remember this skinny nerd trying to hit on me. I think he was a little drunk too.”

“How many bases did he get to?” I asked, sitting on my own bed.

“None. You know how I get when I’ve had a few Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters.”

“Oh jeez! Where did you get those?”

“The first party I stopped at. After that, things got a little blurry.”

For the uninformed, Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters are a favored drink at sci-fi conventions, based on a drink mentioned in The Hitchhikers’ Guide To The Galaxy. Lacy has a pretty high tolerance to alcohol, but there are certain mixed drinks that affect her metabolism in weird ways. Too many Hurricanes, for example, and she’s a pissy, mean drunk. Enough Gargle Blasters and she’s pretty dangerous. Whoever this guy was, I felt sorry for him already.

“What happened?” I glanced at my watch. Still a little time.

Lacy took a long sip of coffee. “He pissed me off. I told him I was interested in something he said – I can’t remember what it was now – and in response, he said he wanted to knock me up.”

“Rude asshole!”

“Yeah, so I pantsed him.”

I giggled. “Pantsed him? Where?”

“In the middle of the dance floor. I managed to get his suspenders off quickly and pulled the pants down. The guy was thin as a rail, so they came down quick. He tripped and fell when I did that, so I grabbed them and ran.”

“Grabbed what?”

“His pants.” Lacy took a big gulp of her latte and pointed. “They’re over there in the corner.” Sure enough, sitting in a heap in one corner of the room was a pair of black pants.

“Well, we’d better figure out how to get them back to him,” I said, walking to the corner and picking them up.

“Just leave ‘em there.” Lacy finished her drink. “Let the rude asshole find ‘em on his own. And I thought British people were supposed to be so polite.”

“British?” I started digging through the pockets. “Lacy, what exactly did he say, again?”

“That he would knock me up in the morning. Pissed me off when he said that. Even more so he figured he could wait until the morning to do it to someone as hot as me. He should have been too eager to wait that long.”

I sighed as I pulled out the guy’s wallet. “Lacy, ‘knock you up in the morning’ is a common expression in the United Kingdom. He just meant he would call you this morning.”

“Call me?” She slipped out of bed. “Why would Matt call me this morning? I can’t remember what I asked him.”

“Matt? Was that his name?”

“Yeah. Matt… Something… I can’t remember.”

I opened the wallet and looked at the British driver’s license. I did a double-take and looked at it again, my eyes bulging. My hands started shaking. “Matt Smith?

“Yeah, that was it.”

“Matt Smith?” I repeated, feeling my heart in my throat.

“Yeah, you said that. Get off that bandwagon.”

I looked at my sister, back at the driver’s license, and then back at my sister. “Lacy, do you know who Matt Smith is?”

“Yeah, he’s the guy I pantsed last night.”

You pantsed Doctor Who!” I yelled at her.

“No I didn’t. I pantsed Matt Smith.”

“Matt Smith plays the Doctor,” I felt faint and managed to make my way to a nearby chair.

Lacy shook her head. “No he doesn’t. That’s David Tennant. I watched a couple of episodes with you once, remember? Cute guy.”

“That was the previous Doctor. Matt Smith plays the part now.”

“Well that’s pretty stupid,” Lacy said, starting to rub off the green body makeup. “He doesn’t look anything like that Tennant guy. No one’s gonna buy he’s supposed to be the same character.”

I put my head in my hand and shook it. “That’s kind of the point. They change Doctors every so often. I can’t believe you pantsed Doctor Who.”

Lacy stood up and walked toward the bathroom. “Would you stop saying that? I’m gonna take a shower. Be right back.”

Oh God. That was the longest twenty minutes of my life as Lacy washed off the green body makeup. Images of the TARDIS materializing in our hotel room filled my mind. I imagined the Eleventh Doctor walking out, grabbing his trousers and wallet, and leaving me to the tender mercies of the Daleks and the Cybermen he brought along with him. Even worse, I imagined having to turn in my Doctor Who Fan Club card. By the time Lacy came out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, I was a nervous wreck.

“So how do we get the wallet back to this Matt guy?” Lacy asked as she started dressing. “I still don’t buy this is supposed to be the same character I saw on those episodes with you.”

“I have no idea what room he’s in, but security will know.” I started walking toward the door.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Lacy said, grabbing my shoulder. “You don’t know jack about dealing with celebrities, do you?”

“I know better than to pull their pants down at a party.”

Lacy tapped the wallet in my hand. “Dummy, you have a wallet: something any normal person needs for his day-to-day life. Celebrity wallets are worth their weight in gold. Trust me. Miley Cyrus paid big bucks to get hers back.”

“You pantsed Miley Cyrus?”

“No. She just left her wallet lying around in her purse while she was on stage somewhere. It’s not my fault her security people can’t spot a fake network intern when they see one.”

“Was Matt with a cute redhead?”

Lacy nodded. “Yeah, I think so. Who’s she supposed to be? Mrs. Who?”

“Karen Gillan. She plays his companion on the show.”

“What happened to the blonde?” Lacy asked. “The one Tennant was with?”

“Rose? She’s gone.”

“Too bad. That Tennant guy is so cute. He should be with a blonde.”

“He’s married to a blonde. The daughter of the Fifth Doctor.”

“Fifth Doctor?” How many of those suckers have there been?”

“Matt’s the eleventh.”

Lacy shook her head. “And this David Tennant was the tenth?”

“Yes.”

“And he’s married to the daughter of the man who played the Fifth Doctor?”

“Peter Davison, yes.”

“So you could argue he’s married to his own daughter.”

“Don’t be silly,” I said. “That’s not –”

Lacy smiled. “I need to watch that program more often. That’s one kinky little time machine.”

“I think we should just give Mr. Smith back his pants and his wallet.”

“And I think,” Lacy said, grabbing the wallet from me, “I can get you a real goody to remember from all of this. Leave it to me.”

Before I could protest, Lacy bolted for the door with the wallet. She threw a chair in my way and I tripped over that. By the time I was in the hallway, it was empty. My sister was gone.

I looked and looked for her, but couldn’t find her anywhere. At twelve-thirty there was a Doctor Who panel, and it was the main reason I came to the convention, but I didn’t dare attend it. I imagined Matt Smith standing up on stage, pointing at me, and saying “There’s the woman who had my wallet!” Daleks and Cybermen are one thing; they’re not real. Rabid Who fans are. I’d have never made it to the door.

By four-thirty, I had given up and returned to the hotel room. Lacy and I were planning to leave in the morning, so I started packing. I looked for a long time at my sister’s clothes and considered burning them, but I couldn’t figure out where to do that without tripping a fire alarm. If I’d had some bleach, I’d have poured it all over her stuff, including the Star Trek: The Next Generation 25th Anniversary print she’d picked up. I was that mad.

About five o’ clock, Lacy walked back into the room, bold as you please. “Hi, sis,” she said, grinning.

“Where the hell have you been?” I snapped, running up to her and getting into her face. “I’ve looked everywhere for you.”

Lacy shrugged. “I was with Matt and Karen. They’re pretty cool people.”

“With Matt… ”

“… and Karen,” she finished for me.

“They didn’t have you arrested? I would have.”

“Nah.” Lacy sat on her bed. “I explained the whole thing. Matt laughed about it.”

“Oh, thank God,” I sighed, sitting on my own bed. “What have you been doing with them all this time?”

“We had a late lunch. We spent time with some guy named Arthur.”

“Arthur Darvill?” I asked in a squeaky voice.

“Yeah, him. Anyway, we –”

“You had lunch with the stars of Doctor Who?”

Lacy smirked. “You are such a sci-fi nerd, you know that? You give me a hard time about Miley Cyrus, but mention I had lunch with some fantasy show actors and you act like a starstruck kid.”

“Lacy, I’d have given my eyeteeth to have lunch with those people!”

“Yeah, well, we tried to find you but you weren’t here and I couldn’t get you on your cell phone. I think it died.”

I looked glumly at the floor. “Swell. I get screwed over again, while you come up smelling like a rose. Again.”

“Hey, that reminds me,” Lacy said. “Matt wanted me to give you this.” She reached around her neck and pulled out a long, polka-dotted slip of material.

“What is it?”

“Well, I remembered what it was Matt told me last night. He told me he was connected with Doctor Who and I asked him if he had a souvenir for my sister. He was going to give me an autograph last night, but after I returned his wallet, he gave me this. It’s one of the ties Matt wore on the show. He said you’d probably like this more.” Smiling, Lacy handed me the tie.

“They showed some clips at the panel, by the way. I may just have to watch that thing now. It’s pretty cool.”

I looked in awe at the tie in my hands, examining it closely. “Oh my God, they all autographed it.”

“Yeah, them and that Steven guy they were with.”

“Steven Moffat?”

“Yeah. The producer.”

“I know who Steven Moffat is. Lacy, do you know how much this thing is worth?”

She smiled. “To the world at large? Or to my sister?”

I jumped up and hugged her. “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“I told you a celebrity’s wallet is worth its weight in gold. Especially to the celebrity.”

I pulled away. “You’re pretty wonderful, you know that?”

She smiled. “Yeah, I know. You even got a bonus.”

I looked at her oddly as I started putting the tie around my own neck. “What’s that?”

“Matt was so happy to get the wallet back, he forgot about the other thing I took.”

“You mean –”

Lacy smiled. “There may be three or four people who have a tie like that, but only you have Matt Smith’s pants!”

 

Regards,
Thea

 

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Letters From Readers

Lacy-06Hi, it’s Lacy.

I think people should have opinions, don’t you? Well, maybe not, but that’s my opinion.

Not everyone who reads this blog comments on it. In fact, most of them don’t. But I’ll tell you what they usually do, and that’s write emails to us. So Thea forwarded some of hers to me, and combined with what I have, I thought it would be a good time to answer a few questions. Pay attention. Yours might be in here.

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Wendy O. from Las Vegas writes –

Lacy, you and Thea are just so awesome. Have you two ever been here to Vegas?

Wendy, first of all, you show excellent taste just by the fact you wrote to me instead of Thea. Well, to be honest, you’d be hard-pressed to find Thea’s email address anywhere on this blog, and I’m always pushing her to correct that. Frankly, she has more addresses than a Chinese phone book, so I asked her to get a Gmail account so she could receive some, just from here. Unfortunately, Thea’s paranoid, and when she tried to set up a Gmail account, it asked for her phone number, which she refused to give them, so she’s not getting one there.

Anyway, to answer your question, yes, we’ve been to Vegas. Wonderful town. Thea has to use her fake I.D. to get in anywhere interesting, but that’s cool. She keeps trying to play the blackjack tables, and the casinos keep trying to tell her to go play the slots. Not that I’d accuse my sister of card-counting, but even I’m suspicious of that little, hand-held electronic device she has. It displays a set of numbers on the inside of her glasses, and they change when she taps her foot. She’s been trying to miniaturize a CPU so she can fit it into her cleavage (and face it, the girl has tons of room there, what with her tiny little C-cups and all) and keeps asking me when we’re going back there. I keep telling her that’s up to the casinos.


Net-Whiz from Anywhere writes us –

hi, thea!!!!!!!!!!!11~~ its y0r old buddy,net-wh1z. LOLOL.. why R inviol\/edi n a blog?????????????!!!!!!!!!!!!!???????????????? OLOLOLOLO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1~~~~~ r ypou selling out!?!?!???? olololololololololo…

Sorry, no foreign languages, please.


Julie W. from Tampa says –

I love your blog. When you have time, could you read my Twilight fanfic? I’d love your comments on it.

Let me just save you a whole lot of trouble, Julie. I’m sure you’re a talented writer. (Seriously. Some of the best writers do fanfics and some of them are awesome.) But the subject matter leaves a lot to be desired. I have nothing against Twilight. Some of my best bonfires come from burning Twilight books. (Sales of Twilight books have skyrocketed since I started doing that. Coincidence? I don’t think so!) But if you really want me to read anything with the word “twilight” in the title, you don’t want me to comment on what I read. Seriously, you just don’t.


Jeremy L. from Los Angeles says –

Hey, Lacy. I saw you and Thea in Big J the other day. I was so excited and so nervous! I think you’re both gorgeous. I just wanted to say “hello” but I couldn’t get the courage up to do it, so I snapped a few pics. I hope you don’t think I’m a wuss because of that.

Jeremy, was that you? I don’t think you’re a wuss, baby, but I do think you’re a stalker! Thanks for the email address, BTW. With Thea’s help, I managed to find your identity and you’ll be receiving a humorous letter in the mail from my lawyer, “Jolly Jack” Hirschfeld. Just have a ball reading it, and laugh your ass off at the fine print. Please note any pictures you took are now the legal property of Lacy Cornwall, LLC. and don’t forget to send them all in the envelope that “Jolly Jack” will provide. Accept no substitutes and keep no copies, please.


A Miss Miley Cyrus of Los Angeles writes –

What’s with all the stupid jokes at my expense on your so-called blog? Consider this a demand you cease and desist immediately.

Moving right along …


Ben Dover, via Thea’s email, says –

Thea, I really, really appreciate the video you sent me. Is that really Lacy dancing on that stage? Wow, she’s hot!

“Jolly Jack”, I got another one for you, baby.


Art T. from Baton Rouge says –

Lacy, I just have to say I love your blog. Do you and Thea play poker? And do you smoke cigars when you do?

Well, aren’t you a kinky little freak, Art? Love watching a girl smoke a cigar, huh? Cool.

Interesting you should ask those questions. Yeah, we get together with everyone else at Broomfield Consultancy about twice a month and play poker. We usually meet at Quentin’s house around seven P.M. on a Saturday, and sit down with some German ale and thick macanudos. We play all night, and it’s a blast.

For all of our comments about Babette’s lack of intelligence, the girl plays a mean hand of five card stud, and usually wins the most. Samantha and Babs don’t smoke cigarettes, but they both love a good cigar every so often, and the smoke gets kind of hazy in Quentin’s den.

Thea likes cigars too, and I have some cute pictures of her, cigar in her teeth as she looks over a hand of cards. If I can find ‘em, I’ll post them.

Cigars and I have a love/hate relationship. I love smoking one, but I know I’m gonna puke later. I don’t know why that is, but Quentin and Thea have both expounded on the chemical reasons for it. It’s a lot of fun to hear them rattle on about it while I leave an offering to the porcelain god in Quentin’s bathroom. Not for the squeamish!


Jason B. of Oklahoma City (OK) writes –

Lacy, I’d just love some nude photos of you. Did you ever get that photo-spread in EGL magazine sorted out?

Hi, Jason. No, that opportunity has come and gone, sad to say. I keep pestering Thea to help me set up a pay gallery website, but she just looks at me like I’m crazy and says nothing. I’m not talking porn here, I’m talking “artfully nude”, but still hot. Think Pamela Anderson without Tommy Lee and you can just visualize the classiness I’m thinking of. Now my friend Shadowcat keeps telling me to “never give away the goodies, baby”, so until I can get Miss Prude to handle the technical end of things, you can always drop by Pony Tails when you’re in the L.A. area. You’re not gonna see me nude off the stage, to be honest, but I’m still a lot of fun in a “Hey, what happened to my mailbox?” kinda way. I’ll provide the entertainment if you’ll provide the bail money.


Harry P. of London, England writes –

Blimey! You birds are crazy. Any advice to a 16 year old guy just trying to find his way in the world?

Yeah. Stop reading the blog! No offense (offence?), kid, but I’m the girl your mommy warned you about. Boo!


Well, that kinda wraps things up for now and I hope you’ll all keep reading (except you, Harry P.).

Peace Out,
Lacy

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April 14, 2014Permalink 1 Comment

Dinner and a Show

Lacy-06Hi, Lacy here.

Things were going pretty well until last night. Thea and I have patched things up after that dirty trick she pulled on me with the whole nude modeling thing. She was so ashamed by her own deceitfulness she apologized, so I’ve given her back the hard drive from her laptop. (She never should have shown me how to remove one.) Now we’re cool and I can get back to concentrating on Quentin.

Quentin really is a sucker, sometimes. He got into this whole “treat your employees like people” mood after he went to a seminar about running a business. We all got a five percent raise out of that and he decided to get to know each of us better, so he took us out to dinner.

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Like Quentin doesn’t know us. I’m glamorous and amazing, Thea’s smart and resourceful, Samantha is shy and efficient, and Babs is, well, Babs. There are doorknobs out there brighter than Babs, but she’s eye-candy, which is what a receptionist should be in this case. She doesn’t have a lot to do beyond answer the phone, file her nails, and fight with Samantha. When men are waiting to see Quentin, that’s where Babs shines. Quentin has her walk around the room a lot and smile, which keeps men happy. She’s almost as hot as I am.

Quentin looks at us all like daughters sometimes, which is fine for everyone else. For me, it’s a major pain. I’m not his daughter, I’m his babe-a-licious potential girlfriend, but he keeps losing sight of that. Sometimes I have to remind him, like the night I’m talking about.

He took us all out to this seafood restaurant, which was a pretty ritzy place. After our last adventure in a restaurant, Thea and I brought along every credit card we had between us, even the ones for clothing stores. You never know.

We were seated at this large table and everyone seemed to be in a good mood, at least at that moment. Even Samantha and Babette were happy with each other and hadn’t fought all day. It promised to be a wonderful evening, until they all got snippy.

Dinner with Quentin had me pretty excited, to be honest, and I pulled out all the stops. I had a new black dress on that hugged every luscious curve of my body and white pumps with 6-inch metallic heels. I had my nails done, long and patterned, and artfully-applied makeup. Add the new necklace and bracelets I was wearing and I was a walking wetdream. I mean that in the most modest way possible, of course.

Thea even put on a dress. Actually, Thea didn’t have a dress of her own (big surprise), so she borrowed one from Samantha. It was royal blue and fit her beautifully. We had to use the padded bra again, but I was proud of the way she looked. She insisted on flats though, since she’s now a bit afraid of high heels.

Samantha was in an emerald green dress with matching heels, and Babs wore her usual work clothes: a pink knit dress with a high collar, long, sleeves and short hemline and white heels. I’ll be the first to admit Babs is a beautiful woman (okay, second. Babs is the first to admit it), so I made sure the seating arrangement put her as far away from Quentin as the table would allow.

Actually, I don’t think, looking back, I shared the seating arrangement with anyone else, so I guess I can forgive Thea when she tried to sit next to Quentin. I politely but firmly pushed her aside and grabbed the chair.

“Yours is one down,” I muttered to her.

“Bitch,” she muttered back, but she moved over.

I sat next to Quentin, making sure he got a good look down the front of my low-cut dress. His eyes bulged a little when he saw ‘the girls’ and I smiled at him. “Thank you for dinner, baby.”

“Yes, thank you,” said Samantha.

Merci, Professeur.

“Thanks, Prof.”

“My pleasure,” he said, picking up his menu.

“There is no escargot,” Babs noted, unhappy.

Escargot is made from land snails,” Thea told her, “not sea snails, so it’s not likely…”

“Stop showing off your book larnin’,” I said, kicking Thea lightly under the table. I must have hit that tender ankle because she winced. “Sorry.”

“I talked to the accountant this morning,” Samantha said to Quentin. “He said we did great this last quarter and projections –”

“Don’t you ever talk anything but business to Quentin?” I asked her, a bit peevishly. “Ask him how his day was, Sam.”

Samantha blushed. “You’re right, Lacy. Sorry. How was your day, Quentin?”

Quentin started to reply, but I knew he’d get it all wrong, so I said, “His day was pretty good. He wrapped up the Unger case and got started on a new one. He had spaghetti for lunch at that new Italian place near the office, and he talked on the phone to some woman named Maria for twenty minutes. It didn’t sound like a business conversation. You really need to do a better job of screening his calls, Babs.”

“How many times did he go to the bathroom?” Thea asked dryly.

“I can speak for myself, Lacy,” Quentin said, a bit brusquely.

I glared at that. “Oh, and switch him to decaf coffee, Babs.”

“What looks good to you, Prof?” Thea asked, pointing at the menu.

Quentin held up his own. “Well, for an appetizer, I was thinking the tortilla chips with artichoke dip looks good.”

“With your tummy?” I said helpfully. “I don’t think so.”

“Lacy, I’m 43 years old. I can order my own dinner.”

“Okay,” I said, “but I’m not coming in tomorrow if you eat that. You’re gassy enough as it is without artichokes.”

“I am not gassy,” he snapped.

“Oh, please.” I rolled my eyes. “If I could stick a balloon up your butt, you’d float away.”

“Lacy, stop being silly,” Thea said. I kicked her a little harder under the table. “Oow.”

“Sorry.”

“All right,” he said, again glaring at me, “I’ll have the tomato soup, then.”

“Gives you heartburn.”

“Fried mozzarella sticks.”

“Constipation.”

“Clams.”

“You’re mildly allergic to shellfish.”

“Fine,” he said angrily, “I’ll have the toasted ravioli.”

Thea looked at him and said “Do you want Mommy Wacy to cut it up into widdle-bitty bites for you? Owwww!”

“Sorry, my bad.”

The waitress arrived at that point, and I knew right then and there the evening was shot to hell. She was cute, to be honest. Maybe a little too cute, and Quentin and Babs both started drooling. Babs is Samantha’s problem. Quentin is mine.

We all placed our orders and you could have bottled Quentin’s voice and sold it as honey the way he talked to her. Babs was even worse. The waitress was standing right next to her and as she was taking orders, she was suddenly distracted, gawking at Babette’s lap. I couldn’t see what she was staring at, but knowing Babs, I had a pretty good idea. Samantha was on the other side of the waitress and she couldn’t see Babs’ lap either, but she stared icicles at Miss Hot-To-Trot French Woman.

Once the waitress left, I felt it was my duty to point out the woman’s flaws, just in case someone at the table had gotten any ideas. “She’s a bit trashy-looking to be working in such a nice place.”

“I thought she was cute,” Thea noted.

“I dunno.” I turned to Quentin. “Did you think she was cute, baby?”

“I hadn’t really noticed,” Quentin said, taking a sip of his tea.

“Oh, come on,” I insisted, smiling at him. “You must have an opinion. Thea thinks she’s cute. Don’t you think she’s cute, too?”

“Well, I –”

“You want to fuck her, don’t you?” I snapped.

What?” Quentin shrieked.

“Lacy.. Owwww!” Thea yelped. Her face grew dark. “One more time, Lacy, and you’ll be eating the menu instead of the calamari.”

“I’ll bet Babs could get her phone number for you,” I continued, trying to be helpful. I looked at Babette. “You’re not wearing any panties are you, dear? I’ll bet the waitress got an eyeful.”

Excusez-moi?” Babs asked in shock.

“I knew it.” Samantha jumped out of her chair. “You French tart.”

Va te faire foutre,” Babette screamed at Samantha, also standing up. She tossed her napkin to the floor and stormed out.

“Excuse me for a moment, please,” Samantha said, then started walking briskly after Babette. “Babs, wait. Please.”

“Now look what you did,” Thea said to me. “Why do you always antagonize Babs so much?”

I shrugged. “Why do you think? Because she’s Babs. Besides, I didn’t mention anything we all didn’t already know.”

“All of us except Sam,” Thea pointed out. “Or don’t you take her feelings into consideration before you start opening your big mouth?”

“The other ankle’s fine, isn’t it?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Good.” I reached around with my foot and kicked that one.

“Ouch.”

“Lacy, that’s enough,” Quentin yelled. “I can see this isn’t going to work. The next time I take you ladies out for a meal, I’ll do it one at a time. And I’ll make sure we get a waiter instead of a waitress.”

I shrugged. “I didn’t know you swing that way, baby.”

“I don’t.”

“Make sure he’s cute,” Thea said. “Lacy may not want him, but she’ll want him to want her. She’ll spend her time flirting with him and let you have dinner in peace. OOWWWW… That does it.”

Thea slapped me! Her own sister and she slapped me for no good reason. I’m a patient, demure woman, but even I have my limits. I grabbed her hair and pulled it hard. While I was holding on to it, Thea grabbed mine too and wouldn’t let go.

A man came to the table quickly. “I’m the manager. What seems to be the problem here?”

Quentin sighed. He stood up, put his arm around the man and started walking him toward the manager’s office. They walked right past Samantha and Babette, who were standing in the middle of the dining room, screaming at each other.

“When they’re all through, we’ll tally up the damage,” Quentin said, “and I’ll write you a check.”

Thea grabbed the stick of butter from the table with her free hand and shoved it down my dress, then slapped it as hard as she could. “Damn,” I howled. I grabbed the cream and poured it atop her head.

When dinner arrived, we threw that at each other too.

Peace Out,
Lacy

(333)

Artfully Nude

Thea CornwallHiya, Thea here!

Sometimes living with my sister is a pain. Literally. As you know, I hurt my ankle a few nights ago and I’ve been hobbling around ever since. It’s all Lacy’s fault, IMHO. Destroying my laptop is a dangerous thing and I almost shut down her bank account when she did it. And yes, I could have done it without the laptop. I’m that good.

She had to replace the laptop and while I appreciate her giving me an upgrade, she got conned by some wanna-be geek at a computer store. Lacy, they put Windows on just about every new computer. They weren’t doing you any favors by “pre-installing” it for you. It came from the factory that way.

Fortunately, yours truly knows how to remove such useless things as Windows 8 and my new laptop now has FreeBSD Unix on it. Apple’s OS X is cool too, and I have an iMac sitting at work for emergencies, but give me that old-time religion of a *nix OS. (Yeah, I know OS X is Unix-based, but I’d rather have my terminal from the get-go.)

Because of the crippling effect of a pair of 4-inch stilettos (thanks, Lacy), I’ve been relegated to sitting at home. It hurts too much at the moment to do something worthwhile, like have one of my boyfriends come over and wait on me while we play footsie with my other foot, so I’ve been surfing the web and doing little things around the apartment.

Continue reading

One thing I started doing was getting the mail. Not that hard, despite the fact the mailboxes are a walk and a half from our second-floor apartment. The guy below us has a crush on both of us and he’s more than willing to bring it up to me. His name is Gil and he’s a pretty cool guy, if a bit nosy. That nosiness was apparent when he walked up yesterday afternoon with the mail.

When I opened the door, Gil smiled at me and offered me the mail. “Hi, Thea.”

“Hi, Gil,” I said, taking it.

Gil’s in his mid-twenties, with short, curly hair and a long, lanky body. He looks a little like a young Tom Hanks and that alone makes him doable. Add to the fact he’s interested in me and not just Lacy “Did I Mention I’m A Stripper?” Cornwall and you can tell once I’m walking again, I’m so gonna get me some of that.

“Hey, Lacy got something from EGL Magazine,” he said, pointing to one of the envelopes. “Does she have a subscription?”

I doubt it. Lacy refers to herself as a ‘confident heterosexual’. What she’d want with a guy’s magazine full of manly interests and nude women was beyond me. “I dunno, Gil. What did the letter say?” I asked jokingly.

“Let’s see.” He snatched it out of my hands and tore it open.

He had it out before I could protest, but let’s be honest: I was curious too, so I waited until he was actually looking at it before I objected. “Gil, that’s not our mail …”

“Wow, they want Lacy to pose in their ‘Blogger Girls Of The Internet’ pictorial.”

I almost choked. “They want what?

He held it up to my face, and sure enough, they liked the pictures “Frankie Mazzo” submitted and they were interested in meeting her to confirm her interest.

Frankie Mazzo, my swollen ankle. That’s the name of Lacy’s old high school boyfriend and she hasn’t seen him in more than three years. Besides, I knew Frankie was married and not really interested in his wife taking a meat cleaver to certain parts of his anatomy. I had no doubt Lacy sent those pictures in herself and used Frankie’s name to make it sound like her boyfriend had submitted them, raving about his “goddess girlfriend”. At least, that’s what the letter claimed he said.

“Let’s just put that back in the envelope,” I said, quickly grabbing it from Gil’s sweaty little palms and stuffing the letter back into it, “and forget we ever saw it.”

“Okay, Thea. I hear ya.”

“Thanks, Gil.”

“Hey, could –”

I kinda slammed the door in Gil’s face without really thinking about it at the time. I’ll have to apologize to him later. At that moment, I was pissed at my sister and her ‘every man wants me’ attitude. The only reason I could come up with for Lacy wanting to do this is to majorly stroke her ego. Like that needed any more stroking. She’s convinced there are tribes in New Guinea that worship her because her name was mentioned on a West Papau website. (It wasn’t her, it was someone with the same name, but try telling Lacy that.)

It was only about two P.M. and Lacy had just gone to sleep. Her schedule is weird because she works at the topless bar in the evenings and for Quentin in the mornings. She seems to do just fine with 5 hours sleep a day and crashing on her days off. Weird metabolism. Whatever the reason, I was going to have to wait until she got up at seven P.M. to discuss this with her. I decided to use the time to my advantage.

Okay, I tried to wait until seven, but I was too pissed to wait. I woke her up at five-thirty.

“Wha –” she said as I shook her.

“Lacy, wake up.”

“It’s still too light outside,” she mumbled. “Come back after the alarm clock goes off.”

“Lacy, now.” I grabbed the blanket and pulling it off of her and her teddy bear. (Yeah, she still sleeps with a teddy bear. Are you really surprised?)

“Thea,” she said groggily, “if you don’t leave me alone, I’m going to drop your new laptop too, but I’m going to make sure you’re standing under it when I do.”

“You got something in the mail from EGL Magazine.”

Lacy shot up in her bed like it was Christmas morning, grinning. “Gimme my mail,” she said excitedly, bouncing in the bed like a six year old.

I dropped the envelope and about six bills onto her bed. The bills were immediately thrown to the floor.

“Hey, this has been opened,” she bitched.

“Gil.”

“Nosy-butt strikes again.” She pulled the letter and a business card out of the envelope. Lacy held up the business card and stared at it. “Helga Borg, Chief Talent Scout. Coool.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re planning to pose for that rag.”

Lacy smiled. “Okay, I won’t tell you.”

“What purpose does this serve?”

“It gives my adoring fans something to drool over,” she insisted happily.

“What fans?” I asked, then dodged her pillow.

“You should learn to cultivate your own fanbase,” Lacy said haughtily. “We’re Internet superstars.”

“Posting to a blog with less than 200 daily hits does not make us superstars,” I pointed out as Lacy dove under her bed and began pulling out clothes.

“Speak for yourself. It doesn’t if we don’t market it.” She grabbed a black miniskirt and tossed it beside her on the bed.

“You keep all of your clothes under your bed,” I said. “How do you tell the clean ones from the dirty ones?”

“Clean to the top, dirty to the foot.”

“The blog is just starting,” I continued. “Give it time.”

“Time is for losers,” Lacy said. “If we can keep Lying Cross Chetwood off the blog, it has the potential to skyrocket.”

“What has Teri done to piss you off so much?” I asked her.

“Porsche.”

“Okay, you didn’t come off looking like the most stable person in the world in that story, but face it, it was the truth.”

“As you, Quentin, Babs, Sam, and TCC see it, but there’s two sides to that story: mine and everyone else’s.”

“Anyway, let’s get back to you posing. Why?”

“I told you.”

I picked up the bills from the floor. “Bullshit, this isn’t about some imaginary fans, this is about you massaging your own ego.”

“I have the topless bar and Brett to massage that, thank you very much. This is business.”

“So is starting your own porn website.”

“Hey, do you think I could –”

“Don’t even go there.”

“This will be good publicity for us,” Lacy insisted, waving the letter in front of my face. “You’ll see.”

“Be it on your own head.” I walked out of the room.

It didn’t take long for Lacy to call the number on that business card. She excitedly set up an appointment and the next day she waited nervously for the talent scout to arrive at three P.M. I was still around – after all, I was still hobbling a bit – but there was another reason too. I wouldn’t miss this for the world.

Lacy sat nervously the whole time while she waited. She was smoking her long, brown cigarettes, one after the other, in a short cigarette holder. She had on her thigh-high black boots, black booty shorts, and her gold lame top, open and displaying her black bra. Her hair had just been done that morning and she had artfully applied a lot of makeup. She was definitely showing off, even for her.

When three o’clock came, someone knocked on the door and Lacy ran there. “It’s for me, it’s for me!” she screamed, pushing me out of the way and almost causing me to twist my ankle again. She opened the door and grinned, extending her hand to the tall, muscular woman standing before her. She was built like a kitchen appliance and I half-expected the word ‘Frigidaire’ to be tattooed on her arms.

“Hi,” Lacy said, “I’m –”

“Lacy Cromwell?” the stern blonde woman said in a Swedish accent. “You are her, ja?”

“Um, that’s Cornwall.”

“Whatever.” The other woman thrust out a huge hand. “I am Helga Borg.”

“Resistance is futile,” I whispered as they shook hands.

She must have heard me. “And who is this person?”

“Oh, this is my co-author on the blog,” Lacy said, smiling. “My sister, Thea.”

Helga grinned. It’s a ghastly image you could take to your grave. “Now this person has possibilities.”

“What, her?” Lacy asked. “She won’t even pose nude for a boyfriend, let alone a magazine.”

Helga stepped into the apartment and it’s a good thing Lacy had the sense to get out of her way. Those orthopedic shoes of hers probably still had “blogger girls” stuck to the bottom of them. She continued looking at me. “She is fresh. Different. She could be the new face for the blogging world.” She held up her hands in the form of a rectangle and peered at me through them.

“Sorry,” I huffed. “Not interested.”

“Yeah. She’s not interested. Come on, Helga.” Lacy grabbed the huge woman by the hand and attempted to walk her toward the living room. Lacy slid back to the immovable object. “You had rocks for breakfast this morning, didn’t you?”

Helga reached into her briefcase and pulled out a form. “You will sign this,” she told me. “It is a standard release form.”

“This isn’t about her,” Lacy snapped. “This is about me.”

Helga looked at her the way you look at those little demodex bugs that live on your eyelashes. In other words, right through her. “You? You are blonde.”

No shit, I thought.

“So are you,” Lacy protested.

“I am not a model. And I am a natural blonde.”

“So am I,” Lacy insisted.

Helga laughed and it wasn’t a sound that encouraged others to join in. “You are no more blonde than her,” she said, pointing at me. “Perhaps if you had her hair color …”

“I did at one time,” Lacy said peevishly.

“Call me when it grows back,” Helga held up the form again and looked at me pleadingly. “Please. We could do so much with your image.”

Lacy looked like someone had bitch-slapped her, which in a sense, I guess someone just did.

“Listen, you Swedish meatball,” Lacy said, getting as close as she could get into Helga’s face. “My sister is not just some sexual object for men to drool over. I am. And if you can’t figure that out, you can get out of here. We’re not interested.”

“As you wish.” Helga slipped the form back into her briefcase. “We have no use for either of you.” She stormed out the door.

Lacy looked crestfallen. “I can’t believe they wanted you and not me. It’s my age, isn’t it?”

I hobbled over to her and put an arm around my sister. “Lacy, you’re twenty-one years old.”

“See?” she said dejectedly. “Once you’re out of your teens, it’s a long slide to obscurity. Miley Cyrus is right behind me.”

“Nah,” I said. “Miley has talent.”

“Yeah.”

Wow, no smartass comeback. Lacy was crushed. I guess I went too far.

I replaced the letter that came in the envelope with one I printed myself. I printed the card too. “Helga Borg” was Gil’s Aunt Sylvia, an actress who specializes in foreign character parts, usually stereotypes of what Americans think Russian woman are like. Gil was eager for a date and he just earned one, but I destroyed Lacy’s spirit. I didn’t think anything could do that. Not that I expected it to last longer than one evening.

“There’s one bright side in all of this,” I said, leading Lacy to the fridge and a bottle of vodka in the freezer. I loved saying that to her.

“What’s that?”

“I’m the fresh, new face for the blogging world.”

Lacy sighed, dejectedly. “It’s an honor to know you.”

Regards,
Thea

(331)

Rule Number Four

Lacy-06It’s Lacy again and I’m sure you were all anxiously awaiting my return. I know I was! I’ve really grown to like Quentin’s little blog here. So much so, I’ve changed the password so only Thea and I (for the time being) can post here. This should keep Quentin from putting up insipid, one-sided stories like the one about Porsche, written by that talentless hack, Lying Cross Chetwood. Not that I begrudge Quentin his own little corner of the web, but if you don’t watch out, college professors will overrun the WWW and we’ll be stuck with boring websites filled with page after page of homework, chemistry, and math.

Okay, Thea would like the math, and I’m not too bad with chemistry, but homework sucks.

Thea and I are currently in “Don’t Talk To Me” mode. We go through this about once a month. I love the girl like a sister (well, she is my sister), but it’s not my fault she’s so thin-skinned.

First of all, she’s still ticked off over that whole steakhouse incident. I don’t really understand that because:

A. She got $800 (even if $575 went to the meal), and
B. No one can see her face on Youtube anyway.

Continue reading

Now just because some unknown person hacked her stupid ol’ Linux/Unix blog (I’m pleading the 5th here) and linked to the Youtube video, there’s no reason to get all pissy. She should be happy for that nice Mr. Buford, who made a mint off the video and keeps calling her, begging for a sequel. (How cool is that?)

His video went viral (no doubt helped by the campaign I started at the topless bar, where every customer got a free business card with my lipstick print and the link to the video on the back) and even Shadowcat loves it. She usually hates funny videos, but when she found out it was Thea, she started using a scene from it on her cell phone as the wallpaper. She has a copy of the whole video on her phone too and shows it off to everyone. (“See? I know that crazy bitch!”)

I think Thea could have ignored all of that and would still be talking to me if it wasn’t for what happened last night.

First, you need to know Thea and I made this list of The Rules Of Dating when we were in high school. Every family of sisters should have their own rules, and we set ours down and put it in her yearbook when she was in 9th grade. She came across it recently and we had fun reminiscing and going over those rules. I’m not going to mention all of them here, but they’re mostly common sense things, like don’t mention the ex for at least a week, his friends are your enemies, only do a limited amount of damage to his car after the break-up, things like that.

Number Four is “Never date your sister’s ex”. Thea insisted on that one because she was dating Chalk Johnson at the time. Chalk was known around school as “The Guy With The Golden Fly” and from what Dawn Silverstein told me, he wasn’t just hung like a horse, he was in Secretariat country. Naturally, Thea was very protective over Chalk’s endowment, and didn’t want me taking a peek if she and Chalk didn’t make it through her 9th grade year.

Like I cared. I was Little Miss Nobody at school and Chalk didn’t know I was alive. I dated Frankie Mazzo all through high school. Granted, Frankie had a great car (his dad owned a Toyota dealership), but he was a comic book nerd and a putz, so I wasn’t too concerned about anyone else being able to sit through a marathon of six Star Wars movies long enough to check out Frankie’s package. I swear, the only time he was hard was when Princess Leia was on-screen in that slave girl costume.

I let Thea have that rule for her own peace of mind, but a rule is a rule and she needs to stick to it, especially since the rule was her idea.

The reason I brought up Rule Number Four is because it applies here. Brett and I got into a pretty bad argument over the weekend over an important issue (women’s shoes), so we broke up. For awhile, anyway. I planned to take him back when he’d suffered enough. Thea saw that as a golden opportunity and promptly dismissed Rule Number Four. That was two kids in high school, she rationalized. This, she assured me, was two adult women who could handle the concept of a sister’s ex being fair game.

I think Thea was forgetting the bigger rule. It wasn’t one we came up with, it’s a Universal Rule, encoded into every woman’s DNA: There’s break-up and then there’s BREAK-UP. Brett and I were going through a break-up (small letters). That means he’s still mine, despite the fact I was telling him to butter his buns and insert his own hot dog between them. I didn’t need another woman to come along and make him forget he’s supposed to be obsessing over me. Even if said woman is my own sister.

I was caught between a rock and a hard place, as you can no doubt see. At the moment, I didn’t want Brett, but I didn’t want anyone else to have him, either. Yet I couldn’t admit, even to Thea, this was a break-up (small letters), so I couldn’t bring myself to tell her to find another hunky police detective to drool over. Instead, I lied and said, “I don’t care what happens to Brett Merrick at this point.”

Thea grinned at me. “I could kiss you, sometimes.”

“Save that for the sequel to Mr. Buford’s video. If you whizzing into a urinal is worth $800, you French-kissing your own sister should be worth two thousand.”

Thea shrugged. “There are places in this country where that can be filmed for free.”

“So how are you going to get Brett to ask you out? He thinks of you as a Disney-channel girl, and not the ones getting busted for drugs, one of the girls still under contract.”

“Even Miley Cyrus had to move on,” Thea said.

“Yeah but like Miley and the general public, you’re still Hannah Montana in Brett’s eyes.”

“That’s where you come in,” she said. “I want to learn to dance like a stripper.”

“Dance?”

“Like a stripper.”

“I thought we went over that when you got to L.A.,” I said, taking a sip of coffee. “You move like a chicken with lumbago. Besides, by now there are Pentecostals with more dance experience than you. I was already a pretty good dancer when I started stripping and it took me weeks to learn to move like I do. Sin City wasn’t built in a day, you know.”

“Just the basics,” she insisted. “Just enough he’ll see me as a woman and not some kid.”

I looked at my sister’s clothes: Mississippi State t-shirt, tight jeans, and a new pair of sneakers. Sexy in a girl next door kind of way, I guess, but not even close to dancer territory. She was dressed like a young girl, and men don’t usually follow girls like that home from their shifts at Burger King. Well, not without coming off as a perv.

“Do you even own a pair of heels?” I asked her.

“They’re in my closet somewhere,” she assured me. “They’re blue.”

I looked at her in shock. “You only have one pair of heels?”

“I think.”

“Makeup?”

“I’m wearing makeup.”

“Where? On your butt? What about a skirt?”

“I have one.”

I sighed. “One. Let me guess: denim.”

Thea raised her eyebrows. “How did you know?”

“Lucky guess. Thea, are you sure you’ve thought this out logically?”

“Logic is my middle name. You’re always telling me I’m the most logical person you know.”

“Maybe so, but honey, you haven’t a clue how to pull off the stripper look.”

“So help me there too,” she said, grabbing her purse. “Let’s go shopping.”

“Whoa , Trigger,” I said, draining my coffee cup. “At least wait until the stores open.”

 

 

So with my help, Thea spent a hundred seventy-five dollars putting together a sexy little outfit. The Amazing-Bra company and I managed to pump up her cleavage and we had to pad the hips a bit too. Shadowcat always tells me I have a fairly good butt for a white girl, but she also tells me most white chicks should be wearing suspenders to keep their skirts up because their asses can’t do it. I can’t really argue with that. Some guys tell me Thea can be sexy as hell, but you could butter up her head and slide her between the bars of a jail cell. We did the best we could. By that evening we were ready to see how she did with the shoes.

“You’re embarrassing me,” I said as I watched her stumble around the living room in 4 inch heels. “You know that, don’t you?”

“I don’t get the allure of high heels,” she confessed as she sat down on the couch. She took off her left shoe and started rubbing her toes. “Balancing your feet on little pegs? Come on. That’s sexy?”

“Not the way you do it. Besides, those aren’t even five-inch heels. What would you do in a pair of six inches?”

“Fall over. Are you sure heels are necessary?”

“When’s the last time you saw a stripper in flip-flops?”

“Point taken.”

“I think we can rule out dancing,” I said. “Just getting you to walk with a wiggle will take all the time we have before Brett gets here.”

Thea put the shoe back on. “Why is he coming over?”

“You can’t interest him if he’s not around, can you? I told him I wanted to talk to him. He’s hoping for a reconciliation.”

“Sis, are you sure it’s okay for me to date Brett?”

“Like I said,” trying to sound as nonchalant as possible, “I don’t care what he does.”

“I’m holding you to that.”

 

 

Thea’s a fast study and within a few hours, she could navigate in the (relatively) short heels we got her. She still had her moments, but she had determination and before long she was walking with some grace in her movements.

“What do you think?” she asked, twirling like she was on the runway in Paris.

I nodded my head. “Not bad. You just might be able to pull it off.”

“Thanks.”

We got her legs shaved, got her showered and powdered and perfumed, and applied some makeup. She’d already gotten her hair done earlier that day. She slipped into a sexy little green dress with some jewelry and my nineteen year old sister suddenly looked like she was old enough to vote. She looked good, and I was as impressed with her appearance as I had always been with her intelligence.

We had a quick drink while we waited for Brett to show up.

I had to admit what we had planned was kind of fun. When the knock came on the door, I ran into Thea’s bedroom and waited. She positioned some wireless cameras and microphones in the living room and I sat in front of her laptop and watched her walk to the door.

Thea opened the door and smiled. “Hi. Come on in, Brett.”

Brett walked in and kind of smirked at her. “Hey, kid. No college shirt tonight?”

“I thought a change was in order.” She spun around. Almost lost her footing, but she pulled it off. “What do you think?”

“Very nice.” Brett looked at her briefly, then around the living room. “Is Lacy home?”

“She’ll be back. She told me to ask you to please wait.”

“Okay, cool.” He walked past her and sat on the couch. “So how’s the world of computer geekery?”

Thea sat beside him. “Not bad.” She pulled the skirt up slightly, showing off her legs. “How’s police work?”

“Not a good day.” Brett sighed, then leaned back on the couch. He looked longingly at the shut-off TV.

“Oh?” Thea got a bit closer, her voice low and sultry. “Tell me all about it, Brett.”

My stomach was turning in knots and I suddenly realized I didn’t like this. I was trying to play it cool but I was getting jealous of my own sister. I kept telling myself Brett was just a way to make Quentin notice me … Wasn’t he? It didn’t feel that way at the moment.

“Got chewed out by the captain. That’s two days in a row. I’ve been screwing up a lot lately.” Brett shrugged as Thea’s hand came up behind his head and she started running her fingers through his hair. “Ever since Lacy and I broke up … I dunno. Maybe I care about her more than I’m willing to admit.”

“Oooh, Brett.” I said that out loud, then slapped a hand over my mouth. Fortunately, he couldn’t hear me.

“You poor thing.” Thea pouted as she leaned forward.

She was practically pushing her padded breasts into his face and I was seething.

“Getting a little pushy there, aren’t you, bitch?” I whispered at the laptop screen. It was like a train wreck; I wanted to stop it, but I couldn’t look away. Besides, I told myself, a girl has her pride.

“And that fight we had?” he continued. “All my fault. If she was here, I’d apologize faster than I ever have before with any other woman.”

I melted when he said that.

“Um, that’s real interesting.” Thea was trying to get the conversation back on track. Talking about me wasn’t going to help her seduce Brett. She was pushing even more against him, trying to get closer, which I knew wasn’t going to work. Any closer and she’d be behind him. “How are you feeling, baby?”

Baby? Thea was spreading it on a little thick here and I was getting pissed.

“Why don’t you tell little Thea all about it?” she whispered, getting her face as close to his as she could.

Brett, for his part, seemed oblivious. Despite all we had done to Thea, he still saw her as a kid. “I’ll just discuss it with Lacy when she gets home.”

“Forget about Lacy,” Thea said in as sexy a voice as she could muster. “She’s not here, baby, and I am. We could –”

CRASH!

I looked down at the floor in shock. I couldn’t believe what I’d done: I picked up Thea’s laptop and threw it to the floor as hard as I could. Well, it wasn’t a laptop any more. It looked like my bike that time Dad backed the car over it by mistake. It seemed to let out a little sigh as it died. Thea was always bragging about using Unix on her system, but even Unix can’t protect you from this kind of crash.

I looked at the now open door, where Brett was standing looking at me in surprise.

“Lacy. I didn’t know you were home.”

“Oh, Brett,” I sighed. I couldn’t help myself. I ran to him and hugged him, melting into his muscular arms. “I’m so sorry.”

“So am I.” He hugged me tightly.

“My laptop!” Thea pushed past us and ran into the room. She slipped and fell to the floor halfway to her beloved computer. Undeterred, she crawled the rest of the way as quickly as she could.

Thea feels about her laptop the way I feel about my car, and she was close to tears as she picked up the screen portion and held it to her padded chest, rocking back and forth. “My baby, my baby,” she whispered, over and over. Then she looked up at me and shot daggers from her eyes. “Murderer!”

She tried to get up. I think she was going to attack me, but we’ll never know for sure. As she started to move toward me, she tripped over the keyboard and fell to the floor, grabbing her foot and howling in pain. “My ankle.”

“I’ll buy you a new one. Laptop, I mean. Not the ankle,” I promised as Brett kissed my neck.

So we’re not really speaking at the moment. I’m still mad at how over-the-top she got with Brett. Thea’s laid up for a few days with a twisted ankle and in a generally pissy mood. I had to run out and buy her a new laptop this morning. You don’t want to know how much it cost me. She insisted on an exact replacement, but I found a great deal on one that has even better specs than her old one. I’m a pretty savvy shopper, and I managed to talk them into pre-installing Windows on it at no extra charge, so she doesn’t have to fight with that silly Unix OS. Thea will be so thrilled!

Peace Out,
Lacy

(464)

Heads Up!

Click here to check it out.

My friend, Merry Brooks, has a fun novel out I wanted to call your attention to. It’s called The Life And Times Of Belinda Nicholson, AKA Flapper Girl, and it’s a good read. Merry’s work is cheeky and fun, which really shows in this one. The conceit of a superheroine in the 1920’s, ballting evil and smoking cigarettes in a long holder is just too much for me to resist, and Merry’s humor shines here.

It involves time travel and the life of a “super” (Merry’s word for superheroes) and a lot of interesting twists and turns. At 460 Kindle pages, it’s just the right length to keep you interested and not get lost in process. Well done, Merry!

I can heartily recommend this one, if you’re like me and love a good superhero romp with liberal doses of humor!

 

(320)

Little Easy

Lacy-06Hi, Lacy here.

Christmas is out of the way, and Brett and I decided to have a romantic weekend in Vegas. At least, that’s what I thought we had planned. Honestly, I was only half-paying attention when he suggested a little gambling trip. That’s because there was this really cool news story on at the time, and since it was about my good buddy Miley Cyrus, Brett’s rather pointless ramblings got dropped by the wayside. Especially after some intense sex, a home-delivered pizza from Irving’s Pizzaria, and something interesting on the tube. The end result was his comment, “Let’s do some gambling this weekend,” left me unprepared for loopholes. Without even thinking, I agreed and even allowed him to make all the plans. Big mistake. Continue reading

<--break->“Everybody goes to Vegas,” he said, as he handed me the tickets in the cab. “Let’s be different.”

I stared in shock at two coach-class tickets to Baton Rouge Metropolitan Airport. “There’s a reason for that, honey. Vegas is fun. Nobody goes to Baton Rouge to gamble. At least, nobody as close to Vegas as we are. Besides, I’ve never heard of Boudreaux’s Fun-Time Family Casino and Boudin Parlor. What is boudin, anyway?”

“It’s blood sausage. I think.”

“You think? You’re not sure?”

“Nope. But I’ll bet it’s delicious.”

“Somehow, a blood sausage sandwich doesn’t sound as appealing to me as it does to you.”

“Boudin poboy. There’s a lot of interesting Cajun dishes out there.”

“Name one.”

“Alligator tail.”

I leaned back in the taxi seat and sulked. “Who, in their right mind, eats alligators?”

“Cajuns. They say it tastes like chicken.”

“Well, at two dollars a pound for chicken versus eight dollars a pound for alligator tail, I’d sooner make Colonel Sanders happy than Boudreaux.”

“Trust me, babe. You’ll love it.”

 

 

The flight wasn’t too bad. At least, the first leg of it. LAX to New Orleans. We actually had to fly over Baton Rouge to get to New Orleans, and that makes no sense to me. I mean, we were already in the neighborhood anyway, so why not stop that silly plane there and get the actual gambling started? But no, the stupid ol’ airline flew over Baton Rouge without even mentioning it, just to drop us off at the Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport, where we waited for the next flight. Four. Freakin’. Hours.

We had lunch at a little restaurant at the airport, where we paid fifteen dollars for my salad and even more for Brett’s greasy sandwich. Excuse me, poboy. The smell of said poboy reminded me why there are more Cajuns in New Orleans proper than the airport terminal. Honestly, this close to the Acadiana heartland, you’d think they’d find someone who was actually Cajun to cook it, not the fat guy speaking with a Jersey accent who took our order.

I played listlessly with my wilted-lettuce salad as Brett smiled and chowed down on his blood sausage sandwich. Excuse me, boudin poboy.

“I wonder what Thea is doing.”

Brett wiped his mouth with a napkin and tossed in onto the table. “Probably alone in the apartment, dancing in her underwear.”

“Don’t bet on it.” I grabbed the napkin he tossed and slipped it into my purse. That napkin came with a twenty dollar sandwich. No way in Hell I was going to let him throw away a souvenir like that. “Thea has a hard time changing clothes in the dark. I doubt she’d risk grooving in her underwear in front of a goldfish.”

“Why don’t you call her?”

“Because my cell phone’s dead.”

“That’s because you spent the whole flight playing a game on it.”

“Well whose bright idea was it to make the second Lord of the Rings film the inflight movie, anyway?”

“It’s a good movie.”

“So, I’m sure, are the first and third movies in the trilogy. I’ve never seen any of them before, and I didn’t have a clue what was going on.”

“You never read Tolkein?”

I looked at Brett, Mr. Jock, in surprise. “You have?”

“Sure. Just don’t tell anyone.”

“This trip sucks.”

“Give it a chance. Trust me. babe. You’ll love it.”

 

 

Once we hit Baton Rouge for this little crapfest, things quickly slid down the long slope of shit-stain to the pool of poop. Not that I wanted to make a bunch of metaphors about excrement, but it ties in nicely with what happened next.

I banged on the door of the motel room’s bath as loudly as I could. “Are you about finished in there?”

“Just a … moment,” Brett groaned from inside.

I spoke loudly to the closed door. “Honey, I warned you not to eat that blood sausage sandwich. It smelled rancid.”

“Boudin poboy,” he insisted.

“Whatever. Still rancid … And I still have to go.”

“I’m dyin’ here,” he moaned. “Can’t you wait?”

“Well I thought we might do something romantic here, like share the facilities on this trip.”

“Maybe … you should use … the one at the … gas station … we saw … coming in.” Brett sounded like he was passing an alligator tail with the hide still on.

“Give me the rental car keys.”

“Lacy, we … didn’t get a … rental car.”

“I know. I was making a point, Mr. Cheapskate. I was there when you insisted we take a shuttle to this little Motel Hell, remember?”

“Don’t you want … to have more … money for gambling?”

“Call me extravagant, but I like the amenities this place seems to lack. Like those little mints on my pillow. And clean sheets. Now hurry up.”

“I’m sorry … Lacy, but it’s wait … or walk.”

“That’s a half mile trek.”

“You didn’t bring … any shoes … except five-inch heels … did you?”

“Hello. Exotic dancer, here. Have we met? Even my bedroom slippers have heels. Just hurry up in there.”

“Another … half hour … I think.”

“Thirty minutes? Are you kidding me?”

“It’s either the gas station … or wait … for me to … finish.”

“I’ll be right back. But this does not bode well for this trip.”

“Trust me, babe. You’ll … Owwwwww!”

 

 

By the time I got back, I was furious. Okay, maybe I’m not the most demurely-dressed woman in the world, but after being mistaken for a hooker three times as I walked the road, including once by a cop who ran a background check, I was fit to be tied. Still, when I saw how miserable Brett was, my mothering instinct kicked in, and I kept my cool. I even managed to get him into one of the beds and nurse him like a child. I don’t have a child yet, and taking care of Brett reminded me why. I have no business teaching someone to tie their shoelaces when I haven’t learned to tie my own yet. But Mommy Lacy took up the banner and made a commitment while Brett let his inner child play havoc with my patience.

I made two more trips to the gas station for medicine, tissues, and more toilet paper. All the while, Brett insisted he was fine, but didn’t object to me rocking him and patting his head while he slept. What a baby.

No sex that night. No sleep either, since Brett made more trips to the bathroom than he makes to the buffet at a casino. By noon, I found him passed out on the throne, clutching the last roll of toilet paper to his bosom.

I shook him lightly and smiled, despite my better judgement, as he slowly opened his eyes. “Brett, honey? How are you feeling?”

“When I first joined the Navy,” he croaked, “they took great joy in making the Smurfs seasick by spinning the ship around in circles.”

I looked at him with sympathetic eyes. “Is that how you feel?”

“No, that was worse,” he insisted, “but it’s been many years since I threw up on myself, and I just relived some of my least-favorite parts of the hazing ritual.”

“I’m taking you to the hospital.”

“No, you’re going to the casino.”

“What? Why?”

“Because this trip cost me a lot of money, and one of us is going to enjoy it, if it kills me.”

“You know, that’s the kind of logic that kept the Donner party from enjoying the winter.”

“Just do it, Lacy. Please.”

“I don’t think I should. Besides, I’ll worry the whole time.”

“Trust me, babe. You’ll love it.”

 

 

Brett was insistent, despite my objections, and I reluctantly agreed. I got as far as the MIssissippi River bridge before he called, asking me to bring him some toilet paper. The motel was out. So I had the cab turn around and take me back.

By noon, I got smart. I walked back to the gas station, where I was fast becoming a regular customer (only mistaken for a hooker twice, that time), bought their biggest bottle of sleepy-time cold medicine, and put Brett into a medically-induced coma. Then I called an ambulance and we took a trip to the nearest hospital.

 

 

“You’re lucky this young lady brought you here, Mr. Merrick,” the emergency room doctor told us, after the tests. “You have a very nasty case of food poisoning.”

Brett looked up through cloudy eyes at the man. The pain meds must have kicked in by then, because Brett’s response was a weak “Mommy?”

“Not yet,” I said, perhaps a bit too snarky, “but I’ve probably earned that merit badge by now.”

I looked at the attending physician. “So what’s the plan here, Doc?”

I wanted a cigarette at this point, but after seeing the neighborhood, I decided I had less of a chance being mistaken for a hooker again if I didn’t actually go outside and smoke with them. Besides, what some of them were smoking wasn’t cigarettes. Not unless Marlboro comes in glass tubes now.

The doctor smiled. “We’re going to have to pump his stomach and keep him for a few days.”

That got through to Brett. His eyes seemed to focus and he made an unhappy face. “Pump my stomach?”

I grinned and patted Brett’s shoulder, reasurringly. “Don’t worry, babe. You’ll love it.”

 

Peace Out,

Lacy

 

(1383)

February 5, 2014Permalink Leave a comment

A Pony Tails Christmas

Thea CornwallHiya, Thea here!

The holidays are a crazy time around our place, and always have been. When Lacy and I were kids, Mom and Dad reveled in the year-end activities, but somehow it all ended up like “A Christmas Story” on acid. Well, that spirit of weirdness followed us from Maine to California. To be honest, I’ve seen enough here in Los Angeles to convince me that people are strange in this city and it’s only a matter of time before the nuts are running the asylum. Some people would argue that they already do, but as long as the traffic lights continue to flash red, yellow, and green in the proper order, I have hope that we’re all just going through a phase and will survive another year.

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One tradition that Lacy has here is a “Pre-Christmas Christmas” with her friends at the topless bar. Frankly, there are way too many traditions that those erotic delinquents share, including “Dancer Halloween”, the 8th of July (complete with fireworks), and something that they call a “Dancer Bat Mitzvah” that they throw for new dancers. The last one to get one of those was Freaky Frieda, who only started dancing a couple of years ago. I actually managed to look that one up in the LA Times’ newspaper archive. The story starts right off the bat with “Among the injured…” And my God, the pictures! Trust me, it’s not for the squeamish.

Lacy thought it would be a good idea if I joined her and her friends for their own Christmas Day and she’s been dropping hints for it since September. Last year, I managed to worm my way out of an invitation for the big Pre-Christmas Dancer Jamboree by claiming I had the bubonic plague at the last minute. I like Lacy’s dancer friends a little, but a little goes a long way, y’know?

This year, I tried the plague again, but Lacy had looked it up at that point and knew I had snowed her. So I tried telling her that I had Tourette syndrome (“Fuck off, Thea!”), Multiple Personality Disorder (“Bring her along. She’s bound to be more fun than you are.”) and Münchausen Syndrome (“You’re lying.”). The end result was that I ran out of excuses and had to go.

The dancers hold it every year at the bar where they dance. Frankly, there are things in that bar that scare the shit out of me, especially the beer taps. I’m sure that what comes out of them is really beer, just not the brands of beer advertised. It’s foreign and probably not approved by the FDA. Or Homeland Security. Or the governments of the countries where it’s brewed.

We got to the bar about 5 PM, and it was dark. It looked closed down.

Well,” I said, buckling my seatbelt again. “I guess it got called off. Let’s go back home, Lacy.”

Hold your horses, cowgirl,” Lacy sniped. She turned off the ignition and dropped the key to her Jaguar into her cleavage, where she knew I wouldn’t dare try to grab it. “It’s closed for the party.”

How’d you guys pull that off?” I sighed. “That cheap-ass manager of yours keeps this place open on Christmas Day. Why does he close it for your party?”

You just have to know how to talk to Jimmy. Besides, he goes to a porn industry convention every year at this time,” Lacy said, getting out of the car. “We hold it when he’s not here. He thinks the bar’s still open.”

Why would he buy that?” I asked, also exiting the car, despite my better judgment.

Because he leaves the bouncer, Casper, in charge and Casper has a major crush on Shadowcat,” Lacy said, smiling. “He’d do anything for her. Even drink out of the Budweiser tap.”

I shuddered. I saw that tap changed out once, and whatever’s in it, it isn’t Budweiser.

I wore my usual clothes for this little shindig, including jeans, sneakers, and a Florida State t-shirt. Lacy, on the other hand, wore her usual clothes, which means that she was walking in a pair of white kid boots that ran all the way up her thighs. The rest of her mostly nude body, I’m sure, was jealous of the legs, which were warm and well-protected.

We walked through the front door and into the semi-dark bar, where Shadowcat was sitting at one of the tables, buck naked. She had her feet propped up and looking through reading glasses as she did a crossword puzzle in a book.

Hey, ‘Cat!” Lacy said, walking to the table and sitting down. I sat down beside her.

Hey, fellow-babies!” S.C. said, putting down the magazine.

S.C.,” I asked, “why are you nude if the bar’s closed?”

She looked down at her own body and laughed. “Ain’t that th’ shit? I’m so used to comin’ in here and taking my clothes off that I did it tonight without even thinking.”

You still have the shoes on,” Lacy said, “so you’re not really nude.”

Yeah,” Cat said. “That’s what I done tol’ that cop when she pulled me over comin’ home from this dump last week.”

You drive nude?” I asked her incredulously.

Shadowcat looked at me oddly. “You don’t?

Thea has issues taking her clothes off alone in the dark,” Lacy said.

Hey!”

Well you do!” she insisted. “The last time I saw you nude was when you were three.”

The last time I saw you nude,” I snapped, “was last week, when you came home buck naked.”

That was the night Shadowcat dropped me off,” Lacy said, smiling. “I told her that I wish that cop had pulled her over before I got home.”

What good would that have done?” I asked.

S.C. laughed. “We’da convinced her that she shoulda been nude, too.” Lacy and ‘Cat high-fived over that one.

Heyyyyy!” came a voice from the door. Bianca, Li’l Bit, and Freaky Frieda all walked in the front door, also naked.

Lacy,” I muttered. “We’re the only ones dressed.”

You’re right,” Lacy said. “How rude!” She stood up and started taking off her clothes!

Lacy!” I shrieked. “What the hell are you doing?!

She stopped and laughed. “Gotcha!” The others started laughing hysterically.

We always do that to the newbies,” Shadowcat chuckled. “Nothin’ funnier than a girl nervous ’bout bein’ nude on-stage fo’ the first time and everyone else in the room bein’ nude.

Hey, Gretch! Yo’ remember when we did that t’ the fire marshal?”

Lacy laughed. “Yeah. She hasn’t been back in two years. Jimmy hasn’t had to replace the fire extinguishers since then.”

Jimmy never replaces them anyway,” Li’l Bit giggled. “We used to do it to the old fire marshal too, but he never complained, just passed the bar.”

Imma go put on some clothes. It’s chilly in here,” Shadowcat said. She and the other nudies walked back toward the dressing room and disappeared.

Hey, ladies!” came a familiar voice. Alice The Eskimo was walking out of the back, carrying a beautiful, fully-cooked turkey on a serving tray. She slid it onto the bar and walked toward us. She was wearing a chef’s hat and an apron that said “Kiss the Cook”. Underneath that, she had written “Frieda, this does NOT mean you!”

You guys let Alice cook the turkey?” I asked under my breath to my sister.

Yeah.”

Do you think that’s wise?”

Alice is a great cook!” Lacy insisted. “Just make sure that you provide her with all of the ingredients. Do not let her use her own!”

Alice walked over, carrying a huge meat fork and hugged Lacy, who hugged her back. “I see you brought the new girl, Gretchen,” she said.

I’m not the new girl,” I snapped. “Alice, we go through this every time we meet. I don’t work here.”

Yeah, I noticed,” Alice said. “You haven’t been in here in weeks. You’re never going to make a living at this that way.”

Beautiful turkey, Alice,” Lacy said, looking over the large bird, which Alice had set atop the long, wooden bar.

Thanks, Gretch,” Alice said. “Ginny’s a great cook.”

Who’s Ginny?” I asked.

One of the voices in Alice’s head,” Lacy explained. “Ginny’s quite the homemaker.”

I’d heard about Alice’s voices from Lacy and the others. She can hear a whole lot of voices, but she ignores most of them. She always keeps five voices in her head. Any more and she claims that it gets too noisy. All of the voices appear to be real people, which I’d love to see some scientist explore sometime. Last I heard, she had a lawyer, an accountant, a gypsy spiritualist, a cowboy, and Marilyn Monroe living in there with her. Seriously, Marilyn Monroe. Don’t ask.

All of this didn’t exactly fill me with much confidence, but I had to admit that it smelled delicious. Alice cut off a small piece and insisted that I have a bite. I had to admit that it was the best turkey I’d ever eaten.

That’s when the other dancers came back, clothed — I won’t say “fully clothed” since that’s a subjective thing with strippers — but they all had on more than they did last time I saw them. Everybody had brought something, and with a flurry of activity, we ended up with a wonderful turkey dinner with all of the trimmings.

I have to admit that I enjoyed the fellowship with the other women. Bianca told a very funny story about her first boyfriend, back in London. Li’l Bit talked about moving to America from the Philippines, and Frieda listed the forty guys she’d had sexual relations with… in the past week!

I enjoyed the whole thing so much, truth be told, that I almost forgot that these people were exotic dancers and not exactly wound too tight. Once that completely slipped my mind, something came along to remind me.

So Annie threw the mink coat in the guy’s face,” Li’l Bit said, laughing, “and said ‘If you can get your mother to wear it, go for it!’” We all burst out laughing at that.

After a minute, Alice said, “Whatever happened to Oral Annie, Bit?”

Li’l Bit shrugged. “She sells used cars now.”

No she don’t,” Shadowcat said. “That bitch sellin’ it online with a webcam.”

Nah,” Bit said. “Used cars, S.C. I’m telling you.”

Are you sayin’ I’m wrong?” ‘Cat said, hands on her hips.

Well, you’re not always right, that’s for sure,” Frieda insisted. “Like that time you told me there was a trunk full of gold buried in your back yard.”

Got you t’ start th’ diggin’ fo’ my swimmin’ pool, didn’t it?” Shadowcat asked. “It was gold t’ me.”

Bianca looked at her in shock. “That’s when you told me there was a missing piece from the Crown Jewels buried in the shallow hole in your back yard, isn’t it?”

S.C. smiled at her own deviousness. “Guilty as charged.”

Oh my God!” Li’l Bit gasped. “My missing bag of cocaine? The one you said Alice hid in that big hole behind your house?”

Shadowcat’s smile grew wider as she took a sip of her wine. “Uh-huh.”

Lacy threw down her fork on the table and scowled. “I added four feet to that hole looking for Miley Cyrus’ wallet. S.C., you lied to me!”

If you wanna finish it out,” ‘Cat said, leaning back in her chair, “I’ll let ya swim in it, Gretch. Once I think of a way to get you guys to pour th’ concrete fo’ free, that is.”

That’s when Frieda scooped her hand into the bowl of mashed potatoes and threw them at Shadowcat. “You fucking bitch!”

Shadowcat just sat there, grinning.

Lacy did the same thing, splattering Shadowcat’s face with whipped potatoes. “I broke two nails digging that fucking hole!”

You owe me a bag of coke!” Bit said, adding more potatoes to ‘Cat’s breasts.

And the Queen a new ruby!” Bianca shrieked, pouring lukewarm gravy on Shadowcat’s head.

Throughout it all, S.C. just smiled as she was quickly turned into a pile of potatoes and gravy. Then she calmly stood up and started throwing the green bean casserole.

I don’t shy away from fights, but this wasn’t one of mine. I dove behind the bar as food started flying everywhere, only to find that Alice was already behind the bar, humming to herself.

Pacifist, Alice?” I asked over the shrieks and name-calling.

Nah,” she said. “Avowed coward.”

How’d you get here so fast?” I asked.

Alice shrugged. “You just gotta know what to look for. This happens every year.”

Over the other sounds came that of laughter as my sister and her friends giggled through what was quickly becoming a friendly food fight.

Oh, what the hell?” I said. I stood up just in time to get a cream pie in the face. After that, I joined in with relish. And cranberry sauce.

Regards,

Thea

(3364)

December 23, 2012Permalink 6 Comments

Art For Art’s Sake

Hiya! Thea here.

My sister Lacy recently called me a know-it-all. While I was very touched by her flattery, I don’t really know everything. I should probably go back to college, but I’m not ready for that yet. Still, to learn something new, I take night classes.

Over the the course of the time I’ve been living with Lacy, I’ve learned a little something about surfing (Night courses in surfing are scary, let me tell you!), car repair, tax preparation (most boring class ever), and cooking. My latest interest is art, so I took a course in still-life sketching.

Now understand that I didn’t tell Lacy about any of these. Not because I didn’t want her to know, but it was just something that I could do by myself, just for the fun of it. If she would have asked, I would have told. Still, because the classes fell on the nights that she usually worked, it just never came up.

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One of the great things about this art class was sketching nude models. The human body is a beautiful thing, and I had fun putting charcoal to paper and trying to capture the essence of the various models that the class hired. Nude models, contrary to most people’s beliefs, are not all beautiful people and we had a 50 year old man pose, a heavy-set, 35 year old mother of four, and a professional model named Steve.

I know that I said that not all nude models were beautiful people, but Steve sure was. He and I struck up a friendship of sorts and I felt that he was as beautiful inside as he was on the outside. I was really attracted to him and I got to flirt with him when the class was held, every Tuesday and Wednesday.

The models came and went, although they were usually there three nights each, and after a week of sketching and flirting, I was looking forward to the last time Steve would likely pose. I had thought long and hard about it and decided that I was going to ask him out. I’m not a wallflower and while asking the very sexy Steve for a date made butterflies nest in my stomach, I had no problem asking a guy out if that’s what I wanted. I had stared at Steve for two hours a night, two nights a week, including his package, which was rather impressive even soft. I decided that I was gonna get me some of that!

I set up a little early that night so I’d have time to talk to Steve before the class started. I thought that if we were planning to date, it would make the time flirting during his breaks that much hotter, and trust me, I got the impression that we were definitely getting hot at this point.

I was pulling out my tools that night when I heard the door to the utility room close. Steve must have just walked in and gone into the small room to take off his clothes. I was nervous, let me tell you. My palms were sweating and I was shaking a bit. I worried that my sketching would suck, but I was hoping that my flirting wouldn’t be affected.

I walked to the door of the utility room and stood there for a good five minutes before I screwed up my courage and walked in. I looked at the blobbish figure silhouetted against a blanket put up as a divider and I blurted out, “This is Thea and I know this is sudden, but I’d really like to go out with you and see if we have any chemistry.” Then I screwed my eyes shut and waited for the reply.

“Awwww,” came a familiar, feminine voice behind the blanket. “I love you too, sexy baby.”

“Lacy?!”

The blanket was pulled back to reveal my sister, half-undressed. “Hi, sis.”

“What are you doing here?” I snapped, my eyes wide with surprise.

“I might ask the same of you,” she said. “Do you want to date me so badly that you’re stalking me?”

“What happened to Steve?” I asked, still in shock.

“I’m filling in,” Lacy said. “He got sick and asked me to cover for him.”

“How do you know Steve?” I asked, feeling my world closing in on me.

“When he’s not posing, Steve’s a male exotic dancer,” Lacy said, looking in a compact mirror and fluffing her hair. “We all get together every so often at a Larry’s downtown and swap stories. Nice guy. So’s his S.O.”

“S.O.?”

“His Significant Other,” Lacy said, smiling. “I think his name is Eddie.”

“Steve’s gay?”

“Yeah. Biggest flirt I ever met, but all bark and no bite. He and Eddie are exclusive.

“Are you taking this class, Thea?”

I started to get angry. “I was.”

“Well, cool! Be a dear and tell Mr. Ferris that I’ll be out in a minute, please.”

I stomped out of the utility room and almost bumped into the instructor, Mr. Ferris. Ferris is a tall, thin man of about 50, with graying hair and piercing eyes. He’s been a teacher all of his life, and you get that teacher vibe off of him that makes you want to shrink down into your seat. He looked at me through his glasses and successfully resisted the urge to smile, or even be pleasant. “Yes, Miss Cornwall?”

“Um,” I said. “The… That is… The model…”

“Yessss?”

“Themodelwillbeoutinaminute,” I said as quickly as possible, then walked around him and stomped to my seat.

After that minute, Lacy came out in a green terrycloth robe. She smiled at the instructor. “I’m ready, Mr. Ferris.”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Ferris called out, “Steve is unavailable tonight, so the gracious, charming, wonderful… beautiful Gretchen has agreed to fill in.”

Lacy walked to the elevated platform, removed her robe and struck a pose: hand on hip, head turned to the left, and smiling.

I wasn’t in a very good mood at that point, but I decided to concentrate on the class and just sketch. Only…

I couldn’t do it. I don’t know why. Maybe because I couldn’t get the idea that this was my sister out of my mind. The last time I had seen Lacy nude was when she was five. That was the last time we took a bath together. I tried seeing her again as a five year old, but I wasn’t succeeding. I kept seeing this nude dancer, my sister, standing there with her double-D’s and a shaved crotch. I didn’t find it erotic at all, just embarrassing as hell. This was my sister, and she had no more problem standing nude in a room full of people than she had a problem dancing nude in front of them. Lacy never blushed, but I was doing enough for both of us.

Ferris, as was his usual, was walking around the room, looking and commenting on everyone’s work, although I noticed that he spent as much time looking at Lacy as our sketches. I had to put something on the paper, so I gritted my teeth and started sketching.

When Ferris got to me, he said, “Miss Cornwall, that is a very nice job. Very artistic…”

I sighed with relief. “Thank you, sir.”

“… and if the point of this class was to sketch the back of Mr. Paulson’s head, I’d give you an ‘A’. However, since the point is to sketch the model on the platform, I suggest you work from that.”

“Yes, sir.” I flipped to the next sheet in my large sketchbook and started over.

Lacy posed for about ten minutes when the timer dinged and she could take a break. She moved quickly to my side and looked at my easel. “How do I look?” she asked.

Ferris made sure that he moved there too. I think my instructor had the hots for my sister, which wasn’t setting well with me, either.

“You’re doing wonderfully tonight, Gretchen,” he said, almost drooling on his tie. I wanted to strangle him. I wanted to strangle my sister too, who was eating it up like sponge cake.

“Why thank you, Mr. Ferris,” she said, batting her eyelashes. “Aren’t you sweet?” She looked at my sketch. “Do I really look that much like Steve?”

I admit it. I had been drawing Steve from memory. I had to draw a nude model of some kind, and I just couldn’t bring myself to draw Lacy.

She looked closer at my work, then smiled. “Wow, I’m really hung, aren’t I?”

“Lac — uh, Gretchen… ” I warned.

“Miss Cornwall,” Ferris said, staring at my artwork, “do you want to complete this class?”

“I’m beginning to wonder myself,” I muttered.

“Oh, I think she’s doing just wonderfully, Mr. Ferris,” my sister said. “Don’t you?”

“Oh, absolutely, Gretchen,” Ferris said, grinning. “And please call me Terrance.”

Lacy smiled her sexiest smile. “Well aren’t you just the cutest thing, Terry?” He blushed, but said nothing.

Terry? I doubt even Mr. Ferris’ late wife got to call him that. He was so uptight that in all likelihood, she had to call him ‘Mr. Ferris’ too. An unwanted image popped into my mind of Lacy in her stupid Catholic schoolgirl outfit, sitting on Ferris’ lap in a school room. I made a mental note to wash my mind out with soap later.

The timer dinged again and Lacy almost ran back to the podium and resumed her pose. I stood there, muttering as I again flipped the page and started over.

“This time,” Ferris said under his breath, “do it right, Miss Cornwall.”

“Yes sir,” I gulped.

After about five minutes, I got an idea. I started drawing Lacy’s body from memory, just as I had Steve’s, only I didn’t draw a head. I imagined it was someone else as I became more comfortable and loosened up.

Every time Lacy took a break, she’d come over and look at my project. She was happy with it, even though I accentuated the breasts a bit. Although maybe she was happy because I did that. Who knows? I shut out her and Ferris and their constant flirting and just imagined that my sister’s body belonged to someone else.

As the class neared its end, I suddenly realized that the body was coming along just beautifully, but I was going to have to draw the head to get a good grade. On Lacy’s last break, she came over while Ferris was on the other side of the room and nudged me.

“How’s it coming?” she asked.

“Lacy,” I whispered, “I can’t do it. I can’t draw your head on this.”

“Why not?”

“You’re my sister,” I hissed.

“And?”

I slapped the piece of charcoal into her hand and said, “Okay, here. You draw my head on it!”

Lacy raised the stick to the drawing pad and froze. She put it down, then tried again. She froze a second time. “Wowww,” she said. “Son of a gun!”

“What’ll I do?” I asked.

Lacy thought for a minute, then whispered something into my ear as Ferris was approaching. I started to smile, then nodded.

“Gretchen,” Ferris asked, “may I speak to you a moment before you pose for the final time?”

“Sure, Terry.”

I had a suspicion as to what Ferris wanted to say to her, and I wish I could have been a fly on the wall when they walked into the utility room. After a few minutes, I heard Lacy holler “What?!” followed by a loud smacking noise. Lacy suddenly stormed out of the room and took up her position as the timer chimed. She smiled, but I could tell that she was royally pissed as she worked off the last ten minutes of the class. I don’t know what he said to her, but to shock Lacy like that, it must have been pretty graphic.

During that time, Mr. Ferris came slowly out of the utility room, holding the left side of his face and not removing his hand as he wandered around the room, nodding but not saying much. He moved slowly and didn’t get to me until the timer chimed. When he saw my work, his eyes bulged in shock.

Miss Cornwall!” he shrieked.

I looked at him as innocently as I could manage. “What?”

Lacy walked over to us and looked at it, too. “Yeah. What?”

“This is the most… ”

“Listen, Jack,” Lacy snapped. “After what you said to me, you’ve got no room to complain about anyone else’s handiwork, you dig?”

Ferris scowled “I am a respected member of the facul –”

“You’re a lecher and a pervert,” Lacy said loudly, poking her finger in his thin chest, “and unless you want me to file a formal complaint, you’ll give my friend here an ‘A’ and just forget we ever had that conversation!”

Ferris blushed, then pulled off his glasses with a shaky hand. “All right. Miss Cornwall, it gets an ‘A’.”

Lacy smiled smugly. “Wise decision.”

 

So I aced another class. We scanned my artwork and emailed it to Terrence Ferris as a reminder. The original hangs in the hallway of our apartment, a testament to two sisters who stuck together. Now we have a conversation piece for when people visit us and ask about the charcoal sketch of Lacy’s body with Mr. Ferris’ head.

Regards,

Thea

 

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December 5, 2012Permalink 4 Comments

We’re All Thankful

 

Lacy-06Hi, Lacy here.

It’s Thanksgiving, and what better way to commemorate that than with a list of some of the people in my life and what they’re personally thankful for? I also thought you might like to see what everyone looks like. So without further ado, in no particular order, here’s what the gang had to say to a form I asked them to fill out:

Continue reading

 

Name:
Quentin Broomfield

Occupation:
Business Owner

Three Things I’m thankful for:
1. My friends
2. My family
3. A safety-deposit box that Lacy does NOT have a key to.

 


 

Name:
Thea Cornwall

Occupation:
Private Investigator

Three Things I’m Thankful For:
1. My sister
2. My laptop
3. My mad skillz


Name:
Shadowcat

Occupation:
Dancer

Three Things I’m Thankful For:
1. My family
2. Larger shoe sizes
3. That guys freeze in their tracks when you kick them in the groin.


Name:
Bianca Smith

Occupation:
Dancer

Three Things I’m Thankful For:
1. The British Empire
2. My health
3. Guinness Ale


Name:
Freaky Frieda

Occupation:
Dancer

Three Things I’m Thankful For:
1. Fuzzy handcuffs
2. Guys who pay extra for good lapdances
3. Furry conventions


 

Name:
Li’l Bit

Occupation:
Dancer

Three Things I’m Thankful For:
1. My kids
2. My boyfriend
3. Recreational chemicals


Name:
Dawn Chen

Occupation:
Security Specialist

Three Things I’m Thankful For:
1. My brother
2. My health
3. Crazy, wonderful people like Lacy & Thea.


Name:
Don Chen

Occupation:
Security Specialist

Three Things I’m Thankful For:
1. My sister
2. My health
3. Thea Cornwall


Name:
Brett Merrick

Occupation:
Police Detective

Three Things I’m Thankful For:
1. My children
2. Lacy (when we’re not fighting)
3. Kevlar


Name:
Hortense

Occupation:
Being Annoying

Three Things I’m Thankful For:
1. That I know someone as beautiful, and wonderful as Lacy
2. That I am allowed to occasionally bask in Lacy’s glow
3. Lacy wuz here


Name:
Alice The Eskimo

Occupation:
Waitress/Queen of the Lizard People

Three Things I’m Thankful For:
1. My dad
2. The people who live in my head
3. That I can overcome all of the weirdness in the world with my sound logic.


Name:
Babette Fontenot

Occupation:
Actress/Receptionist

Three Things I’m Thankful For:
1. Samantha
2. Roxanne
3. Jane, Wanda, Penny, Shiela, Mandy, Denise, Roxanne (again), Annette, Marsha, (continued on back side)

 
 

Name:
Samantha WilliamsSamantha Williams

Occupation:
Director of Human Resources

Three Things I’m Thankful For:
1. Babette
2. My brother
3. Chastity belts (After Babs’ list, she’s SO getting one!)


 

Name:
Lacy-05bLacy Cornwall

Occupation:
Internet Goddess

Three Things I’m Thankful For:
1. My sister Thea
2. My friends
3. My new key to Quentin’s safety-deposit box


Thank you all for coming here and reading our adventures, because one thing I am truly grateful for is READERS!

Peace Out,
Lacy

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November 22, 2012Permalink 3 Comments