Gay Panda is not interesting that way.
Mmm-hmm, you know which way I’m talking about. The 50 Shades one. Mind you, I’ve read some highly interesting shades* that other people engage in, but my personal interests are not piqued to engage in any of them myself. I do not see the appeal in dressing up like a sexy pony and having someone whip me around a driveway, or sitting without apparel on a chocolate cake from Trader Joe’s**. When my friend sent me an advertisement for a foot fetish party, in which patrons who required muddy or sweaty feet were urged to contact the SM parlor in advance so that the feet could be ‘prepared’, I burst into laughter. It made such a vivid mental image of lovely men and women walking through mud puddles and running on a treadmill before the party started, all to titillate the peculiar shade of a patron that evening.
Gay Panda does not love cars that way (thank you My Car is My Lover documentary) or drink out of specially treated cups (let us never speak of it again) or have a relationship with a life-sized doll (I believe it was the Guys and Dolls documentary if you’re bored today). I am not married to the Eiffel Tower (was that video called Strange Love?), and that the tower married someone else did not send me into a wailing fit of rejected amore. I do not read erotic poetry on open mike night in dark bars, hoping that someone will be blown away by the passion in my couplets and slip me their digits***. There are so very many interesting shades in this world, and Gay Panda is just not interesting. The last time I wrestled in oil, I was fully dressed and hovering over the kitchen sink with a chicken carcass in my paws.
And so I am left only with the shade of my dominatrix Mistress GERD, who visited last night and stayed for a half-hearted thirty-minute appointment in which I did not even bunch up a pillow from pain or weep my safeword banana thongs for mercy. I am no longer on her Regular Call list, and I brought this visit on myself by eating big bowls of meat chili for dinner and forgetting how much tomato was in them. So she stopped in around two a.m. for a limp whipping. I thought about pulling the copy of Joy Luck Club on my bookshelves to trigger the secret spiral staircase that descends to my shadowy basement, and lighting the thirteen wicks of the candelabra and taking the damp rail of the staircase to go down. I thought about how much energy it was going to require to pick through the graveyard of truly awful books I’ve written and then my lab where I’d have to resist cackling over beakers full of steaming green liquid. I considered how much more energy it was going to take to move the dusty volumes of witchcraft and my trusty old six-volume Demonica from the lid of the Ancient Medicine Chest**** to acquire the remedy*****.
In the end, I did not even get out of bed. Mistress GERD and I just hung out together until it was time for her next appointment, and then she left and I fell back asleep. But this is so boring, so let’s pretend I did it hanging upside down while vacuum-sealed with several friends in layers of latex, all of us breathing through a shared purple twirly straw and with a shuffle of Enya and Nine Inch Nails and Blind Melon’s No Rain playing on the stereo.
Now I’m up to two shades.