[SALVATION: the act of being saved – the deliverance from evil]






I sat quietly, obediently, across the kitchen table from K, the only sound in the room was that of my munching on a bowl of Kashi grape nuts cereal with banana slices on them. Thankfully she didnt notice my dousing the horrible yet healthy grains with chocolate milk, fat free chocolate milk of course. My lover, my wife, my savior, my ***** prison guard was nonchalantly reading the Sunday paper totally unaware of the verbal and physical assault about to beset her. I was watching, plotting and planning, for our lives together simply could not go on as they have been for the past eight weeks.

Eight weeks to the day I had a heart attack, repaired by double bypass surgery to unblock the clogged arteries which had been exposed to years of abuse – a steady diet of Dew, donuts and just an unfathomable amount of chocolate, fast food and junk food. Eight weeks of almost unbearable recovery practically spoon fed to me my an overprotective yet undoubtedly loving partner.

The woman is a frickin moron. Despite the diagnosis of one of the areas finest cardiac surgeons, Dr. Hartman, K truly believed that the attack was brought on by overexposure to *****-like ***** in FAN FIC stories. And the ensuing *****-around-the-house episodes, which were directly influenced by the words of those *****-wielding authors, K believed contributed as well.

Silently, I continued to eye my captor as I winced and chewed and swallowed what was supposed to be good for me and my heart. So unsuspecting, I thought as I stared at her, she reading the Gazette, one leg drawn up to her chest , her heel resting on the seat of her chair. Dressed in a muscle-type tank (white, of course) and baggy silk shorts, K was sans underwear as she usually was on a Sunday, the day we USED to always spend together having *****, *****, making love, what you want to call it, all over the house. I USED to love Sundays.

From that position on the chair I could see Ks fresh bikini wax and wisps of her pubic hair exposed through the leg of those baggy shorts. We have had ***** only three times since my return home, gentle, caring, loving, tender, mush-laden almost passion less *****. Yet here she sits, half naked, all tanned up and buff, her bed-head hair about to make me crazy with desire knowing full well what she is doing to me only to deny me, to coddle me, to force me to eat bark for my own good. The wench has some nerve.

As I stared at her across the table, my mind drifted back to the last time I stared so intently at her — eight weeks ago in the hospital room of County General. She was sitting on the edge of my bed, her mouth agape as she struggled to understand my impassioned yet unsuccessful attempts to convince her that I was seeing GOD everywhere and that SHE, GOD, had taken the shape, form, looks, and sounds of one Miss Bette Porter, THEE Better Porter, THEE L-WORD Bette Porter. Not only was I seeing God / aka / Bette reflected in those around me, I was also hearing her give me advice and help on becoming a better person, on accomplishing goals and life missions, on spreading the L everywhere. Even my super surgeon doctor looked like Bette to me, until K pointed out that one Dr. Hartman was a Meg Ryan clone, only shorter.

I am certain it was at that moment, as K sat on the end of the hospital bed and tearfully eyed me as I tried to explain my death-like experience to her, that I felt we lost our connection, lost the bond which bound us so tightly. Something happened between us that day and I dont think it was anything good.

Not only was that the day I believe I lost K, but it was also the day God had deserted me. Eight weeks and no sign, not literally, not figuratively, nothing, no sign of Bette anywhere. She didnt appear the faces of the friends and co-workers who had dropped in over the past few weeks to offer their encouragement. She didnt appear in my dreams, in the air, on the wall, when I walked the dog or slept on the couch or read FAN FIC (the stories which I WASNT banned from reading by the tyrant queen). Gone, God was gone and so was K and I was not about to let either of them slip away without a fight.

I continued to munch the cereal and stare, K still so unaware of her affect on me, so unaware of how I was going to be the one to save us this time.

Again my mind drifted to the events of the past few weeks. My collapse was extremely ill- timed, although I doubt there ever is a good time to be incapacitated. It happened only a few days before Thanksgiving, almost killing me and definitely killing our elaborate plans for a big gathering of family and friends. Instead of dropping by to celebrate the holidays, one by one my friends, family, and co-workers paraded in with gifts, food, cards, and well, warm wishes. After several days of this display of mostly insincere affection, I thought for sure and for real I was going to die, or at least puke with disgust.

My co-workers came by and told me about the office gossip, unbeknownst to them that I could care less about my unfulfilling job. Many of them to this day believed my heart attack was a direct result of the cocaine addiction from which I suffer, thus the reason for seeing the companys shrink. The only part about their assumptions which was correct was the part about an addiction – not to any drug, but to the stories and authors of the L-word Fan Fiction site. They all wished me well and were hoping to see me back at work real soon. Not going to happen, I thought. With my age and time served in the copany I was eligible for early retirement on a medical disability. Although not disabled, I found the thought of leaving my job and pursuing Bettes work extremely appealing.

Not everyone discouraged me with their visit. No, there were actually a few people I was happy and grateful to see, thanks to Ks world-wide bulletin of my confinement.

My two best friends in the whole world showed up – two women I grew up with, went to school with, two women who knew me better than anyone, two women who plotted and planned with my now-wife to trick me into a surprise Vegas wedding, two women who bought me that obscene dog as a wedding present, two women who I shared numerous road trips with as we often set out to accomplish impossible missions – – Biggs and Sugar — I hadnt seen them since my wedding last summer, since K had arranged a night of triple pleasure for them with a Vegas show-girl as a thank you gift for help with the wedding.

I was so happy to see them, to talk with them, to catch up with them, to plan our next adventure, that I thanked God for sending them, thanked K for asking them to come – yet I got no feedback from either God or K – nothing – no Bette, no electric attraction from K – nothing from either. Now that was not a good sign.

And my cousin came to see me, probably my closest living relative, the one person to whom I could relate to the most. She lost her lower arm in a car accident, an accident in which she also lost her long time companion and lover. Even years after the loss, I dont think she ever recovered – never accepting the fate, never accepting Gods will, never realizing the why. We had spent countless hours discussing the unfortunate ness of the accident and I always reminded her that God did not kill her lover or take her arm – it was the carelessness of the other driver – something my cousin refused to accept. She never blamed the other driver – she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I always wished there was more I could do for her – she seemed so lost over the years – drank way too much , had way too much unnecessary and meaningless ***** (if that is possible) and never seemed to find solace in the friendships she shared, especially with her very best buddy, Trey, a very short, very *****, very talented drag queen.

Trey was her rock over the years after her lover passed, but when he died of AIDS last summer not even her new found relationship with Treys hospice doctor seemed to be able to console my cousin. A new life away from the painful memories of the beach existence was what she had decided.

I was so happy that she stopped in to see me right before Christmas to tell me of her decisions. She has hooked with some circus performer, acrobat of some kind I guess, who was vacationing in the Keys while on a break from touring. The two of them hit it off immediately, and when my cousin told the young performer of her new job – promoter for a traveling drag show (BEEF FRIED RICE !), the tumbler literally flipped and said she would be honored to tag along and help out.

At some time during their travels the acrobat divulged a life long secret of becoming a famous romance novelist – of writing the great American ***** Love story – one of those 600 hundred page ***** filled adventures which crosses several continents — the love of the others life relentlessly pursuing her object of desire and overcoming numerous obstacles and disasters. Without hesitation my cousin told her new acquaintance about THE SITE introduced her to FAN FIC. The woman immediately fell in love with all things L and even admitted to wanting to be like several of the writers including that martini woman, some Michigan state Spartan, a seahorse, a chaser and a skipper.

I told my cousin it sounded like she may have found something in her new career and in her new woman because anyone who wanted to emulate the authors in the FAN FIC section couldnt be all that bad !! Just before Christmas the last time I had seen her and I miss her, my cousin, I miss her.

I shook my head a little to get the thoughts of the past few weeks out of my mind since thinking about my family and friends was making me a little teary-eyed. I focused once again on K, still sitting so peacefully reading the news of the world on this Sunday morning.

I had finished the cereal and grabbed a Dew from the fridge to wash the after taste of wood chips from my mouth – a Diet Dew I might add. It was now or never – I was going to make my move, to unleash all my pent up wrath on K and straighten her out, so to speak in a non sexual-preference sort of way. She was going to understand about Bette, she was going to ***** me into next week like she used to do on Sundays, and she was going to participate in any mission from God we would be instructed to undertake. That was all there was to it – she was going down, then she was going down on me . . .


TBC . . . .