Mr Werewolf, I presume?
According to protocol, I’m to dish myself up in succulent words for you to savor.
On second thought, let’s play the Dinner Party Game.
Picture a table. You sit at the head, I at the foot. The chairs to either side of us are empty, waiting to be filled. Who will fill them is up to you. But there is a catch to the guest list. The theme is Vixens Villains. For one evening the table has the power to incarnate anyone from history or a novel or film—fictional or factual—that you desire, provided this person is Bone-melting Beautiful or just Bad-to-the-Bone.
Given the parameters, whom would you invite to fill the other ten chairs to dazzle us for an evening of scandalous witty conversation?
While you’re conjuring names, here’s a verbal appetizer. I’ve been called: Passionate. Playful. Mysterious. A little Goth (run if sinuous crow-black slip dresses, paired with snake-skin heeled, patent-leather pumps, make you want to cross yourself). Part damselfly. Part white Bengal tigress. A dryad. Snake charmer. Belly dancer. Tender. Exotic. And smart. Oh, look guys, Emily Dickinson is making a special guest appearance on my profile page! What's up, Emmie D? You got something you wanna say? About me? As if I could refuse you anything!
Emily Dickinson: Her Brain—is wider than the Sky—
For—put them side by side—
The one the other will contain?With ease
—and You—beside—
Venus in Flip-Flops: Aww, shucks, Em. You say the sweetest things!
Others say I’m intense, wickedly funny, sensitive, fiercely driven, free-spirited, artistic, unconventional, mystifyingly lovely, deeply loving, unforgettable. Possessed of a Mafioso type loyalty. Slinky.
Slinky?
Slinky.
And those are just my Enemies.
What makes me smile? Roughly ten or so facial muscles. Most notably, the orbicularis oris, the buccinator, let us not forget the lovely caninus. Thankfully I didn’t fall asleep during that part of AP biology.
Outside the physiological, how about the demise of the Tea Party? Tangibles? Hedgehogs. (Gotta love a wee beastie that looks like a pincushion still pulls off cuddly.) Tissue-thin cashmere. Hamlet talking to his dead father’s skull. (Sorry. Venus in House Eight.) Herons rising from the water. The way singing puts me in a body heaven.
I am an inveterate word junkie, a total book nerd. My idea of a perfect evening is a poetry reading or play at the Folger. I’m into singing, reading, art museums—a true worshiper of Beauty. My tastes run toward modern art—the more bizarre the better. I am also opera-obsessed—just heard Renee Fleming sing at the Myerhoff. I’m a gipsy-artist girl at heart and would love to meet someone who shares my passions for music, art, and words—and ice hockey. Go Caps!
I am also deeply committed to my spiritual beliefs. Here’s where I’m not just Romantic but really old fashioned: I believe sex belongs in marriage. It complicates things otherwise. I want to focus on getting to know each other. You and I believe that union with the beloved is a sacrament. An outward spiritual sign of an inward and spiritual grace. I’m not into flings or casual dating that goes nowhere. I am a graceful woman of substance, with a soul of grace and graciousness. I would love to meet someone who is open to dating the old-fashioned way, a true gentleman who will appreciate my deep femininity, integrity, someone who lights a fire in my soul, and seeks building a deep abiding friendship, and seeing where that leads. Hopefully to a passionate soul-searing love, to something more deeply permanent, and monogamous. Someone to share the rest of my life with.
Still waiting on that guest list, darling Wolf. Dinner’s at 8. I’m in the red number twirling my glass sideways at the end of the table. It’s not nice to keep a lady waiting.
