Diary of a Blues Goddess (18 page)

Love makes you crazy. Makes us all crazy. After reading about Irene's secret love, I thought of Casanova Jones. Why'd we give him that stupid nickname anyway? He was the most giving lover I had ever had. Then again, he didn't have much to stack up against.

I had a mental checklist of every man I'd ever gone to bed with—a reasonable list, neither too long, nor too short. The list was hardly impressive. Each lover had something about him that didn't fit with me. If music is melody and harmony, bass clef and treble clef, then sex is about fitting together high notes and low ones into its own jazz composition, because certainly sex is about improvisation. The men I have been with either rushed the rhythm or just didn't make
me feel
anything deep down. Not until Rick had anyone made my world spin backward, make the room spin, make me feel a
need
for him the way someone feels hunger or thirst.

I tried to take a nap, but I was nervous. I had, for the first time, that feeling I always assumed I'd one day have that maybe, maybe, Rick was The One. I'd thought it, secretly, in high school. But that was a lifetime ago. This was now, and it seemed so real. I gave up on sleep, picked up my remote and started clicking through daytime television. I ended up settling on an old movie on a classic-movie channel.
Waterloo Bridge
—it's one of Dominique's and my favorites. I watched the love story unfold. About halfway through, I heard a knock on my door.

"Georgie? It's Dominique and Angelica," their voices were singsong.

"Come in, ladies."

They entered in housecoats. Dominique's was pink with large flowers on it. I am sure when she bought it, likely at K-Mart or someplace suitably mainstream, the cashier either thought she was nuts,
or
thought she was buying it for her grandmother. But no, here she was like a vision of a housewife on acid. Angelica had on a flowered housecoat—and bunny slippers. And had curlers in her hair. They were like a drag version of
I Love Lucy
: Angelica was Lucy, Dominique was Ethel, though she would have been very insulted if I'd said that.

"Oh my God, it's Vivian Leigh!" Angelica clapped her hands, looking at the television.

"And Robert Taylor." I pretended to swoon.

"My favorite movie," Dominique chimed in as they both climbed into my bed, sandwiching me in the middle.

"But we didn't come here for old movies," Dominique said, taking the clicker from me and pressing mute. "We came to hear about your date. Which, we noticed, lasted until this morning. We want all the most naughty details, and if you don't tell us, we'll spank you."

"Ladies… This is it."

"I
knew
it!" Dominique grabbed my hand. "Tell Aunt Dominique all about it now, Angel."

"It was just perfect. From the first glass of champagne, to sex. Yes, first-date sex—usually a big no-no. But Dominique, this was unbelievable rock-my-world sex. And then this morning he canceled his appointments to cook me breakfast."

"What did he make?" Angelica asked. She always demanded the best from her lovers.

"Bacon and eggs, champagne and strawberries."

"What brand of champagne," Angelica pressed.

"Moet and Chandon."

Dominique and Angelica exchanged glances. "He's a keeper," they said simultaneously.

"Does he have a brother?" Angelica asked. "I'm back on the market. And right down the hall."

"I heard about that. Sorry about your boyfriend, but happy you're here… Yes, I do believe Rick has a sister and a brother. However, the brother is
married
."

"One night with me, honey, and grown men are known to cry. And break off engagements and toss aside wives."

"Old Guard, Angelica. I would venture to say the entire family has never even seen a queen before."

"Uh-huh." She smirked. "You think so, but did I tell you my last boyfriend was Darryl Banning III?"

"No way."

"Yes way," Dominique said. "And he was sending her roses every Friday. A dozen, long-stem, red. With handwritten notes."

Darryl Banning III was the very married, very old Southern guard king of tobacco.

"Well, that's certainly… interesting. I guess it goes to show you that you can never tell."

"And don't assume," Angelica added.

"Yes, that, too." I mentally pictured Darryl Banning III from his gubernatorial run. "But I don't think Rick's brother is up for grabs."

"Too bad," Angelica said ruefully.

I sighed. "I left him an hour or so ago, and I ache. I literally can't stand it. I don't know how I'm going to sing tonight."

"Young love." Dominique smiled. "When you're fucked right, darlin', you just go runnin' back for more."

"Please… I need to be fucked right." Angelica pursed her lips and fluffed her hair. "I'm back on the market, Georgie, so if you meet a nice boy looking for a beautiful diva to call his own, you send him my way."

"I'm really sorry about Frankie, Angelica."

"I'm not sorry. He had a tiny little cock, and frankly, he just wasn't doing it for me. Anyway, you know I've always wanted to stay at the Heartbreak Hotel. I like it so much, I may never leave."

"Nothing would make Nan happier." Which was the truth. I used to wonder how Nan felt about her home being invaded by drag queens and brokenhearted young men and women. But she liked being around young people. Period. She never judged. In fact, I can remember a few nights when Dominique and her friends did cabaret right in the living room, and she said they were better than the cabaret in Paris she saw as a young woman. She embraced life. And she liked having people around who embraced it, too. Like Sunday dinners, there was always room for one more plate at the table. One more queen in a bedroom. One more set of fishnets tossed over the shower-curtain rod.

"Well… not to rain on your sexual parade—" Dominique elbowed me "—but what about Jack?"

"Jack is on my shit list."

"Well, you're not exactly princess of his parade either, sex machine."

"He slept with Maggie last night."

Collectively, Angelica and Dominique gasped.

"Exactly!" I said, lightly slapping Dominique's arm. "He's such a jerk. He was just using her. You know, that's not like Jack at all. I don't know what's gotten into him, but now I am really pissed at him. And we have to play a funeral directors' convention tonight."

"Sounds like
loads
of fun. Must be really
lively"
Angelica giggled.

"Actually, they are a wild bunch. I have stories," I said. "But I am just so fucking furious at him. We actually sing a duet. 'Endless Love.' In set three."

Dominique cringed. "The old Lionel Ritchie tune?"

"The very one. Well, you tell me how I'm supposed to sing that to him when I want to take his balls and slam them in his guitar case?"

"Does Maggie know about you and him and your little nocturnal hanky-panky this week?" Dominique asked.

"No. And it's going to stay that way."

"My lips are sealed. So Casanova was really good, huh?" she asked. "Tell me… handcuffs? Vibrators? Sex toys? Positions?"

"It was awesome. Beyond that, I don't kiss and tell."

"Bullshit." Dominique squealed.

"I'll say this… he broke my personal orgasm record."

"See, that is just delicious. But vague. You know I like
details
. I'll worm it all out of you sooner or later. Turn up the movie."

The three of us snuggled and watched the tearjerker on TV. We passed tissues between us for the final death scene. Then the ladies went off to fight over bathroom shower schedules, and I watched old movies and tried to decide just what color sequins one should wear to a convention of funeral directors. Was black too obvious a choice?

Funeral directors are an odd bunch. Funeral homes are mostly family-owned businesses. I think if you grow up in a household of funeral directors, it's just expected that you'll go into the "family business"—even if that business involves formaldehyde and corpses. So when the funeral directors get together for a big party, there are a lot of interesting families gathered for the partying. Brothers in dark suits. Dads and sons with the same morbid sense of humor. They tell corny jokes about the dead, or talk about unusual funeral requests, like the woman, one told me, who wanted to be buried with a fifth of bourbon and wearing her lucky bra. People, they tell you, get buried with bowling balls, golf clubs, photos, playing cards, gambling dice, fishing poles, bottles of liquor and even books the person can't very well read. But mostly, funeral directors know how to bust loose. I guess if I spent most of my time around dead people, when I got to a city like New Orleans that
knows
how to show
live
people a good time, I would go crazy, too.

So Georgia's Saints had funeral directors doing the limbo and the macarena. We had them in a conga line during my rendition of "La Bamba," and we had them groping each other during Jack's and my version of "Endless Love," which was sung with us glaring at each other. Gary was not amused and yelled at us during break.

"Has it occurred to you two that during 'Endless Love,' you might want to look like you actually
like
each other?
Love
might be a stretch… I'd settle for mild indifference. What the hell is wrong with you two?"

I snapped, "Today we don't happen to like each other very much, so that was the best we could do."

Gary snapped back, "Look, we're
professionals
. If you two are fighting, it's no reason to take it out on your audience."

"Professionals," I snorted, turned to glare at Gary now. "If I have to sing 'The Electric Slide' one more time, I'm going to puke."

"Her problem is she doesn't know what she wants," Jack said, appealing to the band for sympathy.

"His problem is he does all his thinking with his penis," I fired back.

Gary, Tony and Mike stared at this exchange, slack-jawed.

"Well, she doesn't know what she's getting into with this Casanova guy… You think leopards change their spots?"

"One would hope so or that would mean Jack regularly uses people like my best friend and
sleeps
with them to get back at me."