It is the beginning of October and the weather is kind of cool, yet, there are still some days when the temperature is a very sweet and pleasant twenty degrees. It is that leftover, perhaps forgotten, heat from the summer, one could say, but very much appreciated for most people in this big city of Vancouver. The flowers in the yards and parks are still in full bloom and the grass still requires the occasional watering and trim, at least until next month.
"I just about forgot ... My name is George. But, if my name is Peter, or Manolis, or even Antony, what difference would it make? But let me call myself George for the length of this story. I am of Greek origin, and a Canadian citizen. I am one of the "others," as we are called. Then, quite naturally, you may ask: who are the others? This is a long story; I'll try to make it short. Some years ago, after the 1995 referendum in the province of Quebec, some loser referred to us as the others. It was a man called Parizeau, I believe this was his name; after losing the referendum to make Quebec an independent province he made the historic "us and them" speech.
But anyway, tonight, I'm invited to the house of a good friend, his name is Michael, it is his birthday, I think ... Really, it doesn't make any difference, birthday or name day, or any other occasion when people get together for a reason, at some time, to enjoy one another's company. What counts is the who gathers at the host's house: friends of both genders, single or married, divorced or separated, newlyweds or old couples with the faint memory of their anniversaries. And, it really makes no difference what this group of people has in common other than to get together and have a good time. Fun is what counts, and the rest are just details, which, at most times, we couldn't give a shit about.
Here I am–of course, after my middle-age crisis, and after my divorce. Here I am, introducing a new girlfriend, a Canadian from the Philippines and with Spanish roots, to the people who have always known me as having a wife and two kids. Now, here, I show up with a girlfriend, who is not even Greek.
"Oh God, who is this man who dares to come close to us with this new woman?" think most of the guests.
Yet, here I am with a new girlfriend, and I have recently had a small health issue; nothing to worry about, just a tiny coronary blockage. But, who really cares about that? I arrive and find a house split in two. No, I don't mean it literally; the house sits quite comfortably on its foundations, with its two levels, two garages, and four bedrooms. Sometimes, I wonder what our parents think when they visit from the old country and see all these rooms, while back at home, the whole family lived in one or two rooms (maximum), and I really mean the whole family of four, five, six, or even more. Yet, here we are in Vancouver, and there are rooms galore, and plenty of other things making our life even more miserable. We, of course, always want "more." It is our mantra, and when good old sweet Death comes to take one of us, the rest gather and sing for the departed person's life, without any sliver of thought about all the misery that person went through to gather all the stuff.
But anyway, I get inside my friend's place and it is divided in two. On the left, in the living room, are the men. They stand with their drinks and are at arm's length from the table with the appetizers that are displayed in various platters. On the right, in the dining room, under the chandelier, are the women. They are gathered close enough to the men, checking on them from time to time, making sure their eyesight doesn't get fixated to another woman's figure, yet far enough so the men cannot hear their conversations. This is the custom of the old country: men are with their peers talking amongst themselves and women with the other women and talking about their men.
Funny, eh?
Whatever.
When we enter, the host's wife blesses me with two kisses, one on each cheek, and I reciprocate without any hesitation; after all, I carry my history, or better, my history carries me along, and all these women know it. Perhaps some of these women wish they had a chance with me, but then again, who cares? You know, the other person, that sweet image of being with someone else's mate, besides the regular is a natural wonder and curiosity, which at most times is the reason someone fools around on his or her spouse. And it doesn't involve all those dramatics we see in films or read in books; these films and books are popular because they stretch the truth to the extreme.
Anyway, let us go back to the story. As I make myself present to the men's section of the house, I hear all familiar lines, like, "How are you? We haven't seen you for a long time. How are the kids? Are you fooling around with any woman?" No, they don't say that last line loud, but they most likely think of it and they are so eager to know. Some of them even feel jealous, and wish they had the chance to fool around as I did, but they just didn't have the guts. And even if the opportunity came about, they just wouldn't have had the guts to just do it. Only the daring do and only the daring know what it means to just do it! But of course, every divorce splits the assets and the friends in the same breath. Some carry on their friendships with both ex-spouses. Quite rarely you see old friends spending equal time with each of the divorced; and there are those who also claim...
"Why invite him to our party, to sleep with our wives?"
Such morons don't know that I would rather put my Nicolas into a line of three donuts than sleep with their wives, but I will leave that discussion for some other time. In gatherings like this, when old friends greet you and care to know how you are really doing, they do come close to getting in touch with the godly; I mean really beyond the flesh and bones, beyond the littleness that at most times turns them into leaves in the middle of the most thunderous tempest blown from one end of life to the other end of Death, and there is no end out of this oblivion. Yet, at times, like this one, you feel that these are just people, same as you, and they just want to have some fun and celebrate some guy's birthday.
The host serves the wine. My new girlfriend sits next to me by the men's section.
"I'm not sitting on my own with the women..." she whispers.
Although this is a taboo, I advise her to stay where she is:
"If this is where you want to sit, then this is where you sit, simple as that."
The men's predictable phrases still come and go and the warmth of the wine along with the body heat of the people in the room, make the atmosphere quite warm and open. Even the conversation feels somewhat softer and fluffier as the wine is increasingly consumed.
My girlfriend gets up to visit the powder room and Kostas finds the opportunity and the courage to lean a bit closer and ask:
"Hey, is she hot?"
I reveal my widest smile to the poor man and before I manage to tell him how hot my new woman is Vangelis interferes with...
"Don't worry about him. He is got it right. Now he can choose and pick."
One could see the man salivating at the idea of choosing and picking and I really felt the need to laugh my guts out.
But at that moment the doorbell rings. The host goes to greet her guests. And from where I sit I see Anna. Pretty Anna, airy, and ethereal, enters the house with her husband behind her. Anna is always perfectly attired, always trendy and sexy. Elegant Anna walks gracefully, taking her steps through the foyer, and my expert nose picks up her light lilac perfume quite easily and from afar. I fix my eyes on her, and she knows I have been watching her as soon as her eyes meet mine, and someplace between her sexy walk and her faint smile I see the prettiest of females around.
How do women know you look at them? Sometimes it is a wonder, yet they do, and they always smile back. It must be the same knowing as I always have when who, in a gathering of women, looks at me and salivates and who just doesn't give a damn. This is called "experience," I suppose, and a womanizer such as me has come to know. I'm sure she has heard all the history of my escapades and misadventures; after all, the whole Greek community has heard of them, why not her? As soon as Anna arrives, I notice all the hugs and kisses coming and going, each woman hugging and saying loudly, "Hi, how are you?" while murmuring inside, "Bitch..." a word every woman uses when the prettiest enters the room and the eyes of all males are glued onto her like limpets on a rock. Anna looks as though she enjoys every bit of it, although I catch her sneaking glances toward my new girlfriend and me with every possible opportunity.
A little while later when everything calms down, the guests go to the kitchen to pick their plates and get some food from the big spread on the table. Men avoid getting close to Anna because some see her as an instigator; others because they do not feel comfortable enough about their manhood near a gorgeous woman; and others because they fear that their secret thoughts may be revealed, and they know these thoughts well; just as well as I know these guys and I also know well their secret thoughts. Trust me, I'm a man, and I have a history which precedes me every time I show up at a gathering such as this one.
But I'm not like the other men here, and I also believe deeply in my heart that when a pretty woman is not teased it constitutes an error, and when a very pretty woman, like Anna, is not teased, it turns to a curse; and I don't like being cursed by any means.
The little devil inside me gets me up and guides me to the kitchen where I see Anna standing alone by the fridge and slowly chewing on a piece of a carrot. I take a plate and my little devil guides me next to her; she graces me with her sweetest smile: what a line of teeth! What a sexy mouth, I would love to put my little Nicolas there. Yes, I would love to put little Nicolas between these two full lips and push them open, see what kind of an "o" they would design for me. Why do men always see a blowjob on the pretty lips of a woman? I asked myself this so many times and the answer is always the same: what else would a man like out of those two pretty lips other than that? The nagging? Hell no!
I look deeply into Anna's eyes, even deeper than other times or with any other woman, and I say: "Hi pretty one." I always call her "pretty one" and she loves it.
"Hi," she goes. "How have you been? You look ... vigorous."
Now, why would a woman as pretty as Anna calls me vigorous? I ask you—what do you think of this? But I'm a realist, and I don't expect you to have the guts to answer this question so I will intervene: she just heard of the bout I had lately, the health issue, the little, tiny, coronary blockage that others call a "heart attack"; what a dreadful term!
Anyway, Anna most likely is referring to this and is wondering how I have managed to escape the irresistible hug of Death.
"I'm okay, pretty one. Thanks a lot."
Then the little devil guides my lips and I throw a question her way..."Tell me, pretty one, what does your husband feed you that makes you grow so pretty as the days go by?"
Trust me, this is a compliment. I detect a little flame in her eyes; my comment has done well and she smiles her sexiest, saying...
"No, he doesn't feed me anymore. I have grown up, you know, I feed myself now."
Now, here is a comment that throws me off and I don't know how to interpret it. What is she getting at? Here, I want you to tell me, you smart people, where is she driving this conversation? She could have taken my words literally, which I don't believe. She's playing with me. I grab a stuffed vine leaf, which tastes very salty.
"What if I can find the opportunity to feed you, pretty one?" I ask.
She laughs at the suggestion and instead of a "no" she says,
"You would, would you?"
"I would love to."
The deeply sensuous smell of her lilac fragrance splashes onto my nostrils like a wave frothing on the sandy seashore. A carnal desire flares up in my groin and I dare touch her little hand quite accidentally and she reciprocates by brushing hers onto mine. I give her my best smile and a wink; she winks back and Heaven has just opened this brilliant gate where I know I can enter as I wish. I promise myself that I will call up one day, I will make sure I open that door one day and will enter triumphant, will enter her domain victorious; that truly lifts me up to the sky and a man who adores women is justified once more.
As I leave the kitchen, she knows that I know we'll carry on with this in our next encounter.
It has been a very warm, pleasant gathering.
Oh, yes it was my friend's birthday, I think...
Funny eh?
Who cares...