Saturday, March 22, 2008

milton to mildred to millie



I do like the name millie.

Where were we? Ah. Yes.

He wasn't into feminization. Yes, he actually did and does like women. A lot. When he - okay, okay, enough of the he s/he thing, we'll stick with she - when I asked her what it was that was so appealing, the answers came out in a slow, steady, fluid stream - the softness, the patience, the willingness to endure, the gentle way a woman will touch her fingertips to her cheek, the carefulness in front of a mirror, the careless and careful way they apply lipstick in a restaurant after a meal.......

He went on and on. And on.

It was just utterly lovely. Truly. And quite revealing.

How many men, I ask you - oh, yes, alright, you're not a representative sample of the general population, now are you? - but how many men are actually aware of all these things? They see them every day, now don't they, and these seemingly listless acts register somewhere in the recesses of their minds, between Tiger's latest triumph and the birdie they themselves almost had when last on the links and the dick boss at work who took credit for another of their ideas and the wondering of whether their wife will ever learn her way around the head of his cock or at least to cradle his balls while taking him in her mouth.

The casual sensuality may register, but only as quietly as a leaf falling on dry autumn grass and with just as much effect.

Not so our - excuse me, MY - millie.

As she talked about these things, her voice softened. I asked when she'd last watched a woman hold a bottle of perfume to her neck and spray lightly. There was a moment of silence. Just a moment. Some moments seem to last forever. This was one of them.

Quietly, she said, 'i can't remember.'

I rustled in my chair and took the phone with me to the powder room (no, it's not a pastel pink, you dork - pink isn't the only femme color) and looked over a few bottles of perfume and eau de toilette and picked up the bottle of Coco Chanel, my fave, as my young neighbor would say, of the moment. The combination of citrus and woody - earthy and clean at the same time, with overtones of a distinctly human scent - seems to both relax men and prick their senses. I talked to him about it, and he heard the spray leave the bottle.

'I don't like to talk about these things with men, because they don't quite understand them - do you know what I mean,' I asked. That moment of silence, that lovely moment of silence, when her increasingly fluid and malleable gears were shifting.

'I know you're not interested in feminization,' I said sweetly, 'but it would be easier for me to talk about these things if I felt I was talking to a woman... a girlfriend - you wouldn't mind terribly if I called you millie, would you?'

The silence extended.

Why is it, with shy women, that they have just such a difficult time saying yes when they're being seduced?

'millie, please get the lipstick and remove the wrapping and close your eyes. Turn the case a little, yes, a little more. i know this isn't really your thing, but would you mind, for me, bring it to your upper lip and touching it lightly? That's okay, isn't it? Yes. Like that. Now, slowly, slide it across your upper lip, starting at the center and going outwards... yes. That's it. Yes. Thank you, millie.'

millie, it seemed, needed to be taken.

I won't bore you with the details, but before long, before too very long at all, millie was able to push past the initial burning sensation and discover her internal pleasure spot - for the sake of her ego, I explained that males have them as well. As she quietly explored, and I feared that her cockometer might explode from internal pressure - and I don't mean explode as in shoot - under my soft but unyielding control, I made her promise that just for a minute, no matter what she heard or felt, she wouldn't change a thing about what she was doing. And I found myself reminding her of something.

That no self-respecting man would be caught dead writhing in bed wearing lipstick with a finger up her ass.

Now would he?

There wasn't total silence on her end. I believe I heard the soft rush of a moan, the kind of sound heard when air leaves the distended neck of an old balloon.

'Now would he, millie?'

For the first time in quite awhile, she was able to summon the strength to form a word. Two of them, in fact.

'No Beverly.'

'No millie. Now be a good girl and touch your clit for me...'

No sense in going on. But you get the idea.

So did she.

How do I know?

At the end of our conversation, past the point of decompression and reorientation, where some, um, men are just dying to get off the phone, she said, 'Thank You."

Well. That was a few days ago know, and she's called a couple of times since. And do you know what's so remarkable, so rewarding? When I answer the phone, she says, 'Hi Beverly - it's millie...'

And when she called last, I replied, 'Oh, millie - hi. It's so nice to hear from you. I was afraid it was going to be this repulsive creature I spoke to once. His name was - I must have put it out of my mind. Oh. Yes. That's it. It was Milton.'


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