Oh My Darling, Oh My Love,
I can’t stop thinking about you! I am a woman possessed! At night, you come to me in my dreams. You know, the recurring one where I’m kidnapped by gypsy-pirate-sex fiends. It’s always the same: I’m a helpless slave girl with heaving bosoms. Night after night, the swarthy brutes have their way with me. One by one, they take me – in the ship’s galley, on the poop-deck, in the brig… violating me with their wooden legs and hooks. They satisfy their pent-up pirate lust on me, then make me lick up the mess. It’s just… awful. Yeah… awful.
Then, just as I’ve given up hope – YOU SWING IN on a rope to rescue me.
My hero! My Lochinvar! Kiss me! Kiss me, quick!
You are dressed in tight, tight satin breeches, and a ruffly shirt, unbuttoned down to THERE to show your hairy man-chest and nibbly little nips. SO DASHING! SO DEBONAIRE! I swoon.
Single-handedly, you give them all a good what-for in a glorious swordfight that Douglas Fairbanks, himself, would be proud of.
Then, when every last one of them has been vanquished, you have your way with me. You have your way with me, and take me in the galley, on the poopdeck, in the brig. You violate me with the discarded wooden legs and hooks.
Oh Brandon! Brandon! Brandon!
• • •
Then I wake up, all moist and out of breath.
It’s a helluva dream.
I lie there in a happy fog for a few minutes before I realize that it WAS just a dream and you AREN’T by my side. And the world is a drearier place. (choke)
Why are you ignoring me, my pet? Why haven’t you called and told me how you feel about me yet? Why aren’t we lying in your bed RIGHT NOW, counting doubloons and eating panda steaks? WHERE’S ALL THE POST-COITAL CUDDLING? WHERE’S THE LOVE, BRANDON? I’m not happy about this. I’m not happy AT ALL.
And I know you aren’t happy either. How can you be? You’re absolutely miserable. All that champagne. All those red carpets. Nothing but fawning sycophants buzzing everywhere you turn, tending to your every whim. . . Well, it must be hell. HELL ON EARTH.
You do a good job of covering it up, though, I must say.
The nobless oblige you show when dealing with the Great Unwashed is truly admirable, really it is. Very white of you. It must take great restraint on your part not to spit in our shiny, vulgar faces. Why, to you, we must all seem like absolute Huns!
No wonder you’re always sneering.
It’s perfectly understandable, of course. Poor thing, you can’t HELP feeling a bit above it all. It’s your birthright. And I, for one, think its a shame that you even have to interact with your social inferiors AT ALL. Don’t they have service monkeys for that yet?
You are in the dubious position of being too rich, too powerful, and too good-looking. You have no peers, no equals. Your perch is too high. Listen to me, sugarplum. Heed my warning: One night you will find yourself in a special roped-off area of a VIP room inside a VIP room, on the private floor of the most ultra-exclusive club in the world – and it will just be you and the Queen of England. Yes. Just you and Liz and a some beer nuts. The V-est of the IPs. You’re at the absolute tippy-top. You can climb no higher. And there she is, and there you are, and she’s rattling on about how to make the perfect peanut-butter-and-banana sandwich, and showing you picture after picture after goddam picture of her Corgis, and she’s got this little red piece of nut caught in her dentures. And that’s when it hits you: She’s REALLY NOT THAT INTERESTING, is she? And she smells like TOILET PAPER, what is THAT all about? You want to tell her to go fuck a Corgi and floss her fucking dentures. Instead, you nod politely and order another mojito. Somewhere, in the far-off distance, Peggy Lee begins singing “Is That All There Is?”
And, oh, what a lonely boy you’ll be when that happens.
What then, Puffinstuff? Wither your precious A-list THEN?
Oh my love. Oh my darling. The cheese stands alone. It just does.
• • •
Well, here’s the good news: With me, this is not a problem. I have yet to worry about too much success. Just the opposite. You’ll see. Being seen with me will instantly obliterate your it-boy status, devalue your social standing, and lower your overall approval rating. Any credibility you have will be gone. Your personal stock will plummet. You’ll be about as newsworthy as Yvonne Goolagong. WHO? Exactly. The only press you’ll get is in supermarket circulars. Even the interns at In Touch magazine will look down their noses at you. Yes, In Touch.
I will take you to a place below C-list. I call it post-fabulous. True, it’s a little gritty, gift bags are rare and there’s almost never valet parking, but we will be free, my darling, FREE! You will finally be free from the incredibly long shadow of your sainted grandmother. Free to indulge in all the decadent desires that your high-born heart has been denied. We’ll go to fetish clubs and drug bars and gay sex parties. You’ll meet trannies and hustlers and artists and geniuses and freaks and wackadoodles of every stripe. These are the poor but plucky bottom feeders your grandmother warned you about. People without trust funds, who don’t “summer,” and probably don’t own one piece of Prada.
But these people have LIVED, Brandon. They’ve experienced LIFE. They’ve lived and loved and lost and gone on to do it all again. And, with me, so will you. We’ll dance on dynamite. We’ll teeter towards a new oblivion. Everyday we’ll discover new paths to new excesses and together we’ll build brand new palaces of wisdom. Oh, Brandon, this is your awakening, do you feel it? Take my hand! It’s time to leave the safety of your old life. Brandon, my light, my love, my one and only, I am here to complete you.
All this, AND I give wicked head.
I’m just sayin’.
I eagerly await your response.
– James St James
(Romantic photographic re-imagining by Dani Darko)