Senna is an old work colleague from the delta who became a firm friend. She earns her nick from a more-than-passing interest in Formula One motorsport.
“Senna,” I said on the phone, “you know how you’ve been pestering me to visit you in Greensboro all these years?”
“You finally going to get off that sweet ass o’ yours and do it?”
“Yes, just one little thing I have to ask. Do you mind if I bring my Japanese boyfriend?"
Judging by her voice, a smile danced across her lips. “My, my…you are full of surprises. I guess that means you’re telling me you’re gay.”
“True, Senna. Not confused. Not experimenting. Not just a fan of easy blowjobs. GAY.”
“What’s his name? Will I like him?”
“His name is Master Right, he's Japanese, and he’s a salesman for Tiff…”
“Stop there. Park his cute little blue-bagging butt on a plane right now. I’ll get my ears pierced again. But there are two conditions…
Number one. We’ll go for a little trip while you’re here. I love gospel music and there’s a place in eastern Tennessee I’d like to visit that has great gospel music.”
"Um, sure" I said.
“Number two. You can bring your Japanese boyfriend if I can invite my girlfriend from New York.”
It turns out Senna had a surprise or two of her own. When we first met, she had a husband. Now, she has a girlfriend.
And that's how Master Right and I came to know the Goddess of Love.
We were late for the Goddess, since we got stuck behind an ancient Pontiac with a bumper sticker proclaiming the driver to be a retired tobacco worker and proud of it!
Pulling up at the Camel Filters Arrivals Concourse at R.J.Reynolds Greensboro-Highpoint International Airport, Senna pointed out a blonde seated on the curb. Her face lay hidden behind mirrored southern-cop sunglasses. Jeans and cowboy boots covered her legs, which she spread akimbo like a construction worker. She looked up from the crosword puzzle in a souvenired American Way, and stood up with a smile. Her tank top revealed a taut musculature laid on a wildly curvaceous frame. As she drew up to full height, she towered over our rented SUV.
After throwing her snakeskin valise in the back, the Goddess cuddled up to Master Right in the back seat. She declared him the handsomest man on the planet. (Have I not blogged this before?) I beamed with pride, and he smiled back. The Goddess watched for a moment, to see the way our eyes met. The Goddess smelled our love. The Goddess was hooked.
I have never known anyone quite so attracted to love in all its forms as the Goddess. She knows about love. She can see it in the electricity that passes between lovers. She digs being around people in love. It fascinates and entrances her. What’s the story? Who was involved? How did it happen? How long can it last? Can love be measured by the hours in a day? Is the sex hot?
She was so entranced with the Master and me, that she passed up the offer of a welcome kiss from Senna. It took some craning of the neck for the two to connect with a perfunctory peck on the cheek over the headrest, some minutes later.
The trip across North Carolina proved uneventful, save for a spot of travel sickness from Right, the cure for which the Goddess took as a personal cause. After a fast ralph, he fell asleep on the Goddesses’ ample breasts, lost in a Dramamine haze. Unable to get any attention from her lover, Senna and I killed time with shop talk.
Master Right often jokes that he is a cat. He can curl up anywhere comfortable, and sleep there without hesitation. In fact, I believe that he fell in love with my couch before he fell in love with me. I often look at his face as we sleep, and revel in the fact that we feel safe in each other's arms. Yet, I have never seen my beloved seem more safe than in that back seat of a rented truck in the Smokies. It could have been the Dramamine.
Little did we know that Senna and the Goddess were actually on the rocks that weekend. Nor that I would encounter my first ever blatant homophobia.
…To be continued