It took Gladys to bring me out of the continuing spell of; this bestselling novel, at least temporary.
The African Gentleman, indeed.
I was sitting up in her large Queen Size bed, which had a firm mattress far better than the one Liz Gant and I had shared for so many years. She was sitting, reading, across from me in a cushy wing chair, one that both faced the great view of The City in all of its magnificent glory, and our bed; also filled with many glorious moments.
I was inward, thinking to myself, and not wanting to share this with Gladys: for some reason, I felt people were following me.
It just seemed that I kept seeing the same people, over and over. I was also aware that this would be Eric’s wet dream come true, if only I had the talent to give him what he so desperately wants.
I stopped smoking grass years ago, because I sensed that it was making me paranoid. I now take an occasional puff or two on a joint, just to please Gladys, who especially loves pot when she wants me to make her cum all over the place.
But now, I was once again becoming profoundly paranoid.
Gladys was finally reading Anna Karenina, after I kept recommending it to her, hoping that she could see me in that novel, and finally understand that I am also a Count, like Count Eric, and worthy of being Madame Karenina’s lover, and should one day stand center stage in one of her novels.
Actors can be strange indeed, with weird ideas.
She put the book down and started staring at me in a way that started to unnerve me. It was not the look of someone admiring the mighty Count sitting upright in her bed.
“You seem to have something on your mind. But of course, that’s what makes you who you are.”
I added that last part because I didn’t want Gladys to think that I thought that she was a dip.
“What’s a dip?” she asked yesterday when I first used the word in a complete sentence.
What is a dip?
“When I was an artist, like you,” I answered, warming to the task, “the kinds of women I often attracted were bright, challenging and creative; but, in the end, most were dips. No fun. Do you understand what I am saying, Gladys?”
Gads. What a thing to say to an intellectual.
“Was your precious Liz Gant a dip, or did she dance on the tabletops? Do you think I’m a dip because I read and think a lot? That women who read books, and think are dips. Is that what you’re saying, Omak?”
Gladys was clearly ready for an intellectual fist fight that could spin out of control, and one I was really not up to, all because of a careless slip of the tongue.
“Oh, no, no, you are not a dip. I promise, Gladys I did not mean you.”
Liz Gant again! I wish she would just go jump off a bridge somewhere in the Midwest and leave me alone,
Thank goodness Gladys cooled down as I prostrated myself before her. Being a university trained actor has its moments. It was right then and there that I decided to banish forever the word dip from my inner self.
And thank God her stare soon turned to lust at the magnificent specimen of robust manhood, black as the ace of spades, sitting upright in her queen sized bed.