Untitled

not yet finished...yea its a pattern..lol

 

Log-In successful.

 

WELCOME, ComplexSimplicity!

 

You have 5 new messages.

 

                I’m in my usual spot. My “happy place” as I have come to call it. Caddy corner in my sectional, being suffocated by the overstuffed decorative pillows, laptop in its respective position, with a half empty sangria bottle in its permanent water ring on my glass coffee table. You would think that on a Friday night in Miami I would have a more interesting night planned. Instead of clicking the keys on my computer I should be on South Beach in a seductive, alright s****y, dress; black, Gucci preferably, paired with four inch stilettos. Maybe I would be serenaded by some Brad Pitt look-a-like who would buy me nothing but top shelf alcohol in hopes to have me in his California king sized bed cloaked with satin sheets, in his very metro-sexual apartment by the end of the night. But unfortunately for me, or him for that matter, I don’t own a skimpy black dress or four inch heels, I’m a light weight drinker and an eleventh grade English teacher  who considers Ann Taylor Loft as my Gucci equivalent. And then there is the fact that I’m a flaming homosexual.

 

Online Chat Host: ComplexSimplicity has just joined Pandora’s Box

 

ILoveHoes: Wat up lil’ mama

 

ComplexSimplicity: Lil mama? Is that how you always talk to women or it today just my lucky day to be demeaned?

 

ILoveHoes: Huh? You one of them stuck up b*****s aint you?

 

                I click the red ‘x’ to close the instant message window and wonder when the pickup lines will change. When the “damn lil’ mama, you sure is fly,” will become “how are you this evening,” and “may I take you out”. But just like these simple chat rooms, the people in them are simple. One lame “how –quick- will- you- let- me- f**k” line after another paired with a one track, perverse, mind hardly spells complexity. But my nightly membership leaves one to question my intellect. I log-on religiously night after night hoping to find someone, something, but even now I’m unsure of just what it is that I’m searching for. I don’t believe in looking for love in the club or bar. Plus, I’m knocking thirty off  the hinges and while in regular years, I’m barley indulging into my so called prime, in gay years I’m already dead. So as always ,my main plight remains that I am unable to meet a decent woman, much less one with more than a high school education, and vernacular to match. So I’m stuck conversing with the likes of PussyPower, BigDyke, and the newest conquistador, ILoveHoes.

 

                I awaken from a brief slumber with my laptop still in place and my students’ mid term essays dressing my coffee table. The digital cable box informs me that its two forty five and surprisingly I’m not tired. I grab another essay and scoff as I read the authors name. Jeremy Bradford Jr. The homophobic seventeen year old notorious for brutalizing gay boys and harassing lesbians ironically ends up in my English class. He manipulates the teachers and administration with his impressive grade point average and immaculate manners, but at his core is no more than a homophobic bigot who prays on the outcasts of the school and terrorizes them. Though he has been caught assaulting more than one individual at North Miami high school, he has yet to endure any form of discipline because the big kahuna, Jeremy Bradford Sr. and Associates fund the school’s annual debate trip to Washington D.C and the principal is too busy f*****g him on the weekends to actually do her job. So I’ve become not only the known homosexual teacher, but the representative for the entire lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender students body that attend this sorry excuse of a school and an open punching bag for those against what I stand for. My class room has become both a haven and a hell for those who chose to remain in it. Last semester I had four students from the “holier than thou” Baptist Christian club transfer out of my class and protest that I not be allowed to teach at “their” school. Ignoring the fact that I graduated Magna Cum Laude from both my undergrad and masters program, not to mention that I’m the best god damn English teacher at this school, and the FCAT scores prove it, those little b******s actually almost had me fired. 

 

                I’m reading Jeremy’s essay and as always he finds away to include his egotistical personality, the one he inherited so well from papa, on every line. The prompt for the essay was a preparation for college entrance essays and it simply asked the students to choose a course of study, explain their choice, and how their education would help their society. Simple enough. Jeremy’s entire essay was filled with, “my father the great attorney, my prestigious family” and more pompous jargon that makes me sick. I want to drag my pen across the page and make a big ‘x’ through the whole thing and top it of with a big “F” for ‘f**k you”, but instead I regain composure and give him the grade he deserves for his well written piece…A.

 

PoèteNoir: j'ai vu que votre profil et im a intrigue

 

ComplexSimplicity: I’m sorry. I don’t understand what you’re saying.

 

PoèteNoir: la volonté comment longue il vous prend pour savoir que j'ai dit avant que je vous ai aie dit je l'ai dit?

 

ComplexSimplicity: I don’t know what you’re saying.

 

                I’m staring at my computer screen drawing a complete blank. I click PoèteNoir’s name in the instant message box and I’m redirected to their profile. After a couple of seconds the profile pulls up and I realize that its missing all the usual information. No picture, no “about me’ information, no hobbies or goals. Just PoèteNoir, and female under the sex field. I click on my toolbar and bring the instant messenger back to the forefront.

 

ComplexSimplicity: Who is this? Do I know you?

 

Online Chat host: PoèteNoir has logged off.

 

                .     .     .

 

 

Log-In successful.

 

WELCOME, ComplexSimplicity!

 

You have 5 new messages

               

To: [email protected]

Fr: [email protected]

 

Hey Liz,

 

If you and Victoria don’t have some magically gay day planned, meet me at Christophe’s on Coco Walk at 2.

 

Ciao,

 

Kara

 

Message Sent.

 

 

                It was a cloudy Saturday. As much as I wanted to hit Haulover Beach and party with the rest of the nude old farts, I decide that the beach wouldn’t be such a good idea. Why rush? I would be joining them soon anyway. Instead of boring myself to death at home, I drive down to Coconut Grove and make my way to my favorite no name bistro, Christophe’s.

 

                As I enter Christophe’s I’m greeted by my favorite waiter Giovanni, the crème de la crème of young , gay Paris. Always dressed immaculately in his Italian molded hard bottom shoes, heavily bleached shirt and slacks starched to perfection. Liz, Victoria and I have been coming to this restaurant from  its opening five years ago. Christophe’s calm ambience can make anyone feel like they are on Rue Royale in the middle of Paris, where the streets are brightly lit, but the lights are soothing, not loud and overbearing. Plus they have the best crème brulee and baguette bread in south Florida, and I’m a fat woman stuck in a slender woman’s body, so good food is always a great thing.

 

“Bonjour mademoiselle Kara.” Greets Giovanni.

 

“Hey G. How’s it going?”

 

“Tres jolie. Everything is absolutely exquisite. Andre and I just purchased a property on the beesh and we love it.”

 

“Oh, I’m happy to hear that.”

 

“Will your two lesbian counterparts be joining you mademoiselle?”

 

                I nodded and followed Giovanni to our usual table. His hips swayed like deep waves from side to side, I was almost sea sick. His faux hawk, hair sprayed ridiculously, was perfectly aligned, monumental even. I sat at my table and waited for Elizabeth and Victoria to arrive.

 

“Will you have your usual amoretto sour and un cigarette?”

 

“G, you know I don’t smoke.”

 

“You should try it, mademoiselle. You know they are  good for more than just after sex.”

 

                He winks at me and continues to the bar to retrieve my drink. Giovanni and Andre met in 2005 around the time that Elizabeth and Victoria first became official. They are my two favorite couples, the epitome of homosexual love. I must admit that I sometimes feel like the fifth wheel when I’m around them. The “baby I love yous”, and the “I don’t know what life would be like without yous” can be a little much but I can’t be upset with them for finding love or at myself for being single.

 

                Victoria walks in with her long Puerto Rican hair dancing down her back and Elizabeth following close behind her. If I didn’t know them, Liz and Victoria would not seem to be compatible. The always studious, always logical (always serious) Victoria Perez, Esq. is the definition of Hispanic sex appeal. Her deep wavy hair is always photo shoot perfect and her bronze skin always even. I sometimes catch myself staring at Victoria, for she is a work of art, and I love art. Liz on the other hand is a modern day flower child. I understand that being a freelance photographer allows her to be more lax with her wardrobe but Liz takes it to the extreme. Lets take her outfit today for an example. Her cropped maple hair has been and will always be, fried, died and in desperate need for a treatment. Liz’s hair has more split ends than the United States divorce rate. She barely combs her hair, she doesn’t shave her legs, smokes an ounce of weed a week and she is almost always high. Yet her pale skin always has a glow and as much as I hate those dingy tank tops she is a great friend, and Victoria loves her.

 

“Hello, my ever so horny and single friend.” Liz smiles and bends over to kiss me on my cheek.

 

“Hello Elizabeth. Have you showered today?” Victoria cackles. Even their insults are in unison.

“Lizzie, you asked for that one baby.” Replies Victoria, and she kisses my cheek as well. My two favorite people sit down and begin to drill me.

 

“So Ms. Kara,” began Liz, “to what do we owe seeing your face? You’re usually online chatting your life away.”

 

“Ha ha, Elizabeth. That’s actually why I asked you guys to meet me. You didn’t think I just wanted to see you two play kissy face all day did you?”

 

                I put my laptop on the table and access the message archive. I pull up my conversation from last night with PoèteNoir and ask Victoria and Liz for their opinion. After the judgmental stares, Victoria spoke.

 

“I’m not expert on language, but I know that its French.”

 

“That’s it? You don’t know what it says?”

 

“Kara, are you serious. I speak Spanish not French. Go to translation.com or something.” I shake my head agreeing with Victoria while Liz looks at us like we are crazy.

 

“You two are silly. We are in a French restaurant. Ask Giovanni to translate it silly.” The light bulb in both mine and Victoria’s heads went off simultaneously. We motioned for Giovanni and he came prancing over.

 

“G, what does PoèteNoir mean?”

 

“It means  black poet, mademoiselle.”  I scroll down the page and let Giovanni read the rest of the messages.

 

“Oh mademoiselle Kara, she is so hitting on you.” He winks at me with a sultry smile.

 

“This first message was her saying that she looked at your profile and like what she sees.” He says pointing at the screen.

 

“And this other message is a little confusing to me.” He replied with a grimace.

 

“Translate it word for word Giovanni!” I tried not to show my excitement but my anticipation was rising.

 

“I cannot translate my beautiful tongue into this bullshit you American’s call language.” Scoffs Giovanni. Victoria, Liz and I stare at Giovanni and you can almost smell the aggravation.

 

“Just translate the s**t G.” barks Liz.

 

“Ok. Ok already. It says ‘how long will it take you to know what I’ve said before I’ve said it?’” I repeat the phrase in my mind and it makes absolutely no sense. I look around at the oh-so-logical Victoria and even she has a confused look on her face.

 

“Well,” begins Liz breaking the silence, “seems like you have a riddler on your hands Kara and as much as I would love to play along, I’m hungry.” Liz directs her attention to Giovanni and orders her usual: fresh baguette bread and a bottle of Perrier. I log out of gaychat.com and closed my laptop.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Log-In successful.

 

WELCOME, ComplexSimplicity!

 

You have 6 new messages.

 

                Monday Morning. Did I mention that I despise Mondays? Its eleven forty four and thirty one...thirty-two…thirty-three seconds, and eleven forty-five just cannot come quick enough. Its third period, which means I’m barely through half the day, and my “Gay Class” comes in after lunch.

 

                The bell blares and the stampede of malnourished teens runs out of my classroom and down the hall way to the cafeteria. I walk to the back of the four by four box filled with rusty chairs and creaking desks to the small cubby where I collect splinters. I click the keyboard and type in my password and pull up the gaychat.com window. I could grade papers in the interim, or prepare for my next class, but that would indicate that I actually like my job. Don’t get me wrong I love teaching. No...I love the kids. I hate teaching and despise the parents of the children I teach. Between the pompous mother who doesn’t know their child’s favorite color and the mother who knows down to the thread colors in her child’s underwear, either way they both make my job harder or that makes me sick.

 I grab my lunch box from the bottom desk drawer; pull out my salad and the tupperware filled with dressing. I glob the mayonnaise based salad dressing on the dry romaine and pretend to enjoy my “lunch”. I browse through the site clicking on one provocative picture after another, I’m a breast woman- sue me, ignoring the fact that I’m at work.