Let’s get one thing clear from the start: I am not a jealous woman.
Back a few years ago when we were living in the Marais (a particularly gay part of Gay Paree)—it never bugged me that the shop boys and waiters would chat L. up but ignore me, or that, when we’d walk down the crowded Rue des Archives on a Sunday, the boys in tank tops outside of Cafe Cox tended to circle about my well-dressed paramour, while for me they’d part the waters as though I were a leper bearing a jar full of STDs.
As long as my food was served hot and L. emerged intact from those crowds, I couldn’t have cared less. The simple fact is that in the taste test of life, men--straight or gay--simply prefer L. Fine.
But last weekend I reached my breaking point.
Some of you may remember that around this time last year I embarked on a plan to seduce the neighborhood chocolate maker, whose livelihood was meant to be mine. I didn’t want to bed him; I just wanted to use my feminine charms to make him become my friend (so that I could then destroy him and take over his chocolate shop). However, I gave up after a month or so, deciding it was better to get a grip on my obsessions and just see this man under the supervision of L. So L. and I started making weekend trips to his shop to get chocolate, and the chocolate maker began to recognize us and even became quite friendly and charming.
…Or so I thought, until today, when I went in there by myself for the first time. Without L. around, the chocolate maker paid no attention to me. He was rude, rolled his eyes when I miscounted the number of chocolates I had selected, and generally made it seem as though I had ruined his day by entering the shop L-less. (And let’s not forget that L. doesn’t even like chocolate that much or know that much about it, and therefore is totally undeserving of this man's attention.)
Why can’t people see past L’s gelled hair to realize that The Moko is a human being? That she bleeds and has human feelings and wants her chocolate too?