The Doxy's Daybook: A Friday in Two Acts Read Free Page B

faded tee shirt, proof she is not a native of the land of York, but a ruler of it, nonetheless.  Lizzy is a young transplant from California by way of England whose personal mission in life is “making ergonomically correct furniture functional, funky, and fun.”
    One look at the delicate Lizbet and you might assume she’s a timid creature, but a lost order, as it seems is the case this morning, can send the woman into quite the rage.
    “… lost the fuckin’ armrests?  Those were original pro’otypes, you prat!” 
    A good mad always sounds better in a British accent, I think.
    She paces the length of her office space, and I notice her staff give her a wide berth.  No one wants to be around with the Queen on the warpath.
    Cheeks red, knuckles white from gripping the phone, she glances up and sees me.  Blue eyes soften a touch and she checks her watch.
    “Find my fuckin’ armrests or I’ll have your fuckin’ head on a spike,” Lizzy proclaims in a voice so sickly sweet it’s easy to believe the threat would be pleasurable.  She disconnects the call, mutters, “fuckin’ wanka’,” and glides gracefully down the hall in the direction of her personal office.  I trail behind.
    A peasant mistakenly crosses her path while leaving the copy room. 
    “You,” Lizzy barks, pointing at the girl.  The intern is so startled she actually jumps back, eyes wide, gripping the copied pages to her chest.  “Ring shipping and hunt down my fuckin’ pads.  I want them traced within the hour.” 
    We never stop moving.
    “Hope you brought my fuckin’ product, or it’ll be bloody ‘ell for you too,” she decrees over her shoulder to me.
    I demure.  “Of course, your Grace.”
    She doesn’t even bother with my snark, continues to her chambers with a gait so regal I can almost see the crown tilted just so on her glossy black head.  I believe “fuckin’” is both Lizzy’s favorite adjective and activity.  I’m here to assist in the latter, and after her ranting I’m sure no one will disturb us.
    With a soft snick the door closes to her office, and I park my cart near a chair—an ergonomically correct chair, naturally.  I toss my jacket across it and set my coffee cup on the multicolored surface of her desk.  A composite of recycled glass bottles, it gleams proudly beneath the sleek electronic devices upon it, one of which is an iPod in a speaker dock scoring the scene with a track from Warpaint— Beetles , if I’m not mistaken.
    I open the storage bin and remove the box labeled The Queen.
    “Brought you a new gift today, Lizzy.”
    Blue eyes widen in excitement.  She twists the gold band from her finger and drops it into the top drawer of her desk.  This is the only time that ring ever comes off, and I suppose it absolves her of unfounded guilt.  She is not legally married— yet —but the ring is a symbol of her commitment to her long-time partner, Cheryl.  If you haven’t figured, Lizzy the Queen is a lesbian, a “blue jean femme” to be more precise.  To find her in a dress would be like seeing George Clooney play lead in Othello —out of character.
    Cheryl, on the other hand, is a “lipstick lez” through and through, always fashionably attired and dolled up.  Cheryl cannot stomach the sight of “manly bits” as she calls them, and prefers nothing more than clitoral stimulation in their lovemaking.  Though she can do it, giving or receiving penetration is a major turn off for her. 
    No bangers in her mash.
    This is where I come in.  Lizzy loves the feel of cock—it’s the men attached to them she’s not too fond of.
    Off with their cocks!  
    If only she had her way. 
    At any rate, I find it refreshing that Cheryl is completely at ease with my and Lizzy’s affair.  In fact, she is the one who arranged it almost two years ago when Cheryl’s job moved the couple to New York.  Some days she’s here to watch the performance, trying to understand what her lover enjoys so much