GIGI 2.0

Anna Livrada was trouble with a capital double-D. She had the kind of mind that made men blink, the kind of smile that made men smile, the kind of figure that made men stare, and the kind of temperament that made men sit at the bar until closing-time. Whether they sat their drinking or drunking or flirting or brooding or smiling or sighing or trying to get the bartender to give them confession, this depended on the nature of the man. All that could be depended on was that Anna was Anna; her own, everyone’s, and likely to so remain.

She never made a date with the same person two nights in a row. She never went two nights without a date. She never fell in love except with life and those who lived it. And she really liked to fuck.

In her time she dated men and women, old and young, beautiful and ugly, smart and stupid, mundane and alternative, happy and sad, rich and poor, sane and crazy, married and single and everything in between. If she’d had a Facebook she’d have had to put ‘It’s Complicated.’ To Anna, things couldn’t have been simpler.

She wouldn’t sleep with just anybody. Who she wanted to sleep with, at any given time, proved impossible to predict. Anna would ever be the first person to admit this. This troubled some, some less and some more and all for different reasons. It never troubled Anna.

She tried not to trouble people. She was quite clear that a date lasted until it ended and never went any longer. She liked the kind of dates where you talked and talked and talked and she liked the kind of dates where you had an adventure that you’d remember for your whole life. Anna had been on more dates like that than most people could hold in their mind. She could close her eyes and think of the things she’d done and smile. And she thought of the things that she would do, and smiled even more.

Some fell in love with her. Some tried to make her love them. Some tried to tie her to them. Some tried to marry her. Some tried to guilt-trip her. Some tried to keep her. It never worked. She was who she was. And those who respected that were much more likely to get another date.

They once tried to make a hookup chart with Anna as the seed. They filled in over a hundred links, just to the first generation. Despite their best attempts at secrecy Anna caught wind of their endeavor. At which point she sat down, compared it to her own recollections, and proceeded to nearly double its size. It would be redoubled within a few years. The calendar has many days, Boston many people, and Anna knew well that sex was the one thing you could give away and still have more to give.

There was much speculation about her employment or lack thereof. She didn’t hide details about her life – quite the contrary, she tried never to do that which she was unwilling to speak of, however sordid it might find a petty ear – but she much preferred to listen than to talk. They came to discover that she worked as a researcher for a firm which wrote biographies. In work, as in play, Anna lived for people.

Some called her a slut; Anna nodded affably. Some called her a scientific researcher; Anna shrugged and smiled. Some even went so far as to call her a friend. Anna was everybody’s friend. She was not close to anybody as most people are. But she sought approval from nobody, no friend as no lover, and so it was not needed; she was her own.

Most people speculated that she would one day settle down. She would find herself a millionaire, a Saudi prince, a sexual compulsive, a supermodel, a trust-fund kid, a poly sixsome, a collared harem, two point two kids, twenty-two kids, take the veil, become a sex therapist, write an autobiography, seduce a President, become a porn star, die of chronic soreness, have a nervous breakdown, find Jesus, jump straight to Heaven. Everybody knew it couldn’t last. She burned so bright she couldn’t burn forever.

Anna didn’t know that. She liked her life and she kept liking it. She went on thousands of dates with thousands of people. She had sex with thousands – not all at once – usually. In between she found time to love her job and love her life and even have a daughter, who she raised well. At forty she had no trouble picking up twenty-year-olds; at sixty she could still do pretty well. She did what she could, and she kept doing it. She was who she was. And she liked who she was, rather well.

And she lived happily ever after.

-the ROUS-house, 2011


~ by davekov on 17 June 2011.

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