Smokey Saga #10:
"
For Happy Endings It Takes Two
"
*****
October 12th, 9:01 p.m.
Ding-dong!
Sara scrambled to the front door and wrenched it open. Her best friend Jake stood outside, bags in hand.
"Dude, come on! Get
in
here!" Sara said hurriedly. "It's already on!" She grabbed his free hand, yanked him inside, slammed the door shut and practically dragged him into the living room, almost detaching his arm in the process.
It was one of their regular TV nights together. At least once or twice a week, Sara Kelton and Jake Davis met up to spend some quality time with each other, and with the tube. They alternated who would have whom come over: Sara to Jake's place one time, Jake to Sara's the next, and so forth—in this case Jake to Sara's. Their ritual was the host(ess) would make dinner, and the guest would provide the snacks. Hence, Jake toting the chips, corn nuts and cheese curls.
In the middle of the floor was their sacred blanket. For years they'd simulated having an indoor picnic, neither of them caring much for a visit from hungry bib-clad ants. They kicked off their shoes and sat—or lay—on this massive, plaid red and white tablecloth-looking blanket, remote never more than three or four feet away. The blanket was an absolute must. Besides making things comfier and reducing rug stains, it held a great deal of sentimental value. Besties since childhood and now both at 27, they'd been picnicking on this blanket for close to two decades, the tradition having started at Sara's old parents' house. It was also here they engaged in other kiddish activities, such as pillow fights and tickle scuffles—which they occasionally still did as adults. The blanket was getting faded, worn, food-tainted and frayed around the edges, but that only endeared it more to them.
Sometimes they'd have something expressly planned for their viewing pleasure—like this evening—and others they'd just channel-surf. They watched everything: movies, sitcoms, sitdrams, reality shows, news, music videos, documentaries, nature/pet shows, game shows, talk shows, talent shows, often just whatever happened to randomly be on. And semi-usually, after a healthy amount of television and not-so-healthy amount of food, they would both—if only for a short time—fall asleep on their blanket, more often than not using each other for pillows.
Tonight was a special event, to which Sara'd obviously looked very forward. A live concert was being broadcast, performed by her favorite ever pop singer, Velette Voxe, who was on tour promoting her latest album. It was indeed just getting underway as Jake rang the bell. Sara'd already laid out supper—sandwiches and chicken nuggets—by the time he got there.
"You're late, bro!" Sara assessed, as they plopped themselves down. "What took you so long?"
"Well, excuse the heck outta
me
very much," chuckled Jake. "They were doing some kind of event at the church. Some kinda...I dunno, bake sale or something."
"A bake sale? At 9:00 at night?"
"Well, I mean, that's what it looked like. Could've been a Saturday night dinner service for all I know. Anyway, yeah, lotta folks on their way there who, let's face it, aren't exactly our age, and...well, you know how fast a lot of 'em drive." He ripped open a bag. "Should've left earlier, I guess, huh?"
"Ah, yeah," nodded Sara. "When does it become a rule that your age and how fast you drive can't add up to more than a hundred?"
They piped down as Velette pranced out on stage. Illuminated by the spotlight, her entrance triggered a deafening collective
scream
from the first few dozen rows in the amphitheater where she was performing. She shouted an energetic, "GOOD EVENING! HOW THE HELL ARE YA?!!" into the mic. Her band, already on stage, launched into the first number: a hit single called "Can't You Tell" from the new album. The audience responded with natural enthusiasm and sang along.
Sara worshiped, idolized and was in utter love with Velette. She knew all her songs backwards and forwards—even demos, outtakes and rare recordings that didn't appear on her records. Velette wrote a
lot
of songs, and while she was an incredibly talented songstress, only the best material available made it onto the albums. Though she let her fans hear some of her better demos, placing them on singles. And some songs Sara and other fans liked best were only demos and no more. Sara was such a dedicated fanatic, she timed her bites around the music so she could sing along as well.
"
Damn
, what I'd give to feel those lips on me," Sara gushed during the current song's instrumental break.
"She is a hottie a'right," agreed Jake. "Don't mind if I do myself."
"Hey. Hands off, buddy; she's mine," grinned Sara. "You already have a girl. Besides, Velette's gay."
Velette was Sara's hero, on a number of levels. It was Velette who made Sara realize her own sexuality. Her teen years were incredibly confusing. But once Sara hit her 20s and Velette Voxe the pop scene, there was no longer any question in the girl's mind. Velette reminded her of some of the other great Sapphic singers she knew. She had Amy Ray's hair, Emily Saliers' voice, Eva Dahlgren's cheekbones and Melissa Etheridge's charisma. And Sara
fell
for her, drop-dead, head over heels over head. The way she masterfully strummed that
lucky
, lucky guitar, belting those poetic lyrics, in that angelic, super-smoky-hot voice. Sara was unspeakably jealous of that microphone—though probably more envious of the guitar, actually, as it got to go with Velette everywhere and be played by her every night. And she wasn't just in fan-love with Velette's work as an artist. Any sane red-blooded chick-chaser could fantasize about her, if nothing else. Sara kept a picture of her on the headboard of her bed, and kissed it every single night without fail. She then normally stroked her fingertips over it and gazed longingly, unable to erase the dream of having Velette Voxe, the queen of her heart in her bed...in her arms...in her mouth...
A little voice in her mind whom she hated would repeatedly tell her, "
Knock it off; you're being silly. Come on, she's a
star
. She must have
thou
sands of chicks—
and
dudes—who'd
die
just to kiss her feet! Forget about her! Move on!
"
"I don't
want
to move on," she'd tell the voice. "Did it ever occur to you that maybe I
like
torturing myself wanting her so bad?"
If she had one wish—other than inhaling Velette's tongue, and ravaging every inch of her idol's body with every inch of her own—she couldn't describe how much she'd love to hear Velette sing her the old Starship song, "Sara." If anybody could deliver it more beautifully than Mickey, it'd be Velette. But, she'd hardly ever seen or heard Velette do a song that wasn't her own. And even if she did covers, there were millions upon
millions
of songs in existence, thousands of new ones created every day. Her chances of having that wish granted were one in a...well, there wasn't a number high enough. And that many digits was depressing. She had a better chance of winning the lottery, twice,
and
being struck by lightning, twice, on the way to cash in the ticket.
As for Jake, he'd been dating and getting pretty serious with a blonde Danish woman named Hanna, a few years older than he and Sara, and also
very
stunning. In fact, the first time Jake showed Sara her picture, she whistled. She joked to him, "Y'know, dude, if I didn't love you so much, I might just have to steal her from you." They both liked their women just a bit older, and Hanna was relatively close to Velette's age. Jake joked back, "If she didn't love being straight so much, I might just have to let'cha."
The girlfriend-stealing part was indeed the two of them just kidding with each other, but the love part wasn't. Their friendship had only solidified more and more in the last fifteen to twenty years. Like most best buddies, they had fights sometimes, but nothing big enough to overcome their mutual fondness. In fact, seven years ago, when Sara discovered she was a lesbian—albeit one of the more daunting things she'd done in her life—her pal Jake was the first person she came out to. She'd been doing some mental (and actual) nail-biting speculating at his reaction. But as soon as she announced, "Jake...I'm gay," he automatically hugged her, and told her he loved her just because she was his friend, no matter what. She felt a warm smile lift her face.
"So you don't think that's...y'know, whatever?" she shyly asked.
Jake's precise answer to this question was, "Oh! Babe, are you kidding? Trust me, the appeal of a hot girl's not lost on
me!
"
She laughed. She couldn't believe she'd been worried in the first place. She was so elated so wanted to cry.
Oh, how could I ever doubt Jake?
she thought.
How could I wonder if he wouldn't still love me?
Jake had since held the proud distinction of being her "lesbro." One of the best things about their friendship was that both being gynephilic, they had very similar taste in women. So being out either together or alone, they could both keep an eye out to possibly find a cute girl for Sara.
As October progressed, however, it was Jake who found himself with something to be apprehensive about. Sara's birthday was coming in a few weeks, on November 19th. And he was running out of options for something really nice to get her. Realistically, he knew she didn't "expect" anything, as usually just hanging together proved sufficient. And taking her out to eat, or to a movie would be a lovely gift in and of itself. It was just that...well, he didn't know how she did it, but somehow, year after year, Sara always managed to find something to get Jake for
his
birthday he never would've thought of, but ending up loving. He wanted to be able to return the favor. And he'd made good numerous times in the past. He just really wanted to be able to paint that unduplicably joyful expression on her face. Even though deep down, they both knew the only way he could disappoint her was by completely forgetting. And clearly that wasn't going to happen.
Birthdays were a big thing with Jake, as was gift-giving in general. He was picky and exacting with himself when it came to finding gifts, and when he dug up something that finally satisfied him, it was a rewarding feeling. All of which was why it was exasperating—not to a lethal extent or anything, just annoying—when he gave a gift and was "thanked" with the standard recipient expression. "Oh, you didn't have to do
that!
" Almost as if rejecting the present. He understood they were being polite and non-presumptuous. But though he never
would
