Hotmail ebonbird@hotmail.com HomeHotmailSearchShoppingMoneyPeople & Chat Inbox Compose Addresses Folders Options Help Folder: Inbox From: Jill Selby Save Address Block Sender To: xapen@egroups.com Save Address Subject: [XAPEN] Mystery Date (1/1) Date: Mon, 08 Feb 1999 12:14:50 -0600 MIME-Version: 1.0 Received: from [209.185.96.155] by hotmail.com (1.1) with SMTP id MHotMailB8888CB65D616D1017096D1B9609B04DF0; Mon Feb 08 11:57:42 1999 Received: (qmail 17286 invoked by uid 505); 8 Feb 1999 19:58:24 -0000 Received: (qmail 28464 invoked by uid 7770); 8 Feb 1999 18:15:32 -0000 Received: from sp2n17-t.missouri.edu (HELO sp2n17.missouri.edu) (128.206.2.27) by vault.findmail.com with SMTP; 8 Feb 1999 18:15:32 -0000 Received: from selbyntm616 ([161.130.53.136])by sp2n17.missouri.edu (8.9.0/8.9.0) with ESMTP id MAA122432for ; Mon, 8 Feb 1999 12:15:14 -0600 From xapen-return-1470-ebonbird Mon Feb 08 11:57:42 1999 Mailing-List: contact xapen-owner@egroups.com Precedence: list X-URL: http://www.egroups.com/list/xapen/ X-Mailing-List: xapen@egroups.com Delivered-To: listsaver-egroups-xapen@egroups.com Message-ID: <36BF299A.5932EEFA@socketis.net> X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.01 [en] (WinNT; I) X-Priority: 3 (Normal) X-Corel-MessageType: EMail Reply Reply All ForwardDeletePreviousNextClose ------------------------------------------------------------------------ eGroup home: http://www.eGroups.com/list/xapen Free Web-based e-mail groups by eGroups.com MYSTERY DATE (1/1) by Jill Selby (msselby@socketis.net) Archiving Note: Do not archive at Gossamer. The text of this story will be housed exclusively on the author's homepage. Permission to link will be cheerfully granted upon request. Disclaimer: Characters from the X-Files are the property of Ten Thirteen Productions and the Fox Television Network. All others are the author's creation. Any similarity to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental. No infringement is intended. Classification: VH - and an equal-opportunity offender of Shippers and NoRomos Rating: PG-13 Spoilers: None _____________ MYSTERY DATE Rules are good. Pink is bad. Those two simple tenets were the foundation of my youthful philosophy and I spent years as an advocate for the obedient and the unpink. I knew, and often reminded my younger brother, that one Monopoly player could not borrow money from another. I knew Pepto Bismol made little girls throw up, regardless of what the label claimed. I knew that "exorjed" was not a word and thus did not qualify for a triple word score in Scrabble. Despite his foamy wails to the contrary, I knew Bill had not called me "duckface" right after I grabbed the dictionary and right before my mother shoved a bar of pink soap in his mouth. Then, on a rainy September evening in 1976, the entire infrastructure of my life collapsed. It was on that night I broke from my prison of rules and went rampaging into rebellion. I found my fate, and I found it in a pink box. It was my sister's game, a silly, girly game that I'd always refused to play, but I was trapped inside by a thunderstorm and boredom had me looking in the most unlikely places for amusement. I remember nausea washing over me like a Pepto wave when Missy plopped that hideously frou-frou, cotton-candy pink box in front of me. As was my custom, I insisted we read the instructions before playing, secretly hoping my sister would be annoyed by the delay and suggest we play Scrabble. Instead, she shared with me one of the greatest secrets of girlkind: no one ever actually plays Mystery Date. The fun wasn't in rolling dice or shuffling cards or moving the little plastic pieces, and to this day I'm not sure if any of those things were included with the game. The joy, the ecstacy if you will, of Mystery Date came from opening the little door and discovering which man was waiting: the slob, the nerd, the prom-ready hunk . . . so many possibilities with a mystery that began anew as soon as the door was closed. I spent hours wallowing in the anarchy, opening and closing that door with abandon, and after that fateful night I was never quite the same. I learned that bending the rules can be profitable and gave Charlie five hundred of my Monopoly dollars in exchange for a week's worth of my chores. I demonstrated the proper pronunciation of "fuckface" to Bill anytime our mother was out of earshot. Years later, while Joey Hinton was fumbling with the hooks on my pink bra, I was offering my supplications to Milton Bradley. Sometimes, late at night, I still play my favorite game. Oh, not the childish board game in the pink box, but the adult version with a real door and real men. That knock at my door could come at any time and when it does, I know I'll find a man waiting for me; but I never know who my Mystery Date will be. You're probably wondering why I don't just take a look through the handy, nerd-avoidance peephole before I open the door. Believe me, if it were that easy to spot the duds, I'd throw the deadbolt and enjoy a romantic evening with my shower massage. But, you see, at first glance, all the men who appear at my door look exactly alike. They have the same handsome face, the same intelligent eyes, the same careworn bearing as my partner. It's not until they step into my apartment that I can begin to tell them apart, and by then, it might be too late. I might have unwittingly allowed Ralph to stumble across my threshold. Poor Ralph. It's not that he has a particularly delicate constitution, but he's forever being poisoned, tortured, beaten, overworked, overstimulated, or overwhelmed and, inevitably, the chili dog he had for lunch seeks sanctuary in the cream-colored fibers of my living room carpet. In an irony only Mister Steamy's Carpet Clean-O-Matic seems to appreciate, Ralph can drag his queasy self across town, through rush-hour traffic, over speed bumps and potholes, but can never manage to stagger the extra twenty feet from my front door to the toilet. He's a nice guy, well-mannered enough to choke out an apology between gags and heaves, good-looking in a pathetic, pasty, sweat-soaked sort of way, but when a man wants to bring dinner to my apartment, I have this peculiar preference for food that's not predigested. Unfortunately, it's been impossible to break it off with Ralph. He always manages to slip away as soon as his stomach settles and his fever breaks, and anyway, by the next morning, Owen has arrived to bring me breakfast in bed. My darling, sweet, self-sacrificing Owen, how that man adores me. Even after I've spent the night with another, he'll show up to scrub my carpet and disinfect my bathroom. He'll massage my ego with flattery and my tired shoulders with hands that never stray beneath the lace perimeter of my bra. After all, it's a privilege just to be allowed near me and he could never be worthy of fondling me in a non-platonic manner. Mind you, those are his sentiments, not mine, but I'm no fool. If the man wants to spend his day in humble servitude, why on earth should I discourage him? I mean, here's this guy, freshly showered but rakishly unshaven, smelling like my partner, looking like my partner, sounding like my partner, cooking me food, drawing me a bath, and going on and on about how he doesn't deserve someone like me, how he owes me more than he could repay in a thousand lifetimes, how I should leave him for my own good but how he desperately hopes I'll stay. Would you tell a man like Owen to pack up his toilet brush, his gardenia-scented body lotion and his pretty words and leave you to a reality that itches like dry skin and smells like a regurgitated chili dog? No, I didn't think so. I have to admit, Owen's reluctance to pursue a more physical relationship can be a little frustrating. The man has great hands, and I can only imagine . . . well, it's pointless to burn brain cells pondering the possibility, because Owen is no more likely to make a move on me than Buddy. Things are so much easier with the Budster. No unresolved anything there. He and I are friends, strictly friends, nothing more than friends. He shows up at my place with a pizza and a movie, we lounge around on the couch, share a six-pack and argue over which Star Trek movie is best. Buddy will belch and I'll punch him in the arm and he'll pull my ponytail and before we know it, we're rolling around on the floor, grabbing each other, holding each other down ... but don't let your imagination go flouncing off to the bedroom. Buddy doesn't get aroused, at least not by me -- and in those jeans he paints on, trust me, I'd know. Now, promise not to tell anyone else, but I think Buddy might be gay. I have no problem with that, honest, but as a trained observer, I can't help noticing the signs. The way he smiles, kind of wistful-like, when Skinner calls him in for a tongue-lashing. How he used to splash on a little extra cologne before sauntering up to the lab to deliver alien DNA samples to Pendrell. And Krycek is supposed to be his mortal enemy, right? So why does he carry a picture of Alex in his wallet? Bud and I have this tacit agreement: I'll keep pretending not to notice the way he undresses Spender with his eyes, and he'll keep buying the pizza. Ours is a low-maintenance relationship, and to be truthful, it can be very refreshing, especially if I've been spending much time with Fox. Fox is wholly and hopelessly in love with me. That in itself isn't such a terrible thing, but he will not shut up about it. He calls me "angel" and "sugarflake" and "baby girl" and launches into passionate, flowery speeches about how I bring light into the darkness of his existence, how my soul and his fit seamlessly together to make one really big soul, how he longs to complete the perfection of our union through marriage, or, in the alternative, a simultaneous orgasm. All right, so I gave the simultaneous orgasm thing a try. It was a Saturday night and I'd already seen that episode of "Walker, Texas Ranger," but it was neither simultaneous, nor an actual orgasm in my case. By the time he'd finished babbling about my alabaster breasts and milky white thighs, I was pretty much out of the mood. And Fox is the only one of my mystery dates who comes with a soundtrack. He simply cannot find the words to communicate the depth and breadth and width of his love, but miraculously, everything he yearns to tell me can be expressed through the dizzying vocal acrobatics of Celine Dion. At least when the orchestra swells and the song changes key -- and it always does -- I'm momentarily deafened to Fox's romantic chatter. In case you're wondering, he still won't let anyone else call him "Fox." Only the cherry-ripe lips of his beloved, pebbly-nippled Dana are allowed to utter that forbidden name. Lucky me. In the interest of full disclosure, I should confess that, Fox notably excepted, none of my mystery dates has bothered to tell me his first name. Since they weren't forthcoming, I made some educated guesses based on their personalities and habits. Certainly no man is more deserving of his name than Dick. If it walks like a dick and talks like a dick, then ... but I doubt I'll be seeing Dick at my door. The man has more than his share of deficits, but at least he doesn't bother me with impromptu visits or the annoying, informative phone calls other agents get from their partners. Boy, that Dick sure relishes a good conspiracy. At the first whiff of cigarette smoke he goes dashing off on some ill-advised mission to save the planet from aliens, and even though I've tried to explain that I'm willing and qualified to help in his quest, he always shoos me back to the lab. I suppose I'd just slow him down when he suddenly needed to leap onto a bomb-rigged train. He'd be perturbed by my silly attempts to rescue him from bees or viruses or lisping blondes. Sure, I understand all that. But you know what really pisses me off about Dick? His old girlfriend materializes out of nowhere, wearing a "Consortium U" sweatshirt and oozing black oil from her eyeballs, and Dick flits around her like a butterfly, sucking up every deceitful word like it was hybridized corn pollen. I, his faithful partner of six years, could have alien spawn hanging from my boobs and the words "I Believe" tattooed on my forehead, and Dick would accuse me of being disloyal to his cause. Listen to me go on about Dick, accusing him of forgetting all about me, when I know for a fact that's not true. Seems like every time he ventures off on one of his exploits, he picks me up a nice souvenir -- a vial of ova here, a tube of green fetal juice there. I'm not sure where Dick keeps all those gifts he collects, because he doesn't give them to me immediately. Actually, Dick doesn't give them to me at all. If there's a painful truth to be delivered, Frank is the man for the job. I realize I don't make it easy for Frank. I'm never exactly cordial when he arrives and greets me with, "This is going to be difficult for you to hear, Scully." It's not that I don't appreciate honesty in a relationship, but with Frank the truth is never as innocuous as "That skirt makes your ass look huge, Scully." Frank hands me a box of tissues and tosses out emotional grenades like, "You can never have children, Scully," or "You probably have about a thousand children incubating in plastic buckets, Scully," or "Did I ever tell you about my ex-wife, Scully? The insanely jealous, knife-wielding lunatic who tried to murder my last two partners? Anyway, she's being released from prison tomorrow, and ...." By now you must be asking yourself why I ever answer the door at all. I think it's time to tell you about Randy. Randy doesn't have much to say. No confessions about long- unspoken love or long-withheld truths. He doesn't even say "Hello," but I think he spells the word on my tonsils with his tongue, and his talents don't end there. Randy is an erotic renaissance man, a sexual Da Vinci who fingerpaints chocolate syrup masterpieces on my skin, licking away errant strokes and drinking anything that drips until he's satisfied with his creation. I never knew art could be so stimulating. Randy's artistry isn't limited to genteel brushes of fingers on flesh, though. He has practical skills as well. For instance, he can tie a woman to a bedpost with inescapable knots and spark a fire with friction, even after the wood gets wet. Plus, he's a genius of invention -- who but Randy could think up such an original use for unwaxed dental floss and Wint-O-Green Lifesavers? Of course, you're absolutely correct to assume that my interest in Randy is purely scientific. How often does one encounter a man with Randy's recuperative powers? As a physician, I'm quite aware that, for a man Randy's age, five, six, seven times a night is unheard of. I feel it's my duty as a member of the scientific community to study Randy's physiology in depth until I have a hypothesis firmly in hand and have come with ... come *up* with a theory to explain the phenomenon. Unfortunately, I always seem to faint right after he bites the Lifesaver. I will continue my observation of this specimen with more rigorous probing. I don't know the rules so I don't know when this game of Mystery Date is supposed to end. I just keep playing, night after night, answering every knock at my door and hoping Wright will be there. He's the man I'm waiting for, the prize for my patience, and though I've never met him, I've seen him in glimpses. He's handsome and intelligent. Driven by a just and noble cause. He knows when to keep me close and when to give me space. He is unspeakably tender. He's reckless and brutal. Wright is committed to me in a sickness-and-health kind of way that doesn't require a legally binding contract. I know he's out there somewhere, and maybe tonight when I open the door, my true love will be waiting for me with a dozen pink roses in his hand. But if he doesn't show by ten, I think I'll give Randy a call. ____________ End of "Mystery Date" 1/1 Author's Notes: Thanks to Michaela for giving me Owen, Lisa for giving me Wright, and Shari for giving me deadlines and chocolate. Thanks to Amanda for using her muse to encourage mine, and to Meredith and Deb for finding the things I missed. Autumn, this Dick's for you. There will be an "equal time" sequel to this story, eventually. Feel free to send me your alternative first name suggestions for Dana Scully, and, as always, I'd appreciate your feedback at msselby@socketis.net. ____________ Jill Selby http://members.sockets.net/~msselby ------------------------------------------------------------------------ eGroup home: http://www.eGroups.com/list/xapen Free Web-based e-mail groups by eGroups.com Reply Reply All ForwardDeletePreviousNextClose (Move to Selected Folder) Inbox Sent Messages Drafts Trash Can Personal Stuff Story Feedback WebPage Inbox Compose Addresses Folders Options Help Get notified when you have new Hotmail or when your friends are on-line. Send instant messages. Click here to get your FREE download of MSN Messenger Service! To meet new friends at the new MSN Chat, click here. Buy Books | Buy Music | Apartment Finder | Clothes | Download Music | Encyclopedia Free Games | Free Home Pages | PC Downloads | Travel Agent | Yellow Pages | More... Search the web: © 1999 Microsoft Corporation. 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