Monk’s Week Off Blog Project: Final Day
And so, dear readers, we come to the end of this little project. I opened this series of postings with a dispatch from my oldest and dearest love, Tambo. Now we close the week with something from my amazing secondary partner, Dancer. If life is nothing more than a series of moments, then she has brought me more unforgettable moments in the last year than most people will experience in a lifetime.
We're lying in bed, in a pleasant post-coital languor, when Monk raises himself up on one elbow to regard me intently. "Tell me what you need right now, sweetheart," he says, gently stroking my body with his free hand. "What would you like? What can I do for you?"
Is it any wonder I think he's sweeter than double-chocolate fudge and just as addictive? And it's all the more delicious because it wasn't what I expected. I was initially attracted to Monk because – well, to be blunt about it, because he was handsome and because he made me laugh. He's definitely got that performer thing going on. What is the male equivalent of a diva? I wondered. Divo? Whatever it is, he's it. And he does it very well.
So when we began our courtship dance, I thought the dynamic would be: he would entertain me, and I would applaud him. I anticipated being perfectly pleased with the arrangement. Since I have to be on a lot in my daily life, in private I am often happy to let someone else take center stage and be on for me.
The night of our first date
, Monk showed up on my doorstep with a bottle of champagne and a bouquet of flowers. When I opened the door, he smiled his thousand-watt smile at me and said, "Hi, beautiful!" In short, he was on, and I prepared myself to enjoy the show.
But the evening didn't go exactly as I though it would. As we talked, Monk made me feel like nothing and no one else existed but me, and that his only purpose in life was to make me happy. He clearly enjoyed having me focused on him, but he wasn't content to simply bask in my attention. He listened as much as he talked, he asked me questions, he made me feel like I was the most beautiful, fascinating creature he'd ever encountered. That feeling was far more intoxicating than the champagne. One thinks of divas as being all about themselves. Monk was all about me.
And he managed to be all about me without ever making me feel like I had to perform, to live up to, shall we say – the mystique? Because let me tell you, that glamorous-persona thing? It gets tiring. Yes, I do enjoy being a diva sometimes, and I love it when Monk and I get to be divas together, that's great fun. But I am actually not nine feet tall and bulletproof every minute of my life, and it's such a pleasure to have a lover who understands both sides of me.
Other people this week have talked about how Monk is charismatic, Monk is outrageous, Monk is daring and spontaneous. That's all true, and those are some of the traits one sees right away. However, as they say on those infomercials, "But wait! There's more!" One of the things I continue to be struck by is how generous Monk is with his time and energy. I've never asked Monk for a favor that he didn't immediately say, "Of course, sweetheart, I can do that for you. Be happy to."
"Are you sure?" I'll say. "Because if you're too busy, it's okay."
"Honey, for you, I will bend time and space," he'll reply. Not exactly the response of a typical diva, is it?
I think I got lucky with Monk – I picked him for his style, but what I would up being really knocked out by was his substance.