I never knew what a rainbow trail was before I started working for Boss Lady. We were alone in the office one hot summer morning and I was selecting staff for an event that Boss Lady was planning. “What about Mallory Mae?” I asked. “Do you want her to work on this event?” Mallory Mae was a sweet girl with big blonde hair and a Southern accent thicker than molasses.
“No, I don’t like her,” blurted Boss Lady. I eyed her suspiciously.
Although Boss Lady never actually said anything blatantly racist, there was a certain air about her that led me to believe that she might be, at the very least, Republican. Not that Mallory Mae was black- she was as white as a blooming dogwood tree in Georgia, but I didn’t think Boss Lady liked anyone from the South either. Boss Lady was often blunt and didn’t have a good poker face. She literally cringed whenever I let a “y’all” slip from my lips and when I suggested a mini chicken and waffle skewer as a passed hors d’ouvres for a brunch event, she rolled her eyes. “Is that what they taught you in Atlanta?” she balked as she looked at me over her glasses. “I hate kitsch.” When I produced proof that chicken and waffles actually originated in Harlem and not The South, she was only momentarily impressed but still shunned the idea because it wasn’t a Brooklyn-centric idea.
I quickly learned that Boss Lady was one of those serious Brooklynites who turn their noses up at anything not Brooklyney. Manhattanites know these types of Brooklynites. They always offer the unwelcome suggestion that everyone should move to Brooklyn and talk about how Brooklyn is so awesome. They carry hemp tote bags bearing crude slogans like “Fuck Manhattan” and they never wear socks. I mean, don’t get me wrong- there are sections of Brooklyn that I think are really cool, but only the sections that are one subway stop away from Manhattan. And in some sections of Brooklyn, I’ve noticed that all the girls dress like either flappers from the roaring twenties or extras from Little House on the Prairie. Brooklyn just isn’t for me. I didn’t move to New York City to live in Brooklyn. Expensive rent and five dollar gallons of milk be damned, I’m a Manhattan boy, through and through. There’s no other island like it.
But back to Mallory Mae and the party I was staffing for Boss Lady. “Why don’t you like Mallory Mae,” I asked. “Has she done something wrong?”
Boss Lady shuffled some papers on her desk, annoyed that my question was distracting her from looking busy. “Um. No. It’s not that. It’s, um…well, she wears too much lipstick, you know?”
I nodded. This was true. Mallory Mae’s make up sometimes reminded me of that purple-haired lady on TBN. She wore clumpy, dark mascara and the brightest red lipstick you ever did see.
Boss Lady smirked and walked over to my desk. She leaned into my personal space, her cleavage nearly resting on my shoulder as she peered at my computer monitor. “Mallory Mae’s lipstick reminds me of a rainbow trail.”
I was looking at my screen too but I felt Boss Lady’s eyes on my face, bulging with anticipation of my reaction. “What?” I asked. “What’s that mean? What’s a rainbow trail?”
Boss Lady’s eyes widened and her face turned red. “You don’t know what a rainbow trail is? Really?”
“Google it,” she snapped, suddenly spinning around to return to her desk. “But not here,” she barked. “Wait until you get home to do that.”
Fuck that! I thought. Curiosity and my red-hot impatience got the better of me. I immediately Googled “Rainbow Trail.” Oddly, the results were all about some place in Colorado and pioneers and some bullshit, clearly not the info I desired. I tried again, removing the quotation marks and rearranging the words. Still nothing. I stared at the screen and nibbled on my lower lip in frustration. I pride myself on my internet detective skills. I once found a cute guy’s street address with nothing but his Adam4Adam handle and his shoe size. Why couldn’t I find out what a Rainbow Trail was?
Finally, I Googled “lipstick, trail, rainbow” and somewhere, buried on page seven of the search results, was my explanation.
“Rainbow Trail: when several females, wearing different shades of lipstick, perform oral sex on the same man, creating a “rainbow trail” on his penis.”
Shocked, I nearly screamed and clasped my hand over my mouth to hide my giggles. I looked over at Boss Lady who was sitting at her desk, gazing at some paperwork and nonchalantly tapping a large red Sharpie on her cheek. Why on Earth would she assume I would know what a Rainbow Trail was? And how the hell did she know? Oh my God, I thought, wincing. Has Boss Lady done something like this before?! Is Boss Lady a freak?! My brain nearly exploded with unwanted images of Boss Lady, wearing bright red lipstick, in her knickers and on her chubby knees with other poorly made-up drunk women with big hair, huddled around a middle-aged man whose belly was covered with smeared lipstick and slobber. What? Was that too vivid? One of the dangers of having an overactive imagination is being too descriptive. I actually held back with that one. I didn’t mention the bowl full of car keys on the table in the background or that one of the women was cross-eyed.
TO BE CONTINUED…