The Other White Meat

The Other White Meat is impossible to define, and he likes it that way.  He is uniquely similar to the queen in that he wears different masks, too. He is an onion. No, that's not right. He's more like the TARDIS.  Much bigger and interminably more interesting on the inside than out.  He is not what he seems to be at first glance. One actually has to do some digging around before finding a key which unlocks a room full of surprising and unanticipated revelations.

Whitestuff is a transplant. Like many in this city, he hails from elsewhere. He is devilishly attractive: dark-haired, tall, thin, of mediterranean-descent, and good-looking much like the admired Nutella.  He shares another trait with the Gold Standard, one which is hidden to the casual visitor. The trait is one to be lauded, not ignored -- but Whitestuff doesn't speak much about it.  This intrigues the queen to no end, as most men would wear this particular badge proudly.  It is something to boast about at the carhop, the country club, the hastily made cot.  But instead White deflects talk about it to other matters entirely.

White is an artist. And a writer. Published. White also has excellent taste in music, which is how he caught this sovereign's ear. These things are in contrast to the hidden Nutella trait. Well, not in contrast, really.  Just. Rare. Like your's truly.  C'mon, we've been friends for awhile now; you can keep my secret.  You know I'm an artist, too, a singer and a writer.  And a science geek.  These things can be considered a contraposition, should be thought of that way, and I like it because it keeps people guessing. Keeps them interested but at a safe distance until I decide to lend them the key.  I guess I am a TARDIS myself.  Perhaps this is why I am so deeply charmed by White.

He is shy. He is so painfully shy that I feel almost brazen around him. And yet even in this matter he is a study of contrasts.  Not once but twice this prince has beckoned me to his personal retreat.  Twice I have rejected him, and my reasons were sound.  I want to get to know White. I think he is one of the quirkiest men I have ever encountered. That is not a crime but a compliment in this court.  He apparently feels the same way about me. We have the oddest conversations, and he says I am clearly the crazier of the two.  I dunno. I think I'm being particularly charming and witty around him. I want to be White's friend. I want to give him a cheese sandwich.

So what's a highborn girl to do? Besides exchanging emails and phone numbers (yes, Dear Reader, White was allowed entrance beyond the second wall of the keep and given the ten digit skeleton), the queen has made formal arrangements for a private audience. I shall not tell you the date, though it has already been logged by my secretary. My advisors fear saboteurs, and a character assassination would be just the thing to set my kingdom to riot. In preparation for the aforementioned but secretly assigned date, the queen is now in full-blown ketosis. The prince is very thin, and the queen feels it would cause an international incident if she arrived at his estate overexcited and overfed.  The frangipane is temporarily abolished from Aes Sidhe's kitchen hearths.

"You wear guilt like shackles on your feet, like a halo in reverse. I can feel the discomfort in your seat and in your head it's worse. There's a pain, a famine in your heart, an aching to be free. Can't you see all love's luxuries are here for you and me? And when our worlds they fall apart... when the walls come tumbling in... though we may deserve it... it will be worth it. Bring your chains, your lips of tragedy, and fall into my arms" ~ Depeche Mode