When I proposed to Susan, I didn’t know about the M.L.C.F.C. It was a summer evening about six months into our relationship, which I admit, was moving pretty fast, but I loved her, and I wanted to make it official. I looked up at her from one knee and watched her eyes widen when she noticed the box in my hand. I opened my mouth to pop the question, but she waved her hands and screeched, “Wait!” She grabbed her phone and tapped it frantically until the opening strains of “Crazy for You” filled the air. “Now this will be our song,” she said, “this HAS to be our song.”
“Of course,” I reassured her, “anything you want.”
After she accepted, we finished our dance and she sat me down. Said there were things I needed to know about her. “When I was twelve,” she told me, “I founded the M.L.C.F.C. I’ve been meaning to tell you about it because it’s a big part of my life.”
Apparently when Susan was a kid she heard “Get into the Groove” and went absolutely wild. She begged her parents to buy the record, and before long she had posters and buttons, and she was walking around with lace gloves and bracelets and putting all kinds of huge bows in her hair. Soon enough, her two best friends and her little sister were on board with the obsession. For her birthday, she got a magazine filled with glossy pictures of the Queen of Pop. The girls screamed when they saw it, and each time they turned the page they freaked out even more. Susan stood up and made this speech about how they should stay together forever as devoted fans, and the Madonna Louise Ciccone Fan Club was born.
They saw all of her movies in the theater, even the crappy ones like Dick Tracy and Evita. They dressed up in matching Madonna costumes every Halloween, and when they turned twenty-one, they got tattoos; black ink spelled out Lucky Star on each of their left shoulder blades.
I didn’t understand what I’d gotten myself into, but as months passed and we planned our wedding, I began to have doubts. Susan had a list of demands that would put any diva to shame. Her dress? An exact replica of the one from Like a Virgin, right down to the silver BOY TOY belt. Her bridesmaids? The members of the M.L.C.F.C. obviously. Each one would be modelling a different look; the pink strapless gown from Material Girl, the white off-the-shoulder dress from Who’s that Girl. Her sister, the maid of honor, would be sporting a tuxedo with no shirt underneath, holding a brass monocle to her eye just like Madge did in Express Yourself.
When I faced my parents sitting in the church, my palms started sweating. The lights dimmed and a spotlight appeared on Susan, who stepped towards me to the beat of Like a Prayer. I swear the statue of the Virgin Mary cried bloody tears when Susan crawled up the steps towards the alter.
I reached out to pull her up. She began her vows in a sultry voice, which went like this:
“Cherish the thought,
of always having you
here by my side,”
to which I replied,
I cherish the joy,
you keep bringing it
into my life.”
Everyone loved it. My mother raved about how artistic Susan was. At the reception my dad shimmied on the dance floor to Holiday and Borderline. He even attempted to Vogue.
The priest asked us where we were headed for our honeymoon. Susan kissed him on the lips and said, “La Isla Bonita.”
We flew to San Pedro and spent three days in our suite. Management definitely received complaints because Susan kept blaring Justify my Love, and let me tell you, that part was pretty memorable.
When we staggered onto the beaches, she wandered around in a bustier with a rose in her slicked-back hair, eyeing all the bronzed, muscly men. She argued with me and threw drinks in my face. This behavior continued back home, and we lived out a tumultuous year of troubling days and wild nights.
On our anniversary we went dancing with the M.L.C.F.C. Susan wore a black mesh tank top, a cross dangled above her bellybutton. I should’ve seen it coming, but I didn’t. Susan, flanked by her groupies, sat down at our table looking grim. “I don’t know how to say this,” she said, wiping her charcoaled eyes, “You’ve been like a Ray of Light to me, but I feel we’re on Borrowed Time. I hate to admit this but, I think you might be my Sean Penn.” She placed a rose on the table in front of me, touched my cheek, and disappeared into the crowd.
And now I pray to everything holy that I never see Susan, or anyone from the M.L.C.F.C. again.
Sara Dobbie is a writer from Southern Ontario, Canada. Her work has appeared in various journals around the net. She loves playing guitar and hanging out at the beach. Follow her on Twitter @sbdobbie.