The truth was bound to come out, especially with Davey's book tour in full swing. So rather than read some cheesy exposé in the National Enquirer, we decided to tell the story ourselves.
We met last year, not long after David saw me on the "Today Show," chatting about my own bestseller, Finding Your Inner Slut.
"Monique, your book has been number one on the charts for over a year now," Katie said, leaning in, "and on top of that, the New York Times Book Review has called you ‘the female David Sedaris.’ How does that make you feel?"
"Katie, just being mentioned in the same sentence as David Sedaris…is the highest honor…I…can…imagine," I said, swiping at a stray tear.
She handed me a tissue. "Let me ask you a personal question, Monique. Does it bother you that…being labeled ‘the female David Sedaris’ might lead some people to assume you're gay?"
"People can assume whatever they want, Katie, because I'm not gay. I'm not even a Lesbian. I might have experimented a little back in the eighties. But who didn't? Maybe I did sleep with one or two…ok, twenty-seven women in college. So what? It was my freshman year – that doesn't even count."
"Right," she said, pushing up her reading glasses and staring at her notes. "Getting back to David Sedaris…do you think he would have become such a literary giant if he wasn't gay?"
"Katie, David Sedaris would have been a success if he had been sleeping with goldfish and putting teeny tiny condoms on them with his teeth. Because he's just that talented. A writer, that is.
"And for the record, just because he occasionally writes about homosexuals doesn't mean he is a homosexual. I'll tell you what David Sedaris is, Katie – a visionary. He saw the writing on the wall – and I don't mean the bathroom wall. He was savvy enough to know that being gay would be the next hot thing. He smelled that bacon sizzling a decade ago and jumped feet-first into the frying pan.
"In other words, Katie, being gay," I said, hooking my fingers in air quotes, "was a brilliant career move for David Sedaris, nothing more. And, yes, it's paid off big time. But at what price, Katie? At what price?"
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A week after my "Today Show" appearance, David's first email arrived. Although he was living in Paris with Hugh at the time, he generously offered to fly me over so we could meet. Later, when he had kicked Hugh out for good, he would tell me that no one had ever stood up for him like I did, not even his mother. "I never thought I'd find someone who truly understood the sacrifices I've made all these years," he blubbered. "Kismet. It's pure Kismet."
Davey and I are so alike, it's scary. We've both had to deal with legions of fans. We both had mothers who smoked. We both loved playing with our Barbies – no wonder it was love at first sight! Of course, he insisted on making all the wedding arrangements himself, right down to the monogrammed 'Monique and David' matchbooks.
We're just like any other newlyweds, aside from the ‘His and His' towels in the bathroom. Every Saturday morning, we scour the Paris flea markets, looking for objets d'art and other treasures.
"Sweetheart, look," he'll call out triumphantly, holding up what appears to be a furry grapefruit. "Another petrified monkey's butt! Won't it look perfect in the den?" Then we make the usual rounds, stocking up on baguettes and fromage, plus essentials like hair mousse and Windex.
About the only time there's any friction in our relationship is when we're out with our chic Paris friends, and they laugh at my bon mots more than Davey's. On the way back to our apartment, he'll thump his head against the taxi window, thump thump thump – occasionally murmuring about a dead cat.
Once we get home, he heads straight for the bedroom and curls up in a fetal position, where he'll rock for hours, or until I'm forced to eject the CD myself. After all, one can only take, "I am a lineman for the county, and I drive the main roads…" so many times before one snaps. Fifty-six is my personal best.
When Davey's feeling exceptionally cranky, he whips out the vacuum cleaner, although between the two of us, we can afford ten femmes du chambres. There's something about the noise and repetitive motion he finds soothing. I know it's a bit odd, but he looks so adorable in boxers, I wouldn't dream of discouraging him. Besides, it does keep the place tidy.
The one thing that really gets on my nerves is when Mike Tyson calls. He's never gotten over Davey, which I understand completely. It would be hard for anyone, but Mike is particularly fragile. You can tell that just by looking at him. At least once a week, he calls us here in Paris, usually in the middle of the night. "Please, baby, give me another chance," I can hear him sobbing like a two-year-old from across the room. "Plee-eee-ee-ease…I promise…no more biting." Each time, Davey lets him down as gently as he can, but there won't be any second chances for Mike Tyson. Not with the twins on the way.
Yes, we are expecting. It took awhile, since Davey's still squeamish about being the top guy all the time. But once he's done throwing up, he is a stud, and I mean stud with a capital S.
He can get downright peevish, though, when I don't give in to his constant demands for anal sex. That may fly with the boys, honey, but not in our household. No sirree. I had enough of that when Grandpa Buck was still alive.
All in all, the good in our marriage far outweighs the bad. Like living in Paris, where drinking two or three bottles of wine with your meal is simply being polite. Turns out I'm not an alcoholic. I was just living in the wrong country.
I quit smoking 16 years ago, but with Davey's encouragement, I've taken it up again, and this time I'm determined to stick with it. In fact, it's one of our favorite divertissements. There's nothing better than spending a few hours side by side at our favorite sidewalk cafe on the Blvd. St. Germaine, puffing away. We'll sit there until the ashtrays are overflowing, our legs are numb, and there's not room for one more bottle of Pernod on the table. That's when I'm reminded all over again that Paris heaven…on…earth.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Of course, not everyone is overjoyed with our bon chance.
I'm sorry for Hugh, for Mike, for all of them – really I am. I know I've stolen an MVP from the team, but it couldn't be helped. I wish there had been a way I could have legally married David without getting divorced from my second husband, the former Penthouse editor. If you could have read those pathetic little notes he'd tucked into my suitcases – so heartbreaking – but in the end, like Hugh, he had to
accept that what Davey and I have is bigger than all of us.
The good news is that my 12-year-old son is doing much better since he started seeing the talking doctor. We told him that if he stays off the crack, he can visit us in Paris every year on his birthday. The family in San Francisco that adopted him is really quite pleasant when you get past all the latex.
With the twins due in just a few months, at least our happiness will be complete. We're having a boy and a girl, so we're naming them Lou and Sharon, after David's beloved parents. It warms my heart to see him sitting in the glow of the fireplace, his knitting needles click-clacking away till all hours.
By the way, did you happen to catch us on "Oprah"? She said that show got the highest ratings ever. Well, no wonder, when she sprung Hugh from behind the curtain and he dragged me halfway across the stage by my hair. Quel embarrassment!
Despite all the drama, we're relieved the truth is out at last. We owed it to our families and friends – but most of all the fans – to share the story of our love. Spielberg thinks so, too; he bought the rights to the movie, which he's calling, David and Monique – The Straight Story. I'm leaning toward Michele Pfeiffer and Mel Gibson for the lead roles, but Davey wants Anne Heche and Rupert Everett. No big surprise there.
We're writing the screenplay, which makes our maison a laugh a minute, let me tell you. It wouldn't surprise me one bit if the next time you see us, we're holding hands and accepting our Palme d'or at Le Festival de Cannes.
Oh, I know, there'll be those who pooh-pooh our passion, who question our commitment, who say we're in it only for the fortune and fame. There'll even be those who attack our alliteration – they’re the same folks who are only too eager to point out our obvious differences. So what if I'm taller than Davey? He's more than man enough to handle it.
And now, if you'll excuse moi, duty calls. My editors at Little, Brown and Company have been pleading for the final draft of my next book, Chicken Soup for the Slut.
Au revoir for now, mon cheres. Au revoir.
Toujours,
Mrs. David Sedaris, aka Monique
Paris, France
July 2004 
