I took a shot of Gordon’s Extra Dry Gin, chased it with a bite of fresh juicy lime and then oral sex. “Well, I’m sorry”—I had to apologize to my company—“but I’ve had quite enough of that and I’m getting too drunk. Also—and trust me, it’s not that you aren’t kind people—I find this party lacking in some critical department. I think it’s best that I mosey along.”
“But we were just about to play strip-Scrabble!” Jaclyn protested, resting her hand lightly on my side.
“Eh, not interested. There can be too much of a good thing, and I literally wrote the book on strip-Scrabble.”
“I know, I just finished reading it last night!” Jaclyn was a sweet girl with a flawless body and a cheery disposition, but I found that she tried too hard.
“Yes, and I’m thankful for my readership, but that doesn’t change things. I must go.” I removed the conic party-hat and zipped up my pants, bowed to the five of them and exited the room.
I descended the curving wooden staircase into the place of after-dinner retirement. “Miguel, Tomas—it was truly a pleasure.”
The two of them were kneeling on the ground with their heads bent over a glass coffee table. “Sir, surely you’re not leaving already! We have barely made a dent in this kilo!”
“I know, I know…my absence will all but ruin your evening. But it is getting quite late and I have a breakfast-date with my publisher tomorrow morning.” This was obviously a lie; I never eat breakfast until the late afternoon.
“Sir, rail one more line? Please?”
I left the party in a rush; the evening was slipping away and I had just insufflated a gram of cocaine. I walked briskly to the Casey’s General Store en route to the next party and browsed the wine selections: Yellow Tail Shiraz—$9, Ravenswood Zinfandel—$13…ah, Andy Sauvignon—$76.92; I had located my favorite of the cheaper-wines. The night-shift attendant, Marcus, is a personal friend of mine whom I’ve helped in extraneous business ventures, so he allowed me to leave with the wine in exchange for a smile and a wink.
I sauntered aimlessly (in cold temperatures I prefer to saunter rather than walk; I find that its phonetic relation to words like sauna and sultry helps maintain my core temperature) and happened upon a brightly-lit chateau suspended gracefully in the branches of a large oak tree. Drunken young women in four inch heels were clumsily ascending and descending the rope latter and the song “If You Gotta Go, Go Now” by Bob Dylan was reverberating in the tree roots. This looks like a fine party, I thought.
I was standing on a leafy overhang that served as a makeshift balcony, watching steam on my breath melt snowflakes in the air—and looking past that, beyond the tangled branches and the blurred horizon, somewhere into my future. I sighed; is all there is to life a series of tree houses and cocktails, cocaine binges and balloon rides, while jumping from lover to beautiful lover? And then I saw her, five-foot-eight-one-hundred-twenty-six-pounds, sharp classy cheekbones, breasts and ass that would make any father proud and eyes bigger and greener but less veiny than the leaves underfoot. Once again, I sauntered.
“All I really want to do is, baby, be friends with you,” I sang along with the music and then I spoke to the girl, “From across the room I couldn’t help but notice your good child-bearing features, so I think we should entertain an idle and meaningless conversation to function as an adequate segue to animalistic copulation.”
She didn’t even blink. “No, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Oh?”
“Not at all. I have read your work and I am very interested in that blissful state you so crassly call ‘perpetual orgasm,’ as well as many of your other statements and profundities, particularly in regards to metaphysical masturbation.”
“Ah…you mean ‘transcendental jacking-off.’ It’s always a joy to speak with a reader, and a fellow thinker…especially when they have such a lovely physique as yourself.”
“Funny, Mr. Marshall—I would have thought you’d have a better eye than that. This is not my body but a latex body-suit that clings to me like a glove and helps deter the sleazes and scumbags from hitting on me. Under this, I have a far sexier figure.”
In the bedroom I learned it was true. She had a body that God himself had molded as some kind of perverted auto-erotic toy and then dropped to earth, panicked, when his mom walked in…now it was mine. And I had never before encountered a sexual partner who could keep pace with me—in fact sometimes I would wind up miles away and realize a girl had fallen off—but this was no girl, this was a woman. It was after ten minutes of furious fornication, as we were simultaneously enjoying our respective eighth apogees, that I heard the dreaded word “cops.”
I heard a stampede from beyond the thick botanical curtain which had granted us lovers seclusion and peace of mind; upon hearing that word, everyone in attendance had entered a frenzied state of confusion and terror. I rose calmly and dressed with fatalistic resignation, for I had captained the party and would go down with my ship.
I marched to the door and opened it. “Hello, Cops” I said mock-cordially.
“Hello, Andy,” they responded with a sneer. “Have you been drinking again?”
“Allow me to respond to that question with my own inquiry, cop: have you been breathing air?” I looked the lead-cop dead in the eye; many battles of this nature are won or lost in staring contests.
“I’m gonna need to see your I.D.”
I presented my fake I.D. and waited for the verdict. It is my cousins I.D. and it seldom works; she looks nothing like me.
“Okay Andy, you’re gonna hafta come with us.”
I followed the cop to his car, which was of a hackneyed and derivative black and white design. “Cool car” I said, voice dripping with sarcasm and saliva.
“I’m going to ask that you handcuff me against the back of the car and then put this chew-bone in my mouth,” the cop instructed. I did has he had asked and by the time his mistake was realized I was in a bathtub full of Andy Sauvignon with my love and a pound of brie.
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