Sunday, March 08, 2009

Tricks and Treats

Dear readers: Here is a little something I wrote recently. No, it didn't actually happen, and yes, I know it's not Halloween. Enjoy anyway.


I hate parties.

It annoys me to stand in a cramped, hot, loud apartment or house for hours, listening to some tool brag about his car or repeat what he heard Rush Limbaugh say that day.

It's painful to watch a drunk guy hit on a girl awkwardly and strike out, only to brag the next day that he fucked her.

I never had much luck with women at parties. Every single guy is trying to get laid, and unless you're the tallest, loudest, or richest, there's a chance you'll walk out alone, no matter how good your game is.

The sorority down the street hosts a Halloween party every year, and Marissa really wants to go. I'm dreading it. I begged her not to go, told her that we'd go to whatever restaurant she wanted for dinner instead, but she refused. I resisted until she called me "strange".

I should have stood my ground and boycotted the party. That would have been the manly thing to do. And I really meant to, but then I pictured her at the party, alone, strutting around in some sexy costume (catwoman? naughty nurse? French maid?), with six dozen muscled fraternity guys wearing Eddie Bauer polos and deep tans, tripping over each other to throw some stupidass pickup line at her. Yeah, those guys are idiots. But the joke is on me, because when a guy looks like that, girls are so busy staring that they don't even hear them.

I pace around my apartment for an extra half hour, intentionally making myself late. Yes, I'm only going to this party out of insecurity, but Marissa doesn't need to know that.

"Steeeve!" She squeals, rushing up to hug me. She's wearing a baggy set of blue hospital scrubs--a medical professional, yes, but far from the sexy costume I was afraid of. Maybe this party won't be so bad after all.

"There's another Jason here," she laughs. "Good thing I recognized your shoes".

My costume was easy. I merely slapped on a flannel shirt, jeans, hiking boots, and a goalie mask, and voila!--instant big-screen mass murderer.

The room fills gradually, until there's barely space to walk. It's dark, except for orange lights and flickering strobes. Music blares deafeningly from two huge speakers at the front of the room, and vampires, pirates, and dead presidents dance as if they were on fire.

I can actually feel the bass thumping in my throat, like a second heartbeat. I would love to step outside and get some air.

"Hey, Marissa, how would you feel about--"

She doesn't hear me. She's too busy twirling her black hair and talking to some dude with an axe buried in his head.

The axe doesn't hide his beefy shoulders or his lumberjack jaw. I can't hear what he's saying, but from his cocky smile and Marissa's giggle, he just made a joke.

Oh, how impressive! Studly boy made a funny! Probably some crack about how he put his weight belt on backwards.

"Steve, this is my friend Lorne. We used to go out."

I extend my hand and he pretends not to see it. "I'm gonna borrow your girlfriend. Don't worry, I'll have her back by morning." She chuckles again as he pulls her out to the dance floor.

This sucks. What the hell am I supposed to do now?

John F. Kennedy taps my shoulder. "Hey, Steve!"

"Who's that?"

"It's me, Greg. From Lit class!"

"Nice mask, bro."

Greg looks out on the dance floor. "Who's the dude dancing with your girlfriend?"

"Her friend."

"I hate that!"

I don't like it, either, but I can't keep her locked down. These are the dating years, the years where we do all the wild shit that we won't have the time or energy for when we're 30. All the good stories start out with, "This one time, in college..." not, "Last night, after I put the kids to bed..."

I guess Marissa is living out her story right now. Lorne is just a bit out of her reach, just as she was out of mine. She loves his attention, sucks it down like fancy champagne, but no matter how much she drinks, her insecurity is never satisfied. It doesn't matter that I am here, that I care for her, that we've been together for over two months; I don't look like a J. Crew model, and I'll never be featured in somebody's beefcake calendar. I don't come from a rich family. I'm not a "catch". Lorne is all those things, and he's probably never had to work for any of it. She wants his affection, needs it deeply, and I am nothing more than an obstacle in her way.

"Hey. Hey! Are you listening to me? She's looking at you," Greg says.


"You have nice eyes," a female voice says from behind me.

I turn around, and the first thing I notice is the crushed velvet of her bodice, so smooth that it might have been pulled from a jeweler's case. Her puffy sleeves are covered in multi-colored squares, and her silk skirt ends somewhere around mid-thigh--where her gartered black stockings take over.

As sexy as she is, I can't stop looking at her face--or at least the part I can see. I marvel at her taut, angular jaw, her thick lips covered in red "fuck me" lipstick, her long neck--but the rest of her face is hidden, covered by a black mask.

I lean in closer to see her eyes, squinting to make them out in the flickering light: Deep blue, just like denim, though her pupils are so huge I can barely tell. They're too big, even for such a dark room.

"Are you staring at me?"

"Are you smoking tonight?" I like to answer a question with a question. Yep, I'm sure she's high.

"Mm-hmm. I wouldn't mind having some more, though. Whaddya got?"

"Nothing. Sorry."

"I'm Ashley."

I smile and nod. I've been shit on enough by girls tonight. This one is all mine. I don't care how hot she is; I'm going to make her work for everything she gets. I'll even make her beg me to tell her my name.

She pulls me out to the dance floor. She turns her back to me, her shoulder blades against my chest, grabbing two handfuls of her blonde hair as her black-skirted ass sways in perfect time with the beat. Every pair of male eyes within 10 feet turns to gawk.

Her skirt flips up, and I break a piece of ice between my teeth as I glimpse a flash of naked white thigh above her garter.

The dance floor is hotter than the rest of the room. I dance until my legs ache and sweat beads up on the inside of my mask, but as long as there's no sign of Marissa, I'm staying right here.

But there is a sign of her. She's still dancing with Lorne. His axe is askew, slipping down his sweaty forehead; a dark stain covers most of his chest. He's got his hand on the small of her back. He probably let it slip there nonchalantly, as if he wasn't even thinking about it, but I'm sure it's a carefully choreographed first step. Dude thinks he's going to screw my girlfriend!

He doesn't care that she's got a boyfriend. To him, I am just some loser, an unworthy opponent for him to humiliate. And Marissa is so googly-eyed over him that she'll overlook every single reason why she shouldn't be doing this. She'll forget every five-hour conversation we've ever had, every time I've comforted her, every time I've put her happiness ahead of my own. She'll throw all that away to satisfy Lorne's ego, and all I can do is stand by and watch.

Marissa stops dancing and grabs my shoulder. "Who the hell are you dancing with?" she shouts, and I can tell she's yelling despite the music.

I want to lash out at her, to tell her I'm pulling the exact same shit she is, that I can give as good as I get. But as soon as I start in on her I won't be able to stop; the floodgates will open and I'll dump out every ounce of frustration I've been accumulating, right here on the dance floor. I'll embarrass her, or frustrate her, or look like a pussy--all of which would help Lorne's odds of getting what he wants.

"That's my friend Ashley," I say, careful to use the same words she did. "We used to go out."

Of course, we never went out. But it was too tempting to pass up.

Marissa stares at me for what seems like an hour, searching my mask as if it contains an explanation of what just happened. She wasn't expecting this from me, didn't know I could be a worthy adversary. She underestimated me, and, in the space of an hour, I've intrigued her more than a thousand stuffed animals ever could.

Lorne pulls her away and she turns her back to me, dancing again.

"Who was that?" Ashley coos into my ear. I smell the alcohol on her breath, peach schnapps I think, and it occurs to me that I wouldn't have a turd's chance with this chick if she were sober.

"Some girl who's less hot than you," I hear myself say, and I feel my mouth slide into the same wry smile that I saw on Lorne earlier.

She throws her head back and laughs entirely too loud for the joke, then leans back in to me, her hands on my shoulders, her waist bumping mine.

"Let's go for a walk," she says, and pulls me away by the hand before I can answer.

She pushes open a narrow side door, and we instinctively shade our eyes against the harsh light of the hallway. "Ruth is out tonight. Because of the party."


"Ruth. The house mom. I'm the sergeant-at-arms here, so I have a key to her room."

My cock goes stiff. She wants to have sex! Why else would she be sneaking me off to some secluded room in the house? I was hoping for a walk and a little makeout session; looks like I was aiming low.

Ruth's bedroom is filled with old-lady knicknacks and pictures of what must be grandkids. The comforter on her bed is pulled tight, with two fluffed pillows sitting perfectly parallel to one another in front of the headboard.

She flips the light off, and I strain to see her as she reaches behind her back and unhooks her skirt.

It falls to the floor and I see her naked thighs, just like I did before, but more of them this time, much more, slowly coming into focus as my eyes adjust to the dark.

Her bustier has not even hit the floor yet and she is unhooking her bra and I listen to my own heavy breath as I frantically unbutton my shirt.

This is all happening way too fast for me to think about the consequences, or to worry about the guilt that is surely going to consume me as soon as I leave here.

I am going to do this. For once, I am not going to be the victim. I will not be humiliated, will not be shown up by a girl who is supposed to be mine and some arrogant prick who thinks he's bulletproof. Today I am going to win.

My heart pounds. I can barely breathe, what with this mask on and all...

The mask! It's still on!

I reach for it. "Let's leave the masks on!" she says.

She strips off her bra and it falls silently from her hand. Her tits are bigger than they looked in her black bustier, full and ripe, and my hands go to them instinctively, squeezing and kneading them, feeling their heft, pinching her nipples.

She slips her panties off and we fall onto Ruth's bed. Her legs open and I am in between them and we are fucking, mingling our naked bodies together, finally, finally, unleashing the lust we've been building up all night.

She's moaning, softly at first, then louder. She likes this. She wants it. And I want it too, more than I thought I would. I like being on top of her, inside of her, pounding my hips against hers with all my strength, making her moan, making her big tits bounce, controlling her totally.

I can feel it building inside me, the orgasm, and I know I should pull out, that cumming inside some girl I don't know is a horrible idea, but I tell myself that it's already too late, that we aren't using protection anyway, that this doesn't make it any worse. Part of me knows that's a lie, but somehow I just don't care.

I close my eyes. The shudders consume me and I am filling her with wave upon wave of cum, my breath hot against the inside of the mask.

I'm barely off the bed and Ashley is already dressed. "Lift up your mask. Just halfway," she says. I do it.

She presses her lips to mine, moaning as her tongue slips wetly into my mouth. By the time I pull the mask back down, she's at the door.

"Wait a couple of minutes before you go back out to the party," she says.

"Ashley. Wait!"

She looks at me.

"How did you know I had nice eyes? You hadn't even seen me yet."

"Why do you care?" she asks, and before I can answer, she is gone.