He caught me completely undone. I’d have been
mortified if not for the tequila. To make matters worse, I was with my
photographer friend. Not “with”, not like that. I had my legs all tangled up in
hers. I mean--look, let me just explain.
Zena is a world class photographer, but wishes
she were a writer and so lives vicariously through me. She’s tall, lean and
very, very lovely. She’s got such full lips I can’t help staring at them as she
speaks to me. They are THAT distracting. But, then, many feel that way about my
breasts, so I suppose we all have our thing. Zena’s thing is her lips. A-YUM.
“Oh My GOD! Do you see what you’ve done here?”
she asks enthusiastically, holding out my latest manuscript and pointing.
“Gosh! Such grace! What you can do with the English language is like sex in a
vat of chocolate in a champagne sun shower beneath a double rainbow.” I may be
the writer but she’s the beatnik. She’s reading again, softly brushing her
forefinger against her lips, absentmindedly.
“No kidding?” I say, amused. I’m shy about praise
and so bring out the peppermint oil and we push our chairs closer towards one
another and begin pushing up our skirts and rolling up our pant legs. With our legs hoisted onto
the other’s laps, we proceed to massage one another’s feet while we share the
highlights of our respective weeks. “Toes and Tequila” we call it. It
works for us.
Started in the pool when we were much younger,
actually. At the time, she lived in Palm Springs with hubby #2. She had these
art deco, mesh floaty chair things and the current kept pulling us apart when
we were trying to have a conversation. We had tethered ourselves to one another
by propping our feet besides one another’s hips.
So, here we are the other night, having stripped down
to our bras after dancing up a sweat, bottoms pushed aside, practically
straddling one another, rubbing pink lotion onto one another’s muscular legs,
flushed from a few tequilas when GND walks in.
“Decent?!” He shouts as he pushed the door open
and steps inside.
“Well, sure we are, baby!” said Zena. And, making
matters worse, she asks from beneath her heavy lids, taunting him purposefully
by accentuating her lips as she speaks, “Question is, are you?”
GND blushed from head to foot because he’s got a
boner and she doesn’t have the decency to ignore it until it passes. Having met
him a few times, she’s interested in him and in her mind its no-holds-bar as
far as flirting goes. Especially a man over sixty with a job AND a boner.
“It isn’t like I’m getting any younger!” she
justifies. I’m too shy but girlfriend here can pull it off wonderfully. She
slithers over to him in her lace push-up and I take my turn at living vicariously through her. Oh
to be sexy like the supple sleek she-cat that is Zena.
GND likes her, too, but is enmeshed in a sticky
situation with his current gal. Turns out, he didn’t quite tell the wife about
her, but he had told the girlfriend about the wife, who he had invited to shack
up with him in his cozy one bedroom bungalow over the past weekend. None-the-less,
he’s flirting right back at Zena and I find myself losing my buzz with all the
clichéd innuendos spewing around the room. Later, I take him up on this.
“Seriously, that’s all you could come up with?” I
spat at him.
“What was I supposed to say?” he laughed.
“Well, she had just handed you a plate of food.
‘Thanks’ would have been sufficient.”
But, no, it hadn’t been, not for GND. He had to
go on to say, ‘I gotta tell you, these breasts are just what I needed—tender, succulent
and full of flavor.’ My eyes had popped out of my damn head when I heard that.
Zena just laughed and he proceeded to beam at his well received cleverness. I
wanted to puke.
I can’t imagine a more tedious evening than one
spent with two of the world’s most profound flirts. Yet, I couldn’t just kick
them out or ask him to leave, now could I? And, he didn’t have the courtesy to
see that we were otherwise occupied, now did he. NO he did not—he wanted in on
the action. I already knew that she wanted him. So, I was
hostess-with-the- utmostess to two people who would have rathered I find some
chore in the nonexistent basement.
Oh, where is the Dog Who Thinks he’s mine when I
need him. Because just about then we’d have excused ourselves for a long, long
walk.
What a bloody waste of good tequila.
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