3
A Lavendery, Lusty Hue
Brian – January 29
Whenever I arrive at an event, especially a charitable event, I can tell within the first five seconds if it will be a one-scotch or a two-scotch night. I don’t enjoy being social, and I don’t enjoy the people I meet when I come to these events. Tonight will be a five-scotch night.
When I enter the hall, the likes of which resembles an airplane hangar decked in yards of blue fabric, sparkly limegreen lace that a hip, young designer mistakenly thought looked chic (but is actually quite revolting), and loads of stinky candles, I’m confronted by a colossal bouffant. This is no joke. The summit of a mountain of brownish tossed, teased, ratted, highpiled, and heavily lacquered hair is now in front of me. It has to be nearly half a meter tall and it’s so diaphanous I can see straight through it. This monumental pyrotechnic incendiary is just begging for a match. God, I wish I had one. And below this monstrosity is… a woman—a rotund, beet-red faced, pissed-off-her-ass woman who smells of expensive perfume, stifling hair lacquer, and cheap gin. Her face is located across from my navel, and if I were to lift my knee, I would make contact with her gargantuan, saggy breast. I need scotch number one.
She grabs my left hand and shoves it down into her cleavage causing me to bend forward in an awkward, uncomfortable pose. The feeling is oh, so bad. Then she brings it to her mouth and gives it a slobbery kiss. She won’t release it. Now, when I’m at an event—any event—my left hand is my scotch hand, and this is important. Scotch helps me take the edge off the need arises. I do not hold anything in my left hand except scotch. The idea is to always keep it free to receive the scotch, to hold the scotch, and then to drink the scotch.So far, several trays of scotch have passed by and my left hand has been shoved back into the cleavage. I smile down at this portly drunk and she lights up like an artificial Christmas tree with little bulbs on the tips of each branch, displaying a wide, lipstick-smeared, toothy grin. “Hello, Mister Mallory! I am so very pleased you could come tonight,” she giggles up at me.
This is Miss Ruth Willowby; Ruthie to her friends. She’s a matronly patron of the arts, an absolute lush and—at this inebriated moment— swaying before me without a functioning brain cell in her head. But she’s also so full of excitement every time I see her, I can’t help but write out a big, fat check for whatever cause she’s immersed herself in. I’m fond of her, and my scotch hand seems to be the only thing sustaining her upright stance, but she really must let go of it… now.
“Ruthie, it’s always a pleasure.” I bend way down to kiss her pudgy cheek, which sends her into a fit of giggles. She gives my hand another slobbery kiss. This is not a good start to the evening.
She uneasily sways under her overteased phallus. “I hope you’ve brought your checkbook tonight, as you’ve promised me a handsome donation for this wonderful, wonderful cause.”
“Of course I did. I would never forget a promise to such an unforgettable sweetheart as you.”
Again, a fit of uncontrollable giggles, and again, the left hand disappears into the creepy cleavage. That’s it. I’ve had enough and I need a drink. I’m just about to yank my hand free, even if the move topples her, when I hear it—Mickey’s familiar booming voice—right behind me...
~ Copyright Material ~ |
