Page 161 of Fifty First Times (Sharing You 0.40)
“Or maybe you should ring the doorbell.”
“No,” he said. “I don’t want to startle anyone. I know if a doorbell was ringing all night every five minutes, I probably couldn’t concentrate on my erection.”
“Every five minutes? Damn, how many people are they expecting?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know, it was just a figure of—”
The door swung open, revealing a bald, middle-aged man dressed casually in a white tank top. My eyes went straight to the tribal tats snaking around his biceps—visible because he was wearing a white tank top. Not only was the top hat a bit much, but our tuxedos and bow ties were clearly over the top as well.
“Allen!” he said in a voice so high-pitched that I couldn’t help but appear shocked. This wasn’t Mike Tyson—this was Mike Tyson on helium. He embraced Allen in a bear hug, and then turned to me. “And say hello to your little friend.”
I told him my name. He threw his arms around me, ignoring my outstretched palm and crushing my body against his oversized pecs. He smelled of Axe body spray and desperation. “You can call me Omar, because that’s the name my mother gave me,” he said, releasing me. “Come on in. I’ll find Justine.”
I peered over his shoulder into the darkened room behind him. All I could see were a few flickering candles and the dim glow of a television from another room. As we entered the house, I thought about turning and running. This was the point of no return.
I stepped into the house last and pulled the door shut behind me.
In the entryway, my eyes adjusted to the darkness. Instead of being confronted with a copulating sea of flesh, the only people I could see from my vantage point were fully clothed. T-shirts. Jeans. Sneakers. And they weren’t having sex, or even dry-humping—they were sitting on couches, beer bottles in hand, chatting. As Omar led us through the house, I counted about a dozen people on the first floor, most of them about twice our age. All clothed. In the living room, a woman was sitting cross-legged on the hardwood floor, playing Mario Kart on an enormous television.
“Where’s the orgy?” I whispered to Allen.
“It’s early,” he whispered back.
We stopped in the kitchen, where Omar opened the fridge. “You guys want Bud Light or Miller?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Do you have any wine?” I asked.
“For a couple of dandies like you? Of course,” Omar said, pulling out two peach wine coolers and handing them to us. “Let me find the bottle opener . . .”
“It’s okay,” Allen said, twisting his cap off. “These are easy access.”
I opened my bottle and took a sip. Mmmmm . . . Jolly Rancher candy. I tried to recall the last time I’d had a wine cooler. Sometime in high school. My sophomore year, at Randy Miller’s house. The only thing sweeter than the watermelon wine coolers that night had been Randy.
“It’s very . . . fruity,” I told Omar. “Thanks.”
A tall woman with dyed black hair and tattooed sleeves entered the kitchen. Allen hugged her and introduced us. This was Justine, a friend from Allen’s high school days.
“Nice costumes,” she said, slurring her speech and patting my top hat.
Omar disappeared with a wink.
Justine led us on a tour of the two-story, four-bedroom townhouse. Each room had been transformed into a theme room for the orgy. In the bondage-themed room, for instance, a solitary steel chair sat in the middle with a rope at its feet. A whip, riding crop, and some other tools I didn’t recognize hung unused on the wall. The room wasn’t just empty of nude people sixty-nining on the floor; the room was empty of anyone doing anything at all. The nudity we’d been expecting
eluded us. Perhaps it was, as Allen said, early in the night.
We sat down in a bedroom with iron shackles bolted to the wall. It was supposed to be a dungeon, but the framed vintage New Kids on the Block posters on the wall destroyed the dark vibe—or made it infinitely creepier. I learned that Justine was an art student at Columbia College, not to be confused with the Ivy League Columbia University in New York City. I was familiar with both Columbias, because they were on my short list of graduate schools with writing programs I was think of applying to. Columbia College was a far more likely bet than the Ivy League school, and not just because of the odds of acceptance. I didn’t have fifty-plus grand for tuition, to say nothing of the cost of living in the Big Apple.
After an hour or so of chatting, Justine’s brother arrived with an eightball of coke. Justine left to get high with him in another room. Allen and I declined to join them. We didn’t have anything against drugs, but we didn’t need coke dick if the orgy ever started.
Alone in the dungeon, we started talking and lost track of time. Another hour passed. We made a sweep of the house to see if the orgy had begun. Everyone was still clothed, as if awaiting some executive order. And that girl was still playing Mario Kart in the living room. What was the point of the sexy candle mood lighting if you were just going to ruin it with a Nintendo game? We found Justine in a jungle-themed room and asked if she had any idea when the orgy might begin. She stared past us and giggled. Her brother cut a line on the coffee table and snorted it in front of us. He threw his head back and howled like a wolf.
We returned to the dungeon. When I sat down, a fat, gray-haired kitty darted out from under the futon. Allen closed the door once it was gone.
“I’m allergic to cats,” he said, sitting down next to me.
“What a coincidence,” I said. “I’m allergic to pussy too.”
“You’re not missing much.”
