If you’ve been reading The Sauce for a while, you’ll know that every once in a while I post a Saucy Story from the Archive, a series which is less about sex in theory and more about sex in practice.
But if I posted one every time I wanted to heat things up a bit, I’d run out of stories to tell (good ones at least), so it’s up to my guest writers to step in and help me out.
Bryan Brandom writes for The Daily Pygmy, as well as The Off Guard, and today he’s going to tell us a Halloween little story with a twist!
***
Dr. J and the Princess
By Bryan Brandom
Nick, in his bright yellow and green plaid suit, peered up the dark, smoky stairwell. He looked back at me from under his green buckled hat, eyes brimming with excitement yet empty with drunkenness. He seemed to forget he was dressed like a leprechaun when he said “jackpot.”
***
It was Halloween.
I was 1970′s hoops legend Dr. J. Looking to incite female advances by way of humor, exposing my blindingly pale hairy thighs, lanky limbs and generally awkward 6’5” frame, I designed the costume myself: tight white wife-beater and my shortest white tennis shorts—both appropriately outfitted with the Nets logo and blue and red stripes with magic marker. The cherries on top of this goofball sundae were the largely exaggerated store-bought afro and fake mustache; my red, white and blue Reebok Pumps weren’t historically accurate, but only I would bother noticing.
After consuming an amount of alcohol that would sufficiently deaden the Kansas October wind against my bare skin, a round-up of slutty police officers, slutty cats, slutty mice, slutty devils and originally-costumed males (myself included) filed into a downtown-bound taxi van, the kind that shuttles college kids back and forth between bad decisions.
Our first stop was a large waterside warehouse-esque dance club, one that neither Nick nor I held in very high regard. The place was holding a costume party, and my small red-headed pal wanted in, but without waiting in line. I maintain that if Nick’s picture wasn’t on the club’s short “do not admit entrance list” for various mischief we would have remained in the club.
Remain we did not.
***
A 6’5” white Julius Erving and a 5’0” leprechaun strolled through downtown Lawrence, eager for alcohol consumption and clinging to the false hope of impressing unreserved women with our unfounded charm. Then Nick stumbled onto our mother lode at the end of this hazy rainbow.
We walked up the staircase to an apartment above a local hardware store. The door opened and smoke billowed out—an encouraging sign—and relieving eccentricity came next. Dirty Harry sauntered by with a dessert tray, and a mime and Skinny Elvis plucked items from the plate—“thank you, thank you very much.” Curious George’s Man in the Yellow Hat tossed beers to John McClain and Captain Jack Sparrow. Dr. Seuss’ Thing 1 and Thing 2 made out in the corner. Fat Elvis was passed out on a couch. And I didn’t recognize a person in there.
Nick found me strutting my stuff on the carpeted dance floor, afro in tow, my limbs awkwardly jutting to the sounds of Earth, Wind and Fire, James Brown and The Commodores. He stuck something in his mouth and started chewing. “Dude, there’s mushrooms here!”
I appreciated the wealth of recreational drugs at the party but I had to dance, something that rarely happens. In my drunken stupor some cosmic force had assumed me, like my costume and its relation to the musical period kept me out there, stomping around half-nude and mustached.
Despite my tendency to dance by myself, a girl in a generic princess get-up inched closer and closer. Her pink and red flower-patterned hips swung closer to my tight, bulge-inducing striped shorts. I remained wary of her safety by limiting limb unpredictability until our bodies finally came together. I wasn’t cold any more.
She was wearing a mask—something I didn’t notice until minutes of dancing with my eyes fixated south of the neck had passed—one of those masks that covers only around the eyes. Her mouth more than available. I noticed Nick in a circle of guys sitting on couches and the floor, passing around joints and blunts and occasionally looking over to smile and laugh at my situation on the dance floor.
Eventually the mystery woman’s mouth and mine pressed together and exchanged pushes, pulls, bites and fluid. I didn’t seem to mind the inordinate amount of attention we were now receiving from my leprechaun buddy and his new stoned friends.
I lived in the dorms. “Let’s go to your place,” I whispered between kisses.
“I can’t now.”
“Why not?”
“My girls are awake.” As a college student, I was aware that plenty of people my age had kids. And a woman having kids in this situation still wasn’t a deal-breaker.
But I slowly became more aware of my surroundings: the ’70s jams, the expensive beers lying around, the free drugs? Nick sat in his circle with fat, old, bearded men and grinned at me. He saw the realization slowly manifest itself in my face between my afro and suddenly slacked jaw.
We had crashed a party for adults, job-having, child-rearing, responsibility-soaked real-life adults. Grey hair everywhere.
The face below mine looked up, she noticed I had stopped dancing. “Tonya,” she held her hand out.
“I’m Bryan, how old are you?” I blurted without consideration.
“Thirty-seven, you?” Which, at this party I suppose, qualified as “young.”
“Nineteen.” She smiled and kept dancing. My already tight shorts strained as I peered down into two deep brown eyes, eyes that had seen more than had any others in such a position so close to my chest and still making contact with mine; my pool of sexual prospects had all but doubled in one firm instant. “How about my place then?”
***
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