Notes, from the Upper West Side. A novel by Dan Wrench. Chapter 48. The Inaugural Ball.
The Inaugural Ball. What a relief feeling the sunlight on my face after 20 years in the Lifestyle Lines. Even now when I think back on it, it's like the long deep breath of summer breeze you imagine floating through a Lenati off some Hawaiian beach. Actually, it's like a couple of things.
It's also like a roller coaster. Wait, you race that from your brain. Picture this, you're in a roller coaster at the very beginning of the ride when it's getting the long crank up to that first steep plunge. You know how when you just get over the top there's that moment of waitlessness where the roller coaster drops out from under you, but gravity hasn't got hold of you yet?
You've come up from the depths and you're about to go crashing down into them again, but for a split second, you're floating. Okay, now imagine that right in the heart of that split second you get a nice, warm, Hawaiian breeze and an orgasm. Then boom, it's over. And you're plummeting toward the pavement hoping you can keep irresistible forces of nature from twisting your head off your neck.
That's what the Inaugural Ball was like. But I get ahead myself. Let me recount the story as it happened. Just remember for a brief moment, night in Hawaii, no matter how bleak the rest of it might sound for a minute at least it was like lying on linen under zephyrs.
First I think you should know that the roundabout inn is not a dive. It's a respectable hotel where respectable people go to ball the significant others of others. It has a bar and nice furnishings and a lobby. It isn't massive and expansive like the Hilton or the Hyatt or the Sheraton or the Commodore, but still, nice is nice.
Because you don't want the girl to feel like a tramp. Maybe that's not right. Since if you ask some people like people on the periphery of the porn industry or who keep blogs on tumblr, they'll tell you making the girl feel like a tramp isn't bad like it used to be. Okay, let's say that's true.
What's definitely bad though is making her feel like a tramp in a place that smells like the mattress was flipped over to hide the ass-shaped brown stain. A place where you have to get drinks from a machine on the cement terrace. That's not so hot. So I was pretty relieved when I got to the roundabout and saw how nice it was inside.
I took the elevator up to the ninth floor which was all hush with thick walls and carpeting so you couldn't hear your stick tap if you were a blind guy. I was feeling pretty good. I caught a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror and whoa, not bad. Then I'm jagged over my shoulder and a buttoned down shirt and dockers hid my skinny arms and paunch at least for the time being and I thought, hey, shirt on.
Maybe she'll like a shirt on, bawling. When I got up to the door I could see some yellow papers stuck to the metal plate that connected the key card lock in the door handle. When I got closer I could see they were post-it notes. Five of them, with big blue ink-lettered words that read, Paul.
Do not break character. Yours? Kenny. Only Kenny was crossed out and underneath it was written Billy.
With a why. Billy. Maybe that's her nom to cunt for the evening, I thought. I was pretty sure though that chicks named Billy spelled it with an IE.
Bill. IE. Gene. Bill.
IE. Sue. Whatever. Okay, so I call her Billy and I don't break character.
I was pretty sure don't break character was just her polite way of saying don't do your stupid laugh. I straightened up from reading the post-its and wrapped taps against the door. Knock, knock, knock, knock. I thought I heard a giggle from way inside and a couple seconds later the door opened a crack and half a can me face looked around the corner so she could see me but I could only see one of her eyeballs.
Wait a sec. Her voice said then I heard a chuckle and footsteps running away into the room. Well hey got it you can come in now. She called in a funny little voice.
When I walked in she was kneeling on the bed and fuck. Her ass was her. Backed. Even later when I'd had it in my face for a while it did not quit.
She was gym and diet girl and had these muscles even where I didn't know muscles existed. Not big beefed up muscles but hard cuts without an ounce of fat on them. Boys. I was a little intimidated.
But here's what threw me. Just a bit. She was running the school uniform with tight black dress pants, a white shirt, a little clip on tie and black patent leather shoes. She was kneeling on the bed facing away from me and leaning forward on her hands so that if she'd shifted her weight forward a little she would have been on all fours.
Picture it. Her back is arched so her ass is aimed right at me. And it's covered by these tight black pants that can barely contain the bulge or her cunt lips not to mention her ass cheeks. I could see her black bra strap through her little white shirt and when she turned her head to look at me over her shoulder.
That red glossed mouth under long darkened lashes. She gave me this big open mouth smile. Admiral Ballsy should have jolted at that moment but he reeled instead like you've been hit with a phaser on stun. I walked over to her and let my denim jacket slide down to the floor.
Hey, casual right. But then I had an instant flash that it might be a breach of suave quorum so I bent over to get it. Make mommy get it later daddy. She giggles.
I gig cack. She looked away. Whoops. Notes from the upper west side is a work of fiction.
The people depicted in this work do not exist. Notes from the upper west side copyright 2013 to 2017 by Dan Wrench.