HIP-HOP
“Who you wanna be?” the drunken Tin Man challenged, waving a cardboard ax as Winfield entered.
“Wait a minute, sugah. Don’t tell me. I know.”
Winfield turned to face a mammoth pair of ebony implants swelling over studded leather cups. Good electrolysis job, he noted.
A long, red dagger-edged fingernail traced his cheek.
“Who you wanna-be?” the RuPaul clone asked huskily. “I know, you’re Troy Donohue. Anybody tell you you look like Troy Donohue?” she asked, pursing her full red lips.
She leaned closer, “Tell, me baby, what brought you here?”
Winfield was not unaccustomed to being the lone Caucasian in a crowd, and he considered himself gay friendly. But he was not drunk enough to feel wholly secure as the lone Caucasian heterosexual at The Black Cat’s annual costume party. Unmasked, he stood apart from the riot of Beyoncé’s clumping past on killer heels. Avoiding eye contact with the leather-strapped gladiators and sword-wielding pirates chugging beer at the pool table, he made his way through the crowd. A pair of Oprahs passed him an oversized brandy snifter bearing party favors—condoms and phallic lollipops.
Winfield slipped a condom in his pocket and went looking for Lionel. Evidently Win was the only one from the S&L to take up his invitation. Making his way between a Don King and an Al Sharpton checking their wigs in a mirror, he headed to the back bar.
Tripping behind him, RuPaul tapped Win on the shoulder, “Listen, baby, who you trying to find?”
“Lionel Adams.”
“Mmmmm. Never knew Lionel to have a taste for vanilla, and he does like them taller, but you are cute.”
“We work together,” Winfield hastily explained.
RuPaul smiled, then leaned forward to press her breasts into Win’s face. “Listen, honey,” she whispered, “you ever have surgically constructed pussy?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” Winfield said tentatively. Did Shelly Bronfman’s hysterectomy count?
“I’m built for pleasure,” she said, jutting her pelvis forward. “Extra tight, baby. Best ride of your life.” She parted the slit in her tight skirt, revealing a smooth hard thigh encased in sheer nylon. “I can crack walnuts between these, honey.”
Winfield gulped. “Right,” he smiled, gazing frantically for a rescuer.
“Listen, babe. I know what you’re thinking. I play safe. Always have. All I want between you and me is latex and a smile.”
“Can I get you a drink?” Winfield asked.
“Sure, sugah!”
Winfield bought her a tequila sunrise and a Miller Lite for himself. The Mysterie Ghost Punch was two dollars a mug, but Winfield was in no mood to be adventurous.
He bypassed a trio of suburban gangstas and squeezed behind a black Rhett Butler shouting his phone number to a pair of lumberjacks with pierced ears. The back bar was bedlam. Witches. Hardhats. Huckleberry Finn and Jim in chaps. Good Witch Glenda tossed glitter over a cluster of black cats of questionable gender. A sweatered Bill Cosby leered, “Hey, hey, hey” while a Naomi Campbell cursed out a Rihanna for copping her lipstick in the men’s room.
“That’s evil, Miss Thang.”
“Who, moi?” Rihanna mouthed in exaggerated denial.
Winfield felt a large, strong hand, tipped with inch-long nails, grip his groin.
“Nice package, white boy,” a towering Michelle Obama whispered huskily.
“Thanks.”
Mike Huckabee should see me now, Winfield thought. God, where was Lionel?
Win edged past a drunken clown clinging to a bar stool. Lionel was nowhere to be seen. Turning to leave, he saw Barbie emerge from the ladies’ room wearing a long blonde wig. Silken hair hung to just above her shoulders and swept up to caress her neck. She wore a red bow in her hair, a red and white letter sweater, short red cheerleader skirt, white socks, and tennis shoes.
“Win, what are you doing here?”
“Some people from the S&L are supposed to meet after work. I guess I’m the first one.”
“Gayle invited me. He came as Tina Turner. And where’s your costume? I’m supposed to be Veronica or is she the brunette? You know Archie’s girlfriend?”
“Well, you look divine.” Winfield was awestruck. Normally, he was accustomed to seeing Barbie nude, in leather, or her Century 21 blazer. Now she looked so young, so virginal, so girlish. Winfield was suddenly drawn back to high school, the year book club, and Sarah Mandel, the ever unobtainable head cheerleader. She was blonde, bosomy, dreamy-eyed, with full lips and a dazzling smile. She was cute and wholesome and hopelessly enslaved to the quarterback.
Barbie moved forward, sipping her Diet Coke. Watching her pink lips purse around the straw, Winfield remembered being sixteen when the most erotic thing in the world was watching Sarah Mandel lick an ice cream cone.
Barbie’s eyes flashed with delight. “Win! It’s great to see you. You’ve been so busy we hardly have time to get together. You haven’t read any of my emails! I sent you a new version of the cop and hooker. Really hot.”
Cop and hooker had been a favorite scenario. But after reenacting the spanking, wrist tying, forced fellatio in her car, his car, the parking structure of the Hyatt, the basement of the Mequon Library, and his laundry room, the routine was getting stale.
As she chatted, he did not listen to her words but studied the movement of her soft pink lips. She looked so young, so fresh. She flicked at her wig like a schoolgirl.
“Why, Win, you’re not listening to a word I’m saying,” she said, pulling closer.
“Come on,” he found himself whispering, “Let’s go to my car.”
“Fur shure!” She jumped up and down like a kid at Christmas and followed him, her warm hand in his.
A chill winter breeze gently blew Barbie’s virginal blonde hair as they strolled down the narrow alley to his car.
“I just love Mustangs,” she cooed with girlish delight.
Win opened the door, feeling a pang of latent adolescent lust as she hopped inside. Sliding next to her, he watched her suck a phallic lollipop with pre-puberty innocence.
“You’re so beautiful, Barbie.”
She turned, wrinkled her nose in Gidget embarrassment and sighed, “Oh, Win, you are so sweet.”
He leaned over and softly, briefly kissed her cheek. She purred, gently caressing his neck. Her lips lightly brushed his, sending a thrill to his loins, and more painfully, his heart. “Oh, Win,” she sighed.
He stroked her smooth bare thigh. She moaned, moving closer. He cupped her breasts, feeling the erect nipples through her sweater and bra. She sighed deeper, crossing and uncrossing her legs. “Ohhhh, Winnn.” Leaning back, she tossed her blonde hair, licked her lips, and moaned. “Oh, yesssss.” She moaned louder and squirmed, panting like a Fifties hot chick in a drive-in aflame with Spanish fly. In another minute, she would be humping his gear shift.
He gently but firmly slid his hand higher on her thigh, feeling her shudder with nervous anticipation.
“Oh, Winnn!” she whispered, nibbling on his ear lobe. She squirmed, pressing herself forward, grinding herself against his probing hands. The dampness of her panties excited him. Her hot breath began to fog the windows.
The alley behind The Black Cat was not safe. Police cars regularly prowled the neighborhood, harassing hustlers and transvestite streetwalkers.
“Barbie, let’s go to my place.”
“Oh, Win, I want it so baaadd.”
“Come on, it’s early,” Win urged, wondering why Barbie was hesitating.
Suddenly, she pulled away. “Stop, please stop! Stop!” Tears welled in her eyes. “Oh, Win, I just can’t do this. I just can’t. I wanted to, but I’m afraid. I just can’t. Please, I have to go.” She leaned over, kissed him wetly, then grabbed her purse, and bolted from the car. Running to her Volvo, she paused to wipe tears from her eyes.
Win sat helpless and empty as she drove off. He went back inside and ordered a double. The party was revving up, the gays and lesbians and curious straights and horny bi’s were in cruise mode, groping and fondling. Shielding themselves behind makeup and masks, they could let their libidos run wild.
Sipping his drink, Win noted the forced gaiety. An immense sadness welled inside him. No doubt in gay bars, dungeons, strip joints, singles bars, massage parlors, and hotel rooms men and women would be playing tonight, their partners, paid or unpaid, masking disgust or faking interest. All over America blind dates were taking place. Contacts made through chat rooms, dating services, singles websites, and personal ads led God knows how many people—at fifteen or fifty—to be nervously gripping a malt or a martini, looking at a door and hoping against all hope to meet someone special. It all seemed so lost, so sordid, and so empty. Whatever happened to love, to genuine passion, to the simple wholesome connection with somebody—sans costumes, hardware, latex, lubricants, and Viagra?
All he wanted was to cuddle up with Barbie forever. But would she leave Jerry? And what about her kids? Suddenly the Brewer’s Court condo seemed wildly inappropriate. Children would want a dog and a yard, a swing set, and a neighborhood where they could ride their bikes and sell Girl Scout cookies. If only he had met Barbie when they were both in college. A lifetime of living, sharing, and growing together. The most intense passion was perhaps after all found in conventional, old-fashioned matrimony and not in a chain of costumed play partners.
Lionel was nowhere in sight. Win finished his drink and left the bar. Overhead, dry branches rattled in the breeze. Dead leaves scraped across the broken pavement. Win sighed. His apartment would be empty, lonely. He thought of hitting a few other clubs or making a few last minute calls, but getting drunk or even getting laid would not kill the ache in his heart.
The office provided a refuge of sorts. Work could be distracting. Maybe Ted or Keisha would be working late and they could chat, order a pizza, and pass the night until he was tired enough to sleep.
But Win found himself alone in the century-old building. Sitting at his computer, he wrote and deleted the text of an investor email, watching the words come and go. Giving up, he glanced at the clock and mechanically played solitaire.
His smartphone vibrated in his pocket.
“Hello?”
“Oh, Win, you were sooo good,” Barbie whispered. She let out a stifled sexual chuckle. “You are so inventive. That whole cheerleader virgin scene was so hot. I haven’t been so steamed up in a long time. As soon as I got home, Jerry and I fucked our brains out! Win, you are dangerous! You got me so worked up. Listen, I can’t talk. I’ll send you an email after Jerry falls asleep. Ciao, baby.”