Mardi Gras Gag Gift Party
by Victor Von Doum: email@example.com
with illustrations by Mike Lee
“All right, blondie, here’s what happ’nin’. I’m gonna untie your hands from them leather boots of yours so we can make you even MORE comfortable on your bed before I finish up and get myself the fuck outta here. No more escape attempts or else. Oh, yeah, the gag stays in, so don’t you even THINK about trying to take it off or I may feel inclined to stick something else in that pretty lil’ mouth of yours.”
Korey’s eyes visibly light up.
Hot fucking damn, I can imagine what head from her would be like. She’s one of those few chicks who does it because she likes it, not because she knows her man enjoys it. I can tell.
Focus, you idiot, focus…
I untie her right wrist from her right boot, her fingertips giving them one last bye-bye stroke, making a soft rubbing sound against the new leather. I untie her left hand and she repeats the process. I remember what she told me about tying her hands behind her back wrist-to-wrist, so I do, tying the ropes tight enough but not too night. I hear Korey mock-whimper a bit: hot in itself, and even more so from her. I pick up all the ropes and grab the vibe, placing them all into her bag of tricks.
“All right, blondie, move it!” I tell her as I push her towards her bedroom. As I pick up the bag, I notice her test the ropes around her wrists for sufficient tautness as I recall her instructions again, “…when you take off the ball gag, stuff my mouth with your underwear, and cleave-gag me with the red bandanna…”
When am I going to that? Shut up you idiot, I’m sure she’ll let you know…
We walk outside the upstairs den and into the hallway, where she makes a sudden move in the direction of the stairway. I block her, as any good bad-ass burglar would.
“Bad idea, lady. Real bad idea.”
“Mmmph-mmph, mmphy-mpph,” she whimpers, as I push her away from her stairs and block her way. “Zip it!” I instruct her, as I take a length of rope out of the bag and carefully run it a set around her elbows, cinching them together and listening for any sign of pain: none, just some heavier breathing through her nose.
“And just fer dat little escape attempt, yer gettin’ more rope,” I warn her, as she shakes her head. I reach down into the bag o’ tricks, where I find a length of ropes and start wrapping it around the tops of her — by all appearances — very firm and natural boobs, now with pencil-eraser-pointy nipples straining behind her black bra. Korey lets out a little squeal as I tighten the top set of ropes, and another with the lower set, barely fidgeting in mock-protest, as she stands facing the doorway to her bedroom. I run the remaining length under her right arm and over to her left, tightening it to form a harness, and applying pressure to the top and bottom of her fun bags. For a second I think about making a figure-eight between her boobs but ain’t no way no how I could do it without touching them directly, so I hold off. Still, she doesn’t seem to mind the current set-up, as I tie the lower boob-ropes to her elbow ropes. She can now move only her hands, which is going to work well for her.
I push her into her bedroom and in front of her queen-sized bed and its gray wrought iron head- and foot-boards look perfect for tying. She shrieks into her ballgag when she sees the clothes on the floor and the dresser drawers overturned.
“Yeah, whaddidja THINK I wuz doin’ in here, stupid bitch? Just fer dat, yer gonna get some more ropes,” I warn her as she shakes her head with a bunch of uh-uh sounds.
Korey walks closer toward the side of the bed, and shrugs her left shoulder and her head toward the bed as if to tell me, “Put me on it.” I duly oblige, pushing her just hard enough to send her on top of it. Her mock-protest yelp contains a bit of another purr, I swear.
“All right, lady, you’re gonna get it now, for not havin’ any val-ya-bullz around.”
Korey shakes her head violently, with a “Mmmn! Mmmn!” in protest.
“Ain’t like that, blondie. I ain’t no violater. I think the word fer it is ‘voy-yerr.”
Korey continues to shake her head, but less so, and with no vocal protesting, just heavy panting through her nose.
“So here’s my deal, since ya ain’t got no fancy jewels ‘round here, don’t see no stash o’ cash, and your TVs ain’t exactly worth stealin’ neither,” as the words she told me on the porch float into my head, “before handing me the fully-charged, battery powered vibrator that you found in my top dresser drawer; when you’re punishing me for the lack of valuables by filming me get off by ‘forcing’ me to use it…”
“This buzzy tool? I’m gonna watch you use it—on YOURSELF,” as I pick it up and shake it in her direction.
“Mmmn-mmn!” (“Uh-uh!”) Korey again shakes her head in protest and begins kicking her booted feet that she hits the wrought iron footboard with them.
“’Uh-uh?!’ Oh, I don’t think so, you snotty bitch. You ain’t exactly in the puz-ishunn to refuse me much-ah ANYTHING, let alone something that I think you might actually enjoy, considering it would even BE here if ya didn’t.”
Korey calms down slightly, evidently buying to my, er, the bad-ass burglar’s logic.
“And, considering all the demon-possessed BITCHING you’ve been doing, I think you, just like what the Stones sing, are certainly ‘in need of some restraint,’ I warn her the very moment I’ve sat hard down on the bed after picking up a coil of rope from her bag. She protests by attempting to scoot her rock-hard body off the bed, but dutifully flips over onto her stomach, her page boy ‘do increasingly tousled and falling alongside her cheeks around over her ears. I stop her movement when I grab her by the ankles of her luscious boots, using my left arm to hold them together, noticing that distinctive new leather smell for the first time up close.
“Mmmn!” she yells into her gag, at the thought of the burglar’s stopping her escape.
Unbelievable how much she’s digging this whole scene.
I quickly take the rope, make a loop and thread the loose ends through it and around her milk chocolate brown boots’ ankles, pulling the first wraparound tight, and noticing how the new leather’s fresh oils make the cotton rope slip a tiny bit: nylon rope would slip a lot more, so she’s clearly planned this part too. I pull it harder till it squeaks and makes an indentation into the hard shaft. Her soles, barely worn from only a night and a short walk on them, show only a few small gravel-indentations on them and just a smidge of dirt. I notice her thumbs finding the back of her belt and see her thrusting them between it and her jeans before repeatedly feeling the tooled leather before removing them.
“Mmmmnph!” Korey yelps, which I can’t tell amounts more to a role-play protest of a real cry of pre-ecstasy. I continue with the rope wraparounds till I’ve put a good six widths’ just above her ankles. I run the remaining length of the ropes between her boots, and make a tight double-knot on the front side of her ankles, so she won’t have a prayer of reaching the knots with her hands tied behind her. As I get off the bed for a second to grab another length of rope from the bag, I see Korey — still flat on her stomach, bring her booted legs forward toward her bound wrists, where she flails in an attempt to grab the ankle-ropes. She reaches them and yells into her ballgag at the idea of no hope to loosening them.
“Dat’s right, blondie. I noze my ropes. You ain’t goin’ nowhere.” I still can’t fucking believe that Kevin doesn’t tie her up and let her suck him down every chance he fucking gets. Focus, you idiot, focus…
I see Korey test the give on her ankle and below-knee ropes as she spreads out her thighs as much as she can — not much, but a little — and see her lunge forward then inchworm back, figuring her struggle is taking on a life of its own. Then, with her booted legs pointing toward the foot of the bed, she rolls over onto her side towards the center of the bed.
I figure it’s as good a time as any to hand her the wand. Meanwhile, I reach into my left front pocket to grab my smartphone and set it to record, glad that no one’s called me in the meantime: a vibration in my front pocket might just send me over the edge. I remove the phone successfully, open the camera mode, and switch it to video. I notice a couple of hardbound books still on her dresser, so I check the angle, set the phone there, and press the record button before propping the phone up against the books.
I pick up the vibe from the bag of tricks, walk around the bed so as not to block the camera and over to her, lying on her right side.
“All right, blondie. It’s Mr Buzzy time,” I tell her as I begin to hand the vibe to her, salivating at how watching her get off is going to play out.
“Mmmmmmmmph! Mmmmmmmph! Mmmmmmph!” Korey shakes her head violently.
Oh crap, three foghorn –long mmmphs. Crap!
I reach behind her head and fumble for the ballgag straps. I undo them and pull it off of her as she uses her tongue to push the ball out of her mouth, as I lay the vibe down on the bed next to a pillow.
“Charlie, hogtie me,” Korey tells me, out of breath.
Hearing those words almost makes me blow my top. I pause for a second and luckily don’t.
“Right,” I reply, as I grab another set of new cotton ropes from the bag of tricks. I run a set around the ankle-ropes, and then stretch it to her wrist-ropes. I hear her emit a few mmm-mmms and then hear her breathing tempo increase and deepen, even before I start pulling the hogtie rope tighter, bringing her red fuck-me nails within reach of her new pair of chocolate brown boots. She immediately find the hogtie ropes, strokes them for a moment before sliding her fingers down their length to reach for her boots, digging her fingernails into and against the leather. I pause to collect myself before I finish off the knot.
“Now gag me again,” Korey instructs me, testing the hogtie with a few whimpers thrown in. I dutifully reapply the ballgag, and start to re-buckle the strap behind her blond locks.
“Mmmmmmmmph! Mmmmmmmph! Mmmmmmph!” Korey shakes her head violently as I nearly complete the buckling.
Oh shit, three foghorn –long mmmphs again!
I fumble for the buckle and unbuckle the back of the ballgag. Korey pushes the ball out of her mouth again with her tongue.
“Charlie, underwear,” Korey reminds me, even more breathless.
What? What does she want me to do? I’m not thinking too terribly clearly.
Perhaps sensing my confusion, she continues, “Mouthpack underwear. You know, so I can taste you…” with her ever-so-slight predental lisp making the “so” sound just a hint like “stho” and the “taste” like “taysthst.”
Shit, she’s right. How am I going to get my boxers off when I’m ready to blow at any second? Any friction and I’m Old Fucking Faithful.
Remembering Korey’s instructions, “while I’m looking at your huge erectness as you’re checking me out from the vantage point of the master bath,” I head that way — a maybe five feet from the foot of her bed — in the event I blow my top like a NO-stroke engine. I dare not look at Korey for fear of her sending me over the top. I do hear her fumbling on the bed and wonder whether she’s looking for the vibe.
Steady, Saabs, steady, I remind myself as I walk into her master bath, unbuckle my belt, pull the fly waaaaaaaaaay forward and let my jeans drop to the bathroom floor. Phew: no friction. Still rock hard. I gingerly remove my boxers and use my left hand to keep my dark green mock turtleneck from dropping on top of my dick. Holding my boxers in my right hand and turning towards Korey, I see her eyes widen at the sight of my erect eight, pointing right at her.
“Wow, Tina wasn’t kidding, eh, Charlie?”
I feel my taint muscle start to tense up. Stop, you idiot. Think of something!
“Who the FUCK is ‘Charlie,’ you bitch? Ain’t my name. Glad you like the package though,” as I quickly break back into character. “Just to shut you the hell up—,” I warn her as I make a fist, creating a ball with my boxers
“Oh no, please no,” Korey protests, shifting onto her right side and purposely exposing the red- and the cream-colored patterned bandannas partially sticking out of her left pocket. I reach for them and pull them out, accidentally touching her brown western belt in the process.
No wonder she was stroking it with her thumbs earlier. If my dick hits that belt-leather, I’m going to unload on her like a teenage boy crawling over the velvet car upholstery on his way to his first backseat fuck. I make sure not to.
I throw the cream-colored bandanna on top of one of her pillows as I take the large red one out and quickly fold it into a triangle, then flatten it into 3-inch wide sections. I know Korey is looking on but I avert my gaze from hers for fear of preemie-jacking, though out of the corner of my eye I see that she’s turned herself back onto her stomach. I pick up my ball of underwear and get ready to fill her mouth with it when I hear a sweet reminder:
“Charlie, be sure you don’t forget the wand.”
It takes all my will not to blow my top right there. I compose myself and get back into character, as I look over to see the vibe lying on the bed next to the cream-colored bandanna that I’d set on the pillow.
“I told you, I ain’t Charlie! No quit yer yappin’!” I tell her as I start to stuff my boxers in her mouth past her protests.
My boxers fill Korey’s mouth visibly, as packing them into her oral cavity pushes her taut cheeks out ever so slightly. I hear her shriek slightly as I hold the wad in place with my left index finger. I grab the folded red bandanna from the bed, then, grabbing it by both ends, I wrap it over the mouthpack, between Korey’s lips, and around her head. I pull it tightly before knotting it twice at the back of her neck, the flaps of the extra-long red patterned bandanna flopping in clear contrast with the blond of her hair and the black of her silk shirt.
“There. That oughtta do ya,” I gloat, as I see Korey shake her head in vain, in an attempt to dislodge the gag now cleaving her lips and holding the mouthpack securely in place. I take a step over and pick up the vibe from near the pillow.
“Now get goin’,” I instruct her and I turn it on and wave it in front of her face. She shakes her head again, “Mmuhh-mmuh, mmuh-mmuh!” Korey replies, angrily.
“I said do it!” I tell her, as I carefully place it under the hogtie ropes and, handing it to her palms-together tied wrists, I dutifully make my way the five or so feet to watch her get herself off from the vantage point of her master bath, per her earlier instructions.
Just as before, Korey lunges her hogtied body forward then inchworms back, getting the hot spot of her love honey positioned right under the buzzing wand. Again I see her spread her inner thighs to the limited extent that she can, and then clamp them around the Hitachi, her forefingers pushing the back of it forward and down, to the exact spot she wants it.
With Korey still in plain view, I angle my aim towards the toilet and reach for a major wad of TP as I feel myself about to blow… She starts writhing on top of the vibe. From the master bath I see the wide red bandanna cleave gag compress slightly as she does her best to gnaw on it, to little avail given the size of the mouthpack stuffed on top of and around her tongue, gums, and teeth. Her eyelids close and reopen slowly. Her repeated purrs and stifled moans quicken their pace; I see sweat begin to appear on her forehead. The heels of her boots point forward, towards me, given the position of the hogtie and Korey’s head facing toward the foot of the bed. The faint light on in the bedroom catches in the leather of her new boots. I can barely contain myself as I feel Korey getting closer, and closer. And closer.
“Mmmmmmmmph! Mmmmmmmph! Mmmmmmph!” Korey shakes her head. Oh you’ve got to be fucking kidding me, three foghorn –long mmmphs, now?! Fuck! She’s got to be about ready to bust one wide open, that’s got to be it. Hold on a second, Saabs, you’re about to too…
“Mmmmmmmmph! Mmmmmmmph! Mmmmmmph!” Korey shakes her head again, deliberately thrashing it this time.
Oh fuck me, I say to myself as I run over to the side of the bed to see what the fuck the matter is with Korey. Still granite hard any on the verge of shooting across the room, I make sure that my dick doesn’t touch anything lest I make the biggest hot mess-puddle of my life.
Korey, meanwhile, has twisted her body around ninety degrees, to be pointing more towards the side of the bed than the end of it. I walk over and, realizing that my dick would hit her right in the eye I ungag her if I stand directly in front of her, I quickly sit myself on the edge of the bed. Hearing the vibe still buzzing strong, my erect eight is pointing straight up.
Remembering our deal, she turns her head away from my crotch area and giving me easy access to the back of her neck. I quickly untie the double knot on the red bandanna cleave at the back of her neck. I hurry to untangle the knots, and then reach around for the boxers-mouthpack with my forefinger and thumb of my right hand. As I pull it out, Korey helps by pushing it out with her tongue. I drop both the wet boxer shorts and the red bandanna cleave gag onto the bed. She turns her head towards me and sees the verticality of my hardness, inches away from her face. My eyes lock with her huge emerald green ones; one of her eyelids twitches once, slowly.
“Korey, are you Oka–,” I stammer, lost momentarily in those verdant pools.
“I am now,” she tells me as she caterpillar-lunges, jumps on my manhood, putting her mouth firmly around my entire length.
Holy fucking shit. This isn’t happening. Cannot. Be. Happening.
Korey starts her tender assault on my erectness, surrounding it completely with soft, warm surfaces. Miraculously, I don’t blow my lid immediately. She very adroitly tightens her gums around the base of it and directs me toward the center of the bed, motioning for me to get all the way on it. I move my right leg over and my left leg onto the bed. I scoot back, up against the pillows. Korey follows, never missing a beat. Once I’m in place, she flashes those eyes at me again; I swear they’re saying “thank you,” which is pretty fucking nuts considering who should be doing the thanking.
She aligns her head directly between my legs and continues her magic. With zero trace of teeth, she takes me deep inside her mouth, avoiding all aspects of a gag reflex: ironic considering how gagged her mouth was until moments ago…and how much she enjoyed that experience too.
Why I haven’t blown through the back of her head yet I can only guess: the pot? The absinthe? I’m looking at quite possibly the hottest woman I have ever seen — and without a doubt the hottest ever to service me, including several homecoming queens, some hardbody workout junkies, and even a professional runway model — and I’m seing her hogtied, her heart-shaped rockhard ass in a pair of jeans tucked into new leather knee-high chocolate brown boots. Her thumbs are still digging under her matching wide western belt, and her index fingertips are guiding a freakin’ vibrator toward her hot spot, onto which she’s writhing and clamping her upper thighs.
I hear the vibrator hum but can’t tell whether the squeaking noises are coming more from her boot-leather where the ropes are digging in, or from the creaking of the white cotton ropes themselves, as she strains against the hogtie ropes running between her ankles and her wrists. She twists her ankles against the ropes lashing them tight against each other. I notice her barely-worn soles, her toes pointed downward and her 2” heels towards me. She occasionally purrs as she sucks me. Finally, she starts at my base with a cat’s tongue-lick and I can take it no more. Sensing my tension, Korey moves to take me as far as I can go down her throat.
Random classic rock song lyrics start racing through my mind:
L.A. Woman, L.A. Woman come on. Foxy Lady… here I come, baby, comin’ to getchya! I’ll be with you darling soon / I’ll be with you till my seas are dried up…
Next: indescribable. The only word that even remotely fits: KRAKATOA. I grab on to the vertical ends of the wrought iron headboard and hold on for dear life.
Boom, boom, fuckin’ boom: with each passing shot, the force gets even stronger. I hear and feel Korey gulp again and again, only adding to the effect. She herself then tenses up, grabs the hogtie ropes with one of her hands, pauses, and keeping hold of the back-end of the vibe with her other, screams a deep and prolonged shout, while keeping me deep down her throat. I feel her release her pent-up tension: the Golden Gate Bridge collapsing, right after my Mt Vesuvius eruptions.
Maybe it’s the pot, maybe it’s the absinthe, maybe it’s my inability to say no to her, making it the first time I’ve been with another woman since when my then-girlfriend now-wife had just started dating, maybe it’s due to how incredibly freaking sssssssssmokin’ and boot bondage-dirty this woman is…but this whole scene has sent me into vertigo.
I’ve somehow grabbed my moist boxers in my right hand. My eyes slowly settling back into place after spinning like a slot machine, I see Korey still licking the top of my dick like a Popsicle, for the last drop, as she shoots me a wink of one of her emerald greens.
I fall backwards into the pillows and collapse. In my semi-lucid state, I hear Korey’s voice:
“Charlie, dude, put your jeans back on.”
“Stuff my mouth with the cream-colored bandanna.”
“Blindfold me with my headscarf.”
“Put the vibe, the ball gag, and the Michael Myers mask back into the box, and put it behind the access panel in the closet, behind my tall-hanging clothes. “
“Take all your stuff with you. Put your smartphone in your pocket.”
“And Charlie? Thanks.”
I wake up in my own bed, propped up against a mass of pillows my arms outstretched. I’m holding my wet boxers in my right hand, and the only other clothes I’m wearing: my socks and green mock turtleneck. An XXL, it hangs low when not tucked in, practically tunic-length. I quickly realize that I’ve shot my load apparently a lot because this shirt is tightly clinging to my chest, stomach, and crotch area, actually surrounding my manhood entirely. Wet and sticky all over, I obviously know it’s not piss. I’m sweating because I remember how Sheila had cranked up the heat before she left and never bothered lowering it.
What the fuck happened?
I piece together the events from yesterday evening. Party, absinthe, pot, walking Korey home, role-playing a burglar, tying her up and gagging her several times, and then watching her get off while she gave me the best head of my life… really?
Sunday morning. I don’t feel hungover outside of a dry mouth, but still groggy. Our master bedroom in the front of the house, I hear and see a police car speeding down our street, but with only the intermittent siren running — whoop, whoop, whoop — the kind they use when they’re driving fast but to a non-emergency. I realize they’re driving in the direction of Korey’s house.
Yeah, but it could be anything.
I look at the clock at it shows 10:21AM. I have no idea what time I got to sleep. I pull my shirt off, taking care to keep the mess away from my face. I walk into the bathroom to brush my teeth, take a shower, and get a drink of water, where I see my jeans dropped in a pile on the tile floor.
I dropped them on the bathroom floor last night, but it was Korey’s bathroom. Wasn’t it?
I drop my messy underwear on top of the jeans.
Why are they wet? From their service as Korey’s mouthpack or did I take them off because I was sweating in the middle of the night due to the high heat setting?
A quick rinse-off provides me little time to piece together last night’s events. I finish it, dry off, and put on some fresh clothes. I pick up all the dirty items and head down to the basement to throw them in the laundry. In the kitchen, I see my serape-cloak piled partially on top of my beat-up black shoes, still laced, and in a v-pattern.
Odd. That’s how I set them down in Korey’s kitchen.
After I start the load of laundry, I make some coffee and walk on the front porch to get the Sunday paper; I see my beat-up top hat.
OK, so I did throw it on there, Odd Job-style, last night.
I start the coffee pot and then walk to the fridge to grab some breakfast. I look out the back door and notice my 1/3-full plastic cup of absinthe on the porch railing. I grab it, pour it out and toss the cup into recycling.
Why did I leave it a third full again? Oh, because I set mine both down on the porch railing. Hers was half full before she spilled it out and put it into recycling. Right, I remember. Only one glass here, however. Weird. There’s no freaking way I dreamt the whole thing, is there? I mean, people saw me at the party. Did I even walk Korey home? I wasn’t even that fucked up last night.
I drink my coffee, eat my breakfast, and read the Sunday paper. Sheila and the kids come home around noon, and thankfully Sheila’s not pissed off any more. She asks me about the party last night and I tell her it went all right. I tell her I talked to a bunch of the dads, and with Korey a bit.
“Korey?” Sheila asks. “How is she?” My heart beats a little faster, wondering what Sheila could possibly know.
Sheila continues,“Oh, I really like her. She had just moved here at the start of the school year, didn’t know anyone, and had never volunteered in a classroom before. But I showed her the ropes and it worked out well. She’s a very giving person.”
I stifle a grin by wiping the back of my hand across my face. You have no idea, my dear.
Sheila keeps going with a, “She hit a really rough patch what with Kevin’s losing his job and all the extra work she’s had to put in for her Psych doctorate. It stressed her out so much that she developed an eye-twitch, she told me. I really admire how she just plowed ahead and sucked it up,” which of course causes me to suppress some uncontrollable chuckles with a few fake coughs.
“Charlie, are you ok?”
“Fine, thanks, babe. Just a tickle,” I tell her. ‘Eye twitch,’ really? So, Korey WASN’T winking?
I head back upstairs, remembering that I left my smartphone in my jeans front pocket, and they’re still lying on the bathroom floor. Holy shit: the video!
“Charlie, where are you going?”
“Oh, just upstairs to use the bathroom. Don’t want to stink up the joint down here,” comes my excuse.
“Hey, you asked.”
I go into the upstairs bathroom, grab my jeans, close and lock the door, then switch my phone to the camera mode. Looking for last night’s video, I find one. Fumbling for it, I make certain the door is locked, find the most recent video, and hit play.
Nothing. No sound, and no only a few seconds long of video. Must have been in my pocket when it hit on and off. I check and no other videos or pictures from last night at all.
Man, I know what happened last night. No WAY I dreamt it. I could have easily taken off my cloak and shoes in the same way I did at Korey’s; buzzed as I was, it makes perfect sense. And of course I could have woken up with a big mess all over the inside my shirt; erotic dreams don’t depend on recent action at all.
In the days and weeks that follow, I listen around to see if any gossip turns up: nothing. I figure Sheila will hear from Korey about a break-in and a at-gunpoint binding-and-gagging at her house.
Nothing, but maybe Korey’s acting too embarassed to tell anyone about having a buglar tie her up, gag her, and leave her that way overnight. (Guessing that’s the ONLY part she’d be talking about to her husband and the cops.) Besides, Korey and Sheila aren’t that terribly close.
I even check the police blotters every week, for any Breaking & Entering reports: nothing there either, but not all crimes make it in the newspapers.
Still, I wonder about how it all came together. I think about it and my second absinthe with about one-third remaining really came closer to half-full with my big spit-out when Korey talked about having me tie her up, gag her, ransack her bedroom to make it look like a burglary, and watch her get off. An absinthe-and-a-half put me smack in the middle of “things as they are not” and “things as we would wish them to be.”
What condition my condition is in
A few months pass, and another neighborhood couple throws another theme party: Lebowski Fest, in honor of the 1998 Coen Brothers’ cult classic, The Big Lebowski. As a nod to all those who may not have seen it, guests may dress up as any movie character they wish. I of course have seen it, and I realize that my serape/cloak would work all right to approximate The Dude’s garb for much of the movie.
This time, Sheila goes with me, dressing as Daisy Buchanan from the most recent remake of The Great Gatsby. She tells me, “I think Korey will be there. She told me she’d really like to come,” Sheila’s inadvertent double-entendre plays out. I pretend not to notice, but laugh on the inside.
I bet she would.
“Uh, don’t know,” comes my response.
“Didn’t you say you talked with her at Henry and June’s party?”
“Well, Korey told me at school that things have been going better for her and her family ever since that last party. She said that night a few things just happen to come together…”
I stifle a smirk.
“… and her head magically cleared. She said had some creamy drink she hadn’t had in a long time, got past her writer’s block to be able to finish her coursework. She also told me that their financial plans finally came through, and now money’s not so tight any more.“
Using all my will not to crack up at the “creamy” comment, I respond, “‘Financial plans?’ Did one of their stocks hit it big?”
“She told me it was some kind of alternative investment, with a big payoff. Didn’t elaborate.”
Wonder whether she made an insurance claim after the “robbery.” Would certainly explain the whole role-play production and why no valuables anywhere. Plus, it could certainly pay off big.
We arrive at the party, where Sheila and I greet our hosts. Grabbing drinks, we mill about. Sheila runs up to one of her good girlfriends. I pause and look out the balcony, and see someone who looks kind of like Korey outside talking to someone else. She’s wearing a redhead wig in a style exactly like Maude Lebowski’s, Julianne Moore’s character from the movie and some kind of hat that I can’t quite make out in the darkness of the shadows.
I walk out and overhear Korey: “It’s an insurance case, not Murder One. No one runs DNA for burglary.”
Pretending not to notice the connection, I break in to the conversation. “Hey, you guys talking about the latest Law & Order episode?”
“Don’t be fatuous, Jeffrey,” comes the dead-on impersonation from Korey, who looks me over. “CSI, silly. Oh, and nice re-use of the serape. Looks like you’re the one repurposing your costumes now, eh?”
I look at her outfit, and she’s clearly sporting a modified version of Maude’s dream-sequence Brunhilde garb: Viking horned helmet, braided wig, faux breast plates made out of fake bowling balls, golden short pleated shirt with tan-colored tights tucked into those same chocolate brown boots from Mardi Gras. I’m quite sure she notices me noticing them.
“Just a sec,” Korey tells me as she turns to her friend, one of the other neighborhood hotties.
“So yeah, the college waived the coursework in Human Sexuality. What, you think we’d have to become schizophrenic to study Abnormal Psych?”
I look back at her puzzled, as that hottie nods, and then proceeds to get up and move toward the door.
I look at Korey again, more than a bit puzzled. Am I going nuts?
Her husband Kevin walks onto the balcony, wearing a Judge Smails outfit from Caddyshack. “Are you making time with my best girl?” comes his line, semi-bellowed at me. My heart races for a second before I realize it comes straight from the movie.
“Good one,” I respond.
Kevin continues, “Oh, Charlie, thanks for walking Korey home after the Mardi Gras party.”
Oh, so I did. I start to say, “You wel–,” when Kevin continues, “Or, at least part of the way home. Korey says you basically stumbled the whole way. She told you it was OK, and that you could just go home and that she could manage the next two blocks.”
“Sure thing, Kevin. Happy to half-ass the job,” I muster. Of course, Korey wouldn’t tell Kevin if I did in fact walk her all the way home, not with all the –ahem– extracurriculars.
Sheila appears with a small tray of drinks in hand: all White Russians.
Korey exclaims, “Hey, cool! Must be a party tradition around here. Started off the Mardi Gras party with one. Hadn’t had one in ages.”
Her creamy drink. Of course.
We all grab our drinks and toast to The Big Lebowski, and to creamy drinks. I pass a glass to Kevin and to Korey, while Sheila and I serve ourselves.
“Thanks,” Korey tells me, as she takes a sip of her White Russian, spills a little on her upper lip, licks it up somewhat slowly, looks at me and gives me a quick wink, “for delivering the tasty drinks.”
“Damn eye twitch,” Korey mutters. “It’s back.”
Is it? I think, as I spit out my sip, fortunately in no one’s direction.
(Fuck you, you would too. )