Act Two

I'm somewhat fuzzy on the exact wording but am familiar with the thrust of the famous phrase, if you'll pardon my pun. Chekov wrote: "if you have an oversized dildo in the first act, by the second, someone--lips parted, eyes screwed tightly shut, gasping for air--will find herself repeatedly impaled on it." He should have said: "if you use mail order, make sure the company uses discreet packaging." Who could possibly think that one wouldn't? Or that they'd use a nearly illegible hand-written label?

I faced a dilemma. When I'd answered the doorbell, a bored-looking courier asked if I'd be willing to sign for the "neighbor lady's package", to use his exact term. I wished that, like her, I hadn't been home. Honestly, what kind of courier would see that parcel and then ask a neighbor to sign for it? My door closed, I looked more closely at the garish packaging, reading: "Includes Faux Leather Harness."

A mother and daughter had just moved in next door, in time for the start of the fall college term. We hadn't been introduced. The package was addressed to Lucy Haines--or maybe Lucy Raines? Hard to say. But which one was she? The mother or the daughter?

I decided to play it safe and just leave the package on their doorstep. I put it in a plastic shopping bag then started up their walkway. Almost at the door, I jumped when a car pulled into the driveway. A compact brunette about ten years younger than me got out. I waved.

She introduced herself as Melanie. So, not the mother's package.

"Just call me Mel," she said. "I spotted you outside the other day." Her smile was warm.

"Kelly," I replied and twisted the grocery bag in my left hand, spinning it to close the top, then looping the cinched handle around my fist. I grasped Melanie's extended hand.

I could picture Lucy's embarrassment if I'd left the package there for her mom to find. Still, what a torturous conversation for me. Trying to make small talk with a woman I'd just met while holding her daughter's sex toy in a thin plastic bag.

She'd already done the conversational heavy lifting, by initiating the introductions, and sparing me from having to explain who I was.

"Just being neighborly," I squeaked, with an odd-sounding nervous laugh, my voice octaves higher than normal. My hand vaguely waved in the direction of my house. I was sweating, despite the pleasant fall temperature. When her eyes alit on the bag, panic struck. I retreated, hastily.

"Shit. I...erm...sorry. I've left something on the stove."

I damn near sprinted away. I don't think I would have moved that fast if there truly had been a risk of burning down the house.

"Let's get together soon," she yelled after me. "I live with my daughter. You can meet her too." Her voice Dopplered, I was moving away so rapidly.

I waved distractedly with my hand, scurrying back into the safety of my home. No more illicit deliveries for me, that day. In the safety of the foyer, I leaned against the closed door, laughing. God, I hadn't been embarrassed like that in ages. She must have thought I was certifiable. My deranged laughter made me question if I was all there.

The next day, Mel left for work early. I was up, wanting to pen a few pages, working on the first act of my new play. Lucy would leave the house much later, I expected, assuming she had the same class schedule as the previous day. I hadn't seen her, just the back of her car as she'd pulled onto the street and drove away. No early mornings for her. I'd done the same thing when I was a student.

Before lunch, I walked over, bag in hand. I rang the bell. When I heard the muffled sound of footsteps on the stairs, I wished that I'd resolved to simply leave the package on the doorstep. I didn't want to embarrass the poor thing by doing this face-to-face. At the same time, I wasn't going to take a chance on her mom finding the package first. I could just picture it: "Lucy, I decided to come home for lunch." Hmm, she must have her headphones on. Then she'd open the bag. "Oh. What's this?"

With my vivid imagination, ringing and sprinting away didn't seem like an option, as much as I'd wanted to.

"Hello?" She was a brunette, like her mom, with a curvy figure. She wasn't overweight nor was she a half-starved waif; simply a fresh-faced, girl-next-door type. I took pleasure in seeing a young woman with such a natural, youthful figure. She wasn't slavishly questing after an unobtainable media body image. She had hazel eyes that were soft and inquisitive.

"Hi, I'm your neighbor." I pointed over to my place. "I have something for you. I didn't want your mom to see, so I waited for her to leave before bringing it over. Don't be embarrassed. I won't say anything to her if you don't." I even winked. I smiled, then thrust the bag at her. Before she could say anything, I beat a hasty retreat. It was the best way to avoid awkwardness. Simply hand over the package, then go.

I felt self-satisfied later. Lucy would see that her new neighbor wasn't an old stick in the mud. And speaking of "sticks", it was hard to reconcile Lucy's normal appearance with her choice of the "Twat Blaster 3000". Not that you had to look a certain way to enjoy a bit of self-pleasuring. She'd probably tell her girlfriends about the cool older lady next door who'd saved her ass. "Literally", she'd probably add, since young people don't seem to know what the word means. To be fair, most older adults don't either.

The next morning, soon after Mel had left for work, the doorbell chimed. It was Lucy, who walked right past me into the foyer. No, I hadn't invited her in. But when you hand-deliver a sex toy, it does tend to destroy normal social conventions.

"Come in," I said, pretending to say it to a figure on the front step. I was sure she'd be blown away by my wit.

When I closed the door, Lucy was all over me. I opened my mouth in surprise. She apparently took it as an invitation. Her lips were soft, insistent against mine. The girl was aggressive with her tongue, but after she'd slowed, we settled into a steamy, knee-buckling make-out session. When we broke apart, my pulse was racing. "Woman cannot live on kisses alone," according to the adage. Shocking but true. And I hadn't been kissed in some time. And even if things went no further, I could be content with that sole--but not solo--activity. Score one for being the hip older neighbor, or whatever term the younger generations used. To be honest "hip" and "stick in the mud" were from my parent's generation--or perhaps even grand-parent's. But Lucy--with her youth, aggressive advances, and predilection for large silicone blasters--made me feel much older than my fifty years.

I reached up to touch my tingling lips. It was a romance novel staple, the touching-my-mouth-to-see-if-this-is-real gesture. Who knew? I resolved to do more good deeds, if that was the reward. Screw the nonsense that "no good deed goes unpunished."

Lucy smiled at me. She bent over, reaching into the tote she'd abandoned on the floor, when she'd first pounced on me. She extracted "Ye Olde Twat Blaster."

She looked up at me, head tilted to the side. Lucy looked impressed. I gave myself another mental pat on the back for having handed off the "baton" so cleanly to her, the previous day. The heat coming off my face was intense. I couldn't believe we'd just had our tongues inside each others' mouths. And that I'd enjoyed it so much.

"Your gaydar is literally off the charts! You must have seen me outside. I don't know how you had me pegged so quickly," she said.

Her awe was flattering, but I'd only been right about one thing. She had no idea what "literally" meant. But her whole wide-eyed, in-praise-of-older-women gushing was way off. I don't have a gaydar. And I hadn't been with a woman since college. I'd studied theatre, so a bit of casual lesbianism back then was the sexual equivalent of required reading.

"One more thing," she added. "Can I call you Mrs. Haines, instead of Lucy? Or is it Gaines?"

My mouth was agape. She didn't take it as an invitation to stuff her tongue back in.

She might have misconstrued my stunned expression: "It's just...I like a bit of role play with an older woman. You should call me by my first name though: Hannah. It's hotter for me to use names and talk dirty while we fuck."

Well, sometimes a misunderstanding early in a dramatic piece puts the protagonists in unforeseen circumstances. A tip of the hat to you, Mr. Chekov: you old devil! Now, we'd see exactly who was going to be pegged. Bring on Act Two.