Undead and the Lady in Red

As a child, for Halloween I always wore some off-the-shelf costume from the five-and-dime. During my junior year of college, such a chintzy costume wasn't suitable for the Halloween party my housemate and I were going to host. The 70s, the decade of the streaker, had just expired and I considered attending the party wearing nothing but running shoes and a smile. I know, not very imaginative and not very advisable either, even though I would be among friends. Always trying to weave some friendly flashing into my leisure activities, I considered a number of costume possibilities that would have a spooky theme and still provide for exposure.

Eventually, I settled on the idea of going as a zombie, an undead ghoul escaped from the grave. Popular culture portrays zombies as roaming the earth wearing tattered clothing on their moldering bodies. Wearing clothes with strategically placed rips and tears would maintain the charade of innocence while allowing private skin to peek through. A worn-out plaid flannel shirt and an old pair of khaki trousers were shredded for the cause. My girlfriend, Angela, and her longtime friend and roommate, Lindsey, were similarly involved in creating their costumes. Neither would utter a peep about what they were planning, saying they wanted to keep their costumes secret until the night of the party.

Halloween night, wearing my zombie costume, I drove across town to pick up the girls. My overcoat was long enough to cover my privates which were easily accessible through rips in my trousers under which I wore no underwear. While driving along the busy boulevards, I fondled myself, anticipating the night ahead. At the girls' apartment, I used my key to let myself in. Unseen, from down the hall Angela shouted, "Don't come back here, were not ready yet!" From the bathroom came muted conversation and giggling. Although both girls were college juniors, they sounded like sweet sixteens getting ready for their first date. I removed my overcoat and scrutinized my costume in the living room mirror. My tattered shirttail hung just above my package which was concealed behind a portion of pants fabric that wasn't shredded. When I rotated the waistband slightly in either direction, my penis was plainly visible through a big rip. Perfect! I could tailor my exposure to fit any situation.

Angela poked her head out the bathroom door and asked, "Are ya ready to be impressed?" "Ready as I'm gonna be." Side-by-side the girls appeared in the hallway and walked in my direction. My first impression: They're not ready yet. They're still in their underwear. But no, they were ready. On top, Angela wore only intimate apparel, a strapless black bustier. Her copious cleavage got my blood pumping. Coupled with tight ass black leather pants and a long black wig, this daughter of darkness looked ready to trample me under her black stiletto heels. Even without a mask she was unrecognizable; black facial makeup made her look like Alice Cooper's twisted twin sister.

Brandishing a riding crop, a menacing persona emerged which matched her darkly sinister appearance. Angela pressed the tip of the riding crop into my crotch. "You better be a good boy or yer gonna get punished!"

"Oh yeah? What are you gonna do?" Staying in character, she drew her brows together and snarled, "You don't wanna know." Angela was dead wrong. I did wanna know, and I also wanted to know: Will she wear that costume the next time we have sex? The notion of messing around with an outwardly different woman sent my blood pressure into the red zone.

My inner beast would have ravished Angela's avatar right then and there if my attention hadn't been drawn toward Lindsey's nubile body veiled in a scarlet chemise which barely covered her bubble butt. She looked ready for bed, not a party. At first, I believed she was wearing a wig but once she drew closer, I realized her naturally blonde hair had been dyed candy apple red. Chunky red pumps added three inches to her height but she was still shorter than Angela's five-feet-ten. (Without stilettos) In lieu of a mask, Lindsey had grossly overdone the makeup. Using a rainbow of colors made her appear like a teenage tart. Most striking about Lindsey's overall presentation were the massive mounds on her chest. She was wearing one of Angela's 36C lacy white brassieres overstuffed with tissues which gave that flat-chested girl the measurements she could only fantasize about.

"Whatta ya think?" Angela asked.

I had to laugh. "So . . . I'm goin' to the party with a dominatrix and the lady in red? Cool!"

Lindsey gave my costume a quick once-over and asked, "What're you suppose to be?"

"A zombie."

"You don't look dead."

"I'm undead. There's a difference."

She arched an eyebrow. "Oh . . . whatever."

Angela looked me over and commented that zombies are supposed to look gross and repulsive. She knew what my costume was lacking: Dead, rotting, moldering flesh to complement my disintegrated clothing. By the hand, she tugged me toward the bathroom for a makeover, to make my skin look as disgusting as my clothing. Lindsey had purchased a wide array of inexpensive makeup in many colors and there was plenty left over. I stood passively while the girls went to work on my face, artistically creating cuts, gashes, and realistic bruising using purple and red blush. Reflected in the mirror, I was impressed with their efforts, but a key element of my zombie persona was still missing: Rotting flesh wasn't visible through the many rips in my shirt and pants.

"Let's do this right," I said, then unfastened the buttons on my shredded shirt and tossed it aside. And without fanfare, my tattered pants also joined the discard pile. The sight of my nakedness was nothing new for Lindsey. Even though she always kept her petite body clad in a one-piece swimsuit, many times she had accompanied Angela and I on skinny-dipping outings to the Griffy Lake clothing optional beach. Nevertheless, when my pants hit the floor, Lindsey grinned and her blue eyes wandered below my waistline. I would have done the same. Even if I had seen a girl naked a hundred times, I would look for the hundred-and-first.

The girls resumed working; with eye shadow, highlighter pencils and lipstick, they rendered more gangrenous, rotting flesh up and down the length of my body. Angela patted purple blush onto my penis to make it look bruised. Lindsey, seated on the toilet lid and drawing with red lipstick a bloody patch on my thigh, made the observation how dead the purple blush made my penis look. Angela bent down and placed her shiny black lips beside Lindsey's ear then spoke just above a whisper, her words intended solely for her roommate. "Sometimes it acts dead."

"I heard that!" I blurted. Lindsey laughed out loud.

As I was getting back into my costume, Angela spoke to Lindsey. "Hey, show Eddie yer pubes!"

"No!" Lindsey shot back. She looked embarrassed.

Angela turned to me and chuckled. "She dyed 'em red!"

In a gravelly zombie voice I pleaded, "C'mon Lindsey, I'm dyin' to see this."

Lindsey rolled her eyes and sighed, acting annoyed that Angela had broached the subject. She wasn't going to show me, but after more earnest zombie pleading, reluctantly she lifted the hem of her scarlet chemise, hooked one thumb under the waistband of her red satin panties and pulled them down, exposing the upper reaches of her pubic mound covered with a mass of bright red hair. All I could figure was: She must really like red. Only a few seconds of viewing did she allow before flipping down her chemise, but it was long enough to make my penis twitch. "We had some dye left over," Angela explained. She was helping Lindsey dye her pubes? Girls just wanna have fun! Never before had Lindsey bared her bits in my presence, not at Griffy Lake or elsewhere. Not once. That she gave me a peek down her panties was pleasantly surprising and I was certain Angela's influence had everything to do with it.

The Halloween party was happening at the three bedroom house where I lived with Rocco, an old friend from our teenage years. He wasn't enrolled in college. He derived his livelihood from gigs performed by his hard-working rock 'n' roll band. They were smokin' hot and had achieved widespread renown playing covers and original work on the regional club scene. When I arrived back at the house with Angela and Lindsey, the party was in full swing and the band was rockin' the basement. Three of Rocco's band mates, Davey the bassist, Larry the lead guitarist and Bernie the drummer, wore spooky seasonal costumes, but Mitch, the keyboardist, was decked out as Elton John; huge eyeglasses, funky hat and outlandish pink sequined jacket. In the midst of a lengthy instrumental jam, David Bowie's lightning fast fingers were flying up and down the fretboard of his Stratocaster while his other hand was strumming bitchin' riffs. No, wait . . . it's Rocco in drag! He even mimicked Bowie's effeminate mannerisms; flitting hand movements, lithe dance steps, a carefree toss of the head . . . . He was firmly in touch with his feminine side.

Among the partygoers, a masked menagerie of characters befitting the season were well represented -ghosts, witches, monsters and such- but a few attendees wore costumes better suited for other points on the calendar. A young couple danced to the relentless beat, their Mardi Gras finery making them appear as though they had just stepped off Bourbon Street. The bare chested man hid behind a feathery calico mask and sensuously gyrated his hips which drew attention to the prominent bulge in his skintight chartreuse bolero pants. The woman's mask merged with her extravagant headdress, its feathery plumage complementing her partner's guise. A white doeskin breechcloth covered her loins and yet that was more substantial than what she wore on top. Strands of gaudy beads by the dozen hid her small breasts but only when she stood motionless. While she danced, all bets were off. I recognized those breasts; they belonged to Christine. She and Patrick, friends from the Griffy Lake clothing optional beach, were having a great time showing off anonymously. I wasn't going to spoil their fun by outing their identity.

Earlier, I had rotated the waistband of my tattered trousers but for the longest time it seemed no one noticed my purple penis protruding through a big rip in the fabric. My keen flasher's eye detected no obvious reactions. Two factors were working against me. First, my costume was only one of three dozen garish get-ups. A fat, nine-inch erection would have been required in order to stand out -so to speak. Secondly, the light level was low, very low; only two strands of orange mini lights hanging from the ceiling and a solitary candle shining through the tortured face of a jack-o'-lantern illuminated this dark holiday celebration. Nonetheless, putzing around, drinking and socializing while exposed was so titillating my manhood maintained a half-fluffed condition.

Since late summer, Angela had been rehearsing with the band every Saturday night -and also some weeknights- with the intention of joining them on some paying gigs once she was up-to-speed. She was able to sing well-known popular rock songs with the power and panache of Janice Joplin and had been diligently learning some of Rocco's original compositions. Halloween night was a dress rehearsal of sorts, her debut before an audience.

When time came to perform her set, Angela couldn't sing without dancing. That girl was constantly in motion, shakin' her shapely booty and tousling her long black wig. When her strapless black bustier began sagging, I wondered how long it could defy gravity. Halfway through their first song, Fleetwood Mac's Go your own way, that question was answered: Not very long. Her bustier didn't fall completely away but the upper margins of her areolas became visible. With one hand she pulled it up only to have it sag again. Realizing her efforts were futile, she continued singing and dancing and let the bustier slide until both nipples were entirely exposed. And being an inveterate nudist, she didn't care. The show must go on!

Playing rhythm guitar, Bowie . . . er . . . Rocco, glanced at Angela's exposed nips. He smiled broadly and hit a few clunker chords before pulling himself out of a tailspin and catching up with his cohorts.

Angela continued singing and dancing and all the while her succulent nipples were on display. And judging from the numbers of partygoers who focused their attention on the band, quite a few were enjoying Angela's artful performance.

Lindsey wasn't paying attention to Angela's wardrobe malfunction; she was busy dancing with me doing the bump and grind. Ordinarily, her manner was fairly reserved but whenever she got to drinking heavily, as she was Halloween night, her inhibitions fled like Dracula at dawn. Having helped me get ready for the party, she was aware my penis was exposed and she played to it. She turned her back, bent over and wiggled her bubble butt at me. Her body language was an unambiguous invitation to dry hump her red satin panties in a dirty dance. I obliged her nonverbal request. She spun around and reacted with mock indignation, but that's all it was: A ruse. She enjoyed teasing me. Immensely. As the band played on, more butt wiggling, more dry humping and before long I was sporting righteous wood. Her behavior became more cavalier; her hands occasionally brushed my erection while twirling around. That fleeting contact could easily be excused as accidental but I was certain she was doing it intentionally. She must have known I was aware of her seductive little game and enjoyed it because I did nothing to stop it.

The red satin panty tart escalated the situation; "C'mon," she said, then, by the hand pulled me off the dance floor and into the dark laundry room. She moved in close, very close, and, with one hand, firmly gripped my erection and commenced stroking.

Intoxication alone wasn't responsible for her behavior; It didn't require a PhD in psychology to understand that for Lindsey, having breasts, even pseudo breasts was empowering, transformative. While in costume, in the persona of a busty teenage tart, she stepped away her conservative self and became the assertive woman she yearned to be, the fully developed woman of her dreams who was free to act out her sexual impulses.

At that point I could have and absolutely should have walked away from Lindsey. Cheating on Angela wasn't my style. But I was intoxicated as well and my judgment impaired. I raised the hem of her scarlet chemise then slid my hand beneath the waistband of her red satin panties and raked my fingers through her red pubic hair. In response, she stroked faster. My fingers slithered up and down her furry cleft for only a moment before a solitary digit dove deeply into her warm wet vagina. She inhaled sharply and, with each upstroke, gripped tightly my swollen glans. A second finger I inserted and for a time we stood in the dark trading hand. I couldn't think clearly because of the alcohol and the whirlwind of conflicting emotions, but gradually I rationalized that this dalliance wasn't cheating. Right? After all, we were just two friends doing a little innocent groping. Right? It wasn't 'sex.' Right?

Long before either of us could achieve orgasm, Angela completed her set to a thunderous ovation. "Angie's gonna be looking for me," I said then pulled my hand out of Lindsey's panties. "Okay." She turned away and went back to the dance floor. My erection might have subsided faster if I hadn't kept sniffing the heady aroma of Lindsey's vaginal secretions coating my fingers. At the laundry sink, I washed my hands while silently reciting baseball statistics.

On the dance floor, everyone was complementing Angela on her performance. Christine came over and gave her a big hug. By this time, Angela had determined the identity of the Mardi Gras queen but just as I had decided, she kept that knowledge to herself. Now that everyone had stopped dancing, I glanced around to see if anyone had noticed my half-fluffed chub visible through the gap in my tattered pants. Didn't seem so. At least I didn't detect any tell-tale reactions. Damn! I was getting bummed out.

Standing in a circle of friends, drinking and talking, Lindsey looked at me wearing a devilish grin. An involuntary grin erupted on my face. She spoke up, her comment directed at Angela. "Eddie's been flirtin' with me!" Wrong. The red satin panty tart was doing all the flirting. Well, most of it anyway. I drew my brows together and shot her a squinty eyed stare, signaling: What the fuck are you doing? I didn't need Angela getting suspicious or, God forbid, smell any residual female aroma under my fingernails. But it wasn't just my hand bearing tell-tale traces of evidence; Lindsey's hand was stained purple.

Instantly, effortlessly, Angela slipped into the persona of a black-hearted punisher. Looking me in the eye, she held her riding crop in one hand and tapped it firmly in the palm of the other. "Really! Has Eddie been a bad boy?" Her voice was menacing. I liked where this was headed. "Yeah, I was bad."

She stepped close and, with feather lightness, touched the business end of the whip to my nose. "You know what we with do with bad boys?"

"What?"

"This!" she exclaimed then grabbed my arm, spun me around and struck me smartly on my butt with the whip. She didn't put much English on it so it didn't hurt very much. Staying in character, the daughter of darkness whipped me thrice more. With each blow I yelped in mock agony. Our theater of the absurd quickly drew a lot of attention. The circle of spectators drew back as if they feared falling under the whip.

Lindsey grabbed the riding crop out of Angela's hand and shook it at me. "Bad mummy!" she hollered.

"I'm not a mummy. I'm a zombie." Lindsey was so intoxicated my correction flew right over her head.

"Bad mummy!" she chastised again then lashed out and whipped me hard on my ass. Very hard.

"OWWW! Jeeze Lindsey! Take it easy!" The blow stung like hell. Laughter rippled through the audience. Lindsey set her jaw and came after me again but Angela intervened and snatched the whip out of her grip. Lindsey just laughed. So easily, I could have bent that red tart over my knee,ripped off her satin panties and given her a good spanking until her bubble buttocks were the same shade as her chemise. Alas . . . .

Being the center of attention worked to my advantage because a number of young women had definitely noticed the masochist's purple penis protruding through a rip in his tattered clothing. Lingering looks, finger pointing and whispered comments to companions continued long after Lindsey had been subdued. And yet, my exposure caused no hue and cry. Perhaps, from an artistic standpoint, it was perceived as integral to my costume as well as the sadomasochistic role-playing. One advantage of hanging out with an avant-garde crowd: Unconventional ideas are embraced as bold and edgy and an exposed penis isn't a reason to get your panties in a wad. All in the fun of the masquerade.

Upstairs were it was quieter, a few folks were seated in the living room, conversing, while others helped themselves to snacks spread out on the kitchen table. The light was much brighter than the basement, all the better to let my penis extend its theatrical run. Nonchalantly, I sauntered into the kitchen where two witches were taking turns dipping their hands into the cauldron of Cheetos. I leaned back against the countertop and munched on pretzels. My penis boldly poked out through a rip in my pants, pointed right at the young women. Almost immediately, both of them focused their eyes on my midsection like laser beams. Gesturing toward my groin, one of them asked, "What happened to you? It's purple!" She seemed more interested why my penis was purple than why it was exposed. "It's undead, like the rest of me," I explained. Both witches had a good guffaw and said my costume -and its fleshy accessory- were cool.