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"I'm going to shove this fucking ball down your fucking throat!"
A large menacing black woman, dressed in a slim white tennis outfit, glared at the Roman gladiator, fist upraised, extending a bright green ball towards him.
I looked on with amusement. I did not follow professional tennis, but I kept up with all major sporting events. During the United States Open this past year, Serena Williams--the world's top female tennis player--had lost her composure at the end of her semi-final match. Frustrated at a call by a line judge, she lurched towards the official with ball in hand and--in a menacing voice--spat out those words (among other threats), all caught--of course--on a live microphone. Moments later, the chair umpire awarded Serena's opponent a penalty point, and it just so happened that her opponent needed only one more point to win. So: The match was over. For the first time in history, a major tennis event ended on a penalty point, dramatized all the more so because it involved one of the world's top players going ballistic before a live national audience.
I love sports, and I love sensational stories. And I also love Serena Williams. I have always found her attractive. First, she is black (and if I note a fact such as that, then you know that I'm white): I must admit that, as one who has only been intimate only with those of the same skin color as mine, I am intrigued by women of color. But even beyond that, Serena is the rare, extremely busty female athlete, with wide hips and a full yet muscular body. She is a woman of power and size. An intimidating figure. And this appeals to me.
In my eyes, Serena Williams carries with her a certain sexiness. In real life, she poses for racy photos and wears revealing outfits, often designed by herself. In magazine shoots and paparazzi photos, she regularly shows off her huge breasts and large, rounded butt. She strikes me as the kind of women who is proud of her body and confident in her appearance. My kind of girl.
And so, with this background, I hope you can see why I was so enamored by this woman in the kitchen, thrusting that tennis ball in the face of the confused gladiator. It was not, of course, the real Serena Williams. It was a Halloween costume party. But the black woman in the small white tennis outfit certainly had the body of Serena. The face? Not even close. But did I look like Harrison Ford in my Indiana Jones' costume? No way. Most of us have to pretend.
I must admit that it was a rather fun party. I dreaded work parties, and I even more so dreaded costume parties. This one was both. I came alone, prepared to be miserable, filling out an otherwise empty evening. But two hours later I was on my fifth draft cup of Shiner Bock beer and well aware that a fresh new keg was on ice in the backyard. I had not socialized much, but I was extremely entertained. It wasn't really a work party after all. Yes, most of the 15 people from my department were here, but they were a small subsection of the nearly 100 guests, who were all in costume. Brandi, the hostess and work acquaintance (it seems wrong to say friend), lives for Halloween. New to our school, she had been talking about her past Halloween parties for months. She had her costume by mid-September and weekly queried the rest of us about our costume choices. (You can guess that I'm the kind of guy who would decide a few hours before the event.)
Really, Brandi's enthusiasm and persistence was the reason that I came. She is the kind of person who--by appearance--suggests a bit of wildness in her personal life. At lunch most days, she regales us with drunken exploits from her youth at this dance hall or that. She once apparently dated three men at one time, two of whom knew of the situation, one who didn't. (She ended up marrying one of those who did.) When she looks at you, there's that naughty twinkle in her eye. And then there's that picture of her wearing a strap-on at some party that one of her friends in the department always starts showing people at department happy hours.
Why was I here? I guess it was because of Brandi. Though I am the quiet, intellectual type on the outside, my inner self burns with passion and longs for debauchery. I just need to find the right person to draw it out of me. (Tragically, I have never found that person....) Sensing such sentiments in Brandi, I wondered what kind of friends she had and what type of party she and her husband would throw. Deep down, I suppose, I was hoping to find a single girl there who might have that wild streak. My life was mundane. Thirty-two and single, six months since my last (brief) relationship. I needed a pick-me-up. Something wild and fun. And so here I was. Hoping.
And I was not disappointed. The work crowd was scattered about the room, hidden behind dull costumes. (What would you expect of English teachers? William Shakespeare, Emily Dickinson, Captain Ahab,.... Ugh.) But the other guests were wildly inventive with a ribald, theatrical flair. There were the two girls dressed as Siamese twins, joined at the breast, who walked around looking for a doctor to separate them. There was the man dressed as a giant dildo with a name tag saying, "My pleasure is yours." There was a woman dressed up as Hillary Clinton, who from time to time raised her skirt to reveal a limp (and fortunately fake) penis, asking passing men to help her village raise its people.
What made it such fun was the interactiveness. I didn't know these people, but they walked around in their wild, edgy costumes role-playing and engaging in witty repartee. My evening got off to a rollicking start at the backyard keg. A nun walked up to me, put one hand on my hip, grasping my whip with the other (I'm Indy, remember?) and whispered into my ear: "Oh, adventurer, I have sinned! I want you to whip my naked body long and hard until the pain makes me scream! Only then will my soul be cleansed!"
She then patted me on the butt and staggered off, braced on the shoulder of Napoleon Dynamite. I couldn't tell if she was flirting, drunk, or just raunchy by nature. But it charged me up and changed my attitude from a negative "Get me out of here!" to a positive "Anything might happen!" (I would look for this girl later, but I never found her again.)
It was simply a great party. I did find my workmates and took part in the usual small talk, but mostly I traversed the house, drinking draft beer and enjoying the sights. Hours must have passed this way, but every time I turned a corner there was a new costume. Guests kept coming.
I did keep running into "the regulars" (the early guests who stayed), and among those, of course, was "Serena." Whenever I came upon her, I had to stop and watch. Though we had never personally interacted, I enjoyed her shtick from afar. She would target some man in the room not paying attention to her, walk up to him aggressively, shove that ball in his face, and say those angry words: "I'm going to shove this fucking ball down your fucking throat!"
She was energetic and passionate, but above all she looked truly angry. Every target reacted with initial fright. It was extremely fun to watch. I must admit though, that beyond "the show," my eyes were always helplessly drawn to Serena's extremely short white skirt. Barely extending to her thighs, it clung to her wide hips. The woman was generously full-bodied in a sensual way. Her thighs were round and thick yet athletically firm. They suggested a power and strength that appealed to me. No doubt that there were other attractive women at the party, but Serena had my full attention. Her costume tennis outfit was probably borrowed from a friend. Several sizes too small, it certainly did not fit. The extreme tightness highlighted and accentuated her body, especially her immense breasts. Of all the women at the party, she showed the most flesh. And, as every man reading this knows, the girl showing the most flesh usually draws the most attention.
Serena was the perfect cocktail for me: An attractive, athletic, full-bodied woman of color with an aggressive, fearless attitude. I didn't follow her around, but I stopped and stared every time I came upon her. She was my favorite on a night of fascinating sights.
