Author's Note
:
A short and (to me, at least) humorous tale. Maybe a little social satire but no deep meanings or message. There's eroticism and explicit sex, but the story is not a stroker. A few dim memories of "New Left" revolutionaries in the 1970s will increase a reader's enjoyment--does the name "Patty Hearst" ring a bell?--but are not required. Readers who expect a story's main characters to be paragons of virtue will be disappointed.
The story does not fit splendidly into any Literotica category, so I settled for a reasonable spot.
I liked the story's first four words enough to steal them from Dorothy Parker. The rest of the story is mine--with the help of some good feedback from Tennesseered, JBEdwards, RR, and my wife. Thanks to them; and thank you, reader, for taking a look.
-- Peter
* * * * *
The pale young man cracked open his right eye and surveyed the room. A bedroom, he decided, though a blurry one. He was in a bed--he could tell that now--and his head hurt. He gradually eased his left eye open then tried to bring the dim room into focus. Yes, it was a bedroom or maybe a hotel room, and the bed was big. Failing to sense clothing, he moved his hips a little against the sheets. Yes, he was naked.
The dull ache in his head grew and started to throb. His mouth felt gummy, his stomach sour, his bowels iffy; and he was very thirsty.
He was no stranger to hangovers, of course. He had pretty much drunk his way through two prep schools and then partied his way through Yale. When your family has the resources his does, you don't have to bust your butt to get ahead in the world. But today's hangover was one for the books.
"Aaauuuoooouuuffffff,"
he observed. "ShitI" he added, quietly.
"You're up, sweetheart!" a voice chirped. The speaker strode to the side of the window and worked the cord between the pulleys. The heavy drapes parted in the middle, and light from the big window flooded the room. The man groaned again and squinted. As best as he could, he studied the woman through his eyelashes.
She was big: not fat but solidly built. Caucasian. Tightly curled blonde hair, medium length: a perm. About thirty. Nice proportions. No glamour-girl, but pretty, whoever she was. Might have played lacrosse or soccer in high school: that type. She wore a white, buttoned blouse, nice-fitting khaki trousers. His headache and his thirst both were worse now.
"What time is it?" he inquired.
"Almost one thirty! I'm afraid we overdid it a little last night. Well, perhaps one of us overdid it a bit more than the other. But I like our new pronoun:
we.
Not
you,
not
I
.... She sat on the edge of the bed, holding his cheeks, and bent to kiss his forehead.
"I'll give your lips the attention they deserve
after
you've brushed your teeth," she said. "And I won't neglect
Mister Big,
either. I love the cute names you come up with for everything! Calling my breasts Bert and Ernie.... Does Mister Big still love Bert and Ernie?"
"Uh, miss, could you bring me some water?"
As her hands moved from his cheeks he noticed her ring. She was married. Does that make the situation better or worse?
"'Miss'! Well, aren't
we
formal the morning after! Afternoon, actually. All right,
Mister Blanchard
. Hold your horses."
She knows my name, he reflected. Sitting up a little, he chugged the glass of water she brought from the bathroom.
"I hope the tap water is safe to drink, come to think of it," she said. "But the whole island is pretty sophisticated--all those fancy restaurants, all those casinos, banks, boutiques. And the hotel probably has its own water system, wouldn't you think?... Honey, why don't you go brush your teeth and take a piss and splash a little soap and water on Mister Big and the Bobbsey Twins? I'll be waiting for you when you return."
Slowly and carefully, he sat up, stood, then located the bathroom. "Do you happen to have an aspirin?" he asked.
"There's some ibuprofen in my handbag. It's in the bathroom. Help yourself."
His head throbbing, he carefully made his way to the bathroom, turned on the light and ventilator, shut and locked the door. He lowered the toilet seat and sat.
As he pissed, he went through the handbag. No wallet. No passport, identification, or credit cards. Maybe they're in the room somewhere. There was a money clip with eight or ten fifties--a mix of dollars, pounds, and euros. Some loose change. A little bottle of ibuprofen pills. Birth control pills. Lipstick, compact, emery boards. A small handgun with ivory panels on the handle. Probably imitation ivory, he thought. Nobody can get real ivory anymore, can they? When was the last time he even saw real ivory? That old grand piano Heather's father has: were those keys ivory, or what?
He flushed the toilet then decided to take a quick shower. Afterwards, at the sink, he washed down four ibuprofen with a full glass of water. Then, staring into the mirror as he brushed his teeth--he presumed the toothbrush and paste belonged to the lady with the perm--he pondered some of life's eternal questions. Such as, where was he, how did he get here, and who was he with? And what the hell was he drinking last night? On a day of clearer thinking, he might have wondered a little more about the gun, but his synapses were still misfiring, and his head was killing him.
A few fragments of memory returned as he brushed. He had been drinking some rum concoction, more than a few glasses of it. It didn't seem all that strong at first. A pill someone gave him might also have been involved. What was it? Some bunch of initials.
M
-something. He used some mouthwash from the bottle on the counter and returned the ibuprofen to the handbag.
Back in the room, he found her sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing only white panties, talking on her cellphone. Her breasts were lovely, he decided. They were a nice size--somewhere between a B cup and a C--with a sexy hint of sag and with thick, upturned brown nipples. He tried and failed to discern which breast must be Bert and which Ernie. Then he sat next to her on the bed and hugged her, his hand on her waist.
"Yes, we're all set for the picnic," she was saying. "The basket is packed, we have the lemonade, and my friend will drive.... Yes, he's experienced and totally reliable. I will vouch for him.... Yes.... See you there." Ending the call, she set the phone on the small table and pulled him down onto the bed.
She lay on top of him, kissing his neck, pressing her bare chest against his, a hand gently fondling his balls. "Oh, Brad," she said, moving her lips to his, "this is right out of a fairy tale, isn't it? Not that I believe
everything
you told me last night. But a lot of it, yes.... the Antifa stuff... logistics for that UnitedHealthcare action.... Before that, helping to re-establish Baader-Meinhof. Or rather, the Red Army Faction--like you, I keep calling it Baader-Meinhof.... Though I did meet Irene Goergens once. She's very nice and still brilliant. Still committed to justice, though now she's keeping a pretty low profile.... But the F-antifa gals are coming on like Gangbusters, aren't they!... In all honesty, I don't know
where
Patricia's head is at these days. She's keeping a low profile too--apart from acting in a few John Waters movies, which I guess is still staying pretty low-profile. I'll have to look up Angela Davis sometime, while she's still alive."
"Yes... interesting people," he observed, wondering who Irene Goergens, the F-antifa gals, and Patricia were. What the hell is F-antifa? The Baader-Meinhof Gang and Angela Davis he had at least heard of.
Last night, he might have made up a story or two about himself, hoping this attractive, politically radical blonde lady would be impressed enough to take him to bed. Apparently he had succeeded.
