Funraiser
I spent most of Saturday in bed with the first hangover of my life. I had
Tylenol,
but it took me a while before I could even get out of bed to go get it, stumbling naked out to the kitchenette to down two of them before going right back to bed. That was at about ten or eleven o'clock, I think. It helped, but it certainly didn't cure me, not like all the sleep I got that day did.
It wasn't good sleep, not the deep kind that freshens a person, but a restless sleep, filled with constant dreams of sucking cock. So many of them, some belonging to men I'd known, some to strangers, but none of them came, so I just kept sucking and sucking, desperately trying to get what I wanted, a nice, thick geyser of sticky, white, spurting jism like in the porn videos.
I was so horny when I finally woke up for good that I didn't even bother going to get my laptop. I masturbated without it, the memory of myself doing so right in front of the Major while he jerked himself in his pants being more than enough fuel to get me off, but not enough to really satisfy.
And I still felt like crap. Only thankful that my headache was gone, I once again stumbled naked to the kitchenette, this time for the same medicine that had given me my illness to begin with. Back on my couch, I sipped at my screwdriver, looking outside to note that the weather had cleared. I vaguely remembered the downpour the evening before, the sound of it hammering the roof with the crashing thunder as I lay soaking in the tub. The ground outside was dry and, when I turned to check the clock on the wall, I was surprised to see that it was just past six-thirty pm.
And then I remembered what I saw in that picture, Donna's frighteningly awful eyes of... whatever. I shivered at the memory, but my mind was already rationalizing it.
It was most likely an effect of the camera. Some weird variation of redeye. After all, I'd looked deep into her eyes many times by that point, and I'd never seen anything like... like whatever it was I'd seen in the picture. Besides that, I was drunk, and who really knew what I was seeing? It was nothing.
One thing was for sure: I certainly wouldn't be taking a second look.
It may have been the vodka, but I couldn't help smiling about the comedy of errors my smartphone had fallen victim to, though it really wasn't funny. Aside from the inconvenience of being without any form of personal communication until I could get another smartphone, I'd lost a lot of other pics, information in my memo app, the GPS map that I depended on to get around Regina and, not least of which, my contact list.
By the time I felt like getting ready, I'd had another drink and there was no time to get another phone. I'd have to muddle through without one until the next day, inappropriately thanking my Saviour that Regina had Sunday shopping.
Speaking of that, I somehow had the nerve to reconnect with Him on the drive to Major Hurdle's 'Funraiser', begging forgiveness for the unforgivable things I'd been doing lately even though, as Donna had pointed out, I'd already been forgiven for them. And throughout that prayer session, I was deeply bothered by the fact that I somehow felt less Christian. I know, you're thinking that this is because of my confessed behaviour, but it seemed even more than that, something that I couldn't quite put my finger on, but vaguely worried about as I drove east.
Luckily for my smartphone challenged self, Marilyn Davies had written the address of the Funraiser for me the day before, so shortly after Victoria Avenue turned into the divided highway of the
TransCanada
, I saw a sign that pointed me in the right direction. Making a truly hair-raising highway crossing against westbound traffic, I found myself on a grid road, soon pulling into my ultimate destination. It was a large, gray structure clad in that sheet metal that looks like ruffle chips.
The clock in my car read nine-twenty-two, which meant that I was twenty-two minutes late. Parking at the rear corner of the potholed lot where a cluster of other cars sat in the red twilight, I got out, suddenly feeling the effects of that day's screwdrivers. I really shouldn't have driven, but I seemed alright when I'd left home, and those drinks were essential in clearing the cotton from my head and the turmoil from my stomach. Also, I needed and wanted the funding that the Major had hinted at, and I wanted to be at my best for this.
As a rudimentary plywood sign indicated, I had to walk around the back of the building, over a gravelled roadway that was half grown in with weeds. It was a little difficult in my regulation heels, but I managed my way to a side door where a thin, post middle aged man with a marked under-bite stood. He was accompanied by a large man standing opposite him who had the face of a bulldog with a bull's body. They both smiled, checking out the pretty young woman in uniform as they directed me inside and up a set of stairs. From the top of the stairwell, I emerged into a long, white hallway with white tiles and a low ceiling. From slightly down and across the hall, I could hear music and conversation emanating from a much lower lit room beyond a set of open, double doors.
Moments later, I stepped through that threshold and into a lounge, somewhat dark and quite cozy with a lot of wood paneling, a dark brown carpet and a low ceiling. A billiards table separated the entry area from a cluster of tables to my immediate left. The end of a long wooden bar with polished brass foot rails was to my right, and old fashioned arcade games studded the walls at random places. It was a long room, appearing to be split in half by a wall to the right, another section accessible by a wide doorway, or the narrow work area behind the bar. Large windows running the length of the wall opposite the entry door allowed the view of a dim lit warehouse beneath.
It was a fair sized crowd for the size of the room, what of it that I could see from where I stood at the entry, and the people in attendance were well dressed, some of them in suits, others in casual wear that suggested success. The women were also well dressed, but some were quite scantily clad, the kind of scantily clad that Donna would vigorously approve of. Most of these were around my age, some even younger and all of them attractive. Most people whose eyes I met smiled silent greetings which I returned, but the more scantily clad girls had reactions that ranged from nervous to respectful. I began moving, looking for Major Hurdle as I approached the passage to the other section of the lounge
The other section housed groups of brown leather couches, chairs and sectionals, overstuffed and very comfy looking. To the left, there was what appeared to be a built on section with a sunken floor that featured an indoor driving range for golfers with one of those projector style screens. The bar continued through the lounge's dividing wall and into this section, all the way to the end wall, against which was a small stage, a wireless microphone on a tall stand it's only current occupant. Beside me and to my right, just past the threshold of the wide doorway, was a table filled with assorted finger foods, a uniformed Major Hurdle standing on the other side of it, smiling with what looked like a rolled up slice of ham in his fingers. He was listening to a thin, balding man in his early fifties who wore a bright yellow polo shirt and gray slacks with a white belt and white shoes. No points for style there.
Hurdle noticed me, doing a double take that allowed his eyes to quickly ogle my body as he smiled a little wider for me, continuing to politely listen to the little man with bad taste in clothing as I approached. When I was close enough, the balding man trailed off, also noticing my presence now, and distracted enough to forget about whatever it was that he was saying. He looked me up and down with wide eyes while the Major began introductions.
"Lieutenant, I was wondering if you'd make it this evening. This is our host, Brant Schlater. Brant, meet Lieutenant Tara Watts."
