Unknown - Charity Ball

“Leather and lace,” the man mumbled to himself without a trace of irony. He patted the mask of chamois hide and needlework frippery that decorated the face of the sculptured bust of a Roman Venus that stood on a pedestal just inside the peachmarble foyer at Charity House.

“They get one look at this Halloween outfit,” he said bemusedly, “and it’s an open-and-shut case as far as the police are concerned.”

His voice echoed unexpectedly loud.

He shrugged.

Laughed.

Gave Venus a hug.

Peeked under the mask.

Looked about to make sure no one else was within sight. Bussed Venus’s cheek.

He then laced the marble face with a quick French kiss. Licked up underneath and into the nostrils of the Goddess of Love.

“Too bad this tootsie stops just below the neck,” he muttered. “I’d like to get a mitt on some marble tits.”

“Pardon the wait,” Constance’s voice crystallized behind him. “I see you like the statue.”

“The mask. I like the mask. Dame’s got not such a bad mug on her, either. But I like that mask.”

“Try it on?”

“Oh, no. I don’t go in for any of that kind of stuff. Not for real. But I like to sorta read about it though sometimes.”

Constance drew her breath in deeply.

Held it.

Her tits popped up from between the padded lapels of her hand painted silk kimono.

Edges of colored nipples were seen.

There was rounded titflesh as smooth and pure as the marble from which the Goddess of Love had been chiseled. The man chucked his chin thoughtfully. Felt the bristle he had not shaven off again that morning scrape across his finger.

“Look before you leap,” he peeped.

His head seemed to clear abruptly. “I don’t know why I said that. Must be a habit.”

“I know what you mean,” Constance said, extending her hand. “Restraint is always a virtue. Anything unleashed can mean trouble.”

“Ask any masochist about restraints-that what you call the ones who like to be tied up?”

“Tut-tut.”

The man peered back at the pert nips that peeked at him out of Constance’s cleavage. Took her loose fist.

Shook her wrist.

“Pleased to meet you,” Constance said. “Me too. Which one are you?”

“Pardon?”

“You the rich bitch or the little witch?”

“Excuse me?”

“In your books. There’s usually two nifty numbers. One dame’s real cold-calculatingly manipulative. The other gash just makes hash of the arrogant male romantic interest through her naive, offhand sexuality.”

“You knew?”

“I’m a fan, Madame.”

“How did you know?”

“I get a call in Manhattan to come out and converse with a babe at this address-from your books, I know you’re familiar to some extent with the workings of my profession-so you can probably guess the rest.”

“So you already-uh-investigated me. Mister-uh-Griffith.”

“Poindexter. Griffith’s the first name. A lot of people just call me Gruff. It pays me to know who might be hiring me.”

“I see, Gruff.”

“I forgot to tell you. I don’t necessarily like for people to call me Gruff-but they do.”

“Cute. Griffith?”

“Fine. If it’s all the same to you-”

“Constance. Although-I guess like you-I’m used to being referred to by my professional name, Jasmine Hyacinthe-”

“As well as, in other circles, the Lady Farnsworth.”

“That’s good, Griffith. You do your homework. Tell me. Since you’re such an aficionado of my literary works, what drives you to read about the interior lives of unfaithful wives?”

“I like that murderous attitude they have. And all those lesbian overtones-you know-between the icy rich bitch and the hot little witch.”

“I do believe you’re simplifying what I admit is something of a literary formula. No one in my books or even in real life is simply a rich bitch or a whorish witch.”

“Not simply. But they seem kind of that way as I read it. Sisters in crime and in the head. What else do you need to get someone into bed?”

“My female characters are often at odds over affections or finances associated with men. I do not recall their having been explicitly portrayed as being hot for each other’s bods.”

“But it’s in there. That dyke stuff. I’m waiting for you to really show it.

Maybe in your next book? You know. One of the greatest male fantasies runs something like this. May I?”

“If you insist.”

“Hey, man-he says. My girlfriend calls me up last night.”

“Mind if I smoke?”

“Go ahead, choke. So the guy says to listen to this, man. His girlfriend says she and her girlfriend were just sitting around sucking down some carbonated grape juice-champagne to you. The two girls-they’re kinda tipsy. Bored. Getting all giggly. They embrace. Start to play kissy-face. Tug-the-titty. Get into a pillow fight. Tackle each other. Wrestle a little. Tear each other’s clothes off. But that’s not enough.”

“So far, so bland.”

“Can you get this? These girls-there was a tape they wanted to hear. Or maybe a video they didn’t have. They call up the dude-they know he’s got the tape, say-and tell him they’re both nude. Tell him he might as well come on over for some joy juice and bring along the electronic entertainment while he’s at it.”

Constance sucked down smoke.

Piped it from her lips.

Drew it furling into her nostrils.

Constance’s mouth flared as she interrupted his speech. “Allow me to complete your dissertation. Our hero walks in on the awful sluts, just oh so gross fucking and sucking on each other. He saves them from their Sapphic affliction-which rather turns him on indeed. Shall I go on?”

“I wish you would.”

“You want me to tell you how he realizes that what they really need is some good pure cock? How he flicks them both? “That’s it-”

“Shoots off into their mouths, up their asses, and creams their cunts in easy succession-all the while maintaining an eternal erection.”

“Sounds good.”

“Or maybe he watches them for a while first. They suck each other until their tongues are raw. His hormones are blasting out of control. He rolls his hips.

There is only one thing our hero can think of to do to save all their souls-”

“You got it.”

“Of course. So simple. I could write that easily. But I don’t. I want to hook you the reader by playing to your fantasies. I want to keep you buying my books by never really satisfying you fully. It’s called titillation.”

“Literary cocktease.”

“And cuntsqueeze. Most of my readership is female. You a faggot, by the way?”

“Thought I heard you say-”

“Queer. You seem to read a lot. That’s suspect these days for real hard guys like you.”

“I guess you could say I’m gay. But don’t let that get into your way. I’m not real delicate with the poetry these days.”

“More straightforward.”

“Guess you could say.”

“Anyway. Hate to cut off the literary chitchat, Griffith, but it seems there’s real work to be done around here. I’ve got some trouble. A real problem for a change.”

“Well, trouble is my business. So that’s good to hear. And the main problem I run into is when somebody hires me for no particular reason. Maybe they have too much money and too little to do.”

“That is a sad state of affairs.”

“Believe me. Boredom is the root of much evil. These people simply want somebody to have around to play with. Then if they’re romantically inclined they might come up with jacked-off schemes involving undercover work.”

“Undercover. That is romantic.”

“Not when you see how it actually works. Or maybe they’ll want me to try to set up dangerous liaisons to entrap their spouse-so they can have documented grounds for divorce. Or else-believe it or not-they might even want to try to seduce me to see how mercenary I can be.”