A Year Of Living Stupidly

28. Hell, Pt. III

"You made it!" Ex-Ass has sprouted fuzzy ears on the top of her head. She leans into my arms and gives me a kiss that calls for an equal but opposite reaction from my tongue. "What are you supposed to be?" She gives my street clothes the once-over.

"I'm a crabby drug dealer who refuses to play along because no one played along at his birthday party." She laughs, unsure how much I am joking. (Not in the slightest, FYI.) Her figure is deadly in a black read-my-lips-tight cat costume.

"He's waiting for you." She takes my hand and leads me to the bedroom as if I'd never before made the trip. The wire-reinforced tail sewn on her costume at the fleshy triangle just above her behind swats The Brains as we walk.

"What is your function at these things?" I ask.

"I'm working." I need further explanation. "I put on the robe, I greet people, I talk to them, and I take notes. And on Monday, I review those notes with my boss."

"Do you report on me?"

"Of course I do." We reach the bedroom door and she kisses me again. "I have the night off tonight. Find me when you're done in there." She raps on the door and opens it for me.

-AFTER-

I need a drink. I find Ex-Ass at the bar, drinking a beer out of the bottle.

"That was quick," she says.

"I'm not in that kind of mood tonight."

"Are you in the mood to dance?" She drags me to the packed living room where we rock and sway as much as we can among the pop culture references, slutty-whatevers, bikers, rubber-faced celebrities, and one confident girl who wears a coat of paint. Stuck in the crush of the moshing mob Ex-Ass remains free and lithe, tail in one hand, beer in the other. As more people crowd the dance floor, my shoulders fold in on my chest in a claustrophobic fit.

"I need air," I shout. "I'm going outside."

"Go ahead. I should make the rounds."

"Thought it was your night off." She smiles and kisses me again.

"It's never really my night off. I'll find you."

The crowd spills out of the house to the pool. I make it to the balcony, wipe the sweat from my forehead and take several deep breaths. The cold canyon air is a bracer to my over-heated skin.

Thunder. What fresh hell are you sending after me now, Universe? A raindrop hits my neck. The forecast called for clear skies, but L.A. weatherpersons/spokesmodels got it wrong again. The sky is clear. Another drop attacks then another. I wipe my neck and inspect my hand. The water is chalky. I look up again—nothing.

"Oh, for fuck's sake." comes from behind me. D-Girl steps out of the shadows in footy pajamas, holding a baby bottle of White Russians, which she'd been flicking at me.

"Hilarious," I say, flicking my wet finger back at her. She ducks, loses her balance and falls into me. The bottle is nearly on empty.

"Having a good time, I see."

"Reasonably," she says. "What are you supposed to be?"

"A long story."

"I don't get it."

"You don't have to." I inspect her figure. She relishes my lascivious gaze and arches to give me a better look-see.

"You're missing the best part," she purrs.

"It gets better?" She pulls me back into the shadows until we stand side by side, facing the pool. Her baby costume has a trap door on the backside. She steers my hand into the opening. It wouldn't be D-Girl had she been wearing panties. The Hand takes a short tour of her bottom—much softer than I remember.