A Red Thong
The lavender thong, tucked away beneath its denim shroud, had been a shy schoolgirl, the black g-string a coy seductress known only to the roaming fingers that dared tease her out. A bright red thong, brazen and aloof, made its appearance the next night. It proudly hoisted itself way above the high-water mark of less adventuresome knickers. It was the attention-whore of undergarments.
Karaoke. I wanted to sing a song but couldn’t think of anything. The song book didn’t inspire me. There were, to be fair, some half-decent performances of warmed-over classics: Ludacris, Eminem, Nine Inch Nails, etc. Emma refused to sing. “You should shed your inhibitions and do it,” I told Emma, pointing at the stage. “Well, you don’t have to put it like that,” she said indignantly. She thought I was talking about sex rather than karaoke; my comments would have applied in either context.
Les and I hung back on our own most of the night, uttering endearments and snogging. People sometimes have difficulty understanding how we can keep at these lovers games after eleven years. In fact, it probably makes some people sick just thinking about it. Occasionally Emma would spy us in the corner and come over to flirt, her little body sliding over us.
I conversed with a friend of Emma’s, a fellow Boston expat. He wanted to know whether the naked loft party is real. “It could be that tomorrow I’ll wake up in a pool of my own vomit and discover it was all a dream,” I said. A psychologist in training, he talked about bisexuality and the quest for the maternal teat.
The expat man-handled Emma later on, attentions Emma didn’t exactly spurn. Perhaps she was under the influence of the red thong. Despite Emma’s assurances there was no physical attraction on either side, Leslie was a bit miffed. She didn’t feel so unique anymore. “It’s getting late,” I said. “We should get the hell outta here.” Emma grabbed us gently, trying to pull us back in for more, but I felt a yearning for home.
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