The Stripes

I was just doing the dishes when Stephen called. He sounded excited, almost hysterical, definitely worried and disturbed.
His penis had gotten stripes overnight.

“Get out of here,” I said and laughed as I wiped my wet hands on my pants. This could take awhile.

“Really!” Stephen cried. “Really, let me come over and show you.”

Show me? Your cock? I mean this has to be a brand new line. A line I’ve never heard before.
Stephen and I go way back, back all the way to grade school, and although he put his tongue once or twice in my mouth, we never took it any further.
Most people I know say its not possible – a man and a woman just being friends – sooner or later sex always gets in the way - but Stephen and I, we prove them wrong.

“Lisa,” he said, “I’m coming over and that’s that.”
That’s that, is something Stephen says often, but he really means end of discussion.
It takes him only 15 minutes to get to my apartment so I quickly looked in the mirror. No way could I look at his penis with this face.
I stripped, jumped in for a 4 and a half minute shower and slapped some of my very expensive face cream all over my body.
Thank Goodness I always have a brand new pair of underwear in my closet in case of emergency.
This was definitely an emergency.
So I put on my sexy black and white bra and panty set, threw back on my jeans and a T-shirt. It was just Stephen after all.
Twelve minutes later, I was still brushing my hair when the doorbell rang.
Holy cow, he must really have speeded.
I started doing my lashes when he pressed his finger insistently on the buzzer making me smear some mascara on my face.
“Shit Stephen,” I said into the intercom, “can’t you wait a second?”
“Not a second longer,” he shouted while I looked in the mirror. I looked good. I could hear him rushing up all four flights of stairs. He didn’t even breath heavy, he is in good shape.

“So, where do you want to do it? In the kitchen? In the bathroom?”
He just stared at me. “In the bedroom of course, do you think this is funny?”
He pushed me into the bedroom and opened the fly of his jeans. He surely is quick when he sets his mind to it.
“Look at that Lisa,” he said, “look at that.”
I took a good look. I took a really good look. Well, there were definitely stripes. Not black and white like a zebra, more brown and reddish like an ancient painting. His penis was really big, bigger as I thought and surprisingly smooth.
“It looks pretty,” I said. I meant it from the bottom of my heart.
“Are you nuts? Pretty! It’s a fucking nightmare!” he yelled.
He ruffled through is hair with both hands while I looked at his problem.
“Did you try to wash it off?”
“Wash it off?” he cried, “I scrubbed it raw, see, look here, my balls are bruised!” And he showed me more and more.
“But it really looks pretty”, I said, “like a painting”, and he froze.
“Liz Hurley!” he cried, “I‘ll kill her!”
“Liz Hurley?” He didn’t answer me as he wildly punched numbers into his mobile and I continued looking at his wild thing. It seemed to have a life of it own.
“You slept with Liz Hurley?” I mouthed as he waved and his thing waved too.
“Just an Indian look-a-like,” he mouthed back, “I’ll kill her.”
He dumped her over the phone something I normally think is extremely rude but didn’t bother me at the moment.
“The nerve of that bitch,” he said, “ painting my cock while I was sleeping.”
“It looks cool” I said.
“Do you think so?”
It was probably the glimmer in his eyes, the whole ridiculous situation, Stephen still with his pants down, the fact that he slept with a Liz Hurley look-a-like, I don’t know, but life sometimes takes the most unexpected turns.
“I also have stripes. Do you want to see them?” I asked

He did.

The Ultimate Party

Looking at herself in the mirror Myra thought about what to wear that night. It felt like a day for red. The red dress. The dress that made her look voluptuous, and curvy; the one that hugged all the right places, felt good, and was easy to wear. The only question was whether to go the vamp route this night or more punk-like. High heels or army boots? A hat?

She’d probably regret high heels later in the evening, she always did. She thought of putting a pair of flats in her handbag but that was for sissies. Boots and a leather jacket would tone it all down a bit.
She’d be overdressed either way. Though she wanted this to be the ultimate party it probably wouldn’t be.

But what better place to meet new people than a party? So she put up her hair, put on the big dangling earrings, the red lipstick, the red pumps, and went out in a cloud of perfume.

…

There weren’t that many people at the party when she arrived. She frowned; everybody came late the days until there was hardly any time left to party. She said hello to everybody, fetched herself a beer, and joined a group of people she didn’t know to make new friends. If possible.

…

There she was again, thought Laura. This Myra. Always the same. She entered the room like she owned it in her terrible clinging dress. Laura would never have worn something so tight, so short, so clinging, showing so much cleavage. Horrible.
Wherever this woman went there was a whirl in the crowd. Squeals, laughter, disturbance. She talked all the time, as if anybody was interested in her stupid stories, she went from group to group, on to the buffet, loading her plate with food, not waiting for anybody.

Laura was glad that she at least knew how to behave.
…

Phew, this is boring, Myra thought. Maybe it’d get better later when there would be dancing. Maybe.
So far there were a lot of familiar faces, and as usual, people were stiff and as mute as maggots. She already got tired of her own jokes.
She saw Laura sitting on the other side of the room. In the corner as always. Such a beige girl. Short beige hair, beige face, all her makeup in pastels, and wearing black. Again. That woman looked like she could use some fun. And makeup. Nice earrings though.
And, Myra thought to herself, I don’t know how she does it, already most of the men in the room are drifting towards her. Drawn in by the pale, obviously.

Well, at least I can choose whom I speak to, Myra thought, looking for the promising looking guy she’d seen earlier, going after him, isolating him from his companions, and dragging him on the dance floor. Dancing was always a good way to determine whether someone had potential. Or not.
This guy didn’t look that good on the dance floor. He slinked off as soon as he could. He didn’t like to dance; neither did anybody else. Apart from Myra, that is. So she went right to the middle to dance alone.

…

Laura barely heard what that huge blonde guy standing by her side was telling her. Despite the fact that he was practically yelling in her ear she had forgotten it the minute she heard it. The nerve that woman on the dance floor had. Starting to dance even though everybody was looking at her. How embarrassing. And she wasn’t even dancing properly. No, she had to twirl all over the place, waving her arms about and grinning at people. Laura shuddered. Suddenly she wanted to go home. It had been a mistake to come in the first place. It was boring. She just wasn’t the type for parties, parties were for outgoing, extrovert people not for shy people like her. Inwardly she cursed the friend who had persuaded her to attend. She should have known better. A party was not a good way to meet somebody new. She promised herself to go as soon as she could without drawing attention to herself. Then she would go home, despite what her friend would be saying, eat some dark chocolate, have a glass of wine, and watch “Singing in the Rain.”

…

Boring, boring, Myra thought. At least it was better to be bored while dancing than while standing around next to boring people making boring conversation. The others didn’t look, they never did. As if dancing were only possible without any eye contact at all. Nobody looked interesting. She had checked. Twice. She had even talked to the group of musicologists in a corner between the buffet table and the piano. Dull as dishwater.
There had to be exciting people somewhere in the universe but certainly not here. Should she stay a bit longer? There surely would be more people coming in later.

On a sudden impulse she picked up her handbag and jacket, found the host in the kitchen, told him a big story about how she’d love to stay, how sorry she was, and that she had to get up very early the next day, so sorry, great party, ciao.
She walked home all the way, through the drizzling rain in her spiky high heels. An hour later she opened her door, changed into her pajama and woolen socks, opened a beer and a bag of potato chips, and stayed up late to watch “Funny Face” with Fred Astaire.