“You write that Man Eater blog, don’t you?” the doorman said as he checked my ID and slid a band around my wrist.
“Why, yes, I do,” I said. Normally I’d blush, but this kind of salutation has become awfully common lately…and while the recognition is flattering, it also puts a bit of pressure on me to live up to my reputation.
Luckily, the man I attended this party with was provocative enough for the both of us.
“I’d say we should go hit a strip club if they weren’t so expensive,” he said between gulps of beer.
My eyebrows must’ve shot up to the ceiling, because he asked, “You have been to one, haven’t you?”
“No…”
“But you’re the Man Eater!”
“Which is why I wouldn’t be at a strip club,” I said. “I know what a naked woman looks like. And they don’t do it for me.”
“There are tons of men there. If you walked up to one and put your hand on his arm…”
I shook my head. “The quality of men that go to strip clubs—”
“Hey, now!” my peep said, waving both hands toward his chest. “I’ve gone to strip clubs. You’re saying you wouldn’t…with someone like me?”
Well…hmm...he was cut, tall, and charming. He’s also one of the few men I actually enjoy more when he’s drinking. There’s just one problem.
“You’re married,” I said. “Which only proves my point. Those are the kinds of guys that hang out in strip clubs.”
This titillating conversation was cut short when the first band of the evening began to play. It was two chicks and their cellos. They called themselves Eve and the Apple. That title, combined with the images evoked during the stripper conversation, planted the seed for my costume.
When it came time to choose, the decision was a no brainer. My disguise had to be sexy, corset-esque, and evil. Hello, Eve, plus plastic apple purse and stuffed snake! Though the get-up cost more than I’d usually spend on something I was only going to wearg twice, I rationalized the splurge as a business expense as my Pictures of Then peeps were having a “costumes encouraged” show on the Friday of Halloweekend.
The dress was a success. Though I was the most naked I’d ever been in public before, I felt completely comfortable. Sure, the hem of my dress barely covered my butt in back, but with a lacy boy-short style panty on, all my assets were covered. And I haven’t even mentioned the boobs yet. While the DD’s featured on the costume’s model were much yummier than mine, I made do with a flesh-hued strapless number and a little heave-hoeing to keep those puppies perky and in place.
I’m pretty sure the boys noticed…in fact, they followed suit, stripping down to short shorts and sports tanks for the show. It was hot. Doubly cool: Mike Devins caught it all in a video so sharp, you can taste the sweat on my boys’…um…brows. (See below.)
The next night, a.k.a. Halloween Eve, I rocked the Eve costume again…at Rock the Cause’s Phantasmagoria (I swear there’s an orgasm in there somewhere), a benefit for an incredible non-profit organization.
Within 5 minutes of my arrival, a familiar face approached me.
“Hey, you were at that show last night!” he said.
“Yes, I was. I remember you,” I said. The dude and I had chatted briefly about PofT’s brilliance. Tonight, he was in costume, too (though all I remember now is a jersey of some sort and a few blackened teeth. Football player, perhaps?)
“I suppose I should be embarrassed that you’ve seen me in the same outfit two nights in a row,” I said.
“I recognized you because of your face,” he replied. “But maybe I should be looking elsewhere?”
On any other day, I’d happily swallow that sweet excuse. But in this get-up, even when I looked in the mirror, my eyes zeroed in immediately on my delicious tits. If I had a cock, I’d totally have given myself a hard-on. But I digress.
“So…there was talk last night that you’re that writer,” he said. “But I’m from New York, so I wouldn’t know.”
“Oh, um, yeah, I have a blog,” I said nonchalantly. “And a book.”
For once, I wasn’t up for bragging about my Man Eater status.
“I didn’t get what the buzz was about,” he said. “I deal with press all the time.”
I wasn’t about to inform him that my recent City Pages interview had sparked a hater parade on the comments section of the Hot Dish blog. The last thing I needed was another judgmental a-hole raking me over the coals.
NY Guy wasn’t my type, but he was nice. Attractive, even. But as I’ve mentioned, I don’t feel particularly open to a new affair right now. I’d take someone back (Ahem! You know who you are!), but I’m tired of the whole getting-to-know-you rigamarole, especially when the possibility that I’ll still know the person six months down the line is slim. Factor in long-distance geographical complications and…ugh…it’s too much turmoil.
Like refusing to buy Reese’s peanut butter cups at the grocery store so I won’t leave myself the opportunity to binge on them late at night, I didn’t want this interaction with NY Guy to progress beyond polite conversation. So I kept my guard up. NY Guy was not getting anywhere with me, unless he pulled a rabbit out of his hat. (Or a magic wand out of his pants, lol.)
As though reading my dirty mind, NY Guy reached over and squeezed my snake. (This was not the first abusive incident my poor serpentine suffered. Over Halloweekend, my snake was fondled more times than I can count, plus stuffed down one guy’s shorts and forced to lick another guy’s chest.)
“Is it real?” NY guy asked.
I forced a smile. How would he feel if I grabbed his snake and asked if it was real?
“It’s a little limp, don’t you think?” I said. “If it was real, it’d be dead.”
He shrugged as if to say, “I simply had to ask.”
Saved by the bell. Or rather, the Call. Casey Call. The frontman of Pictures of Then appeared behind me and I sighed with relief as though I’d finally found my lifesaver. I introduced the dudes.
“You guys are a real tight unit,” NY Guy said to Casey. Tight is right. Tight in all the right places…hmmmmmmmmm…
Wait. Where was I?
Oh, yeah. Just in case your mind, like mine, is in the gutter, I should state that Casey and I are not an item. (In my dreams, maybe…or my masturbation fantasies…) After he popped my Rock Star Guest Chef cherry back in June, I offered to help promote his band Pictures of Then. It truly is a labor of love, as I haven’t seen a cent (yet?). I do, however, consider myself damn lucky to have a “boss” that babealicious, with whom I must attend networking events.
Casey and I mesh so well together that it was once a point of tension between me and New Dude. Though New Dude didn’t complain, per se, I could sense the suspicion from my ex-boyfriend. And I don’t blame him. Ping-ponging texts during dates, sharing my secret weapon of seduction (a.k.a. my pepperoni bread), and swapping innuendo-laden jokes with a guy as desirable as Casey would make my “say whaaaaat?” radar go wild, too. But it’s not like that. It’s just business as usual. Which, on this night, was very unusual indeed.
Phantasmagoria was held in a three-story condo that looked like nothing special from the street; the treat was that inside, it was the most tricked-out place I’d ever seen. The dining room table was shaped like a guitar, there was a room dedicated solely to Twilight Zone patient paraphernalia; a breakfast nook shaped like a life-sized half-teacup; a private movie theater and staging area with balcony; a spiral staircase, hidden passageways, and all sorts of sexy places to explore…
…like a love den.
“Oh!” I exclaimed as I crouched down and peeked through a curtain of beads. “Hello, again.”
Inside the love den, on a circular couch, was my former rock star guest chef, Matthew Inkala, and his girlfriend, Medusa…err, I mean Maria (disguised as Medusa).
“Do you want to go in?” I asked Casey.
Stupid question. I should know by now that a man rarely refuses to stick his head in mysterious openings.
In fact, looking back, that room was rather cunt-like, architecturally-speaking. After squeezing through the narrow entry, it opened up into this womb-like dome, complete with, yup, vagina lighting.
“I love when the lights turn this shade,” Casey said, pointing at the chandelier as the bulbs darkened to a lush scarlet hue.
The Grim Reaper slid through the entryway silently and sat down beside Casey. I had no idea who was beneath the creepy veneer and he didn’t give any clues as our companions volleyed ideas around the room on how to make Death laugh. Soon our conversation swerved from her burlesque artwork to drizzling syrup on your lover.
“I’m getting major make-out vibes from this room,” I said as I squirmed on the couch next to Casey.
“Like there should be a bottle spinning somewhere?” he asked.
“Exactly! I feel like I’m in high school…and it’s making me uncomfortable.”
(Yes, I actually said that. And yes, it was true. Imagine how a woman on a diet would feel dropped in the middle of VooDoo Doughnuts. That’s how anxiety-riddled this experience was for me.)
“Let’s move on, then,” he said.
We slipped out of the room and let our ears lead us toward the sounds of Cadillac Kolstad.
“I’m sorry. I totally backed into you,” Casey apologized to my friend, and cheesecake maven, Tami.
“That’s okay,” she said with a smile. “I kind of liked it.”
“You have no idea how many times I’ve been told that before,” Casey replied without missing a beat. I couldn’t help but beam at how well my rock star was, ahem, performing for the ladies.
Casey headed toward the bar to refill his classy plastic cup. The place was so packed with partiers, he barely made it two steps.
“Getting to this bar may be the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life,” he exclaimed as throngs of people pushed past us.
“Let me try,” I said, slithering ahead of him. Casey looked confused. What could I possibly do that he couldn’t?
“Nakedness gets you places faster,” I explained.
“In that case,” he said. “Let the cleavage lead.”
Alcohol in hand, I asked, “Do you want to go down?”
Casey chuckled.
“What?” I asked, glancing down to make sure my tits hadn’t jumped ship.
“You just asked if I wanted to go down,” Casey said.
“I can’t believe I didn’t catch that!” (See? I was in appropriate employee mode! The naughty part of my brain was completely turned off.) “But now that you mention it…”
We did go down…stairs, where we shook some more hands, talked shop, and uploaded photos to Facebook. Then we hugged goodbye.
“Good job on the costume,” Casey said before he took off. He hadn’t worn one (though when someone asked what Casey was dressed as, I replied on his behalf: “A rock star.” The commenter’s response: “It works for you, man!”)
Before my spook-tacular festivities (I was too pooped to party on Halloween proper) officially ended, I had to run (Ha! Impossible in those heels!) upstairs to retrieve my coat. En route, my snake was groped again. Grr! Next year, I’m donning the same costume, but copping a different identity: Poison Ivy.
Pictures of Then 501 Bar from Michael Devins on Vimeo.
As for a recipe...well, I didn't make any Halloween-themed eats this year. I bought my favorite orange-creme filled Oreos, planning to make some complicated cheesecakes out of them, but in the end, it was easier to just eat the cookies than bake with them. So, in lieu of something new, I'm bringing back my WTF fudge, which is a perfect way to use up all that extra Halloween candy you moderated eaters must have around your house.
WTF? FUDGE
Ingredients
1 bag chocolate chips
1 can sweetened condensed milk
1 tablespoon butter
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 cup mix-ins (anything but candy corn)
Method
• Line 8 x 8 pan with waxed paper.
• Combine chocolate chips and milk in medium saucepan. Heat on medium heat, stirring constantly, until chocolate melts.
• Remove saucepan from heat. Add butter and vanilla; stir until better melts.
• Stir in mix-ins, then pour immediately into pan.
• Refrigerate at least two hours.
• Enjoy in small portions or prepare for stomachache.
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