Stories for and about Boomers - III - cont. from 6/5
To Linda, my first comment
Elizabeth waited till her husband took off. Now she could head to her party. She was wearing a fine lace dress, slightly shredded, the way fashion dictates for size 2 to 6 women. Her panties were disposable, a trick she'd learned when she was a groupie. The other panties, just in case, were in her antique purse, made of silver chainlink. She had kept the make-up to a minimum. First, she didn't really need any, a trip to Pitanguy's a year took care of any imperfection. Second, she didn't want to smear make-up all over her clothes ( or his), if she got lucky at the party.

She was ready for whatever the devil might bring. The party was at a penthouse next to the very wealthy and traditional and exclusive Jatiúca Hotel. She rang the doorbell. The doorman asked for her full name. Security is never enough these days, she nodded her approval in her mind.

She came into a gigantic ballroom, in the air a perfume that could only be Yves Saint-Laurent's Paris. Ahhh! Such sweet smell of roses, expensive perfume is always the best.

Miniscule candles floated in pink crystal water bowls. Elizabeth nodded in approval of the taste of a hostess she didn't know. The candles and bowls were spread around the room, tastefully decorated. So far the décor was a Ten in her book of female taste.

Enthusiastically approved were the hors d'oeuvre, for high society women don't eat, they inhale. There were bits of Brie with apple in pastry, small portions of fake bacon with pineapple, it was all sweet and salt, just like it should be: purrfect.

And what music! Ahhhh, all of it emo, totally emo. Bonnie Rait, k.d.lang, and a full blast of You're Beautiful, by James Blunt, you can call me Mr. Six-Pack.

She tought she could flip! At the exact same time David Bowie's "Let's Dance" was playing, she gazed at someone who couldn't be anyone other than David Bowie. A loose 50s white suit, a hat, even different color eyes, he was dancing all by himself. This was as impossible as a camel going through the eye of a needle, as the good book says.

In Maceió, Alagoas? And he stared back at her, flashing a Colgate® smile, his teeth perfect, her legs shaking, she thought she was going to fall flat down to the ground. Before she did and made a fool of herself, strong hands supported her, while he, David Bowie, whispered in a minty breath, "We must dance now, my china doll..."

They danced as if guided by the Greek Muses. He wasn't David Bowie, after all. His name was Francis Leite and he owned a few business of mineral water. He held her tigh without constricting her or keeping her from breathing. Suddenly, one of his hands slid under her dress. She had anticipated the moment; shivering, she consented. He tore her paper panties. The sound of her panting was louder than a locomotive leaving a train station.

Francis Leite's hand now was more gooey than Jell-O or white glue. He kept on working on Elizabeth in earnest. She had howled some five or six times before giving in.

He had spread love bites all over her, kissed her more powerfully than a plunger would, his tongue had inspected her mouth more intensively than a dentist's cleaning. But it was all very classy, mind you. She wanted to bringing him home despite the fact he wouldn't let her touch him there or let her touch his hair. He said he had a pain condition. What a shame!

This awesome party, so finely decorated, brought about a transformation in Elizabeth. She couldn't care less about all the splendor at the penthouse. Francis Leite had brought back to life the woman she had once been and now was again. There had been nothing in common between her and her husband for decades now, except business.

Francis Leite and Elizabeth arrived at her building. It was windy now, by the beach, it was late at night, a careless move...



Francis Leite tried to fix his hat on his head in vain. The wind blew it away. Elizabeth saw long blond curls flying romantically in the wind. "Francis" got upset. Was it all over? Such a hot and willing woman?

Elizabeth had a flash of genius in her mind. Her husband was of the kind that has sex, turns over, and snores. With "Francis" she had felt a pleasure she hadn't had in many years. She asked "him," " Won't you stay with me till our relationship lasts?"

"Francis" was stunned. "You want me even knowing I am a woman?"

"Of course," said Elizabeth. "If anyone asks, we can say you are one of my cousins from Penedo."

Her cell rings and it's José, her husband. Elizabeth tells him she will give him his clothes. Her voice shows determination. She tells him that was the end of the road for a husband who screwed, turned over and snored. "Enough!" She said and hung up.

Geesh, José, thinks, this must be punishment, that's life, and from the bottom of his self-flagelation he sees a savior: Valerie, the transvestite!

He calls her, pretending all is cool, and invites himself over.

"Ah-hah! You little son of a gun, you want some more, huh? This time, though, I want some action too, okay, dearie? You can come here now..."

José takes a deep breath, thinks a lot and realizes not always one is a winner. And, besides, nobody is going to find out... And who knows if this is really good, after all?
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