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A Banquet of Breasts (Serial #6)

by Susannah Indigo

There is no better fuck than a woman in a Halloween costume. I know this as surely as I know how to whisper the words “tantric sex” to make a woman swoon, and as surely as I know that lust is the opposite of death.

I had my eye on Marie Antoinette, or maybe Cleopatra, or maybe both deliciously together, until the Marquissa de Sade walked in with her whip and pulled my attention away. Four inch heels on silver boots that ride up her thighs, a black catsuit, black hair piled high on her head, a short black cape, and a leather mask that hides her features except for gorgeously plump red lips. Silver chains and handcuffs hang from her belt while her leather whip occasionally whistles through the air, making people jump. I have no idea who she is, but with an ass and an attitude like that, I aim to find out.

Come to Annie Braverman's Halloween Masque, disguised as one of your favorite characters the invitation read. “Jack,” my girlfriend China said sweetly to me before she left for Philadelphia on her week-long business trip, “you should be Vincent Van Gogh or some other famous artist for the party. You could be just like him some day.” China's a little starry-eyed sometimes, but I think she forgot to check out the rest of Van Gogh's story. My girlfriend thinks I'm a talented man. She tells me this way too often. It's a bitch to have someone believe in you so much when you don't believe in yourself anymore.

So I kissed her goodbye at the airport and then found myself a more appropriate costume, as Don Juan de . . . Boulderado. A cape, some boots, my long hair pulled back in a ponytail, black mask, tight pants padded in the crotch, and a trusty sword. Throw in a little swashbuckling and I'm on the prowl for the night. Maybe I look more like Zorro than Don Juan, but it will do.

There must be over a hundred women here, most of whom I don't know. I love women. They love me. I just love too many of them too often, and some might say that makes me a womanizer, or a bit of a cad. But on the edge of a new millennium, I'd prefer to think of myself as a polyamorist, or at least a polyeroticist. Many loves, much sex, but always with China as my primary partner and love. The spice on the side is just that. Now if I could only figure out how to explain this theory to China and see if she goes for it.

The Spice Girls are here, mini-skirted and cute, but they're not my type. I like 'em strong and smart. Bill and Hillary have arrived, and I notice that tonight she's smoking the cigar. A woman with definite possibilities. The abominable snowman stands in the doorway, fully-furred from head to toe, grunting rather than speaking. With that kind of power on display, I almost wish it was a woman underneath. Several devils roam the room and Tinkerbell looks ready to fly.

Annie's outdone herself—the street in front of her office building is cordoned off with ropes, and hundred of tiny white and orange lights brighten the night. The party flows from the street through her big blue basement room and out back into the walled garden. There's a bit of a Mardi Gras feel afoot. Annie's one of those people who can put things together that other people can't. She's become a good friend, but right now she's a person who knows way too much about me. The night after she responded to my ad in the newspaper, we met for a quick drink and made a deal—her silence with China about my secret life in trade for my free services.

It wasn't exactly a personal ad, just my tiny back page classified in Westword for my sideline photography business. "X- Rated Photographer—in your home or my studio" is all that it says, along with my secret studio phone number. Well, that, and it said something about young pretty models being needed. But Annie was calling to get a hot picture taken of herself to send to her lover Sam in San Francisco. She used a fake name, and unfortunately I didn't recognize her voice until I'd hit on her, making a few suggestions as to how we could proceed and how I'd help to get her wet and make her nipples very hard for the photo shoot.

"Porn is the only kind of "art" I make money from any more," I explained to her when I sheepishly met her afterwards, "and I don't want China to know that. She thinks I'm living off my graphic design and still painting all the time." I knew the porn wasn't really Annie's concern, but I turned on my charm. "Deliberate lewdness, Annie, that's what Nabokov called it, and he said the urge for an artist to create pornography is like the verve of a fine poet in a wanton mood," I offered, appealing to her intellectual side. "Picasso kept pornographic notebooks that were made public after his death. Even Mark Twain wrote pornography!" This is all true, but I'm not sure she was buying any of it.

I haven't seen Annie much since then. Tonight I'll just avoid her—she's busy hosting and fiddle-dee-deeing as Scarlett O'Hara. My attention belongs now to the mysterious Cleopatra who is standing close and flirting with me, her breasts practically hanging out of her purple silken outfit and her eyes so heavily lined in black that she might as well be wearing a mask. There is a trellis in the back of the garden that provides a good hiding spot, and I think Cleopatra would look lovely on her knees there with one of my hands holding her black wig and the other down her wispy halter top as I teach her the secrets of a "tantric" blow job.

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