Tuesday, June 26, 2007

"And the Award Goes To..."

"And the Award Goes To..." is yet another story out of the new Erotika: Bedtime Stories, now available at Amazon.

Enjoy the tease...

I have a love/hate relationship with awards shows.

I hate these things. I hate the glitz and glamour and wearing a dress that costs more than my car is worth. I hate walking a red carpet and smiling my best smile, wearing jewelry that needs its own security guard, showing off teeth whitened especially for this event, as if having my photograph taken by a bazillion photographers is going to determine the celestial course of my life.

I love these things. I love the excitement and charge of joy that sluices through the crowd. I love the way my heels sink into that carpet and the way my dress swishes expensively around my thighs. I love being blinded by flashbulbs and deafened by the roar of fans. I love this little pit stop in the celestial course of my life.

These award shows are so common nowadays. There are awards for everything, from best commercial to best album to best funny home video. For the price of fame, you can line your mantle with a golden bowl of popcorn, a record plaque or two, a statue of a little naked man encased in gold. The only thing surprising about the awards shows is that bright and shining moment of political incorrectness. The moment the trophy goes to someone who bucks tradition and the usual thank-you-to-management line.

I took pride in my political incorrectness underneath the business-like fa├žade.

I stepped out of the limousine and took Bryon’s waiting arm. We were both dressed in black. The flashbulbs danced off the diamond at my throat. My high heels sank into the carpet. His good looks drew quite a bit of female attention from the onlookers. Strong of body and with a shy smile, Bryon looked the part of the classic heartthrob.

“Who is your date?” A photographer yelled while flashbulbs made little white spots in front of my eyes.

“He’s just a friend,” I said with an air of finality that ended the questions.

That’s when I felt it. I sucked in a sharp, startled breath. My knees went weak. I clenched his arm hard enough to leave marks with my nails. “Not here, not out on the carpet,” I whimpered.

Bryon leaned close to my ear, whispering low enough that even the most sensitive microphones couldn’t pick it up. “Just a friend, huh?”

My eyes trailed down his body...down the sleek suit, the perfectly knotted tie, the finely pressed shirt...down to his hand. Buried in his pocket. Holding the remote control to the shiny silver bullet that was buried deep between my legs. I felt another jolt and my eyes flew to his. He looked back at me with a patient smile.

“I want to meet Little Jimmy Dickens,” he said, as if nothing at all out of the ordinary was happening here. I tried hard to compose myself.

“What would you say to him?” I asked.

Bryon pondered this. I stared at the pocket of his suit. He pulled his hand out into view and I breathed a sigh of relief. We stood together and smiled warmly, posing for the photographers.

“We would place bets on how many orgasms you might have before they announce Entertainer of the Year,” he said with a grin. His hand slipped into his pocket. My wary glance brought a chuckle. “Relax, kiddo,” he whispered. “Keep up all that tension, you might have a big wet spot on that dress.”

“You would like that, wouldn’t you?” I said dryly. Bryon was my friend, but he had a wickedly evil streak running right through the gentle center. Why I had ever made that bet with him way back when, I had no idea. I didn’t even remember what the bet was. But it was damn sure I had lost, and now I was walking a red carpet with a Dior dress and a vibrating bullet.

Some things just defied all reason.

No comments: