by Liv Morris
“Coming,” a shaky voice beckons from behind the door. “Almost there,” she crackles. The door opens and the cutest little old lady extends her arms. “Scotty! Give Me Maw a hug.”
Not sure what to do, I lean forward and accept her embrace. “Trick o’ treat,” I say into her poof of silver hair.
Pinching my waist, she rattles, “You’re as thin as a rail, Scotty! Come in, we’ll have some crab dip and watch Jeopardy.”
“Uh, okay,” I agree. She scoots through the entryway wearing leopard-print slippers and Christmas socks. I should turn around and leave, but the apartment is exactly like my real Me Maw’s house in Nacogdoches! Picture frames everywhere, and little bowls of those nasty orange peanuts stashed on every table. There’s even an identical lamp to my Me Maw’s antique from New Orleans - the one with a carriage as the base and red fringe hanging from the shade. This is trippy.
Unaware of her mental state, I quietly say, “Me Maw, I can only stay for a few minutes.”
She sits on a velvet love seat and passes me a tray of crackers. “Crab dip is your favorite, Scotty!”
I place my bag of candy on the floor and sit in a floral chair adorned with a lace doily. Taking a small bite of the crab dip, I decide to play along. After all, Halloween is the one night when role-playing is perfectly acceptable. Besides, I have a few minutes to kill, and she seems like a nice granny that just wants some company. “Delicious dip as always, Me Maw,” I compliment with a smile.
“Scotty, how’s Boy Scouts? Did you get all your patches?” she asks.
Not only does she think I’m her grandson, but apparently, ten-years old. “Oh, I need a few more.” I take another cracker with dip and watch the television.
“What is pumpernickel?” she shouts at the screen.
And she’s right.
It’s none of my business, but I feel inclined to make sure she’s okay living alone. “Me Maw, how are you feeling?”
She slaps her knee and laughs. “My damn cataracts are acting up, but other than that, I’m as fit as a fiddle, sweetie.”
I take a moment to look around her apartment. It’s neat and tidy and there aren’t any signs that she’s been forced to save her pension and eat cat food. Her clothes are clean and everything smells okay. Dozens of family photos line the walls - she’s loved by her family. “Me Maw, when was I here last?”
“Who is Clark Gable? Last week, Scotty. Your mother came with you - that little bitch,” she mumbles under her breath.
Noted.
“Me Maw, I really have to leave soon. Do you need anything?”
Saddened, she looks at me and pouts. “But you just got here!”
“I know, but it’s Halloween.”
She smiles and nods her head in understanding. “Well, where’s your costume? Do you need me to help you put something together?” She stands from the sofa with wobbly legs and pats my head. “Come with me, you can borrow one of Poppy’s old zoot suits.”
Not wanting to alarm her, I follow behind and keep up the charade. “No need, I have a costume,” I say.
“Oh Scotty, you can’t be Spiderman every year - try something new.”
The loud doorbell chimes. Ding, dong, ding, dong.
“I’ll get it - probably kids trick-or-treating,” I offer. “Do you have any candy to hand out?”
“Nonsense! I put the roll of quarters by the door. Kids love to have their own money.” She smiles as she threads her arm through mine.
Passing by the floral chair, I bend to pick up my bag of candy. I can secretly give the kids candy when she’s not looking and then get the hell out of here. We open the door together and … fuck!
Standing in the doorway is a man and woman - and a boy dressed as Spiderman. They stare at me blankly, but as the seconds pass, their expressions change to fear.
“Scotty!” Me Maw shouts, extending her arms to the Spiderman.
“Trick or treat, Me Maw,” Scotty replies quietly.
“Who the hell are you?” the man asks. He moves in front of Me Maw and narrows his eyes.
Stepping out into the hall, I reply, “She invited me in. I’m sorry, but she thought I was Scotty.” Saying it out loud only confirms my poor judgment.
“Ma, who is this guy?” he asks.
“I - I’m not sure. I was confused.” She rubs her temples and shakes her head. “Come on, Scotty! I made crab dip to eat while we watch Double Jeopardy!” The real Scotty and the “bitch” follow Me Maw into her apartment.
I’m left standing, silently defending myself to a man with a senile mother. Taking a step closer toward me, he pokes my chest. “If you come near her again, I will personally hunt you down and destroy you.”
I puff my chest - I don’t deserve to be threatened. “It won’t happen again,” I say, slamming my shoulder against his as I walk away.
When I reach the end of the hall, I glance back at the apartment and exhale in relief. I’m brought back to reality when several kids in costumes race out of the elevator and run past me - shit, I still need to get candy for Trent.
The apartment door on my right is decorated with cutesy, child-crafted ghosts and pumpkins. I knock quietly. A moment later, a little girl dressed in a princess costume answers the door. Before I can scold her for opening the door to a stranger, a boy around Trent’s age joins her.
He’s not wearing a costume and his face is smug. The boy snickers and asks, “Where are your kids?”
“I don’t have any,” I answer.
“Are you a fucking pervert?” he insults, stepping in front of his sister.
“What? No!” I answer defensively. Although, if I’m really honest with myself, this whole idea to help Trent get candy is kinda strange, maybe even something a pervert would do. However, this has become a personal quest - not a favor to some kid, but a mission to win. My competitive nature will always be a part of who I am, even if I don’t really know what it is I’m exactly winning.
“Listen, punk,” I spit out between clenched teeth. “I’m with the bureau of the New York City safety initiative. There are reports that you are providing tampered candy to unassuming little kids. I’m required to confiscate all your goods or be forced to take you to the precinct for questioning.”
Full of fear, the boy replies, “Okay, Mister.” He shoves bags and bags of candy at my waist as the little girl runs into the apartment yelling for her mom.
“And the bags over there as well,” I demand, pointing to extra bags on a table.
He hurries to retrieve them from the nearby table. Freaked, he shouts, “This is all we got - don’t tell my mom.” He shuts the door in my face.
Mission Two: Accomplished.
That was easy. Holding four giant-sized bags of Willy Wonka candy - Nerds, Runts, Gobstoppers, Laffy Taffy and those shitty Bottle Caps - I contemplate my next move. I should be getting ready for my date with Lena, but instead, I’m roaming around my apartment building like a middle school Halloween vigilante. At this rate, I’ll make the ten o’clock news as the Upper East Side Halloween Pervert.
Deciding I look like a chump carrying so much candy in dress slacks and a scruffy beard, I head back to my apartment. Once inside, I stash a bag of Willy Wonka in my kitchen cabinet (finder’s fee) and grab a beer from the refrigerator. I can take a quick shower and still be at Lena’s apartment on time.
There’s a knock on the door. I carry Trent’s bag of candy with me just in case.
“Trick or treat!” the little kids scream in unison as I open the door.
I pass out Hershey bars to a bloody leprechaun, a ghost-like doll, and a Dracula with blond hair. “Don’t y’all look scary!”
Excited with their treats, they chant, “Thank you!”
I nod at the designated parent escorting the kids - I feel his pain. Trick-or-treating as an adult sucks. Closing the door, I search for a bowl or basket to leave outside my door. I can’t keep answering the door all night …
Knock, knock.
I open the door to
find Libby, witch-free and determined. She’s holding a six-pack of beer and arching her eyebrows in that way - the one a woman uses to seduce men.
“Hi, Chris. How about that beer?” Libby thrusts the bottles into my chest and walks past me. “Wow, your apartment is really pink!”
My apartment is pink because the previous tenant adored pink. Months later, I’m still waiting for the goddamn co-op board to approve my remodeling request. “What can I say? I’m a sensitive guy.”
Libby glances back over her shoulder with a sinister smile. “Even the bedroom?” she asks, walking toward my room.
Ah, shit. Not now - I have to be somewhere in an hour.
I place the beer on the counter next to my cold pizza and walk after her. By the time I catch up with Libby, she’s made her way onto the edge of my bed. Patting the spot next to her and popping open the top buttons to her shirt, she moans, “My divorce is final and I need to be fucked.”
Whoa.
Let me think this scenario through logically in five seconds or less. Five. I have an attractive woman sitting on my bed trying to seduce me. She’s inviting me to have sex without any of the foreplay. Four. It’s been weeks for me, and surely she’s been abstinent during her divorce. We’re both horny adults looking for some casual fun. Three. Being on the same floor in the same apartment building could pose complications. I’ve met her ex-husband - total douche. Two. Lena White is waiting for me. One. Libby brought Heineken. That decides it - I cannot have sex with a woman that drinks that shit.
“So, listen, Libby,” I start.
“Chris, please don’t turn me down,” she begs as her eyes begin to water.
I sit down next to her and place my arm around her shoulders. “Libby, I can’t. You deserve better than a one-night stand - and I can’t even commit to a cable company.”
Sobbing, she mumbles, “I know. But maybe that’s what I need - one night to feel something, anything.”
Libby is attractive and nice but her divorce comes with baggage. Although her baggage isn’t really the main issue, it’s more that I’m focused on my career and only have time for casual sex. If I met her at a bar, I would totally take her home, but this is awkward because I know she needs more. And hey, what’s the best solution in an awkward situation? Laughter.
Smiling, I say, “Libby, I can make you feel something, if that’s all you want. Would you like that? Lay down and hold still.” We both laugh as I attempt to unbuckle my belt. “C’mon, girl - let’s do the Texas Tangle.”
We fall back on the bed laughing, my hand resting on her hip.
“Oh, Chris. I needed that,” Libby says breathlessly.
“Animals need sex, humans want companionship.” Sitting up from the bed, I rub her leg. “You need to find a man that can give you both.”
Libby exhales and then buttons her top. “Easier said than done - seeing as how my first attempt didn’t go so well.”
“Libby, I’m the one that’s embarrassed.”
Libby sits up and rests her head on my arm. “Let’s just agree to never talk about this night?”
Can this night get any stranger?
I stand up from the bed and smile. “Deal.” After pulling her up from the bed, I twirl her around and do a two-step toward my closet. “I want to show you my costume,” I say. As I remove the plaid shirt and belt buckle from the Salvation Army bag, Libby laughs and shakes her head.
“I don’t get it?”
“A cowboy in Manhattan.”
“But what about the large hat and boots?” she asks.
With a smirk, I kick open my closet door to reveal my favorite boots beneath my tailored suits. Proudly, I point to the upper shelf housing my vintage, black Stetson. “Will these do?”
***
8:24 p.m.
After presenting Trent with the candy liquidation, I decide to take a cab to Lena’s apartment in fear of being unfashionably late. I read her text to the cab driver, repeating the address several times before he understands. My accent’s not that bad. When we arrive at the location, I remove ten bucks from my wallet and pay the driver. He grunts in appreciation and then speeds off into traffic. Dumbass.
Lena’s building is ten times more posh than mine. Not a single doorman with a pumpkin-themed tie. Nope, her doormen are dressed in wool suits with gold-fringed lapels.
“May I help you, sir?”
“Sure. I’m meeting Lena White,” I answer.
“There’s no one here with that name, sir. Please follow me to the desk so I may assist you.” The doorman leads me to a gold desk straight from textbook pictures of Versailles during the French Revolution.
I remove my phone and text Lena.
ME: I’m downstairs in the lobby.
LENA: I’ll be right down.
“Hey, she’s coming down to meet me,” I say arrogantly as I walk toward the elevators.
Against a wall, I pose like Clint Eastwood during the final sunset of a western flick. Head down, hat tipped, and one boot lazily crossed over the other. As the elevator door opens, I see the tips of her black pumps first, then raising my head, take in the rest of her outfit. A little black dress, off the shoulders and sexy as hell.
She gives me a tiny smile before stepping back inside the elevator. Holding the door, Lena suggests, “Let’s have a drink upstairs before we leave.”
Joining her in the elevator, I ask, “So what’s your real name, Ms. White?” I move within inches of her body, staring down and eliminating any doubt she may have of my objective. The tension is unbearable - the sexual tension is unbelievable.
Lena returns my concentrated gaze, but her full lips twitch into a smile. “My name is Lena. Do you want the drink or not?” she asks, enunciating every word.
Ready to challenge her smart, ruby-stained mouth, I’m interrupted by the opening of the elevator doors. She quickly exits the elevator, looking over her shoulder at me just once. But goddamn, that look she gives me … I’m in way over my head.
Lena leads me into her apartment, or rather, a temptress’ bachelorette lair. The first things I notice are the chill in the room and the multitude of closed doors. It’s cold and mysterious, like an elegant catacomb with secrets - possibly a dungeon or two as well. Every wall is painted charcoal gray, except for the one wallpapered in gray and black plaid. The lighting is minimal, seeing as how the chandeliers are candles and the lamp shades are red silk. Black velvet furniture, gray carpet, red pillows, and an entire wall that resembles an ancient library. The only lightness in the apartment is a large white canvas above the sofa—but even that has what appears to be a blood spatter.
“So, Adam told me you were researching a case.”
Pouring cognac into tiny black glasses, she says, “Mr. Ford shouldn’t have told you that. Shall we toast?”
I’m a dude, and I take masculine pride in never saying omigod in public - I even avoid it internally for fear it could slip out, but … Oh. My. God! Somehow, I just walked onto the set of American Psycho, cue Huey Lewis and the News.
I take the glass from her hand and casually sniff the liquid. “To new friends,” I declare in a scratchy voice.
Lena smiles and taps her glass against mine. “Yes, to new friends and new experiences.”
I take a drink, letting the cognac swirl around my mouth before swallowing. It’s pretty good, and it’s fucking sexy that this woman drinks like a man. “Shall we retreat to the parlor for a cigar?” I tease, trying to lighten the mood.
Lena places her glass on the bar cart and then takes mine, her red nails scraping against my hand as she transfers the glass. She removes my hat and tosses it on a chair with a tiny smirk. Her hands then glide over my chest, teasing and mocking my thrift store shirt.
“These clothes won’t do,” she scorns. Lena unlatches my stubborn belt buckle, the difficulty of the task forcing her tits to press together and spill over her dress. After noticing the name engraved on my rodeo buckle, Lena’s mouth curls into a genuine smile. Then with her smile disa
ppearing, she rips it off and throws the belt to the floor, the tacky gold contrasting against the chic gray carpet.
I place my hands on her hips but she viciously slaps them away. All right, Lena - take control. My shirt comes next. Lena traces each button with her finger before finally setting it free. Her cool hands reach inside my shirt, caressing my sides and delicately massaging my shoulders. She shakes the shirt off and kisses my chest. One, two, three pecks. Red stains from her lips form a trail of feminine seduction along my chest. I inhale and hold my breath as her hand slides inside the waistband of my jeans.
“Lena,” I moan.
“Shh,” she commands.
Unbuttoning my jeans and pulling them over my hips, she follows them to the floor. Her hands squeeze my thighs, holding her weight as she positions herself on her knees. More kissing. She kisses every inch of my legs, leaving me covered in red lipstick. When her mouth nears my briefs, I nearly lose it, especially when she grabs my ass. I stay still and give her what she wants. After her hand grazes my nuts and then slowly glides along Big Tex, I smile - this blow job is going to be amazing.
Looking up at me, she says, “Wait here.” With a gentle squeeze of my crotch and tiny bite on my stomach, Lena stands and walks away. She opens one of the many doors and closes it behind her.
This is definitely different, but there’s nothing wrong with changing things up. Kicking off my boots and removing my jeans, I contemplate this new experience. What harm is there in a little candle wax or rope? She might be a little dominating, but I find it extremely sensual. It’s decided. I will let her do whatever freaky shit she wants as long as …
“What the hell is that?” I shout as she walks toward me.
Draped across her arms is what looks like a tweed jacket and a bowtie. Oh shit, and a pipe. This just went from an erotic fantasy to an awkward role-playing game. I’ve read about fetishes and sex games that involve a reversal of power and the occasional props, but I just want a blow job - not dress like some creepy old dude and be bossed around. Reaching for my jeans, Lena approaches me with a frown.
“Chris, this isn’t what you think. But if you do something for me, a favor that would require one hour of your time, I promise to bring you back here and do whatever you want.” Lena places the jacket and tie on the chair with my Stetson, and then tosses me a black T-shirt.
