Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms - Charles Austen [65]
“She lives near the town where you’ll get the car repaired. The Duesenberg gets you to her without alerting or upsetting Mindie. Anything you do beyond that will undoubtedly anger your—quote— ‘fiancée’, quite a lot.” She said ‘fiancée’ as if it were a nematode that lived parasitically off other creatures.
After a moment, she took my face firmly in her hands. “You have to decide if it’s worth that risk,” she told me.
“Short of preventing the deaths of millions of people, it’s hard to imagine anything worth upsetting Mindie.”
“Really?” asked Aunt Helena. “Not even true love?”
The drive down was long and hard for all the men in the car— including the pastor—in every sense of the word. We were in the front, the pastor and I, Morgan in the third, far-rear seat, with the ladies in the middle seat between us. I missed having Morgan closer to me. He was a far better distraction than the pastor, and when disaster struck—as it inevitably would—I would feel better about using him as a human shield than I would a man of God.
“When you said ‘ lap snorkeling’,” Mindie ventured of Ms. Waboombas, her voice dropping into a near-silent register so she could give the pastor the option of pretending he couldn’t hear, “you meant like—oral sex on a man’s thingie—that type of thing, right?”
Just by the way she said it I could tell I was never getting any in my lifetime. Another dream shattered on the harsh and forbidding shores of the Mindie Islands.
But now Ms. Nuckeby’s gentle sands lay only ten miles or so ahead, and with them—hope. I found myself looking forward to this trip more than I ever could when it was just a comics convention, or a chapel shopping expedition. Helena was right. I needed to give Ms. Nuckeby a chance. I mean, really. I already knew she looked good naked. We were ninety-nine percent there.
“What did you think I meant?” Ms. Waboombas asked. “Oh, well, that is what I thought you meant, of course,” Mindie said. “I was just confirming. I had always assumed actresses might be confronted with that sort of thing, anyway, even though they claim the casting couch is no longer an issue. I just wanted to make sure that it wouldn’t hurt my chances if I decided—you know—not to engage, as it were.”
“Not really. As long as you do the job on camera, skipping the rest just costs you money is all. Some don’t wanna and make less. It’s all good.”
“Well, that’s excellent news,” Mindie laughed. “Excellent.” She hesitated, then leaned closer to Ms. Waboombas. “I take it you do engage? Sexually, I mean?”
“Sure. But only with the hot ones, or the ones who are hung.” “Hung? You mean like—with large weenies—that type of thing?” “Is there another meaning of the word?”
“Well—I suppose not. But…how can you tell? I mean, before.”
“You can see it. When you’re dancin’, guys get into it, and— boom. If you can’t, it’s a good indicator he’s not worth squattin’ on. Then you pass. And lemme tell ya—the stereotypes? S’all true.”
“Is that right? Interesting,” Mindie said, not the least bit interested. “So at these—I don’t know, parties or whatever—where you’re dancing with the—what are they? Executives?”
“Executives. Businessmen. All kinds. Construction workers.”
“Really? Hmm. I guess they have to keep the unions happy,” Mindie laughed. Ms. Waboombas didn’t. “So…um…you dance with them, and then you…what…find a back room?”
I couldn’t believe Mindie was even curious. Why would she be curious? Sex for her had always seemed to be on equal footing with major dental work; if she ever had it, she’d put it off as long as possible, prefer it with Novocain, would cry and struggle the whole time and want a lollipop afterwards.
“Back rooms are usually provided by the clubs,” Ms. Waboombas said.
“Ooooh. Exclusive, eh?” That seemed to appeal to Mindie. “Like the Viper Room?”
“I don’t know. Never danced there.”
“You have to be somebody. Sooooo—you make a connection, you go into a back room—how do you know whatever the executive is going to honor his end? After things are—you know—complete?”
“You get it up front.