The Final Detail
Page 38
A suit trudging home might happen by here, stop in, lay down his briefcase, spot something attractive, buy it a drink, make a few quasi-smooth moves warmed over from college mixers, take it home. Surprise, surprise.
Big Cyndi met him at the front door dressed like Earth, Wind, and Fire-not so much any one member as the entire group. "Ready?"
Myron hesitated, nodded.
When Big Cyndi pushed open the door, Myron held his breath and ducked in behind her. The interior too was not what he'd visualized. He had expected something... blatantly wacko, he guessed. Like the bar scene in Star Wars maybe. Instead Take A Guess just had the same neodesperate feel and stench of a zillion other singles' joints on a Friday night. A few patrons were colorfully dressed, but most wore khakis and business suits. There were also a handful of outrageously clad cross-dressers and leather devotees and one babe-a-rama packed into a vinyl catsuit, but nowadays you'd be hard pressed to find a Manhattan nightspot that didn't have any of that. Sure, some folks were in disguise, but when it came right down to it, who didn't wear a facade at a singles' bar?
Whoa, that was deep.
Heads and eyes swerved in their direction. For a moment Myron wondered why. But only for a moment. He was, after all, standing next to Big Cyndi, a six-six three-hundred-pound multihued mass blanketed with more sparkles than a Siegfried and Roy costume party. She drew the eye.
Big Cyndi seemed flattered by the attention. She lowered her eyes, playing demure, which was like Ed Asner playing coquettish. "I know the head bartender," she said. "His name is Pat."
"Male or female?"
She smiled, punched him on the arm. "Now you're getting the hang of it."
A jukebox played the Police's "Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic." Myron tried to count how many times Sting repeated the words every little. He lost count at a million.
They found two stools at the bar. Big Cyndi looked for Pat. Myron cased the joint, very detectivelike. He turned his back to the bar, eased his elbows against it, bobbed his head slightly to the music. Senor Slick. The babe-a-rama in the black catsuit caught his eye. She slithered to the seat next to him and curled into it. Myron flashed back to Julie Newmar as Cat Woman circa 1967, something he did far too often. This woman was dirty blond but otherwise frighteningly comparable.
Catsuit gave him a look that made him believe in telekinesis. "Hi," she said.
"Hi back." The Lady Slayer awakens.
She slowly reached for her neck and started toying with the catsuit's zipper. Myron managed to keep his tongue in the general vicinity of his mouth. He took a quick peek at Big Cyndi.
"Don't be too sure," Big Cyndi warned.
Myron frowned. There was cleavage here, for crying out loud. He stole another look-for the sake of science. Yep, cleavage. And plenty of it. He looked back at Big Cyndi and whispered, "Bosoms. Two of them."
Big Cyndi shrugged.
"My name is Thrill," Catsuit said.
"I'm Myron."
"Myron," she repeated, her tongue circling as though testing the word for taste. "I like that name. It's very manly."
"Er, thanks, I guess."
"You don't like your name?"
"Actually, I've always sort of hated it," he said. Then he gave her the big-guy look, cocking the eyebrow like Fabio going for deep thought. "But if you like it, maybe I'll reconsider."
Big Cyndi made a noise like a moose coughing up a turtle shell.
Thrill gave him another smoldering glance and picked up her drink. She did something that could roughly be called "taking a sip," but Myron doubted the Motion Picture Association would give it less than an R rating. "Tell me about yourself, Myron."
They started chatting. Pat, the bartender, was on break, so Myron and Thrill kept at it for a good fifteen minutes. He didn't want to admit it, but he was sort of having fun. Thrill turned toward him, full body. She slid a little closer. Myron again looked for telltale gender signs. He checked for the two Five O'clocks: Shadow and Charlie. Nothing. He checked the cleavage again. Still there. Damn if he wasn't a trained detective.
Thrill put her hand on his thigh. It felt hot through his jeans. Myron stared at the hand for a moment. Was the size odd? He tried to figure out if it was big for a woman or maybe small for a man. His head started spinning.
"I don't mean to be rude," Myron finally said, "but you're a woman, right?"
Thrill
Big Cyndi met him at the front door dressed like Earth, Wind, and Fire-not so much any one member as the entire group. "Ready?"
Myron hesitated, nodded.
When Big Cyndi pushed open the door, Myron held his breath and ducked in behind her. The interior too was not what he'd visualized. He had expected something... blatantly wacko, he guessed. Like the bar scene in Star Wars maybe. Instead Take A Guess just had the same neodesperate feel and stench of a zillion other singles' joints on a Friday night. A few patrons were colorfully dressed, but most wore khakis and business suits. There were also a handful of outrageously clad cross-dressers and leather devotees and one babe-a-rama packed into a vinyl catsuit, but nowadays you'd be hard pressed to find a Manhattan nightspot that didn't have any of that. Sure, some folks were in disguise, but when it came right down to it, who didn't wear a facade at a singles' bar?
Whoa, that was deep.
Heads and eyes swerved in their direction. For a moment Myron wondered why. But only for a moment. He was, after all, standing next to Big Cyndi, a six-six three-hundred-pound multihued mass blanketed with more sparkles than a Siegfried and Roy costume party. She drew the eye.
Big Cyndi seemed flattered by the attention. She lowered her eyes, playing demure, which was like Ed Asner playing coquettish. "I know the head bartender," she said. "His name is Pat."
"Male or female?"
She smiled, punched him on the arm. "Now you're getting the hang of it."
A jukebox played the Police's "Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic." Myron tried to count how many times Sting repeated the words every little. He lost count at a million.
They found two stools at the bar. Big Cyndi looked for Pat. Myron cased the joint, very detectivelike. He turned his back to the bar, eased his elbows against it, bobbed his head slightly to the music. Senor Slick. The babe-a-rama in the black catsuit caught his eye. She slithered to the seat next to him and curled into it. Myron flashed back to Julie Newmar as Cat Woman circa 1967, something he did far too often. This woman was dirty blond but otherwise frighteningly comparable.
Catsuit gave him a look that made him believe in telekinesis. "Hi," she said.
"Hi back." The Lady Slayer awakens.
She slowly reached for her neck and started toying with the catsuit's zipper. Myron managed to keep his tongue in the general vicinity of his mouth. He took a quick peek at Big Cyndi.
"Don't be too sure," Big Cyndi warned.
Myron frowned. There was cleavage here, for crying out loud. He stole another look-for the sake of science. Yep, cleavage. And plenty of it. He looked back at Big Cyndi and whispered, "Bosoms. Two of them."
Big Cyndi shrugged.
"My name is Thrill," Catsuit said.
"I'm Myron."
"Myron," she repeated, her tongue circling as though testing the word for taste. "I like that name. It's very manly."
"Er, thanks, I guess."
"You don't like your name?"
"Actually, I've always sort of hated it," he said. Then he gave her the big-guy look, cocking the eyebrow like Fabio going for deep thought. "But if you like it, maybe I'll reconsider."
Big Cyndi made a noise like a moose coughing up a turtle shell.
Thrill gave him another smoldering glance and picked up her drink. She did something that could roughly be called "taking a sip," but Myron doubted the Motion Picture Association would give it less than an R rating. "Tell me about yourself, Myron."
They started chatting. Pat, the bartender, was on break, so Myron and Thrill kept at it for a good fifteen minutes. He didn't want to admit it, but he was sort of having fun. Thrill turned toward him, full body. She slid a little closer. Myron again looked for telltale gender signs. He checked for the two Five O'clocks: Shadow and Charlie. Nothing. He checked the cleavage again. Still there. Damn if he wasn't a trained detective.
Thrill put her hand on his thigh. It felt hot through his jeans. Myron stared at the hand for a moment. Was the size odd? He tried to figure out if it was big for a woman or maybe small for a man. His head started spinning.
"I don't mean to be rude," Myron finally said, "but you're a woman, right?"
Thrill
