Excerpt
from Chapter II,
Trailer Trollop Romp & Martin's
Comeuppance
To
return to Chapter Index click: HERE
_______________
II.1
Angie to Ella
Monday, June 30, 2003 10:03 AM
Ella, why on earth would you fail to show up at work today? I
thought we had the maul-Martin’s-peace-of-mind project all
planned out! I was thirsting to hike up my skirt and get him salivating
without you but, of course, that would preclude having the added
dimension of yourself posing as sympathetic confidant and providing
advice as to how he’s to court my favor. But I want to punish
him in the worst way! Want him languishing in the toils of violent
desire he’s unable to sate! Want him thirsting for me while
showing him nothing but cruel disdain! And you know this! So why
would you call in saying you needed to take a Personal Day (Oh,
yes, I already know: Sylvia told me!) and deprive me of my revenge?
I expect an answer today, Ella! I need to know if you’ll
be here tomorrow! That creep has got to blaze in his very own
hell of an inflamed body that he’s unable to escape from!
What he did to Linda’s inexcusable, and he’s going
to suffer miserably for it!
So let me know, Miss Unreliable!
Your,
AnnoyedAngie
II.2
Ella to Angie
Monday, June 30, 2003 10:46 PM
Darling, I apologize profusely! And don’t you worry, we’ll
have arrogant thoughtless Martin incurably melancholic by the
end of the week! I’m definitely coming in tomorrow, as much
to assist you in your project as to justify Sturmheld’s
confidence in me. (I’ve been busy pacifying him for the
past three hours for today’s absence by faxing in comments
on the [____] IPO.)
So why was I absent today? Simple: I had another Stevie adventure!
They’ve been coming rather thick and fast of late, taking
up all my spare time and intruding on time I don’t necessarily
have to spare; but why shouldn’t they? Stevie’s a
bottomless well of imagination-stimulation and there’s no
sense in letting such abundance go to waste; because if my imagination’s
stimulated then my svelte lil’ body’s stimulated and
la petite mort truly becomes a fountain of life! Stevie’s
always willing and I’m always willing: not a chance am I
going to say no to another chapter of our ongoing adventures in
fantasy-becomes-flesh! Stevie makes me feel sultry and seductive,
as if a dying man would spring to health at the sight of me: such
feelings are irresistible to a vain lil’ fashion plate plaything
like me! I apologized for missing work today, but I’m actually
not sorry in the least! And before you get miffed at that lil’
confession, let me tell of today’s fantasy fun: maybe then
you’ll understand why the mess-up-Martin’s-manhood
project, worthy though it be, had to be placed on hold! I’m
sure you will, because you’re a funloving—fantasy-mongering—floozy
too!
My fun as follows:
I finally fulfilled one of my most treasured ambitions: indulgence
in a trailer trollop fantasy fling! Dressing for the fling was
a delight-unto-itself: I had a fine doll-myself-up time of it
in the bathroom, with the CD player blaring dance music, an organic
health bar and plate of mixed berries for nibbles, fizzy spring
water with lime juice infusion for quaffing (Ha, ever notice how
annoyed some people get at our finicky health food diet?—accusing
us of being food snobs because we have the good sense not to cram
our gullets with hydrogenated oil saturated garbage?—because
we refuse to undermine our energy with empty-caloried trash? We
eat right to play right, right? There’s nothing more essential
to having fine sex adventures than a clean bill of health; and
if one makes oneself ridiculously healthy... Oh, ho ho!
I eat right to lust right! Good nutrition fans the slut fires,
and how! Good nutrition brings about that itching-to-rut bouncing-off-the-walls
feeling of empowerment I love so much!); I didn’t step from
the bathroom for at least three hours, being as how I did plenty
of trail-and-error mirror star stuff! After all, why bother to
get ready for a date if I can’t play like a little girl
who dreams of growing up to have the boys fawning at her feet?
As for what I wore: 1) a polyester leopard print skirt, with slits
very sloppily cut up each side with a pair of scissors; 2) a pink
pullover, sleeveless and of faded cotton with some bleach splotches;
3) a God-awful wig, dirty mousy brown, piled high in a circa 1950s
do; 4) the cheapest brassiere I could find at the drugstore, with
the tan straps dangling down my arms (A discomfort I was willing
to endure for the sake of trailer trollop authenticity.); 5) plastic
gold bedroom slippers with the toes cut off (Not the easiest things
to saunter down the sidewalk in; but, again: for the sake of having
the best trailer trollop getup ever.); and 6) pink stockings with
plenty of runs. And then there was the makeup, layered on like
I’ve never done in my life! Just take my word for it: I
was something of a hybrid of clown and witch, fit for a carnival
or Halloween! There was enough of it on me to make me feel like
my cheeks were being pulled down my face! In short, I didn’t
just look like a trailer trollop, I was a caricature of what a
city girl thinks a trailer trollop looks like! By the time I was
done, make up was spilled all over the vanity and floor—nail
polish splattered, sparkles scattered, a compact shattered! ’Twas
a labor of Hercules, and I was like as not to orgasm sheerly from
the delight of making that kind of mess...
OK, so I’m ready and it’s nearly eleven. Stevie’s
not at his apartment: he’s taken a room at the Essex House,
a brilliant ad lib of setting (He called at about nine-thirty
to tell me.) that lends more of a myself-as-a-trampy-out-of-towner
feel to this grand event. It was worth it for what happened in
the Essex House lobby alone...
The reaction from the man at the front desk is priceless: first,
there’s a drop-jawed gaping-eyed look of utter disbelief—“His
eyes opened up to swallow the sky,” as they say; then there’s
a huffy gathering up of his dignity, a look like he’s about
to shoo me away. So I speak up and, in my very sophisticated (If
I say so myself!) attorney voice, say: “Mr. Bergendahl is
expecting me in room 1544. Please tell him the girl from Arkansas
is here to discuss the legal matter.”
Well, the deskman’s face is contorting every which way;
the shoo-away impulse makes an embarrassed retreat, and confusion
reasserts itself. “Yes, Ma’am,” he finally manages
while continuing to look me up and down, “I’ll let
Mr. Bergendahl know.” He makes the call while exchanging
a sort of, “She seems to actually know someone who’s
staying here, so I guess I have to do this.” look with his
coworker, a fiftyish woman. She’s looking at me as if I’m
some sort of riddle to solve—undecided as to whether I’m
a hooker, lunatic, bona fide hick, or bright girl playing games:
no real way for her to know, right? Ha ha ha!
It’s during the deskman’s ring upstairs that Stevie
distinguishes himself in the gratuitous pranking department, asking
(as I quickly discern) the man to describe me.
“Uuuhh... What?” the deskman manages to articulate.
His eyes skitter every which way, as if seeking to locate someone
to pass the phone to; obviously, he doesn’t dare bother
the woman, who’s probably a superior. There’s no one
nearby, though—what a shame: he’s stuck with the unpleasant
situation. (And how I adore being an unpleasant situation a pompous
dolt must deal with!)
Stevie obviously reiterates his request more emphatically, because
the deskman answers, “Sir, I realize it’s a simple
question... I wasn’t sure I heard you right... No, Sir,
I’m not trying to be difficult... I don’t doubt you,
I...” Again he trails off, treating me to a glance of alarm;
you’d think he’s being asked to provide intimate details
of his sex life, or lack thereof...
Then a look of relief comes into the deskman’s face; he
tells Stevie, “I’ll just pass her the phone.”
and extends it towards me in a manner I find insulting, because
there’s an implied command to take it from his hand.
“Oh, no!” I quickly say, taking a step back in horror.
“Public phones are contaminated—unsanitary, covered
with germs! I just got over a bad cold, and I know a public phone
was the cause! I’m never touching a public phone again!”
Ha ha, as if I’d ever allow a conceited clown to wriggle
out of a ticklish situation! As if I’m the sort of girl
who’s going to do violence to her dignity by blindly obeying
the laughably fake firmness of manner with which he holds the
phone to me while giving me one of those pathetic meaningful looks!
I’m thinking: “The moon will fall into the Atlantic
Ocean before I’ll take that phone from you, buster! Not
a chance am I letting you off the hook, cringing unmannerly coward!”
Then I add in one of those evil-polite, laced-with-poison, tones:
“Sir, I’m very surprised that a man in a professional
situation would thrust a phone at me as you have. In the first
place it’s rude; in the second place it’s not your
place to ask me to do your job for you; in the third place I have
no idea where that phone’s been or whose lips it’s
touched (Here I give him a particularly derisive look.),
and... Sir, it’s a health hazard and I’m truly astonished.”
Out of the frying pan and into the fire, as they say. Now our
deskman stammers: “Ma’am, I meant no disrespect...the
gentleman asked me to describe you... All due respect to him,
he’s put me in an embarrassing circumstance... I thought
it might be indiscreet...wanted to cause no offense, Ma’am!”
“Well, just do your job and describe me, then—I won’t
be offended. Mr. Bergendahl’s an important man who must
guard against unsolicited visitors—he’s just being
careful. Go ahead and tell him what I look like.”
Oh, Angie Honey! I had to turn my head away and pretend to cough
to conceal the grin that flashed onto my face! And I know what
you’re thinking: a shameful instance of failing to maintain
my playacting front! But you had to be there! An icy-miened hanging
judge would’ve laughed at the deskman’s twitching
cheeks! Plus Stevie starts speaking on the phone so loud I can
almost make out the words and, in his haste to bring the receiver
back to his ear, the deskman butterfingers it, drops it on the
desk.
And then the deskman’s saying: “Sir, there’s
no problem here... I dropped the phone, I apologize... No, Sir!
There’s not a robbery going on—no commotion here!
Yes, of course... She’s wearing a leopard dress... a pink
shirt... Yes, Sir, I think her hair’s a wig... What?”
OK, now I sense Stevie might be going too far; it wouldn’t
do to give the game away...
“Her stockings, Sir?” And here the deskman turns to
the fiftyish woman, saying: “I think something’s funny...
He wants to know what kind of stockings she’s wearing!”
“Uh, begging your pardon, Ma’am,” he quickly
adds turning towards me. “I can’t be held responsible
for what Mr. Bergendahl’s asking me to tell him...”
And then, turning back to the woman: “Will you please take
the phone, Claudia? I’m not going to do this!”
Before Claudia can take the phone I say, “Sir, here’s
my company ID—just tell Mr. Bergendahl, then this will be
over.” I’d already fished my ID from my purse for
the purpose of eventually treating the deskman to some brain-straining
contradiction—always good for a laugh. Now I’m forced
to use it prematurely...
With a gesture of impatience—because he’s beginning
to wonder if he’s being toyed with, thanks to Stevie’s
pushing the envelope too much (Doesn’t he always?)—the
deskman brings the phone back to his mouth and says: “Mr.
Bergendahl, she’s handed me her ID. That’s right...
It says that she’s an attorney at [____]. Sir, it’s
her picture. Her name’s Ella Jody Wishingrand. I wasn’t
stalling, Sir! I would’ve done this to begin with had you
requested it. We’re not in the habit of asking for the IDs
of visitors of our esteemed guests at the Essex House, Sir. Yes,
Sir, she’s on her way up.”
The deskman stares at my ID for a moment longer, then back at
me; obviously, he’s perplexed by the contrast between my
present appearance and that of myself in the ID photo, where I’m
dressed immaculate New York corporate in my Bergdorf suit. (Remember
how I beat cha to that bargain?) Choosing to be annoyed
at the man’s presumptuous look, I say with calm coldness:
“Sir, I do not feel it behooves you, as an employee of a
world class hotel, to concern yourself with matters that are none
of your business. I will not tolerate being stared at in that
way.”
“Uuhhh...” is all he can manage, looking for all the
world like he’d dearly love to sink into the floor.
“That’s hardly a response that does you credit, Sir,”
I say, regarding him with distaste. Ha ha! He’s completely
forgotten to wonder if he’s being toyed with; he’s
suddenly in a waking nightmare and is only wishing it to end;
and that’s what he gets for being rude from the get-go—that’s
what he gets for treating me to shoo-away impulses, thrusting
phones at me, seeking to not speak to me! Now he’s fully
aware of the fact that he has no idea what he’s dealing
with; now he’s unable to compute the contrasting evidence
concerning yours truly; now he isn’t going to venture to
even so much as blink, lest I get really riled!
Oh, Honey! What a nice aphrodisiacal way to kick off the festivities!
Pranking always wets my pinkling, makes me juicy and loose! Being
the center of attention in the lobby of the Essex simply because
of my clothes? Ha, and acting the opposite of my look? Being Miss
Corporate in intonation, mannerisms, and carriage while decked
out in polyester trash? Ooooo! It’s pure scrumptious prepping-of-flowerpuss-for-pollination
fun!
So I’m on my way to the elevator bank when it occurs to
lil’ Miss MoodShift me that my dealings with the deskman
have been too one-dimensional: it won’t do to only
be a girl who’s annoyed at the treatment I’ve received.
So I do an about-face, stroll back to him with a smile, place
a five dollar bill on the desk, and say quite sweetly, “Notwithstanding
your shortcomings, this is for your trouble, Sir. I trust you’ll
work on your manners a bit? Have a nice day.”
Oh, Angie! The look of fear on the deskman’s face as I approached
him; the flinching backwards impulse that half-seized his body
when I extended my hand (As if he thought I might slap his face!);
the wind-gone-out-of him expression of utter surrender and relief
when my gentle intonation was heard and the five dollars materialized...
’Twas money very well spent!
OK, so let’s get me upstairs:
_______________
LIAISONS
FOR LAUGHS:
ANGIE & ELLA'S SUMMER OF DELIRIUM
Excerpt from Chapter II,
Trailer
Trollop Romp & Martin's Comeuppance
Copyright
© 2009
by Robert Scott Leyse
All rights reserved.
To
return to Chapter Index click: HERE