Keith will get the bull whip and the fedora out again.
Indiana Jones, last year, the year before, and the year before that.
Not that he has any particular fondness for the films. Years ago, one of his clients invited us to their own Halloween gig and Keith had the fedora up in the closet already, don't ask me why. He bought or borrowed the rest and that's been his Halloween uniform ever since.
Don't get the wrong idea. He's smart and I've known him to be really creative. He's the action arm of our company, after all. (I'm the business appendage.) It's corporate security, and staying one step ahead of today's criminals certainly requires no little imagination, I would think. Keith's mind is well adapted that way, really good at taking serious things serious, but as a result I think, has no "serious" left for fun.
I occasionally worry about him that way. I mean, maybe fun is like a muscle that atrophies if you don't use it. It's up to me, then, to see he exercises it properly, works the fun muscles from time to time. I make sure he gets out to four or five ball games a year (Who knows? The Silver And Black might actually win!) I make sure our ATV's don't collect dust in the garage, make sure we get out of the house with friends.
And annually, his half-hearted protests notwithstanding, I throw a Halloween party, insist that he take the business suit off and show select clients and coworkers that he actually has the ability to get goofy and light-hearted, if only as Indiana Keith.
I think I was Little Bo Peep one year. You know, ruffled dress with ornate bows, pink staff shaped like a question mark? Keith says I carried a stuffed-toy lamb around, just to insure people got it.
Last year? Kind of hazy. That was when that kid plowed into the back of my car. Don't ask me anything about that; mostly a blank. The official record: Juvenile offender, trying to outrun cops in a stolen car, loses control and runs into me where I'm parked in front of a convenience store.
He's okay. Besides being in jail, I mean. Conscientious car thieves apparently remember to wear their seat belt and only boost rides with airbags.
Me? They say I was parked, texting on my iphone, keys not even in the ignition.
So they tell me.
Then I opened my eyes in the hospital and there's this good looking guy eyeing me all concerned and asking if I'm okay. Two kids there too, adorable boy and a girl. Turns out the good looking guy is Keith, my husband, and the adorables are ours, and it was a little awkward that I had to be reminded several times before it sunk in.
Yeah, PCS.
For the record, My own take on Post Concussion Syndrome isn't so much that you forget things, it's more like the things you're trying to remember are wearing camouflage and playing hide and seek amidst the crowd of everything else in your head. If you can eliminate the obscuring thoughts, pull them aside, scrutinize them one by one, you eventually get to what you're looking for.
Lots of wrong turns along the way, however.
By the way, still no idea what I was doing in The City, in The Mission District that day. I can't even remember why I left the house. Kind of spooky, right?
So that year (Last year? Year before? Yikes! Don't tell Keith I still think like that. Our little secret!) I was busy convalescing on the verge of resurrecting The Peep for want of any time left over for Halloween R and D.
Sheer coincidence, however, I was helping my daughter with a book report about Marie Antoinette and, seeing a rather impressive portrait of Her Ill-fated Highness online, it dawned on me that my Bo Peep get-up was just a stone's throw away from something that might double as late eighteenth century French aristocracy.
I ordered the mile-high Pompadour wig online, used white foundation to get my face aristocratically pale and overdid the other makeup. I thought of doing a line of costume blood around my neck, and then fake stitches to make it look like someone had sewn my guillotined head back on, but there wasn't enough time to pull it off.
Or maybe I forgot. Time, or PCS. I can't remember which tyrant was ruling the moment.
But Marie worked just fine, and it's always marvelous the way I get to explore that way. I've this distinct flair for things sartorial. The way clothing reflects and projects the etiquette, circumstance and desire of people from different eras, walks of life, etc. That's always fascinated me.
Which brings me back to Halloween, this year. (Or is this year last year?) I was toying with the idea of Oscar Wilde. You know, male, Edwardian wardrobe with me femming everything else up to emphasize Oscar's celebrated androgyny. Quite a shocker, I think, but I was in the mood to shake things up a little. Frankly, I had been for a while.
Okay, sorry, but put Halloween on hold again. I might as well get this out of the way. Google the terms "brain injury" and "increased sex drive." Then look horny up in the dictionary and see if my picture isn't there.
I haven't talked to my doctor about it because sooner or later he'd suggest I tell Keith, and seriously, how do your tell your husband you suddenly ready to fuck every other guy you meet? No, seriously, every other guy. Gauge the frequency of my libido going full-throttle-crazy by the flip of a coin. Heads I'll fuck, tails I'll pass.
Okay, maybe best two out of three.
I'm at the mall, trying clothes on, and there's this middle-aged guy sitting outside the fitting rooms, holding his wife's purse. He's so thoroughly bored, glancing at his watch, reading something on his ipod, fidgeting. And his wife routinely emerges wearing garden variety office attire, and he's trying to pay attention, doing a fairly good job of coming up with constructive comments, and meanwhile he doesn't seem to realize that every time his wife ducks back into the fitting room, the sales clerk, plump little cutie about half his age, is flirting with him outrageously.
I get it though. I do.
And suddenly, I'm the new sales clerk, and to hell with being coy about this sly yen for older guys, I grab his wife's purse, toss it over my shoulder, sit in his lap and plaster my lips all over the surprise on his face.
Eager to complete the sale, I guide one of his hands up under my skirt where he can feel the cleft of my panty hose already warm and spongy.
That's it, Honey, cup it, rub it squeeze it. That's my pussy, wet and ready down there, but play with it all you want. I insist.
His other hand inside my blouse, two top buttons already undone, and Jesus Christ, the way he's loving my tits between his fingers, gently pulling, pinching, hefting my breasts like ripe fruit at the market.
Meanwhile, his wife has returned, and she's there in her pinstriped power suit, jaw agape while she watches me stroking her husband's engorged dick through his trousers.
Serves her right, taking her hubby out and making him sit through this pinstripe shit, not even a quick, furtive, fitting-room blow job by way of compensation. (Then, by way of bonus, the choice is easy. The suit she takes home has to be the one with the cum stains.)
Then a page turns in my mind and its different. I'm in one of the fitting rooms, listening for his wife. Once I'm sure she's going to be in there for a bit, I'm the one who steps out in red pumps, black thigh highs, purple, crotchless panties, and the bra that pushes my tits up and together so they look like nothing less than a plump little butt on a black-lace pedestal.
"Listen," I say, feigning disinterest to wide-eyed shock offered by both he and the clerk. "I could really use a guy's opinion. Does this outfit make you wanna' fuck me? Does it get your dick hard?"
