So I did, and it was.
She scrolled, stopped, said softly, "No," scrolled some more, stopped, and clicked on the file labeled "House Party - August 12."
Once again I was struck by the production quality of these videos. This wasn't some cinema verité with its jiggling frame as you see with so many hand-held home videos. The camera panned, slowly and professionally, around the big, open-floorplan great room where a dozen couples were clearly having a party. As it panned across a set of steps leading up I understood that I was looking at a finished basement. Almost all of those in attendance held a drink of one kind or another, and a hookah on the coffee table was being shared by four, three men and one woman, in a cloud of smoke.
I didn't recognize the house, but I recognized some of the couples. There were Marge and Fred, my sometimes babysitters when Mom and Dad would get away for a weekend or a vacation. In the corner, Leigh, my cousin's wife was chatting with a man I didn't recognize. Their posture suggested that they knew each other very well, if you know what I mean. Fred and Ethyl, friends who always said, "No, we don't know Lucy and Ricky," were talking to another couple, Ethyl with two hands on the other man's arm in that possessive way of some women. An extremely old woman, she had to be deep in her 70s, was holding hands with a young man who I doubted could vote, as they talked to Mom and my cousin Donald. The microphone picked up the general hubbub of a dozen conversations and, in the background, oldies rock and roll was playing. On a little cleared area John and Kathy, married but not to each other, danced one of those stand-facing-each-other-and-kind-of-wiggle dances, while a group I didn't recognize was singing something about The Reaper.
The doorbell rang and the camera followed a big redhead, presumably the Lady of the House, to the front door. Mom followed closely. I couldn't help but notice that Mom looked like an extremely oversized hooker. Her bright red blouse was of some sheer material that apparently irritated her nipples. They were obvious hard little points showing against the material. Her matching red skirt barely covered her oversized ass, and her garter belt suspenders with four straps per leg were almost completely on display. Okay, she looked hot.
At the door, Aunt Rita was wearing a long coat, looking like something from a spy movie.
"All right," Mom called, that strong voice of hers carrying clearly across the room, "the entertainment's here."
"Relax, everybody," Rita said in her whisky-raspy voice, "I'm here."
She giggled and kissed the big redhead, kissed mom, and said, her voice coming through clearly, "Where's the bar?"
I reached across Rita and tapped the "pause" button.
"Who's that redhead?" I asked.
She chuckled. "That's Ingrid," she touched the screen pointing out a mousy little man, one of those men who has looked like he was about 70 since he was old enough to buy a beer, "and that's John, her husband. He's the Cadillac dealer and she's a whore who got lucky."
I laughed at that.
She clicked on the "play" button and the scene played out.
I watched fascinated as Aunt Rita drank a beer in two long swallows and took a second, brown longneck. The camera followed her to what turned out to be a stage set in the corner of what I assumed was a well-finished basement.
She turned to look at the group, pulled on the belt of her trenchcoat, and shrugged out of it.
The tiny bikini costume she had on made the old joke - two bandaids and a cork - seem positively modest.
She put a CD into the player on the stage and when the music started, Peggy Lee's version of
Fever
, she did a very professional pole dance. As the opening drum riff ended and Peggy's voice started, Aunt Rita swung up onto the pole, head down, her legs somehow, and I still don't understand how, offering enough support to hang from as she somehow, more magic here, reached around, unhooked the bra of her costume, and tossed it to the group standing, watching.
A man I didn't know caught the bra and lifted it to his face inhaling deeply, dramatically.
"Heaven," he proclaimed.
The woman standing next to him, a handsome woman rather than pretty, said, in a deep, almost masculine voice, "That's it. You ain't gettin' any tonight."
He smiled at her and said, "Baby, I think I'll be taken care of."
While this little vignette played out, Aunt Rita was working the pole, her tiny breasts and lack of a discernable waistline somehow adding to the pure, unadulterated sexiness of the way she moved.
"All right, ladies," the redhead announced, "girl's night out."
The camera panned back, widening the view and I watched as the women in the group headed for the stairs. Some kissed a man goodbye, I noticed that Mom kissed a man I didn't know and NOT Dad. Some just turned and left.
Ingrid was the last to the stairs. She turned and announced theatrically, "You boys have fun, don't wait up."
The camera closed in and followed her up the stairs until the door closed with an audible click as the latch went home.
Another slow, professional pan of the camera and Aunt Rita was on the pole, defying gravity and showing a level of strength, or pure power, that screamed GYMNAST.
And the men, I guessed a dozen although the way they sort of milled around it was hard to get an accurate count, were undressing as they watched.
Aunt Rita did another of those impossible movements, defying gravity and demonstrating amazing strength and body control as she hung by her legs and used both hands to pull the strings at her hips and then tossing the scrap of material that was her G-string to the men. A man I knew casually from times he had been to our house for a dinner party or to play in the monthly Euchre tournament Mom and Dad hosted, Bill, caught them and stuffed them into his mouth, turning, grinning, proud like a Labrador with a duck in his mouth.
As she continued to work the pole, working now to David Rose's
The Stripper
she was finally tiring. As that bright red/orange bush flashed by I noticed that she was sweating, her makeup starting to run.
When the music ended she stood and took a deep bow.
She looked around at the men arrayed in front of the stage, all of them no longer soft and three VERY obvious erections on display, smiled, and said, "Come and get it," like she was the cook at the Chuck Wagon calling the cowboys to dinner.
She sank gracefully if tiredly to her knees and before she was surrounded by men looked directly into the camera. I heard her catch her breath, sitting beside me. On the screen, the sweat had her makeup smeared, black mascara running in dark lines down her cheeks.
She looked, you should pardon the expression, perfectly slutty or, as Mom might say, "Rode hard and put up wet."
The rest of the video, according to the little bar across the bottom of the screen there was another 57 minutes of it, was, basically, a Bukkake party. We watched about fifteen minutes of it. By that time her face was a mask of semen, she was drooling and her nose was running. She was beautiful.
