DISCLAIMER: Paramount/Viaborgcom (aka Ba'al) owns all. Hail be to Ba'al. Ba'al is mighty. Ba'al is greedy. Ba'al is one of the owners of Congress and the Grand Cayman Islands. I am not mighty. I am not rich. No money is involved in this fiction, and forgiveness is begged from Ba'al. This story mine under International Berne Copyight Law. 2,600 words, February, 2005.
SEQUEL/SERIES: This is the third story in the 'Rooftop' series and follows Rooftop: prelude and Rooftop Evening.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
Rooftop Night
By R.Schultz
Not that I objected, mind. I owe her. I eat enough of her food. Bree makes Toll House cookies and devilled eggs to kill for, not to mention egg-and-lentil soup and lamb roast. And oddly enough Bree is reasonably nice to be with. Big thing she'll do is listen. Has a tendency to use blitzkrieg tactics where possible, but she'll listen. Not even beautiful women listen much to other beautiful women.
Well, she's beautiful and I still have a few traces of beauty. Growing old is such a bitch.
Susan will listen, also. Little Miss Innocence. Yesterday I was amazed to discover myself wanting to protect her. Me. Her.
All these Beasts of Burbia have surprised me. Life was easier when I could categorize my neighbors like I do most men. Excepting along came that goddamned fire.
Anyways, best of all, you get Bree at the right angle and she talks like a real person instead of another mind-dead suburban plastic. Of course at times she has the subtlety of an Abrahms tank going through an Iraqi home, but she's focused. So big deal, she wants to re-visit the gay place.
Frankly, I enjoy myself at 'The Wrinkle'. They have lots of gay men as well as the Grrls. Gay men dance wondrously, mostly because they're willing to bend at the hips. You ever check out some of those self-conscious straight studs at the regular places these days? Those all so very handsome men in their two-hundred-dollar hair-cuts dance like they have a flagpole up their ass.
Only let's be honest, all right? Bree wants to get laid by that brunette she met last week. Perhaps she doesn't know it yet, but I think a serious encounter is ready to take place between her and that sharp-nosed lovely who tangos like a dream. I watched them dance last week.
Not that I'd kick the aforesaid sharp-nosed femme out of my bed either, mind. Great clothes sense on that long-haired gal, I thought; if a mite subdued so far as colors go.
You can always tell the ones who've always had the money to indulge a passion for what's in. They flaunt class and money in their wardrobes.
I sound envious, don't I? I am. And I'm still pissed to have lost so many of my really good clothes in that damned fire. There was an off-gray Armani business pants suit with matching skirt, and a long Lauren Signature cream dream dress with my midriff exposed. Loads and loads of Julio, Julio, and I had a genuine Versache evening gown in light silvery metallic green. Plus accessories. One accessory was a matching green metallic Gucci hand bag, and besides I had another pair of Gucci over-the-shoulder bags in my closet.
All toast.
One of the things I'm still arguing with my insurers about. The cheap bastards assume everyone shops Wal-Mart for their fine dinner wear. They've never heard of places where you can find designer labels slightly worn, used, and they still go for a pair of Ks. Or better. They think Sisely is a black actress, not the maker of my late-lamented dreamy jeans.
Goddamned pair of stiletto straps to match the Versache ran three bills alone.
If I hadn't a few good snaps of me in my killer rags, the pricks would have paid my clothes off with a few hundred and a quarter-off white-sale coupon from Penny's.
Anyways, here we are, at the parking lot. We're both smokin' ladies tonight, no doubt about it. I notice a pair of the young help are out enjoying a cigarette. They stare at us.
Plastics don't understand those stares.
Bree is gorgeous in her lemon bolero and pants, and I look good enough to eat in my peach-yellow knit. It should look good, it's a bloody impeccable Pia Myrvold rip-off.
I idly wonder if Bree chose her outfit so that everyone would know she has a little thong on underneath those lovely slax.
Of course she does. She wasn't born yesterday.
As for me looking good enough to eat, pardon me. This IS a place where you go to find discerning women, isn't it? Focus, people, focus.
The girls taking a break out here are way too young for me to consider seriously tonight. College girls, unless I miss my guess. Hired help. The female version of that young gardener of Gabriela's, whatshisname. They both probably walk around campus with no bra and a pink triangle button on. Still, it makes me feel sexy to know either of them would like to throw either of us super-femmes down and pillage and plunder and ravish. Or both. Or both.
Great thing about baby dykes like them are you can have a little fun and they're already half expecting it to be a one-night stand.
All glands and no sense yet.
But at least they don't whine if you ask them to use a condom. Gloves in their case, or dams.
God, but I hate that in men. Whining. That and all the other pathetic rationalizations men decide to use when they're all gathered in the locker rooms. That's where they have their strategy and bull sessions, and practice their whines.
If you love me, you wouldn't ask that of me.
It doesn't feel natural otherwise.
How come I always have to give and you take?
How do you expect me to enjoy with that raincoat on?
Enough of men. I'm here for other adventures. And so is Bree.
As a slick black gal 'accidentally' brushed up against me, I reminded myself I had other priorities this night. She was cute, if tall enough to be a pre-op transgender. Bree may or not hook up tonight. However, if she doesn't, I may give it a try. Maybe not. Or maybe.
The one we're looking for, Ms. Dark and slinky, her of the impeccable fashion sense; she may be in Texas by now. Or she might have dropped by ten minutes ago, failed to find Bree, and left. In the meantime we can dance. That's always fun.
Passing through the door we get the backs of our hands stamped by the bouncer and move out onto the dance floor and bar.
Maybe a light crowd, I haven't been here that much to be able to tell. Probably half the population are gay men come to dance. I catch the eye of one tall svelte dark skinned guy with a terrible scraggly looking beard, but with hands he isn't afraid to wave around a bit. He smiles, turns his head around, checking out the crowd, such as it is. Then he comes over with all his peacock feathers erect.
I grab the delovely Bree, and we three start dancing; but slow. Getting the feel for it. Bree is initially embarrassed, but she's quickly into the swing of things. We follow the guy, and soon it all comes natural. My redheaded neighbor is a real gem about dancing. Show her a few steps and she's matching you in less than a minute.
My first husband could dance like that. He was a natural. He was also a natural at other things, but let's forget him.
We make a tight triplet for a little while and the gay guy gropes my butt. That's logical. It figures he'd be interested in my butt. Let him grope. It feels good. It's a great butt. And it's been too long between gropes.
Bree has acquired another brunette, this one in camo combat pants and military belt. I'm mesmerized by the way this particular cutey makes her C cups sway and jiggle. She dances with her arms over her head and suddenly wraps then around Bree. Energetic dancing body to body, and she's soon kissing Bree hard.
Bree has made a friend, to judge from the way they're riding each others thighs.
The gay guy spins me, and we do the same. Rubbing bod all the way, we happily cavort. I'm reminded, from hard physical evidence he lets me notice, that lots of gay guys can respond to a female. That's flattering. It's nice to be wanted.
However, sorry, guy. I'm not here tonight looking for the male of the species.
A large-breasted trucker cuts in, and she at least is wearing a bra. Also, most big females are afraid to shake their booty. Not this one. I like.
The night is going wonderfully for both of us, and we haven't even gotten close to the bar yet.
Bree is nursing her third El Presidente, and I'm still enjoying myself.
The energetic music of earlier is shelved, for the night, I think. It is past midnight, but no mice have appeared to bundle Princess Bree into a large pumpkin destined for home.
I'm both exhausted and energized. Dancing does that to me. Bree is flushed, and she surprised the heck out of me a little bit ago when we were slow dancing and she rested her head between my breasts and purred into them.
Purr.
Bree is loosening up. She smells nice.
The small thin-and-cute bartender scurries over with a dark drink in her hand and places it in front of me. I raise a hand to argue with her, but a voice materializes from my elbow.
"It's mine. You don't mind if I drink with you, do you?"
Great timing. An hour ago and neither one of us could have heard the other think, much less speak.
It's one of the hired help from out back that checked us out, when we arrived. She'd checked, and I guess she liked what she saw.
Innocence personified. Dreamy bedroom eyes, red hair (what is it with me and redheads lately?), and one more thing close up; still way too young.
"Does your mother know you're out late?" I dug.
"Damned if I know," she replied. "Once I made it to college, she cut all the ties that bind and rescinded my credit cards."
"So now you study by day and wash dishes by night?"
"Amongst other things. By night, I mean. My hobbies keep me busy since I left home. My hobbies are intensely satisfying. Would you like to be a hobby?"
"You're too young for me," I admitted. "Does that drink have any liquor in it or are you still too young for this state?"
"I prefer Pepsi to booze," she said. "Just like I prefer blondes."
"And if I succumb to your subtle charms, what will I be? Blond number thirty-four? Fifty two?" Expecting the old saw about how I won't be the first, but I can be the next.
"Number two, in one way of looking at it. Number one in another. Would you like to be my first blonde?"
"What happened to the other blonde number one?" I smiled.
"She's busy in another state. And we never did get around to being anything deliriously serious together, more's the pity. She was drop-dead cute, and intense, and had a body worth spending an entire week-end licking."
"But you never got around to that week-end of licking?"
"No," the redhead smiled back. "Always busy, busy, busy. There was always another devilish plot to foil, another demon to crucify, or another vampire to stake to death. You would not believe the vampires. Always a new vampire dying to be slain. The net result? You know how the time goes if you don't force yourself to make time for yourself."
Well, that was an unusual come-on line.
"And what was your part in all this vampire staking?"
"I was brewing up potions, saying incantations, finding ancient grimoires, and generally being the second banana in my blonde's vampire slaying. I did the magic stuff."
Definitely not your ordinary gal.
She wrinkled a smile at me. "Would you like to take me home? I can show you all sorts of little magic thingiemebob tricks. Lots of fun. A million laughs. Maybe a trick or two you've never seen before."
Well, this collection of line surpassed any other in originality. I was intrigued.
"Have you chanted a magic spell to capture me?" I asked, all innocence. "Have you sung a charm that lures me irresistibly to you?"
"You betcha," she returned. "And I have the ancient incantation tattooed on my butt. The chanting ensnarement spell is on one asscheek, and the remedy for it is on the other.
"Wouldn't you like to read them?"
"Let me work things out with my girlfriend first," I smirked.
"She's upstairs," the redhead supplied.
Confused, I looked around, and didn't find my other redhead.
"Miss Parker passed by me when I got downstairs and was going through the kitchen. Your girlfriend was giggling madly and was being led by the hand. I think she was following Miss Parker sans resistance. So that means she was going willingly, right?"
"Where were they going?"
"Up on the rooftop patio, I presume. To dance. You can have the speakers out there pick up downstairs, or elevator music, or a radio station, or near about anything. It's extremely nice and private out there, dancing under the stars."
On our way through the kitchens I finally asked red haired and demented her name.
"You can call me Cherry," she joked.
"My Mother named me after another tree, but I got tired of being called that. So, when I got to college, I decided to be called something else."
Cherry. I am saint-like. I didn't make any jokes about the name.
Bree Van De Kamp was right where we expected her to be. Wrapped tightly around Miss Dark, Mysterious and Well Dressed. That suit of hers had to be genuine Giorgio Armani.
Bree waved a little hand at me as I approached.
"You doing okay, Bree?" I asked.
"Just fine," she murmured. "I think I have another ride home. Do I have another ride home?" She asked the long-haired brunette.
"To the ends of the earth," I heard the reply. That was romantic. I like romantic.
Cherry put an arm around my waist and I reflected there were other desirable attributes besides romanticism. The girl with her hip against mine smelled of cheap soap and restaurant, and she was in cheap jeans and a K-Mart bandeau.
She was still waaaaay too young. Not my usual cuppa.
So I checked something out.
"Listen, cute and wacky," I asked, "you're not anxious to find the one single true love of your life tonight, are you?"
"No," she returned. "Are you?"
"You're a lot younger than I usually bother with," I added in way of explanation. "But I want to hear about you and how you go about killing vampires."
"Simplest thing in the world", she said. "Drive a wooden stake through the heart. No finesse necessary."
Wacky. Sweet, but wacky.
"You know I'm in my ...." I began and then changed tack. "I'm a few years older than you are. And you ARE legal aren't you?"
"You can see my drivers license," she cooed. "And I absolutely positively wondrously ADOOOORE the idea of a mature woman. Are you mature?"
Well, she didn't straight-out say I was older, or over the hill. She can be forgiven.
"Rushing into things isn't my style ...." I began.
"And I'm moving too fast? Besides being too young?"
"Mind you I'm intrigued by the thought of reading your ass, but mostly I came here tonight to help my friend hook up."
Cherry swiveled her head to observe Bree dancing with her new girlfriend, and then turned it to let it fall against my chest.
"So shut up, blondie, and dance."
"I can get back this week-end", I offered.
"In the meantime you're be missing some truly inspiring reading," she murmured. "My butt might be a selection on the Oprah book club soon."
"Do you tango?" I asked.
"Bring a long stemmed red rose Saturday night and find out."
I've been with better dancers, but she has possibilities. And maybe she can age fifteen years by Saturday.
As we circled and enjoyed, I noticed that somewhere Bree had lost her thong underwear. Like I said before, in those slax of hers, the panty line had been practically in neon lights.
Cherry, or whatever name she used, had her hands on my rear again. I raised them back to my waist and listened to her chuckle. So I eased them down my back again until they gave me a friendly juggle.
My legs are still my best feature, I thought.
When I turned around again, Bree and Miss Fashion Plate were gone.
I wondered when she'd lost the thong panties?
The End
Continued in Rooftop Morning