Hacienda, in a queue of hedonists nearly two-thousand long. And what an outrageous array of seductively attired flesh it was: slutty banshees, horny little devils, sluts, satyrs, jungle princesses, biker mommas, giant condoms, men in formal wear of tails, top hats and g-strings.
The local yokels were there, too, watching all the action from the safety of their cars in the parking lot. It must have been a late summer tradition for many of them, Royce figured. Much cheaper—and far more stimulating—than renting a porno tape.
Standing there with Cliff at his side, both of them in slacks and sports shirts, Royce felt as conspicuous as a debutante at a farting contest.
“I told you we should have gotten costumes,” he said testily.
“Fuck that costume shit,” Cliff said. “This way, we really stand out. Be easier for the ladies to spot us. Besides, what would we have gone as? Human dildoes?”
“We should have just called Val.”
“And give up so easy, Royce? No way.” Cliff lit a cigarette. “This is gonna work. It’s gonna work.”
A half-hour later, they finally gained admittance into the ballroom. Dance music throbbed heavily from a rock band; spinning mirrored globes threw squares of white hot light on sequined masks, bra tops and g-strings. Once in the ballroom, many of the women shed their tops, which resulted in what seemed to Royce a sea of bobbing titties of various shapes, sizes and colors. Many of them excellent. For the most part, they were WASP white or golden tanned, but here and there were superb examples of black, Hispanic and Asian boobies, some of them nicely full. Some of the nipples were pierced with rings, though, the sight of which made him wince.
A lust burned in Cliff’s eyes. “What’d I tell you, old buddy?”
“We’ll see.”
Cliff in the lead, they snaked their way through the press of mingling swingers. Most, from what Royce could tell, were paired off with someone. This fact didn’t stop Cliff. He patted the first female tush that presented itself.
The Rubenesque blonde belonging to the fleshy fanny squealed and backed into Cliff, giving his fingers free rein to snap up her hot pink g-string and do some intimate exploring. She seemed to enjoy it, but her escort, dressed appropriately as a Roman gladiator, didn’t.
“What are you two pencil dicks doing with my wife?” He thrust out hard, oiled pecs on a chest as broad as a Cadillac’s hood.
Cliff sneered. “You got bigger tits than your wife.”
That did it. Spartacus drew a sword that, though not sharp, could definitely do some damage. By now, Royce had crooked an arm around Cliff’s scrawny body and was dragging him away.
“Let me at him!” Cliff yelled, his thin arms flaying.
Two jocks wearing Lifestyles golf shirts stopped Royce and Cliff’s retreat and explained that if they caused any more trouble, they’d be expelled from the masquerade ball. It was all Royce could do to keep Cliff from shooting his mouth off again.
“Okay, okay,” Royce told the security guys, strong-arming his buddy back into the safety of the crowd. He managed to get Cliff to one of the cash bars.
“Why the fuck you do that?” Cliff spat. “I don’t take shit from anybody. You know that!”
“Look, you’re the asshole who wanted us to attend this damn thing. Now you want to get us thrown out?”
Cliff sputtered. “Well, okay.”
Cliff was starting to cool down, so Royce offered to buy him a drink. “Fine,” Cliff said, running his fingers through his unwashed hair. All they had in the way of tequila was Pancho Villa (an additive for the jugs of margarita mix), so Royce got them a couple of vodkas on the rocks. They sipped their drinks and surveyed the scene.
Lewdly, Cliff sniffed the fingers of his right hand and licked them.
“Deelish,” he said, leering. “There are some sweet honey pots here tonight.”
“Yeah. But look. I don’t think this is going to work for us. Why don’t we just blow this pop stand
The local yokels were there, too, watching all the action from the safety of their cars in the parking lot. It must have been a late summer tradition for many of them, Royce figured. Much cheaper—and far more stimulating—than renting a porno tape.
Standing there with Cliff at his side, both of them in slacks and sports shirts, Royce felt as conspicuous as a debutante at a farting contest.
“I told you we should have gotten costumes,” he said testily.
“Fuck that costume shit,” Cliff said. “This way, we really stand out. Be easier for the ladies to spot us. Besides, what would we have gone as? Human dildoes?”
“We should have just called Val.”
“And give up so easy, Royce? No way.” Cliff lit a cigarette. “This is gonna work. It’s gonna work.”
A half-hour later, they finally gained admittance into the ballroom. Dance music throbbed heavily from a rock band; spinning mirrored globes threw squares of white hot light on sequined masks, bra tops and g-strings. Once in the ballroom, many of the women shed their tops, which resulted in what seemed to Royce a sea of bobbing titties of various shapes, sizes and colors. Many of them excellent. For the most part, they were WASP white or golden tanned, but here and there were superb examples of black, Hispanic and Asian boobies, some of them nicely full. Some of the nipples were pierced with rings, though, the sight of which made him wince.
A lust burned in Cliff’s eyes. “What’d I tell you, old buddy?”
“We’ll see.”
Cliff in the lead, they snaked their way through the press of mingling swingers. Most, from what Royce could tell, were paired off with someone. This fact didn’t stop Cliff. He patted the first female tush that presented itself.
The Rubenesque blonde belonging to the fleshy fanny squealed and backed into Cliff, giving his fingers free rein to snap up her hot pink g-string and do some intimate exploring. She seemed to enjoy it, but her escort, dressed appropriately as a Roman gladiator, didn’t.
“What are you two pencil dicks doing with my wife?” He thrust out hard, oiled pecs on a chest as broad as a Cadillac’s hood.
Cliff sneered. “You got bigger tits than your wife.”
That did it. Spartacus drew a sword that, though not sharp, could definitely do some damage. By now, Royce had crooked an arm around Cliff’s scrawny body and was dragging him away.
“Let me at him!” Cliff yelled, his thin arms flaying.
Two jocks wearing Lifestyles golf shirts stopped Royce and Cliff’s retreat and explained that if they caused any more trouble, they’d be expelled from the masquerade ball. It was all Royce could do to keep Cliff from shooting his mouth off again.
“Okay, okay,” Royce told the security guys, strong-arming his buddy back into the safety of the crowd. He managed to get Cliff to one of the cash bars.
“Why the fuck you do that?” Cliff spat. “I don’t take shit from anybody. You know that!”
“Look, you’re the asshole who wanted us to attend this damn thing. Now you want to get us thrown out?”
Cliff sputtered. “Well, okay.”
Cliff was starting to cool down, so Royce offered to buy him a drink. “Fine,” Cliff said, running his fingers through his unwashed hair. All they had in the way of tequila was Pancho Villa (an additive for the jugs of margarita mix), so Royce got them a couple of vodkas on the rocks. They sipped their drinks and surveyed the scene.
Lewdly, Cliff sniffed the fingers of his right hand and licked them.
“Deelish,” he said, leering. “There are some sweet honey pots here tonight.”
“Yeah. But look. I don’t think this is going to work for us. Why don’t we just blow this pop stand
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