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Come on, Tommy. It'll be fun," she said.

"No, thanks."

I drained the last of the vodka from the glass.

"Pleeease. For me. Come on. All my friends will think you're antisocial," she pleaded, wrapping her little hand around my forearm.

I stared at her hand. She looked at her hand, at me, back at her hand,and then took it away. She tried to smile. I smiled back and caught another drop from the glass. I put the glass down.

"Will you?" she asked once more, this time more carefully.

I couldn't believe her, this person Sue, seated next to me at the large round table. Let's see. I asked you out about two weeks ago after you fixed my computer at work, we caught a movie that night, had a few drinks, I got you back to your pleasant little apartment, fucked you silly, forgot about you the next day, and then out of nowhere you invite me three days ago to a wedding for "your best friend in the whole world". I agreed (nothing else to do tonight; in addition, it would be kind of a cultural experience) and now. . . . No. It was not going to happen. Not now, not ever.

"I am not getting out there to do the chicken dance," I said as pleasantly as I could manage, and then had to shake my head in amazement at the stricken look on her face. I don't know these people, I wanted to tell her firmly. Nor do I know you, babe, I wanted to add clearly, but said nothing. Noblesse Oblige and all of that, you know.

But still she wouldn't go away. And still I said nothing as I stared up at her. You've got nice tits, you're a bit above average in the sack, but that's not even close to what would be needed for me to get up and make a complete ass of myself in front of a lot of gawd awful people with big hair and bad skin. I mean, it would be one thing if you had an incompetent band here torturing a song. Dancing out of beat, laughing at the greasy guitar player's open mouth sores, that would be good, clean fun, but your "best friend in the whole world" has a fucking DJ here for crying out loud. Couldn't Sue understand? Nothing in her flushed face and brown eyes indicated anything but indignation, so I gave up and turned away from her.

"Well," she huffed, standing up abruptly in her low cut pink, polyester shiny dress, and I turned to see her tits jiggling merrily as she looked down at me. "I'll just go myself, then. I'll just dance myself. And," she continued, planting her fists defiantly on her hips, "I just want to let you know that my old boyfriend's here tonight and. . . ." She stopped, saw I'd returned to studying my glass, and marched away.

"Have fun," I called out after her and got up to go to the bar for another drink. An old boyfriend? Oh brother.

After a couple of more drinks, I felt bad for her. I did. It was all so ridiculous. She was happy to have a date for "her best friend in the whole world's" wedding, especially after the gruesome mechanic in the ill-fitting jacket with the long fluffy hair in the back had dumped her four days ago. And I was ruining her fun. It was very tasteless, quite tacky. Hell, I had a lot more class than that. I looked around. She was with the other members of the bridal party in some corner of the "ballroom", a dismal sparkling hall in the dreary, shiny hotel, seated, looking miserable. She wasn't alone. All of them, including the bride, were slouched over drinking beer. Beer? At a wedding? I shook my head. Their dates, the groom, his pals, all of them, were crowded around the TV in the bar outside the ballroom to catch the SPECIAL ESPN SATURDAY NIGHT NFL GAME.

Well. I buttoned my jacket. Time to stir things up a little.

I walked across the hall to the DJ, who was taking a break, having a cigarette, and took a seat next to him on the empty stage.

"Heh," he smiled nervously, afraid I was going to yell at him for smoking on the job.

Something about my dark suit and red, conservative tie must have told him that I was someone with authority or something. Nothing could have been further from the truth. The dirtball could smoke up for as long as he wanted, until one of his lungs was hacked out. I needed the good man's services for a few minutes.

Hi," I nodded.

"Just a five minute break and--"

"Yeah. Yeah," I interrupted. "Do you have the rhumba with you?"

"What?"

"The rhumba, man. You know. TaTa TaTa Ta TA! You know, the rhumba," I started flailing my arms to help him.

"Oh," he nodded after a moment of confusion. "The rhumba. Sure. I got that. Shit," he laughed, putting out his cigarette on the floor with his dusty brown shoes and standing up. "Nobody asks for that no more, but I like to keep it handy just in case."

"Well, friend," I said and reached up to let him pull me up. "This is `just in case,' okay?"

"Okay," he laughed. "Should I start it now?"

"No. No," I quickly replied, dusting off my pants. "I'll give you a signal," I smiled and handed him a twenty.

I didn't wait for his uncomfortable "thank you" and turned sharply around. I faced the beer guzzling bridal party across the hall and walked to them, recoiling, along the way, at the gaudy silk flower centerpiece at the head table.

Sue saw me walking toward her, immediately smiled and started to stand up, but stopped when I bowed gracefully at the table of pink and misery. They looked at me with not a little disinterest; in fact, a few even rolled their eyes. A tough crowd.

"Ladies," I said, unintimidated, smiling brightly. "May I have the pleasure of your company?"

They continued staring, confused, but mostly drunk and I turned to the DJ, nodded and he started the wild beat. One or two faces brightened (not Sue's, of course) and then they all laughed when I started the goofy steps and the arms a-flinging.

"Come on!" I yelled to them as I strutted, my head bobbing with fantastic precision to the bass horns and drums. "Get behind and take hold," I said, patting my hips as an example. "Rhumba, baby, rhumba!"

Laughing hysterically, Sue, of course, was the first to jump up and grab onto my hips. I could hear and catch glimpses of a few of the others following and, satisfied our numbers were not embarrassingly few, I started moving the train along.

Now, the rhumba has some wild brass work, loud trumpets, throbbing bass work, was probably as foreign to these blue collar yokels as a black tie, so, as I led the bridal party, I laughed and tried to pick up stunned older women with miserably tight curly perms along the way to get on board. (Most of their menfolk were with their sons at the bar cheering on the latest dance steps of Deian Sanders, with whom, of course, I dared not compete). A few of the old ladies, good sports, giggling ridiculously, did join in after a moment's hesitation, some (those who jumped wildly at the opportunity to do the idiotic chicken dance, I noticed calmly) spurned my advances with a haughty turn of the face, but all in all I must have had at least fifteen women following me after a couple of minutes.

I took a step to the side and, clumsily, Sue took the lead, with a gentle, but firm, shove on my part. I got quickly behind her and held her swiveling hips tightly, the taste of cheap hair spray almost gagging me as her thick black hair flew from side to side in clumps against my face. It continued. First Sue and then the woman behind me (a blond biscuit in a tight white! miniskirt), then another and another and still more. I never relinquished my second spot (in fact, I had to shove Sue to the side to keep it) and it became obvious to me after two or three of them that these girls, dull as they might have been, had fantastically trim and healthy bodies. I remembered Sue telling me that most of them played volleyball for some bar league once or twice a week. The constant and violent jumping up and down of that not to be despised sport showed in their strong calves and tight asses. This realization, the sight of firm ass after firm ass grinding and shaking directly under my gaze, the feel of a thin waist, tight body clasped in my hands made it harder to dance, impossible to think clearly.

Finally, when I thought my enthusiasm was perhaps becoming a bit obvious (a few of the staler, older women still sitting were staring openly at my crotch), just when I thought it might not be a bad idea to signal to the DJ to put an end to the pleasure before things got out of hand and an alarmed screech from one of the girls brought some beefy brute away from the bar, with a flourish of white and lace and loud laughs of approval, in front of me stepped the bride, herself, Sue's "best friend in the whole world."

I hadn't really paid attention to the dear girl earlier, at the Catholic Church, during the cake-cutting, or anywhere else (and for that I should have my head examined) but now with her body tightly within my grip I couldn't help but feel a touch of envy, a hint of grudging admiration for the goon she was marrying.

The girl was a hot, extraordinarily tight, package. Her waist felt thinner, her hips firmer than any of the other specimens who'd passed through my greedy little hands in the last few delightful minutes. If I remembered, Sue said her name was Layla or some such garbage and that she was a graduate of the two-year nursing assistant program at the local technical college. To be a terminally ill patient in her ward would be reasonable, I thought. If you're going to die, you may as well. . . . Enough. Lord. Observe this creature. Her long neck, streaked with beads of dewy, salty sweat slowly descending, looked like it belonged on a model. Even her stiff cement like brown hair made me want to lurch by crotch forward and into that obscenely expansive and fluffy decorated white dress of hers.

And just as I was on the verge of reaching forward, on the verge of licking one of those salty beads slowly strolling down her neck, the DJ or cheap tape he'd made cooly prevailed and the delightful beat stopped. Relieved but terribly disappointed I did the only manly thing open in the situation even though I knew it might result in great bodily injury to me. I continued forward and lunged into her. She laughed as I bumped hard with my straining cock into her mounds of frilly white until
finally nothing could deny I was pressed tightly against her tight ass with my large, hungry erection. And instead of jumping away, horrified, she gave the slightest push back, I heard the faintest murmur of a moan, and then she pushed away, giggling and clapping her hands. I was a bit dazed, felt empty without her in my arms. They were all laughing, all clapping their hands.

I recovered. I had to think quickly. If any of them happened to glance a few degrees south, they'd all see the lewd condition I'd worked myself into, or, rather, the condition they'd worked me into. It would be madness to survive the torture of dancing with them, to survive, moreover, the daring, bold dart into the bride's sweet ass only to wind up pummeled to the ground and in grievous need of plastic surgery for innocently standing around in the midst of a dozen or so giggling, jiggling, healthy, young ladies.

I glanced in a panic for an escape route and Sue, out of nowhere, it seemed, came to my rescue, almost knocking me over as she tightly clasped her arms around my neck and kissed me deeply. Of course, I had my own surprise in store for her and pushed crudely against her abdomen. She shrieked into my mouth, delighted, and pulled her head back, her face wet and happier than anyone deserved to be at such a dismal event.

"You're such a pervert," she laughed and then closed her eyes as she pushed herself against me.

"That was so much fun! Let's do it again! One more time!" I heard girlish squeals and laughter all around me, but I paid attention to nothing except Sue's grinding pelvis and the blushing face of Layla right behind her. I shrugged, apologetically to the luscious bride and then frowned. A polka'd started. (No doubt, one of the nasty older women had demanded a return to normalcy). Layla smiled sweetly, stared for a bit and then was pulled away by her throng back to their corner table for more beer.

"You're so hard," Sue giggled in my ear, as I watched the ruffle of white walk away.

"Yeah," I muttered, keeping my eyes on the bride, who took another glance back at me, blushing wildly, before a glass was shoved in her face. I shook my head. It looked so wrong. A bride and a bottle of Bud. So wrong. That bride needed something else in her hand, something long and smooth, filled with frothing, bubbling-- a nice flute of champagne.

I looked down at Sue whose grin was brighter than ever. The poor girl was all tenderness, all love and I could see that her emotions were overwhelming her and she was about to speak.

I smiled. "Shall we fuck, my dear?" I asked formally, although my mind was feverishly trying to scheme to get the bride somewhere alone. It would be impossible in my excited, feverish state so a quick clearing fuck seemed in order.

"Oh Tommy," Sue sighed, melodramatically collapsing in my arms. And, to my credit, in spite of this goofy display of affection, I dragged her away. I noticed the bride noticed (and frowned) as Sue and I walked out and I congratulated myself, pleased things seemed to be coming together.

Now for the fuck.

I'd overestimated the ease with which I could find an empty secluded space in the hotel to slip the salami to Sue. The difficulty, of course, was that I was used to old, sometimes crumbling, hotels, built at a time when gentlemen understood properly the need for out of the way dark rooms and nooks and crannies in which to entertain their lady guest at hand. This hotel, on the other hand, built in the seventies had nothing of the sort. Like everything since World War Two, it was built like a box, with lots of other little boxes neatly walled in. It was symmetrical, uniform and impeccably clean.

It was depressing. Where did the busboys take the busgirls for a quick blowjob after a hard shift? The manager of the dump--where would he take the newest graduate from the hotel management program at the local "University" for a quick noon poke? Awful business, but finally a few dozen feet from the shiny main lobby I found a small cabinet-like room where tables and chairs were stacked. I dragged Sue in behind me and shut the door.

Always the gentlemen, I positioned myself between a wall and the chairs (wouldn't want the poor dear squashed in an avalanche) and dropped my pants. It was quick. It was ruthless. Simply delicious. The poor kid was wearing a garter (probably first time in her life) and all I had to do was rip away her soaking panties, open up her warm thighs, close my eyes, and I could almost pretend that I was somewhere in the St. Regis breaking in Mary of the Manhattan Mandevilles after her first deb party. I groaned and she quickly thrust her face into my shoulder to stifle a scream of orgasm as her cunt, wildly spasming, simply swallowed up my cock to the hilt. I was back to reality. I held myself still, straining on my toes to get every last bit into her. Her excitement was dripping down to my balls. In no sense was Mary the deb this juicy and full, this pungent and deep, this fucking hot and gripping.

After she caught her breath, after her cunt's last quivers of appreciation, my fucking of Sue began in earnest. I had no intention of changing pace, changing direction, Subtlety was out. Fucking was in. I simply pounded up into her in a mad race as she babbled, cried and groaned, scratched and bit incoherently and when I came it was with an intensity I thought I'd left behind at Hill at sixteen losing my cherry to my thesis advisor's second, rather young, wife.

"That was incredible," Sue said, tears still in her eyes, as we walked back somewhat unsteadily to the hall.

I grinned at her and she swooned (I swear) when I took her hand as we continued walking. What was I going to say to her? Listen, kid. Your "best friend in the whole world" got me so excited I had to fuck something and, well, you were the closest thing nearby. No. Goodness. I wasn't going to admit that. Nor, of course, would I tell her that throughout every pulse and throb of my cock draining into her overheated body the only thing on my mind was her "best friend in the whole world's" tight ass. So I did the only reasonable thing to keep her quiet: I held her hand and nudged her playfully. It worked. With love in her teary eyes, and the blush of two orgasms on her rosy cheeks, she said not a word as we approached the hall (and the loud awful sound of the Macerana--the Macerena for God's sake! three, four years later-blaring over the speakers).

"Tommy," she sighed as we were about to step back into the hell.

"Yes."

"I've got a real problem tonight."

I turned to her. What's this? The poor kid was trying to act serious. I suppressed a smile.

"I promised Layla that I'd, you know, go to her after-wedding party in the bridal suite, but I want more than anything to spend the night with you."

"What are you talking about?"

"Tonight, Layla's having a party and--"

"What's this?" I asked, waiving into the loud ballroom.

"Oh, this is for her family and, you know, tradition and stuff."

"Tradition and stuff."

"Yeah. The real party won't start until tonight, you know, with all her and Bill's close friends."

"Let me get this straight. Those two are going to have another party after this?"

"Yes."

"And at this party, they're not going to be alone? The whole gawd awful gang is going to be there with them, right?"

"Yeah."

"What? Is this like a pagan ritual, an orgy for the bunch of you or something?" I asked, genuinely amazed and, I must admit, a bit excited. I was warming to the idea. A pagan orgy with lots of virgin sacrifices would be something to write home about. Of course, I doubted any virgins remained among them, but we could always pretend. Maybe throw in some ketchup. Still, an orgy? Never did anything like that. But then again nothing would surprise me about these people. I was beginning to admire them and their delightful rituals.

"No, silly. It's not an orgy," she laughed slapping my arm. I stared at her hand. "Sorry," she said.

"Sue, sweetheart, I have no idea what you're talking about," I replied, genuinely confused. An after-wedding party. What, in God's name, was this all about?

"They don't want to have a traditional wedding night. That's all, you know. I mean, it's not like, you know, they're both virgins or nothing, you know," she smiled.

I shook my head, trying to understand, but unable to. Your wedding night with your friends? What could be more bizarre? And then I cursed myself silently. I did. I'd thought working at Goldman's Chicago office would be kind of cool before I went to Harvard Business School, but these people to whom I'd attached myself were like a different species entirely. Entirely, God damn it! In New York, of course, I'd never go out on a "date" with some computer hack. Sure. I'd fuck her if she was hot, but a date? Never. And then to a wedding? I was losing it. My friends back East would be shaking their heads in disbelief, in disgust even, if they could see how far I'd fallen. Never again, I told myself. Never again, would I go to a wedding where there was even the slightest hint that the Macarena might be played, or where the chicken dance was considered anything other than recreation for the mentally dangerous.

"Interesting," was all I said to her, and tried to give her a reassuring smile even though I was sure my face was paling as I tried to come up with excuses to get the hell out of there.

"Well?" she sighed.

I shrugged, confused.

"What should I do?"

"About?"

"About the fact that Layla wants me at the party, Tommy? What should I do?"

I shrugged once more, somewhat annoyed. What did this have to do with me? I'd go to the apartment, change and hit a bar or two in the Loop. She could do whatever she wanted with these loons. While she played pin the tail on the groom or whatever little pleasantries they had planned, I'd be between the thighs pumping away on some young bimbo with a fake ID.