tagGroup SexAmateur Gods (Ltd.)

Amateur Gods (Ltd.)

byvoxincognito56©

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?"

Fucking "duh" on both accounts.

And here in the real world, that's me sitting inside one of the fitting rooms, nude from the waist down, feet on both sides of the full length wall mirror so I can get a good shot of my fingers dancing over my glistening clit, dipping into my greedy cunt.

That's me with a mouthful of the blue cotton blouse I've brought in. I've stuffed that fucker in like a gag because I'm afraid someone will hear me moaning while I fuck myself, hear that guttural, near-sobbing noise I make when I come hard and so fucking good that my orgasm is like the center of the universe.

The motherfucker of big bangs.

Don't worry, I pay for the shirt.

Want more? Do you want to read about the grocery clerk?

The guy working the potato chips?

Guy in the bookstore, guys on TV, the mail carrier, and Oh! Bulletin! Not just the guys, as of late. By way of consolation, I'm sure I'm not the only gal who finds Hayley Williams a furtive, fantasy "paramour," not "The Only Exception."

My doctor and his nurse always play hefty cameo roles in my fantasy life. Read about that? Me with my feet up in the gyno stirrups while I suck his dick and she eats me out. Given the right mood, I may have her probe up my bum with her professional fingers, or him fucking me hard and fast while she climbs up the table, straddles my face and plasters her cunt over my mouth like an oxygen mask.

Do you want to read my fantasy about the teenager who mows my lawn, know what perverse, deliciously randy slut I've become?

Hell with the fantasy, I'll tell you what happened: He was out there in the back yard, back and forth with the lawn mower, and I couldn't take it anymore, I opened the curtains on my bedroom window and just lay on the bed, nude, ram-a-lam-a-ding-donging my pussy with a dildo I'd hitherto ignored for about a decade, and God damned if he wasn't watching. Why else would he keep going over the same patch of lawn he'd already mowed?

Next week, he brought a friend with him, sharing the voyeuristic bounty, I suppose, and at first I thought I'd found a grateful moment of restraint...

Then I locked myself in the bathroom, stripped, lay naked in the tub and pretended the warm water trickling out of the faucet was his eager-to-learn tongue tapping Morse code on my clit.

Dot-dash-dot-dashity-dot-dot... Oh yeah.

Oh fucking yeah.

And alright, Morse may not have been able to read that, but I got the message twice that morning. Let's hear it for hydrotherapy.

No, I haven't crossed the line. I'm unabashedly loyal to Keith here in the real world, and serious betrayal is alien to my character. Save for that stray bit of performance art in my bed room, I've kept all my amorous trysts between my ears.

Of course Keith is marvelous therapy. Such a reliably good fuck. If I haven't bore the full force of my libidinous mood swings by making love to him morning, noon and night, its only because I don't want to alarm him, because I know he has to go to work, has a life outside of tinkering with his wife's newly enhanced sex engine.

Meanwhile, lots of time with The Finger Sisters, their pal Vibe, and certain sites on the internet. (God, if there wasn't already an internet, I'd have to invent one. Thank you Al Gore.) I've adapted to my new psychological environment with gusto.

Halloween. This year's party. Right, I'm getting there. Give a girl a break, will you?

My quest for Oscar Wilde took me online, and I ended up on this really cool costume site that was interactive like a video game. It opened on the facade of a store: Amateur Gods (Ltd.) and notwithstanding the name, (Absurdly ambitious, don't you think?) the store itself was a quaint affair, perennial "hole in the wall," something you'd stumble across cruising the back streets of Soho, Left Bank in Paris, Pre-war Berlin, or some fanciful, Hollywood blend of all.

I cursored and clicked my way through the front door, to a little pedestal that had a "Welcome! Feel free to browse" sign on it; delicate cursive script and the sign itself not much bigger than an index card.

And these, gratefully, weren't mass-produced, assembly line costumes the like of which you make do with from the local mall. Someone had taken the time to wade through second-hand theatrical costumes and real clothing, antique and otherwise, and then reassembled them into different themes.

I perused and found Air Force Surplus astronauts garnished with sci-fi film accents. Parts of their Cleopatra costume looked like film props Liz may have dropped to the floor on her way to bed with Richard.

There were several Frankenstein monsters--not all of them direct movie rip-offs, and the variations of his brides ran from agreeably grotesque to alarmingly sexy. (There's no rule saying a resurrected corpse-gal can't flaunt a micro mini and some lively cleavage, is there?)

And then I came across a mannequin decked out in full bore, decadent Marie Antoinette, so honest-to-God beautiful that I started to doubt my fealty to androgynous Oscar. It was Her Highness dressed up for a masquerade ball, in fact, a costume within one, disguise to the power of two. She had full, blonde-feathered wings strapped to her back, a petite mardi gras mask bordered with matching feathers and colored gemstones.

The mask itself was a work of art, the dress and wings remarkable for imitating what a 17th century monarch might improvise for a masquerade ball whose theme ran something along the lines of "Come as your favorite fairy."

A chat-room dialogue box blossomed in one corner of my monitor and the word "Boo!" typed itself. The mannequin turned toward me, smiled.

I laughed, typed in "Boo, yourself" in the reply space provided. Then I added that I loved the site.

Marie: Well, that's understandable, I think. It's been a while, though, hasn't it?

Me: Uh... Sorry?

Marie: If you're checking up on us, Milady, you should probably do it from a different terminal. We know your web address.

Me: Once again... Huh?

Mannequin Marie waved her hand in the air dismissively, and I tried to imagine behind her mask, tried to decide which actress or celebrity the site's creators had patterned her after. There was definitely something familiar about her, and not knowing began to annoy me.

Marie: Neither here nor there. Indeed, consider that if I ever had a motto, it would be the same as Prince Charles...

(A full, one-leg-retreated, curtsey, formal even as her rueful smile remains intact.)

Marie: Ich Dien, Milady. "I serve."

She quickly suggested Marie Antoinette wasn't my style this year; Shook her head vehemently a few seconds into my pitch for Oscar Wilde.

Marie: Too much, Milady. With due respect, let me suggest that this year, moins est le meillieur. Less is best. By way of inspiration, I think Sandro Botticelli is in order.

Me: Je ne tus comprends pas. And how did you know I speak French?

Marie shakes her head impatiently: Please, Milady, we both know I'm not a computer game. Don't play with me. If you please, enter "Birth Of Venus" into the site's search box.

And when I did, my screen was in another room or alcove where Sandro Botticelli's masterpiece was reproduced on the bit mapped wall. There was a placard with text on a lobby stand before the painting:

Surely, taken at face value, it's tongue-in-cheek burlesque, this naked woman standing in a fanciful little sea shell boat, a clothed woman to her left trying to cover her nudity in an enveloping cloak that a pair of contrary wind spirits on her right seem determined to blow away.

Yet the painting before you has survived for eight hundred years, infiltrated into our modern cultural consciousness by way of cosmetic ads, movies, TV, comic books, etc.

Legend suggests that Botticelli's nude model for The Birth Of Venus was a married Florentine noble woman, Simonetta Vespucci. She was, by some accounts, the unrequited love of Botticelli's life, and having lost her to another man, he refused to marry anyone else, spent the rest of his life alone and longing.

Does that narrative shed light the painting's ageless appeal? Is the artist's simmering brew of love, lust and loss somehow part of the magic the painting conveys to viewers?

And here in this cyberverse alcove, by way of homage, and surprisingly admirable by comparison, I'm looking at a costume (What there is of it!) inspired by the painting, perhaps another artistic descendant of Sandro's thwarted love.

The Mannequin wearing the costume came to life and smiled below a mask fashioned to look like something sculpted from polished coral, and as the dialogue box had followed me from the other room, so apparently, had my hostess.

Venus (rueful smile in place): Boo again. Venus, c'est moi. But seriously, isn't this closer to what you want this year?

Here in the realverse, at my desk, I laughed out loud.

Me: LOL. No, no. It's not that kind of party.

Venus: Not yet.

Though the costume before me made slight bows toward modesty that the painting didn't, it was obvious whoever wore it would be mostly nude. There was the teasing consolation of tiny, silver star fish over one's nipples like stripper's pasties. Small consolation for me as I've always thought of my aureolas as rather large, and wondered if this get up wouldn't simply draw more attention by failing to cover my nipples adequately.

And below, a sort of V-string panty; the front panel improvised from a blue-ivory sea shell. Thongs that radiated from both sides and curved over the thighs were stylized vines of shiny green satin made to look like seaweed.

Me: What covers a gal's butt when she wears this?

Venus: Every eye in the house.

And Venus D'Antoinette pirouettes to emphasize where there isn't any costume at all, save for a strand of faux kelp disappearing between her ass cheeks.

Venus: You DID mention wanting to shake things up this year.

This year, of course, my guest list had one slot set aside for someone we could anticipate never showing. Emily Cabenel. The reason she wouldn't be here was Tony Boland, currently Keith's head of cyber security.

Cut to the chase and know there was a time we had Tony And Emily working for us under the same roof, and that was the time they clicked like lego blocks, found each other like north and south pole magnets rolling around in a box of marbles.

Indeed, part of our corporate folklore is security cam footage that caught them together in the board room one evening, alone, after hours.

In that video there was this stretch that looked like they were just sorting documents for a client's upcoming court date. They had faxes, and memos and e-mails and copies all lined up in neat little piles.

And then Tony said something that made them both laugh--I never caught what it was. It came across on video as just a murmur--but it made them laugh out loud

and look at each other

and there was this moment where they held that mutual glance a second or two too long, and the only option that made sense was for Tony to lean over the arm of his chair and kiss Emily on the mouth.

It was chase; it was pensive; a shot in the dark.

And there was the possibility it would only go that far. You saw them both sit back, questioning one another with their eyes, both of them looking for some cue, some indication that they both wanted the same thing next.

She made that move. It wasn't much, just a slight inclination of her body in Tony's direction. You have to watch the vid rather close to catch it.

But then it was an explosion of hands groping, lips seeking, clothing being torn at--You clearly heard one of the buttons from Emily's blouse bouncing and rolling off the table. Keith found it on the floor, a day or so later.

And there was Emily, usually so demure, on her back on the conference table, blouse open and bra down to bare her delicate little tits, full access for Tony's eager hands. And she had her skirt hiked up around her waist. the full bush of her untrimmed pussy revealed. She'd made a half-hearted attempt to get out of her pantyhose but in the chaos of that moment, they got balled up around one of her ankles, a knotted figure of eight.

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