I scan the room, wondering who it would be tonight. It’ll probably be the Birthday Boy himself. It usually is. That, or the groom if it’s a bachelor party. A king for a day ready to disappear his cock inside me.
I am a Lady. I always smile and say thank you.
Minutes have passed since I emerged out of darkness. But there are cracks inside my hiding place; this structure only pretends solidness.
Backstage Paul, (that’s my manager), Paul had feverishly been painting my body. We were running about 10 minutes behind, as usual. I had on a plain white cotton bikini, absorbent and easily begrimed. Paul had forgotten the paintbrush and used his hands to make red, white and blue stripes across my breasts (Birthday Boy was a soldier).
“How many ‘R’s in birthday?” His voice rising up to me. He was on his knees now, right hand paused above my navel. “One,” I said, sucking in my stomach. Not for vanity’s sake- that was later on stage- but because he was doing this with a lit cigarette dangling off his lower lip.
Paul stood up and I closed my eyes. He threw the glitter on my oiled body. I rotated slowly. Meat being basted.
“Now, get your ass in there.” He smacked my backside as I climbed the tiers. Paul complained because I didn’t wear heels but after that time I’d fallen getting out of this contraption I’d insisted bare feet.
Inside, my knees drawn up to my chin. Paul swung the hinged lid closed with a bang. I am officially on the menu. In the close of darkness I sit and feel and smell my befeathered skin.
I heard him lighting the sparklers. Soon felt the wheels begin to give and I was on my way towards a fine ruckus.
The cake was a sight to see when it entered a room. Blazing brightly it stood six feet tall. The push from kitchen to stage was a short one but drawn out dramatically. In my cocoon I readied for metamorphosis. I am a Lady, I thought. I am a Lady and I always smile and say thank you and I am a Lady I am a Lady.
Every crowd of men left to themselves in these circumstances is deafening. One should not stare a crowd of men in the face for fear of what will be looking back. Things appear fangy. Best to smile and look just over their heads. I always smile and say thank you.
I heard the roar settle into the song. Time slowed. “…Happy Birthday to… you!”
I sprung my trap. A single spotlight shone down on me, The Madonna in white. Arms and chin held high, I am a sequiny shade. Here before you revealed but never.
My schtick is to bounce joyfully up out of the cake, over the edge then saunter in this sexy little way. Reaching between my breasts to undo my top and let it fall as I make my way inch by inch to the Man of Honor. I never break eye contact. I am a cobra and he does not dare look away. After my top has fallen he will see I have edible pasties over my nipples. These sweet surpises dissolve on the tongue. I will sit on his lap and guide each breast into his mouth as the sea of men churn around us. A pack of wild dogs, they inch closer as I nurse.
As I stand up and dance only BB will touch me. I am his spoils yet. When my bikini bottom comes off and my dance gets looser other men will embolden and grasp at my hair, my arms, my ass. Each one needing. Kneading into me; trying anyhow.
I will receive beer kisses and no concern for my pale skin. This will end in a hotel room upstairs. I am his bon voyage if he is a groom. I am his remembrance if he is a BB.
I will do my best to satisfy Hunger. Mine and His. I do hope They remember me one day, these nice boys with their thick chests. This BB is not a bad looking one, afterall.
BB has been given a can of whipped cream. If he is shy I will squirt myself for him. If he is liquor-bold he will do it himself and I will feel hot fingers and tongues gobbling. Somewhere in between beats from the music and yells from the uncollared males I will forget to smile and will start to grin. I will not say thank you. I will force my own feast back upon them. And I sure as hell am not a Lady.