21 December 2011


by Andy Weddington
Wednesday, 21 December 2011

"I see you're a man with ideals. I better be going before you've still got them." Mae West

'Tis the Season'...

In an effort to satisfy a short-fused request for a Christmas tale, for today, an original, suggestively naughty but nice, button-pushing, bell-ringing, kind of cheesy, maybe dumb but true, downright phony Christmas carol. Listen, you just might want to read it twice anyway--check.

Forget the oldie but goodie mood setting, 'Twas the night before Christmas...'

This carol begins...

"The minute you walked in the joint,

I could see you were a man of distinction, a real big spender, good looking, so refined. I figured you're the Muriel cigar smoking kind. So let me get right to the point, you're right in style when you're in Muriel's company. Hey! Big Spender. Spend a little dime with me. Hey! Big Spender. Spend a little dime with me."

That was as adman's catchy variant of the hit 'Hey Big Spender'--from Bob Fosse's broadway play 'Sweet Charity'--as sung by Edie Adams more than 50 years ago while hawking cigars for the Muriel Company.

Wrapping up the ad, the svelt and sultry Mzz Adams invited, "Join the Muriel mild crowd. Pick one up and smoke it some time." Then walking away and glancing over her shoulder, she closed with a coy wink.

Only a few weeks ago, at first meeting, upon walking into the joint, she, but not Edie--that is, may as well have sung that ditty to me--if she could.

Who's she? Read on.

But she didn't need to sing nor say a word. I'd heard all about her and all of it was true.

She was provocative--built to be deliberately so. An exquisite model, an object of desire by men and women (and some not even close to being of age).

I'm not embarrassed nor ashamed to admit it wasn't, and still isn't, her fault. It's never her fault.

Yes, I took her (and sister, too) home.

Now night and day, she just lays there. With this quiet, come hither look, she just lays there; oblivious to her power.

Waiting's her game. Always the waiting game. And ever it will be her way--waiting.

Clad in alluring black (sister in white), with classy silver accent around her middle, she lay--tempting. Her seductive lines teasing but not a word. Not so much as a twitch.

Some think she's sexy but "sexy" is not quite the right word.

Oh, and makeup--an option--she doesn't need. None. She's a natural beauty.

Imagine, she wanted facetime with me. Ha. Not so much out of fear but for lack of want of turning her on, I hesitated to look her way. I knew I shouldn't have entered that joint.

Nor did I want to hear her song. Nor be lured into her tangled web.

I'd vowed not to push her buttons. I'd promised myself. And was determined not to break.

Out of the joint, in public and at home, she was great at first but infatuation began to fade. It always does.

Then one day at home she lay quiet. Deafenly quiet. And she stayed quiet for a couple of days. Too bad. Not my problem. I'd had enough. I didn't care.

I had nothing to say.

Nor did I really care what she might have to say. But she didn't seem to mind. She waited. She knew not appearing bored was key. She's intelligent that way. She's smart.

Then again, though waiting's her game, she had no choice but to wait, for me, for I had control--or so I thought. So I believed. Foolish. For a moment I considered taking her back to the joint--so she could wait for some other fool.

That dark, blank, expressionless face of hers--features aplenty but not revealing--she really looked as if she could care less. Not smug at all, just absolutely indifferent. Cold. I think that's right. I'd seen it before during our brief relationship. I didn't care but her game was certainly annoying. Damn annoying.

A day passed. So what. I went about my business. She about hers in silence. The peace and quiet was nice.

Still she waited.

As the second day passed, I began to question if I was being hasty? Maybe completely irrational? And considered giving her a look. Calling out to her was out of the question. Was I simply missing her? Just a glance. Maybe she'd not notice. What's the harm? The vow. I'd made the damn vow. I promised.

Towards the end of the day I decided what the hell and what's the harm.

At first, just a darting glance. She didn't notice. She didn't seem to care. I knew it. So I looked a  bit longer. She still didn't notice. She definitely didn't care. Damn. She really didn't care.

Something told me she wanted to give notice, maybe to file, but wouldn't. She couldn't.

I did not speak.

Wait! Was that a cutting look she returned? Was she teasing or copying me?

I held my ground, stared, and still felt I wasn't missing anything. I was certain of it. Yet I wondered.

That look of hers. Maybe sexy's right afterall. Was her glance real? Or imagined?

She never made a sound--she couldn't. But that look--that look, I'd seen it pasted on her face before; numerous times. She could be maddening but I didn't let her get to me.

By day's end I could take no more.

Not cat and mouse, this poker game was about to climax. She held all the chips and cooly played them all.  And she held all the cards, and knew it. Less I say we were down to the wire. She played me to the core. Practically broke, I opted not to fold but to see her raise and call--to see if my message clear. So, without warning, I gambled and made my move.

I snatched her up.

She was helpless. Not putty, but I had her in the palm of  my hand. She said nothing still, and she didn't resist. Not so much as a whisper. Or wimper. She couldn't. She'd waited patiently, well knowing sooner or later I'd not resist. There was no escape. And she didn't care.

She knew me. She knew me too well. She was right. I was wrong. She had my number. Boy, did she have my number.

She's a beauty. Sleek. Thin. Lovely. Irresistable lines. Yes, sexy. I guess 'sexy' is right after all. What a body! And what's a body to do? There she lay in the palm of my hand.

From top to bottom and across, I traced my finger across her smooth, unblemished face. The feel familiar.

Eyes satisfied and sense of touch appeased, I reached to find, to locate, her button--the button--and then search surroundings.

Now it was her turn not to resist. She couldn't.

A couple of days in waiting, fully charged and ready, she responded immediately.

Electrons firing and juices flowing--she started to glow, quickly came to full power, and vibrated.

Smokin' hot, like a good Cuban but she's no cigar. She loves to be caressed and fondled--her face stroked and buttons pushed.

So much for peace and quiet. Another day.

Still, indifferent, she did her job.

That is, she offered beautiful, captivating, well-organized apps. All for the taking. Some for a price.

And then I pushed her buttons--checking for messages and email.

She? If you've not solved the story, the Apple of my eye--iPhone4S. This month I've called her Holly, now Carol.


Yes, folks, Siri(ously)!

True story and, as I forewarned, sort of cheesy, maybe dumb, and really phony.

Might you pick up Jobs's model and stroke her sometime?! But, Hey Big Spender,' fair warning, she'll cost you much more than a little dime--for talk, despite what they say, does not come cheap. Nor does love.

Merry Christmas, baby! Merry Christmas!

And to all a good night.

Post Script

She had me the minute I walked in the joint, that day just before Thanksgiving. My wife took home  sister--the white one. So much for Scrooge, Santa came early this year.

As it turned out, I'd missed nothing during a couple days abstinence. I could have left her alone a few more days. Maybe weeks, but not much longer--for as most folks know, you can't go without for long. Besides, she's got my number. And so do some of you.

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