For Love of Maggie Excerpt
During the specialty Blackout Dance Number, the lights were intimately dimmed. My partner was Mabel Gibson. I didn't chose her. She chose me. As soon as my arm circled her waist, my senses reeled with her overpowering perfume and I knew she didn't have a damn thing on under her purple and gold evening gown. Unfortunately, someone better acquainted with her routine found us in the darkened room. I didn't get to dance the whole number. But in that short time, I ended up with a suck-bump on my neck and red lipstick smeared around my white collar. Luckily, I spotted it when I went to the rest room to freshen up. It gave me time to formulate what I was going to tell Maggie
Harriet caught me twice. She, too, felt a little naked under her pink finery and her musky scent had me thinking of Arabian Nights. Even when dancing with all the lights brightened, Harriet's body was so close I could feel the pressure of her pubic mound against my leg. I tried confining our movements to the center of the floor, hoping to be less obvious with all the other dancers surrounding us. It was a lost cause. When the number ended, and the dancers spread out--leaving the floor--my male excitement was even more conspicuous. I was forced to jam a fist into my pocket in an attempt to camouflage what was clearly evidenced.
By 10:00 P.M., I was a mite weary. Everyone else seemed still gay and springy. Whoops, shouts of laughter and the clink of glass on glass was still coming from all parts of the ballroom. Instead of the party beginning to wind down, it appeared to be taking on an even peppier overtone. Once again, I wondered if I had the stamina for this kind of lifestyle. Perhaps, I should consider migrating to the south sea islands where life was more tranquil. By 11:00 P.M., I was just plain pooped.
I cornered Maggie and led her to a darkened area of the auditorium. "How's it going?" I asked.
"Fun!" she answered gaily.
I tried for sympathy. "I'm tired. When are we going home?"
"How can you be tired?" she bubbled. "This is really great. Don't be a party pooper," she giggled. "What you need is a little something to pep you up."
The giggle did it. I squinted into her eyes. Even in the dim light, I could see that certain look. A look I had grown to know well during our marriage. "Where've you been getting the booze?" I asked.
"Only had one," Maggie said defensively.
"I don't care about that." I could see she was feeling good but was nowhere near drunk. "If we're gonna stay until the end, I could use a belt myself. My glow has just about worn itself out."
"Come on." She took me by the hand and pulled me across the ballroom in the direction of the ladies' rest room. I hesitated at the door, looking at her questionably.
"Come on." She tugged at me. "Don't worry, this isn't the toilet. It's the lounge."
We went in. The room was filled with both sexes, all of whom were holding partly filled plastic glasses. The liquid in them had a suspicious amber hue. We pressed through the crowd. On the far side, we came to a small table. On it were numerous bottles, a bowl of ice and stacks of clear plastic glasses, The labels on the bottles left no doubt as to their contents.
"Mix us a drink," Maggie directed with a sweep of her arm.
I shook my head at the wonder of it all, remembering the post script on the posted regulations and its admonishment about excessive drinking. It didn't stop me from throwing together two drinks. I handed Maggie hers. Sipping our drinks, I observed, "There's sure some wild women here tonight."
"So I see." Maggie indicated the red lipstick on my collar.
"An accident." I feigned the loosening of my collar and slipping a hand around in an effort to hide the hickey. I hoped I wasn't going to have to explain that, too.
"You having the same kind of accidents I'm having?" Maggie asked with raised eyebrows.
"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked warily.
"If you've been getting the same kind of action I've been getting all night, you've had some battles.
"What kind of action have you had?" I queried, not really sure I wanted to hear.
"Hands, mostly. I thought when a man got past fifty he had learned what to do with his hands besides using them for grabbing."
"Grabbing?"
"Yeah. Near as I can keep track, I have been . . ." she counted on her fingers ". . . pinched on the rump six times, had four feels copped--even though I warned them ahead of time--and been propositioned at least five times."
"You're putting me on."
"Think so? I have the bruises to prove it. I didn't realize what was actually happening, at first. I got angry with my first two dance partners. After that, each new partner got a warning before he tried anything. But that only stopped most of them--not all of them."
"And you're having fun?"
"Sure." She patted me consolingly on the cheek. "Don't worry, darling, you haven't lost anything precious. I can handle it."
"You like it!" Amazed, I searched her face again to make sure she wasn't kidding me.
It's not hard to figure out the way these people think around here," Maggie theorized. "Its all part of the retirement lifestyle, having these dances, I mean. Every woman is fair game for every man--and vice versa. You might call it--the past-fifty version of the modern swap-club craze. This is just a mild form, geared to the age bracket. Cop a few feels, make a few propositions and, if you're lucky, you might hit the jackpot."
"Incredible!" I shook my head feeling disbelief, yet knowing that what Maggie had just said was probably all true. Only nobody would admit to it.
"Come on, honey," Maggie slapped me playfully on the shoulder, apparently unconvinced that I didn't already know this, "don't tell me you haven't been pulling a little hanky-panky on that dance floor tonight."
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