My Best Man by Andy Schell (unputdownable books .txt) 📗

bottle of creamy salad dressing, and pours a dribble down the shaft of each banana. The phone rings.

“Hello?” I say, into the receiver.

“Hi, honey. Is Amity there?”

“Nice to talk to you too, Mother,” I answer, loading the semen dribbled bananas into the refrigerator.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Harry, but I’ve a limited amount of time today. I have to go to the clinic for a followup.”

Of course. She’s still recovering from cancer. I feel guilty. “Sorry, Mom. How is everything?”

“Wonderful, honey. Bud Orenstein says that it’s the best tummy tuck he’s done and that I look like Suzanne Sommers. He just wants to check my muscle tone, but I’m running late. Is Amity there?”

Duped again. “What’s going on with your cancer tuck?” I ask.

“What a perfect way of saying it! Everything’s fine. Now really, darling, give me Amity.”

I hand Amity the phone.

“Hi, Susan! How can I help you? Uh-huh. Right. Oh, yes. Great! I can’t wait. I’ll mark it on my calendar. See you then. Love your guts!” Amity hangs up the phone.

“She loves her own guts. They’ve been tucked away so nicely.”

“And I’ll do the same when the time comes,” Amity says resolutely.

“So what’s the skinny?” I ask.

“She’s coming down to Dallas. We’re going to go gown shopping.”

“Just warn me so I can be out of town. Now look,” I state, changing the subject. “You, me, and Nicolo are going to get off on eating these nasty fruit plates, but what about Thomas? He’s straight. He doesn’t want to eat a big dick dripping with jism.” “Oh my God, Harry! Should we have made him a pussy?” We laugh so hard we fall on the kitchen floor.

“Come on, come on!” Amity says, pulling me up. “We’ve got to whip up an edible Libby.”

We find out that kiwi is actually very vagina like when squished into shape. And with the green color and the black seeds, we wind

up with something wet, juicy, and so visually stunning that Georgia O’Keefe would be proud. We crumble the bacon on top of it and use a little round slice of banana as a belly button above it. Amity cheers, “Voile, y’all!” “Voile, y’all!” I imitate.

She jumps into the bathroom for a mini poo, the abbreviated version of the poo up. The full version takes two hours, and she doesn’t have time. She takes off her clothes and squats in the tub. She’s dark from yesterday’s sun, and her tan lines make her look as if she’s wearing a white bra and panties where her breasts, ass, and crotch have been shielded by her swimsuit. As water flows out of the spigot, she unabashedly uses a washcloth to wash her Muffle or Lady or whatever it’s called today while I sit on the tub’s edge. “We gotta make sure this isn’t an all-day thing because I’ve got a date with Kim tonight,” she says, now washing under her arms. “Don’t worry. The waiters probably have to work tonight.” She finishes up, and we both get dressed. I wear linen shorts with a belt and a starched, shortsleeved button-down. No shoes. It’s too hot, and besides, my feet are tanned, so they do match my belt, as Amity insists they should. I’d really just like to wear a pair of gym shorts and a T-shirt, but Amity makes me dress Winstonesque. The boys arrive together in Thomas’s convertible Mustang. Amity is turning up my short sleeves, making cuffs, while we watch them from the house. “Look at his car, Harry!” She smoothes my collar. I’ll have to wear a scarf when I go riding with him, or my hair could fly loose and kill someone in the next lane.” We bolt from the door so they don’t see us watching them. When they knock, Amity has me answer and then casually strolls into view behind me, wearing linen shorts of her own, a melon-colored blouse, and expensive European sandals over her tan feet and painted toes.

“Hi, y’all.” She’s resting her head on my shoulder, allowing it to be her frame.

Nicolo stands there, wearing a light yellow polo shirt, his dark

skinned biceps bursting out of the short sleeves while his muscled legs press against the faded button-fly jeans. The guys come in. Thomas kisses Amity, and Nicolo shakes my hand. When Amity reaches out to shake hands with Nicolo, he quietly says hello and shakes hands dispassionately. Like the night at the restaurant, I can tell he doesn’t really like her. I think she can too. We show them the house and then bring them right back near the front door to the sun porch, and serve them mimosas. Then Amity pulls out a pre twisted joint, and we all get stoned. Then Amity and I announce the nasty fruit plates. Nicolo and Thomas are relaxing, digging it, and we laugh while we all eat our fruity genitalia.

“We almost served you a dick,” Amity cheerfully confesses to

Thomas, who’s slurping up his New Zealand-grown vagina. “Yes, your pussy is very last minute,” I add.

Amity tilts her head and takes a sip of champagne and orange juice. “Harry’s so thoughtful. He helped me shape it just this morning.”

“That’s why it’s so fresh,” I claim.

“So what happened to my dick?” Thomas asks, jumping into the game with his very slight, very sexy European accent.

Amity smiles and tilts her head even more. “I ate it, darling’.” And so our conversation goes, remaining on the light side to the extent that it almost escapes gravity. And I notice that the lighter it gets, the less patient Nicolo grows. Every time he tries to make a stab at something real, whether it’s the Russian boycott of the Olympics or the ongoing presidential debates, Amity steers the conversation back to sex. And I can see that Nicolo doesn’t really respect her, and in fact, I sense that he thinks she’s rather shallow. It’s not anything he says, but I can see it in his eyes when he looks at her. He even tries