He was a gonad looking for trouble.
I heard him before I saw him; the strong, metallic sound of boots striking hardwood out in the dark hall, and then, there he was.
Black-brown eyes, dirty-blonde hair hanging loose and uncut over his jacket, a grin spreading slowly and deliberately across his lean face as he stopped and stood in the doorway of the living room of the party house, looking around, making sure to make his entrance.
I’d first shown up at the party house one night several months before, with a group of people I barely knew. It was the usual initiation. Knowledge of its existence and follow on knowledge of its inner workings grew that way, like a fat and happy virus. There was no Sabbath, no day of rest, from the party that self-perpetuated there.
Now William Tully had arrived again. It wasn’t hard to guess his identity. From what I’d heard about him, he was all and only just one long, blonde gonad. One long and golden piece of trouble. Now who doesn’t sometimes crave a little trouble. And in the last, gasping years of the 1970s, a lot of people had their cravings, flailing along within a dying decade. I wasn’t alone. In fact, the party house was filled with golden gonads and luscious labia.
The tallest labium in the room, I strutted around in my new stilettos. The gonad barely noticed me; instead, his eyes fixed on the doorway, where the newest ovaries had just sashayed in.
"Hello William," she said, looking around. "Quite a party."
"Best in town." His tongue was hanging out.
I still had my hole card: "I brought some coke." I grinned at him. "Is there an empty bedroom we can use?"
We were halfway down the hall when someone yelled, "We need one more for a game of Twister."
The gonad's eyes lit up. My grin faded like the ebbing embers of a decaying decade.
"Later," I muttered at his back. "Have fun with your new testicles."
Opening: Robin S......Continuation: church lady/EE