Above: Yup. It's yours trulyDecember 31, 20-- 11:00 pm
You're at the masquerade. It's eleven PM and the new year is just 60 minutes away. In your right hand is a tumbler of good bourbon that is assisting you in forgetting the past year. In your other hand is a noisemaker and the wadded lyrics of "auld lang syne", just in case you've forgotten them. You take a drink.
On the large overhead screen, furnished for everyone's enjoyment, Dick Clark's rocking New Years' eve is plugging away with the latest teen fad/sensation undulating in the foreground. Clark himself, held upright only through the help of thin wires, visibly shoves away his thoughts of illegal teen love and tells you what a good time he and the rest of the animated corpses in the audience are having. You take another drink from your tumbler.
You have no idea who the brunette with the feather boa is, only that she is giggling at everyone and constantly rubbing against you. The merlot in her hand has been filled at least five times in the last hour forcing you to remove her from your "get lucky" list. If she's even upright at midnight, you'll eat your boxer shorts and allegations of rape do little to start a new year off correctly. Another drink.
Your tumbler is now almost empty so, being proactive, you shake your pink wig in the direction of the buxom waitress as she passes. She gives you a harried glance but acknowledges you since you've already tipped her more than 30% the value of the bourbon. Unlike the brunette, the waitress is still on your "get lucky" list. God knows why, though. By midnight she'll be drop dead exhausted and will be likely to give less response than the unconscious brunette. Besides, she doesn't seem too attracted to your costume which consists of plastic bubble gum machine tops covering your breasts. Getting lucky is beginning to seem unlikely. Visiting with the ghost of masturbation to come, you finish your tumbler.
January 1st, 20-- 12:01 AM
The ball dropped. Again. The Brunette in the feather boa dropped also. As you predicted. Dick Clark should have dropped, but the wires held, so his waxen corpse is still babbling into the overhead screen. In the room you're in, 300 people are drunkenly singing "Auld Lang Syne", sloppily kissing one another, and making farting sounds with hand held noisemakers. This is the penultimate moment. What everyone has gathered together for. It's a whole new year filled with promise and hope. The people on the overhead in times square, the people at your masquerade, the people the world over, are making as if to embrace this new year. Meet it head on. Seize it. Reap it for rewards. Which of course is why the majority of them are drunk, dressed like peacocks, and desperately molesting people they hardly know. You set down your fourth empty tumbler and hail the frazzled but still attractive waitress. Fifteen minutes ago, you gave her a twenty dollar tip, hoping for the extra attention and the fading possibility of thank you sex. At this point, though, you'll just be happy with a fifth tumbler of bourbon.
On the ground beside you, the unconscious brunette's skirt has ridden up to her waist. Your erection presses uselessly against the overlarge metal chastity belt that you're wearing as part of your costume. The last bars of "Auld Lang Syne" are coming to a close around you and your fifth tumbler of bourbon arrives on time, the twenty having accomplished it's mission. For one fleeting moment you think, this may not be such a bad year after all. Then the man behind you dressed like Madonna vomits on your mostly bare back and brings you back to reality. At least your erection is gone. You take a drink.
January 1st, 20-- 1 AM
The masquerade is winding down now. Forty percent of the revelers are unconscious or catatonic. Twenty percent are off fornicating in some darkened corner. Twenty percent are still vacantly nodding at the dulcet tones of the undead Dick Clark. And the last twenty percent are either event staff or designated drivers who are marching around and allowing themselves a moment of superiority over their less disciplined compatriots. You still sit at your table, vacantly staring at the colorful centerpiece while wondering why you do this to yourself every year. Sexual desire long since washed from your system by the bourbon, you are now using the unconscious brunette as a footstool. You emptied what was left in your wallet into the apron of the buxom waitress as a drunken heartfelt thanks for the special attention. The gumballs in your "bra" give an impotent rattle, as if unaware that the celebration has all but ended. Too drunk to walk, you remain seated and pee out the side of your "chastity belt". The new year has now been officially embraced.
Knowing what state you'd be in, you took a taxi here. The prospect of even walking to the curb and hailing another fills you with a sense of the impossible. Hell. If the floor is good enough for the brunette, it's good enough for you too. So you slide forward and fall to the ground. Right into your own urine. But the apathy of good bourbon holds and you close your eyes on this most majestic of holiday nights. You feel the warmth of the snoring brunette beside you and begin to drift off. Sometime in the wee hours of the morning, she awakens beside you. And notices that her skirt has ridden up to her thigh. And that you're wearing a pink wig, a chastity belt, and nothing else. And that you smell like urine. Which is how you wind up with the rape charge.
Happy New Year!
