84 pearls around the neck
After three months in Louisville, Kentucky, I didn’t have a whole lot of friends.
That’s not quite it, actually. To be more specific, I had a lot of “What’s ups?!”, “Hi theres!” and quite a few
“Let’s get together one days.” I therefore was quite delighted when Penny officially invited me to a “girls’
night out.”
Standing in front of my closet, I didn’t really know what I was supposed to wear. What could my points of
reference have been since I had only seen women wearing running gear when dropping the kids off at school
in the morning, and yoga pants when picking them up around 4 pm?
I also had a slight biblical gut feeling, for I knew that Penny was a devoted churchgoer who spent six hours
every Sunday with her family and 22,000 other faithful believers at the Southern Baptist Church, and
every Wednesday evening at round tables reading the Gospel.
Yet there was a “modern” side to Penny, cheeky Penny! A slender, 5-foot-4 woman with a doll face, always
decked out in Banana Republic or Ann Taylor to go to work, Penny was a model employee in an investment
bank. She always smiled with her pearly white teeth and her pretty, perfectly red lips, courtesy of Lancôme
lipstick, her own and only small folly!
So, at 7 pm, I made my way to Hurstbourne, a residential neighborhood with a private golf and country club.
It was already dark when I arrived at Krivia’s, the evening’s hostess.
Krivia was an ob-gyn. She was beautiful, smart, independent and divorced. Penny had recommended her
enthusiastically: Krivia was the doctor for all the girls in the group. It was nicer that way, and it “all” stayed
between us! Krivia and Penny had known each other since kindergarten; that is since their respective sons had
entered kindergarten. It had probably been so for all the guests invited tonight.
The door was open and there was already a nice little crowd, with jazz music providing a nicely hushed
atmosphere. Small groups of women were chatting and laughing, a glass of Chardonnay in hand. I put my
handbag down on a chair next to the sideboard in the dining room.
A quick glance at the beautifully, and generously, set table told me that Krivia was an impeccable hostess.
Yet, something caught my eye… Something was terribly off. Right there, among the beautiful crystal,
silverware and British china was a cake in the shape of a penis.
You heard it right, a large cake in the shape of a penis covered with chocolate. Only conclusion possible: a
black man’s cock.
I was certainly mistaken. Surely the cook meant to represent some exotic fruit and failed somewhere along the
way. Yet… what were those breast-shaped puddings doing here? And why were there pink lace bras wrapped
around the candlesticks? Were these blown-up condoms floating lazily above the Baccarat chandelier?
I must have come to the wrong address.
Reaching towards the chair to grab my purse and leave discreetly before getting caught up in some
Kentuckian orgy whose rules I wouldn’t know, I suddenly heard the lovely Penny calling out to me: “Hi
there, have a drink!”
Actually, I was quite ready for double Bourbon, on ice, straight up: what on earth was this all about?
A little further away, I could see a woman dressed as a nurse with hat and all (was this supposed to be a
costume party?). She was standing behind a table covered with sexual objects. Well, there was no longer any
room for doubt: plastic dicks, hairy vaginas, vibrators, in short an exhaustive assortment of pussy and wily
toys.
Holy shit!
Or was it ‘Hurrah!’ this was going to be fun after all?
At that particular moment, I wasn’t exactly sure yet.
I was introduced to the guests, all “nice” women: Shirley, from Mc Harvey, the insurance company; Marcy,
plastic surgeon; Nancy, private banker; and so on.
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