The good news was, I landed with an inch to spare on the good side of Sylvia Mastadore’s balcony. I was safe, I hadn’t plunged to my death. I would live to jump another day.
The bad news: I had nicked my heavy ball sack on her railing as I made my landing. It’s a family curse, D’Agrande men are notoriously low hangers. Just ask my dad, or his before him.
Scrotums are such funny things, really. I remember, as a child, seeing my dad’s ball sack for the first time. We were taking a shower together at the local Y during a Cub Scout outing. At the time, I thought it looked like a lady’s pink handbag, all matted with wiry hair. Alas, now I possess my father’s handbag. Only, trimmer.
The worst part was, I couldn’t scream out in agony! If I said a word, it was a sure thing that the hot cop on the other side of my front door would hear something and get suspicious. As it was, he may have heard the heavy thud of my bear-like body collapsing onto Sylvia’s balcony.
So I lay there, curled into a ball, clutching my privates for dear life and gritting my teeth. Thank God I was half the actor I was. Possessed of the breath and body control I had honed from years on the floorboards, I was surely better equipped than your average low hanger to handle this sordid sort of situation.
At least I made it across, I could be thankful for that. Too bad I didn’t have much time to congratulate myself on my ingenuity, though. For as I lay there, writhing in pain, I heard the shuffle of slippers from inside Sylvia Mastadore’s apartment and realized I WAS NOT ALONE.
Before I could do anything to protect myself, like place one of her medical marijuana plants up against my privates, I heard the clearing of her cigarette-ravaged throat. I looked up to see the old hag standing by her screen door, gazing down upon my naked form with lust in her wrinkled eyes.
“My my my,” she said, and I could just hear the stench of ancient passion in her voice. “What do we have here?”
I cowered there in my fetal position, too petrified to say a word. She was wearing a silk kimono, just like me. Hers was pink, with a red dragon painted on one side. Her robe was about waist length. And from the way her camel toes hovered around the edges, it was clear that she, too, wasn't wearing anything.
"Dante, Dante, Dante." She was clearly amused with my plight. "What brings you to my balcony? Could it have anything to do with the police officer outside your door?"
"Help me," I whispered, feeling like a fly trapped in a spider's web.
Sylvia moved onto the balcony, moved her hand to the sash holding her kimono in place. "I'd be happy to help." The sash came undone. The robe fell to the floor. I gazed helplessly upon her time-ravaged body, aghast. "But first, dear boy, you have to help me..."
I lay across Sylvia Mastadore's cat hair covered couch, my kimono long since discarded, along with what remained of my dignity. Sylvia Mastadore lay next to me in post-coital rapture, contentedly smoking a cigarette.
"Tell me, D'Agrande," she said, stroking my silky chest hairs. "How was it?" She said it affectionately, as if I were an old lover and what she had forced me to do had been consensual. Was that what she had been looking for? A lusty remembrance of what it had been like to have a lover? The thought was repugnant to me. I rejected any part of being her fountain of youth.
"You just forced a confirmed gay man to eat out an 80 year old minge. How the hell do you think it was?" I snarled, still feeling the taste of her withered muff in my mouth. "I'm going to need a boatload of Listerine to get this taste out of my mouth. Thank Christ I don't have a beard."
Mastadore dismissed my defamation of her minge with a wave of her hand and hoisted herself over my naked body with the grace of a broad half her age. "I'm sure it wasn't all that bad. Just be thankful I didn't ask you to perform."
"Not with all the Viagra in Boston,” I replied robustly, feeling around my teeth. Egad, was that a silvery pubic hair? "You know, I could hit you with a sexual harassment suit, you bitch."
Sylvia stopped in her tracks. Now, I had wounded her. But no, she turned around to stare me down, truly looking like the cat that swallowed the canary, which was a damn sight better than what I had swallowed.
"You won't, though. If you do, I'm sure the police might have a few questions about why you felt it necessary to jump from your balcony onto mine." She glanced over at the "kitty crazy" timepiece that hung over her kitchen table. "Oh, look at the time. Hate for you to eat and run, Dante, but I did promise my granddaughter I'd go visit my great-grandkids today. You can see yourself out, right?"
Suddenly, it dawned on me. "How am I going to get back into the apartment?"
"I guess, the same way you got here." Mastadore smirked and stubbed out her cigarette in the sink. "Watch out for that first step, though, it’s a killer. But seriously, Dante, what are you going to do about the police officer who came calling?"
Hmm. I considered that one for a minute. "I'll just pay him a visit right back, I suppose." And I meant it. I had every intention of telling him all I knew, which wasn't much. Just, on my own terms, and not in the privacy of my own home. And definitely not with two Appletinis in my belly.
Sylvia had a crafty look on her face, as she made her way into her bedroom to change into something that wouldn’t scare the great-grandkids, unlike the sight of her naked wrinkly flesh. Oh, egad. Was that a battleship on her withered ass? The boys at Grind were never going to let me live this one down. "Why were you so anxious to make a getaway, anyway, lover? One too many speeding tickets?"
"Something like that." A beat. "And I'm not your lover."
"I'll call you anything I want, you no good son of a bitch. Just whatever you do, don't ever set foot on my balcony again. I am not your Juliet, and you are certainly no Romeo."
With that, she slammed her bedroom door shut. Gingerly, I lifted myself up off her love couch, still feeling the pain of my ball sack injury.
Hopefully I wouldn't make the same mistake jumping back home. What light from yonder window breaks? Just like Romeo, I had an important date to make tonight. It was going to take all the balls I possessed to see it through.