Daphne was in a bit of a pickle.
At first, it had seemed like a rather festive idea to surprise her lover with this mildly naughty tableau, hinting as it did at yuletide carnality. If things went as she had carefully planned, including the selection of a delicious cabernet to serve with dinner, then this should turn out to be a satisfyingly heated evening, despite the raging snowstorm outside.
Of course, as any sensible person will tell you, detailed plotting doesn’t mean squat if all the critical components do not perform as expected. In this case, a certain anticipated participant had apparently not quite understood the time-element aspect of her lusty-voiced phone call proffering an invitation to dinner. Her lover was late.
Daphne had climbed into this contraption over an hour ago, and now she was trapped in fishnet hell. It seems that some situations are quite easy to get into but not so easy to get out of, should there be a sudden need for an alternate means of withdrawal. She had just assumed that her lover would amorously save the day, with his chest hair gleaming in the firelight and just the right amount of sweat on his muscled arms.
Come to think of it, as she did just then, Daphne had also forgotten to arrange for her lover to discover her whilst shirtless, thereby mitigating the potential of the gleaming and sweating which had been key elements in her vision. It was becoming clear that Daphne was perhaps not suited for a career in event-planning, despite her yearning to do so. This realization saddened our encapsulated heroine, and there would most assuredly be a scribbled reflection in her diary later that night. But right now, the focus was on getting out of this breezy sausage that had been poorly designed to result in the getting out of another sausage, so to speak.
Just then, there was a clatter at the front door, a promising development that just happened to occur at just the right moment to move this story forward. There were sounds of a key being inserted, the door being throw open and then slammed, wretched mumblings as snow-spattered outer garments were removed and tossed aside because everyone was sick of winter at this point, and an alarming thud as what might be the anchor of the Santa Maria was thrown into a corner of the foyer. (We’ll figure out that last bit later; just keep going.)
Daphne, despite the loss of circulation in some of her important limbs, realigned herself as best she could into what she hoped was a desirous configuration. She licked her lips, heaved her bosom, and tried to exude an aura of wantonness, all whist clinging to the fireplace mantel so she wouldn’t fall out of the fishnet stocking and bust her ass on the hearth. (Multi-tasking is an art that requires extreme forbearance.) Despite the tardiness and the loss of blood blow, Daphne was very happy that her lover was about to round the corner into the living room.
Instead, it was her mother who rounded. And momma was not impressed. Creusa: “Girl, what the hell are you doing?”
Daphne: “Oh. I was expecting someone that wasn’t you.”
Creusa: “Clearly. Now, of course, I require an explanation, because you owe me that after what you did to my womb with that big head of yours but let me caution you first. It’s been a very trying day, I found out that your father has been cheating on me once again, and the engine block fell out of my car in your driveway. I’m in no mood for subterfuge.”
Daphne: “Your engine block? Is that what that sound was at the door?”
Creusa: “Don’t divert the discussion like you always do. The engine block is dead to me now. Why are you strapped to the fireplace like a harlot trussed up on a cross during the Spanish Inquisition?”
Daphne: “Well, it’s not really any of your business, since your womb apparently healed enough that you had eleven siblings after me, but I was hoping to surprise my boyfriend.”
Creusa: “What? Are you still seeing that wretched Apollo?”
Daphne: “He’s not wretched. He gleams and he sweats in a way that I like.”
Creusa: “You poor thing. There is so much more to get out of life than briefly capturing the attention of a glistening stud. Besides, he doesn’t only have eyes for you.”
Daphne: “What are you saying, horrible woman who never approves of anything I’m doing, so to speak.”
Creusa: “I’m saying his flight plan involved a layover at my own airport.”
With a startling and decidedly un-ladylike roar, Daphne ripped her way out of the fishnet, tumbling to the floor and dislocating something that would prove unfortunate in her later years. After a bit of discombobulation, she managed to get to her feet and marched toward her mother. “Why are you always trying to ruin my life?”
Creusa: “Settle down, Daphne Sue. There was no layover. I was just trying to get you worked up so you could work yourself out of that stupid stocking. I don’t do manual labor anymore, after having done labor twelve times and my womb is on the verge of falling out like that engine block. Now, let’s go eat that dinner your prepared for Apollo. The aroma from your trampy kitchen smells divine.”
Daphne: “How can you think of food at a time like this?”
Creusa: “Because once you get old enough, you understand what’s important and what’s not. We need to eat. You don’t need that cheating Appollo. And everyone needs to understand that if someone isn’t there for you when they should be, it’s time to move on.”
Daphne: “Wow. You’re actually making sense, which scares me a little bit.”
Creusa: “Experience changes perception. You learn to focus on what’s important. And, right now, my focus is on that open bottle of cabernet I can smell breathing on the kitchen counter. It appears to have just the right amount of blackberry in the mix. Shall we start with that?”
Daphne: “We shall.”
They trotted toward the wafting vino; a smidge closer to one another than they were the day before.
Previously published on “Crusty Pie”, but I actually discarded that original story, not impressed with what I had done, and I devised this new adventure. Sometimes you have to let go of what isn’t working for you. Cheers.
Categories: Past Imperfect