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Yvette

From Part 3 of “Tami Beethoven”.


She woke groggily but then with a sudden sense of alarm. She was in a strange bed. The strap of her camisole had pulled off her shoulder and she straightened it. Her black vinyl pants were bunched up too. She poked her head up from the covers like a ground hog. What had she gotten herself into? Had somebody dragged her half-naked drunk body into bed and humped her? She had heard of that happening --

Fortunately her private parts did not hurt. She felt more or less in one piece, except for the hangover. And this sun room she was in did not seem sleazy, in fact it seemed respectable and neat.

Taking care not to move too fast -- with her hangover she could easily get dizzy -- she got up and saw that her shoes were placed neatly on the floor. She clumsily slipped her bare feet into the glass-bottomed, four-inch-high platform sandals and, straightening out her long black hair behind her, took stock of where she was.

A nice little house. As she lurched into the next room, a living room, she tried to dismiss the weird dream from last night. Practically being thrown into the cold night air, a cold ride in a pickup truck with someone who spoke gibberish, then a naked super-woman picking her up like she weighed nothing and carrying her inside. It was obviously a dream, at least the last part.

Pierre, Pierre . . . I know he won’t forgive me for this . . .

She heard voices far away somewhere. Trying to trace their source she found herself in what must be a master bedroom. A queen-size bed, recently slept in. An open closet with lots of clothes -- just men’s clothes. She looked around for women’s clothes and shoes and found none. Just a guy must live here. She also noticed that the covers were thrown back on only one side of the bed. Single. And a gentleman, not to have screwed her last night.

There was a big window showing the back yard, and a computer table with books and papers, a monitor and keyboard. The mouse and its pad were on the floor, under the chair. Weird.

Her eyes were arrested by the pictures on the dresser. Naked girls. No, they were all the same girl. That super-woman? The big photo, in the middle, with her standing on a riser in front of a cheering crowd, flowers in her hair, next to a young black man in a white formal type coat. It could be a wedding picture, but for the missing bridal gown. A young lady in a minister outfit is next to them, and a straggly-looking bearded guy in a blazer and jeans. The naked girl looks so out of place, with everyone else fully clothed.

Another picture, the same naked girl, sitting on a throne wearing a tiara, with an exaggerated haughty expression. Below her, on some steps with a red carpet, three girls in matching red and black, bowing to her. One was white, one was thin and black, another was Hispanic-looking with giant tits almost spilling out of her low-cut dress. Another picture, of the naked girl in the tiara, this time with her arm around another girl, thin and white and kind of no-nonsense looking, in a kind of business suit.

Some smaller pictures of the naked girl with what must be a brother and her parents, cropped at her bare shoulders. Now the same brother it looked like, in uniform next to an American flag. There she is with her shoulders again, next to the black guy, this time he’s in a black graduation gown, with what must be his parents. The father is bent over and supports himself with a cane. Quite a contrast in that photo, with her bare white skin.

On the other wall a large painting caught her eye. Somehow she hadn’t noticed it before. It was the same girl, in a chair in what looked like the stacks of a library, pausing from reading a book as if pleasantly surprised to see the viewer. The book is half-open in her hands over her flat tummy. Totally naked, her pubic hair and breasts on full view, yet not showing them off either. Her attitude was strange -- not at all like a stripper, just the opposite. As if she didn’t even know she was naked. Both her face and her body are beautiful, as if the artist was in love with her.

Now on another little table, set apart, a frame with photos of a tall, friendly-looking guy with black curly hair, wearing a long black coat, and a girl in red lipstick in a black dress with a real long string of pearls, leaning against a lamp post, her hips playfully swayed and her head tilted, like a hooker. This is the white girl from the throne photo. Between them, a photo of the World Trade Center.

She looked at the doorway, thinking she heard a movement. I shouldn’t be in here. So she scampered back into the hall, realizing how loud these ridiculous stripper shoes were on the hardwood floor. Still a bit hung over and disoriented, she made a wrong turn and found herself facing a bathroom. Too late to turn back. So she went in, her shoes stomping on the little tiles, and closed the door.

No sound. She found that she did have to pee and sat down. The bathroom was tiny. As she exhaled and let it flow she looked at the bathtub and shower right next to her and realized that there wasn’t just a guy living here. Three bottles of shampoo, one of conditioner, then some hair coloring. They couldn’t be for the guy because his head was shaved. On the sink were a brush with reddish hair in it, and a long comb. Also a very short little comb, like guys might use on a moustache. Odd, the guy in the pics didn’t have a moustache. What’s the little comb for?

Reaching over for the toilet paper she was startled to see a big blue rubber bag on the floor with a narrow tube coming out of it. Where had she seen that before? Oh right -- that dancer Lita had one, who kept talking the virtues of anal sex. Ewww, an enema bag. Well, now I know more about this girl living here than I really want to.

And now she detected the faint odor of vomit. She thought: great. She’s bulimic too.

Back to the bed in that little sun room. She waited and there was no motion. She got up again.

“Oh,” she said, startled in the hall by a tall black man about 25 years old, with a shaved head and wire-rimmed glasses, in a suit and big brown boots. This was the guy from the photos.

“Hello, are you feeling O.K.?” he said, with concern.

“Oui . . . Merci . . . yes. . .” She was babbling.

“You were quite a mess last night. You probably need some food in you.”

That would ease the hangover, at least. She smelled eggs and pancakes cooking from somewhere. A telephone rang and there were female voices. Uh - oh . . . a woman gasping as if she were crying. Some kind of scene was going on.

“I still am need to sleep,” she said. She couldn’t concentrate to speak good English right now.

“O.K. I have to go. My wife’s name is Tami. You can’t miss her,” he added with a smile. “She’ll take you to the help center. Good luck getting back on your feet.”

She watched him go. She wanted him to stay. Anything to keep from the clutches of this Tami girl. She was getting a very bad feeling about her. Into anal sex, bulimic, takes naked pictures, even with her family -- and now she’s breaking down in the kitchen. How did this O.K. seeming guy get involved with her? And why was he leaving her to cry in the kitchen? It made her own situation seem positively normal.

She tumbled back onto the refuge of the bed, wearing her shoes in bed even though it was impolite.

She couldn’t stay there forever. It was about fifteen minutes later that she got her courage up to traverse the narrow little hallway, the walls studded with ornately framed black-and-white photos of old men and old women like from a hundred years ago. Then she turned the corner and --

“Hi, Yvette!”

The cheerful girl was next to the stove with a spatula in her hand, facing her as if glad to see her. And without a stitch of clothing. The naked super-woman, in the (bare) flesh! And with no sign of having cried.

Yvette, her mouth open, took in the bare breasts and pubic hair and bare legs. The only thing this girl was wearing was a little golden ring on one toe. Yvette shielded her eyes. “So sorry -- “

“No, it’s O.K.” she said with a laugh. “I’m Tami. Excuse my appearance. I’m allergic to clothes.”

“That’s right, she is,” said Jen with a mouth full of pancakes. Leisha, also eating but a bit more refined, nodded in agreement.

Yvette slowly unshielded her eyes and accepted the invitation to sit down. There was a table setting in front of her. She nodded to the black women. Do they live here too? What kind of kinkiness was going on? Does the fact that this Tami is the only white person in the house have something to do with her showing her skin all the time?

She watched Tami’s backside as she worked the stove. Yvette was a stripper and had seen plenty of naked women walking around, but only on stage or in the dressing room. At home, strippers tended to cover up. This was decidedly weird.

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