A woman gets a very surprising birthday party from her colleague

She sips her tepid coffee and reads the newspaper, trying to decide what to do after the bills are paid and some sort of dinner is prepared. The house echoes heavily with memories of past birthdays, some bright, some dark, all sharing the presence of other people. Making a face, she takes a marking pen and circles a movie as the best alternative to a solo evening of television or mingling with anonymous strangers at a bar.

As she sits up and sighs, the quiet is broken by the abrupt ringing of the telephone. The voice at the other end is familiar, one of her office colleagues, a friend if not a close friend, for she has not allowed herself the danger of close friends since he left.

“What are you doing tonight?” Her normally attractive face creases into a frown, the question an unwanted reminder of the malaise and anomie assailing her. “I was going to catch that new Adam Sandler movie…” she begins, but her colleague dismisses her plans with unexpected enthusiasm. “Oh forget *that*, there’s always a new Adam Sandler movie. I’m having a little get-together tonight, and you simply *must* come!”

The phrase “simply must”, echoing as it does the image of blonde debutantes and Junior League members, would normally elicit a polite but firm dismissal. On the other hand, there *is* always another Adam Sandler movie, and the tone of excitement in the other woman’s voice is at least intriguing. Her attempts to clarify the nature of the get-together are politely but effectively sidestepped, and directions are given with a target of eight o’clock.

She hangs up the phone, wondering briefly at the unexpected gesture of friendship, then shakes off most of her mood and heads to the study to take care of the household finances.

Dinner, when the time comes, is a diet tray from the frozen food section of the grocery store. The microwave, she sometimes thinks, is the recluse’s best friend. Once the table is cleared, the question now arises, what to wear? The simple housedress that suffices during the day indoors is of course out of the question, even had the invitation specified “come as you are.” Lacking any helpful suggestions, she rummages through her closet and puts together a simple ensemble, comfortable pants with a blue-and-purple shaded pattern blouse, one that neither hides nor accentuates her figure. She checks her watch; yes, on schedule. A visit to the bathroom to brush her teeth, and she picks up purse and keys for her first outing in quite some time.

Her destination is a simple ranch-style home in one of the better-off neighborhoods. She brings her car to a stop a half-block away from the address, idling, a sudden hesitance about dealing with people in a social setting giving her pause. But an accepted invitation is a social contract, so she puts the gear back into Drive and pulls up to park. For a moment she wonders where the other guests have parked, then shrugs and opens her door to stretch her legs. Clicking the car alarm behind her, she walks up the paved stones to the front door, initial hesitance quickly covered with an assumed facade of pleasant anticipation.

“Marge, I’m so glad you could make it. Come in, come in!” Her hostess flutters around her, pointing out a place to lay her purse, asking after her day, all of the niceties of a standard party greeting. They leave the entryway and move deeper into the house, arriving at a small dining alcove where a birthday cake, a glass of champagne and two crystal glasses sit beneath dimmed lights.

Unexpected is an inadequate word.

She could turn and run home. She briefly wants to cry. The touch of her colleague’s hand on her back urges her forward, helping her sit down at the table.

“Surprised? Well, I have a friend in Personnel, and when I found out that it was your birthday, I said to myself, April, you can’t let that nice Marge go without someone remembering her.” A knife appears, two slices of the cake are cut, and the champagne is poured, all without disrupting the flow of words. “Now I do apologize for not having a whole group here, but I’m afraid it’s a little difficult to get a group together from our office, you know how everyone has their other commitments.”

She finds a fork in her hand, and automatically inserts it into the cake. The piece she brings to her mouth tastes of vanilla and amaretto. April lifts a glass, and so she must also, hearing a cheery “Happy Birthday” toast. April eats her slice of cake with the grace of a social director, timing her last bite to finish with Marge. “Now, dear, for your birthday present!”

Marge finds volition returning to her, as she begins to demur. “Oh please, April, this was a lovely surprise, but I couldn’t possibly…”

It is as if she has not even spoken. April takes her hand in a warm but insistent grip and leads her away from the table, through the elegant living room, and down a hall to a room with a closed door.

The door is opened…

“Oh. My. God.”

The boy – no, not a boy, but certainly a young man – on the bed lays nude, hands tied over his head, a pair of stereo headphones covering his ears and a pair of leather pads covering his eyes. The hair on his head is fair and full, that on his chest is downy, and further down…

She blushes, staring at his semi-aroused state. What can she do? Her legs are shaky, rooted to the spot. And her body generates its own messages, nipples brushing against her thin bra, a heat building inside. It’s been so long, after all…

Somewhere outside she half-hears words, like a radio broadcast in bad weather. “… woman like you needs … didn’t know until my friend told me … you’ve been so nice around the office, not like those other … longest time to find just the right …”

A tug at the back of her neck, and the cool air in the room washes over her suddenly warm neck. Another tug, and the buttons down the back of her blouse give up their attachments. Hands slide the garment forward over unresisting arms, and those same hands slide the zipper of her slacks down to push it to the floor. Her mouth gapes, breath echoing loudly inside her head, eyes looking hungrily between the young man’s legs, watching the member pulse on his stomach. A pat on her bare bottom rouses her to step forward, leaving her clothing behind, stopping just a handsbreadth away from the bed.

“Go ahead,” comes the voice at her ear. “Touch it.”

She reaches out as if in a dream, laying her hand along its length, feeling the heat and the sudden answering growth. Her tongue peeks out to dab at her lips, and she knows what she wants.

As the door behind her draws closed, one last comment enters her consciousness. “And just wait until you see what he can do with his tongue!”