Whoa, that was deep.
Heads and eyes swerved in their direction. For a moment Myron wondered why. But only for a moment. He was, after all, standing next to Big Cyndi, a six-six three-hundred-pound multihued mass blanketed with more sparkles than a Siegfried and Roy costume party. She drew the eye.
Big Cyndi seemed flattered by the attention. She lowered her eyes, playing demure, which was like Ed Asner playing coquettish. “I know the head bartender,” she said. “His name is Pat.”
“Male or female?”
She smiled, punched him on the arm. “Now you’re getting the hang of it.”
A jukebox played the Police’s “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic.” Myron tried to count how many times Sting repeated the words every little. He lost count at a million.
They found two stools at the bar. Big Cyndi looked for Pat. Myron cased the joint, very detectivelike. He turned his back to the bar, eased his elbows against it, bobbed his head slightly to the music. Señor Slick. The babe-a-rama in the black catsuit caught his eye. She slithered to the seat next to him and curled into it. Myron flashed back to Julie Newmar as Cat Woman circa 1967, something he did far too often. This woman was dirty blond but otherwise frighteningly comparable.
Catsuit gave him a look that made him believe in telekinesis. “Hi,” she said.
“Hi back.” The Lady Slayer awakens.
She slowly reached for her neck and started toying with the catsuit’s zipper. Myron managed to keep his tongue in the general vicinity of his mouth. He took a quick peek at Big Cyndi.
“Don’t be too sure,” Big Cyndi warned.
Myron frowned. There was cleavage here, for crying out loud. He stole another look—for the sake of science. Yep, cleavage. And plenty of it. He looked back at Big Cyndi and whispered, “Bosoms. Two of them.”
Big Cyndi shrugged.
“My name is Thrill,” Catsuit said.
“I’m Myron.”
“Myron,” she repeated, her tongue circling as though testing the word for taste. “I like that name. It’s very manly.”
“Er, thanks, I guess.”
“You don’t like your name?”
“Actually, I’ve always sort of hated it,” he said. Then he gave her the big-guy look, cocking the eyebrow like Fabio going for deep thought. “But if you like it, maybe I’ll reconsider.”
Big Cyndi made a noise like a moose coughing up a turtle shell.
Thrill gave him another smoldering glance and picked up her drink. She did something that could roughly be called “taking a sip,” but Myron doubted the Motion Picture Association would give it less than an R rating. “Tell me about yourself, Myron.”
They started chatting. Pat, the bartender, was on break, so Myron and Thrill kept at it for a good fifteen minutes. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was sort of having fun. Thrill turned toward him, full body. She slid a little closer. Myron again looked for telltale gender signs. He checked for the two Five O’clocks: Shadow and Charlie. Nothing. He checked the cleavage again. Still there. Damn if he wasn’t a trained detective.
Thrill put her hand on his thigh. It felt hot through his jeans. Myron stared at the hand for a moment. Was the size odd? He tried to figure out if it was big for a woman or maybe small for a man. His head started spinning.
“I don’t mean to be rude,” Myron finally said, “but you’re a woman, right?”
Thrill threw her head back and laughed. Myron looked for an Adam’s apple. She had a black ribbon tied around the neck. Made it hard to tell. The laugh was a touch hoarse, but oh, come on now. This couldn’t be a guy. Not with that cleavage. Not when the catsuit was so tight about the, er, nether region, if you catch the drift.
“What’s the difference?” Thrill asked.
“Pardon?”
“You find me attractive, don’t you?”
“What I see.”
“So?”
Myron raised his hands. “So—and let me just state this plainly—if, during a moment of passion, there is a second penis in the room … well, it definitely kills the mood for me.”
She laughed. “No other penises, eh?”
“That’s right. Just mine. I’m funny that way.”
“Are you familiar with Woody Allen?” she asked.
“Of course.”
“Then let me quote him.” Myron stayed still. Thrill was about to quote the Woodman. If she was a she, Myron was close to proposing. “ ‘Sex is a beautiful thing between two people. Between five it’s fantastic.’ ”
“Nice quote,” Myron said.
“Do you know what it’s from?”
“His old nightclub act. When Woody did stand-up comedy in the sixties.”
Thrill nodded, pleased that the pupil had passed the test.
“But we’re not talking group sex here,” Myron said.
“Have you ever had group sex?” she asked.
“Well, uh, no.”
“But if you did—if there were, say, five people—would it be a problem if one of them had a penis?”
“We’re talking hypothetically here, right?”
“Unless you want me to call some friends.”
“No, that’s okay, really, thanks.” Myron took a deep breath. “Yeah, okay, hypothetically, I guess it wouldn’t be a huge problem, as long as the man kept his distance.”
Thrill nodded. “But if I had a penis—”
“A major mood killer.”
“I see.” Thrill made small circles on Myron’s thigh. “Admit you’re curious.”
“I am.”
“So?”
“So I’m also curious about what goes through a person’s mind when he jumps out of a skyscraper. Before he goes splat on the sidewalk.”
She arched an eyebrow. “It’s probably a hell of a rush.”
“Yeah, but then there’s that splat at the end.”
“And in this case …”
“The splat would be a penis, yes.”
“Interesting,” Thrill said. “Suppose I’m a transsexual.”
“Pardon?”
“Suppose I had a penis, but now it’s gone. You’d be safe, right?”
“Wrong.”
“Why?”
“Phantom penis,” Myron said.
“Pardon?”
“Like in a war when a guy loses his limb and still thinks it’s there. Phantom penis.”
“But it’s not your penis that would be missing.”