Pleasures of the Happily Divorced

My mistress' party outfits are gathering dust ever since she gave up on parties where people get so drunk. They get into a state of consciousness she just can't vibe with. Luckily, she loves dressing up for herself and knows, wise woman that she is, that women leching at you instead of men can be even more rewarding. After all, they are her rivals.

And this is just what happened when the three of them -women who are past men either by choice or by circumstances got together recently. They wanted an all-girl party. They know all about how the presence of men puts you under certain unspoken obligations to keep your legs together at all times and exercise the art of flirting. Yeah, flirting is an art. As for me, I put my leg up only to pee and couldn't give you tips on flirting because if you did it the way I do it, you'll probably get a kick where it hurts most.

My beloved mistress wore a new neon green lycra mini dress with neon green feathers on its plunging neckline and a matching feather-lined bra inside. She tried her best to make sense of the countless strings at the back that held up the top of her dress, but got so entangled in them (having, luckily, no man to help me her them), she gave up.I say luckily because she is twice divorced and happily too.

Anyway, back to my subject. Wolf whistles from Liz as soon as she sees my mistress at the door. Makes me feel like howling at the moon. Only there is no moon that night. Lips (that's what my mistress calls her) keeps saying,
"Look at those legs! Look at that figure. What a waste, what a waste!" She means, I am sure, that besides my mistress' waist, her choosing to be manless is a waste with a body like hers, but my mistress has had her men, and more than most women can handle.
"Look at it this way darling, she says, "I'm the Sexy Saint. Look, but don't touch. What can be more titillating?"
"Yeah, what a waste," mutters Liz. "My thigh is as big as your waist!" She lifts up her skirt and displays a solid thigh. Nice to chomp into. Noticing the countless strings all entangled, on my mistress's dress, Liz proceeds to try and disentangle them.

There is uproar as in the process she disentangles my mistress' neon green feather-lined bra. Giggles, shrieks, tears of laughter.
"Hey!" cries Liz, lover of joints and booze: "I just can't believe it! No booze, no joints, not even music, and we're still having a great time! But there're momos - Chinese dumplings filled with minced cabbage and green bean vermicilli and chilled coke (yech! I'd have preferred chicken filling, but it's not my party).

My dear mistress has just learned how to make momos in her Japanese cooking class and she's all excited about making them. All three women lose themselves into making momos. Half of them spill their contents when my mistress boils them, but they eat them with a relish that comes from being manless.

Finally, my mistress hauls out her battered old music system and they dance to Elvis' sensual and romantic music. Lips goes into a reverie at the sound of his voice and the three women shake our heads in idealistic angst. "Ah love!" cries my mistress," If only one could find one that lasts forever! Fantasy is always better than reality."
"Yeah, and it never hurts," says Lips.
"It's now or never, come hold me tight. Kiss me my darling, be mine tonight. Tomorrow will be too late. It's now or never, my love won't wait."
"Mmmm...I want a juicy man and just can't find one," moans Liz.
"Thank God I'm over the 'You've Got Mail' bit!" says Lips who once was obsessed with an internet affair and woke up from her obsession only when he asked for her phone number.
"Yeah, you can't trust a guy you meet through the net," says my mistress. "You don't even know if the pic he has sent you of this handsome hunk is really him. Maybe he's got stinky toes and yellow teeth. Maybe he's bald. Maybe he's an alcoholic. Maybe he's already married. Nothing could be worse than that!"
"Just look at her legs!" cries Lips again as my mistress manages a pirouette.

She is a great dancer, my mistress. Sometimes she dances all by herself with only me as audience. At one time she preferred to do that in a disco, but now she can't stand them. She talks to me a lot. That's how I know all this and more. She told me she needs a sensuous rhythm to dance to and 'trance' just doesn't have it. And the smoke of cigarettes in closed spaces hurts her eyes. Thank god she doesn't smoke any more. The smoke used to make me sneeze.

The night wears on. My mistress, sprawled across the sofa sighs, "The presence of a man would have spoiled the fun. We must do this again, eh girls?"
"Oh yes! I mean really, I didn't know just girls together could be such fun!" says Liz.

It's true. Girls wanna have Fun. And as a dog, I get to party too. In fact, I tried the momos and they were quite yum. I even howled along a bit with "You ain't nothin' but a hound dog!"