The tragic comedy of Henry’s shorts on his lover’s butt and what she learned from such…
The secretary is blessed with a starlet body. Her legs are perfect. Black garter belt straps are holding her stockings. They are certainly fashionable. However, her shorts are at least a number too big.
I have the same customers three nights in a row. The first night there had been only the two of them. She, a petite, is very intelligent looking and smart talking. Her blue eyes had been full of joy. Her gestures had been expressing sheer happiness. During the night she had been showing her open unrestricted admiration for every word from her partner’s mouth, who somewhat older, maybe in his late fifties. She couldn’t be thirty yet. They are a most playful couple.
The first night, I had watched them holding hands on and off. I had been noticing their kissing between courses, their touching and petting much like all young lovers do. He had been wearing a wedding band. She had been sans a golden band. They had been laughing a lot and both had been cheerful, at times silly acting. For dessert they had been sharing a Grand Marnier soufflé for two.
The second night, they brought three salesmen and one other couple in. These seven had a typical business dinner. The slim, five foot two, very articulate talking young lady turned out to be the secretary to the fellow with whom she had been dining with us, a night earlier. He introduced himself as Henry. This time they had a large baked Alaska, big enough to feed ten, and I cut it up into seven pieces.
Tonight, their third time, it is a party of twenty. They have dinner upstairs in the wine room. Henry’s wife, a big jewelry laden lady is present too. She thrones to the left of her husband while his secretary is perched to his right. They have a great dinner. Without question, I know who is the boss. It is the wife. On first sight she is at least 150 pound overweight. She is pushy, talking down at everyone especially her loved husband. However, watching the men’s kissing up to her, one might assume that she must be rather wealthy or powerful. Neither the wife nor the secretary has dessert.
All these guests are dressed up for the occasion. The men are in dark suits and ties. The ladies wear long evening dresses. I work hard to please them and am rewarded accordingly. They show their appreciation for a great dinner and for good service with a better than twenty percent tip.
I watch them slowly leave. These are satisfied customers, who had plenty of food and wine. They are a loud bunch having a colloquy at the top of the stairs.
As I get ready to clear my tables, I noticed one heavyset man stepping onto the better than a foot of red silk material dragging over the floor behind the secretary. She wears an expensive looking Burgundy-red full length wraparound silk-skirt. Her feet are on the steps of the stairs leading down into the lobby. She stands still.
Before I can get close to her, she takes one step and another. She notices the pressure against her legs, but what she does not know is that her skirt is pinned down, held in place by several hundred pounds of body weight. The secretary’s body is in a down and forward motion and unable to a stop. I see, her red skirt tightening up, her reaching for the handrail. Silk is stretching to its limit. Her hands cling to the banister. A ripping sound, rapture, hooks tear, giving way to the forces. Her skirt is being undone as she attempts to get her balance back. With a surprised look on her face she stands there looking at her skirt, helplessly touching the shredded part where the fasteners used to be.
The three hundred plus pound man behind her is still talking to Henry’s wife. He says “Yes!” and she chats and chats and he says “Yes!” and she runs her mouth as he keeps on saying “Yes!”
The secretary is blessed with a starlet body. Her legs are perfect. Black garter belt straps are holding her stockings. They are certainly fashionable. However, her shorts are at least a number too big. She isn’t nude! No! By no means. She wears a small vest over her white blouse and white boxer shorts over three quarter length black nylons. The BOXER SHORTS puzzle me. Nevertheless, I have seen a few Madonna Videos and I do think women have equal rights. I watch the young woman’s unsuccessful attempt to free her skirt. Two more people are now standing on it. The boss’ wife looks at her and bursts out in roaring laughter. Others who notice her outfit follow suit. The underdressed lady is blushing. She smiles at the hearty laughing. Little snickers and silly grins are all over the men’s faces. Some outright stare at the young lady, who is known to them for being always neat, together and extremely well organized.
The big fellow, who did not notice at first his role in causing a woman to get undressed next to him, he is still standing on her dress. Stuttering an apologize, now at once he gets on his knees. He frees her skirt and hands it to her. His most repentant action freezes in midair.
A roaring scream from the depth and out of the wide open mouth of Henry’s wife stops everyone. Her voice is drowning all other sounds. There is no talk, no giggle, no laughter, but only the blast of air straining the big lady’s sound- cords. It is a wounded animal’s shout, barely understandable, loud and angry: “Youuufooak’n whoooaaooore!”
And I watch the petite rushing by me, with an angry wife in tow. The large white balloon like BOXER SHORTS, filled with air through the front opening, sports a large dark blue or black embroidered monogram, an H it is. I do think “These boxers are huge but do they look cute.” Smacking sounds, a crash, a homp, come from where the married woman meets with her husband’s secretary. The large frame of the big lady corners the younger woman, pinned down. I hear the “Gimme these shorts! I want my husbands short!” Heavy breathing and a thwack, a tirade of swearwords follows a whack, promising the smaller woman hell on earth if she doesn’t let go of the shorts covering her much too skinny butt. Clothing is ripping. Blows from the wife knocks the paint of the wall. Her screaming fills the room like thunder, she kicks and lectures the absolutely helpless pile of self-pity in front of her. “Listen. You whore . . . never again come anywhere near my company . . . or my husband. You understand? You cheap dirty slut you!” There is more tearing, followed by a voice in pain.
I am, frozen in my spot, unsure if I should call the police or an ambulance. I am sure that I will not get in-between the two. I am not stupid enough as to getting into the path of a married woman reclaiming her property. Before I can decide whom to call, it is all over. It did not last long, and there is no blood flowing. No shots are fired. The furious big lady rushes out of the room, not without another kick in direction of the younger woman’s rear-end.
I find myself in the big lady’s path, pushed out of her way as her arm brushes my chest. She does not look at me as she waltzes out of the room. I find my balance bouncing of the wall. I am angry. The young lady is weeping. She is rolled up in the corner in a fetal position. Her hands cover her head. One nylon-stocking is torn. A strap of her garter belt is curled up next to her knees.
I step closer, bending down to comfort her. She reaches for the napkin which I hand her. Her eyes are filled with tears. My own frustration is forgotten. I can hear the big woman stomping down the steps. The young lady is a mess, I help her up, seat her in a chair. She is shivering, her face is pale. Her skin is pale, everywhere. Now I notice her near hairless pubic area. Which is carefully clean shaven except a few dark curls at the top of her sex. There are red scratch marks on her thighs. Her blouse is torn too. The little vest is ripped to pieces. Her bra’s fastener is broken.
“Henry! Henry!” I can hear the voice clearly. The jealous wife is calling her husband’s name. He doesn’t answer. He must have left already. I look out the window and see the wife crossing the street without one look at the traffic. Cars barely miss her twice, coming to a screeching hold. The irate drivers shout. The woman overlooks their pointed fingers. In one hand she holds the evidence, her husband’s boxer shorts. She waves them like a battle-flag. In the other she drags the young woman’s dark red silken skirt.
For a two hundred-pound woman this lady moves fast. She is in a great hurry and heads straight toward the Sheraton, where they all have their rooms. I turn to the victim of the rampage and get the devastated young lady a stiff drink from the bar. She just sits there, still in shock.
Later I offer to help her to find another room for the night. This woman is rightfully scared. I fully agree with her when she whimpering tells me that she cannot go back to her hotel room tonight. “I cannot sleep across the hallway from Henry and his wife.”
There is no blood, no torn skin, a few scratches only as far as I can see. Still her face is a mess, her mascara running. Her hair is in disorder. She takes her stockings off. She looks much like a tramp, who has been through the wringer, wearing her torn blouse over the tablecloth wrapped around her body. She cries a lot. As I see no bruises on her face. I ask “Where does it hurt? Is anything broken?” At first I don’t understand what she murmurs. Her tear-filled voice mumbles something about her life being over. After she repeats her wish to die a dozen times, repeatedly, I get angry and correct her: “Your job might be over.” I tell her that life has just begun. I share my philosophy with her: “Believe me, there is a reason for everything! So they say. Just don’t kid yourself! That’s not the end of your life. It’s only the end of whatever has ended! Let the tears clear your sinuses. When you are done crying, take a deep breath of fresh air and count your blessings! That jealous rhinoceros could have killed you!”
I put a smile on her face when I remind her of the how dangerous the big woman looked during her attack. Like a Rhino, head between the heavy shoulders, her feet were stumping the floor ready to ram her enemy into the ground. My descriptions of the bam, bang, boom when the colossi of an angry huge body slammed into the wall first before grabbing hold of her makes her chuckle. Still, there are teardrops on her face. I get her to laugh as I show her where the woman’s fist had done damage to the gypsum wall.
She introduces herself as Cindy. I clear my tables. I reset the room for the next day and cash out within less than an hour. Cindy, without proper clothing is afraid to go anywhere. Done with my work, I give her a ride to the nearby Hotel Pacific. I register for her, get her keys and sneak her unseen into her own room. While she settles in, I get her suitcase and belongings from her old room at the Sheraton. I listen at Henry’s room-door. It’s all quiet. I hope his wife who is at least twice his size didn’t kill him. I feel sorry for the guy and take Cindy’s things to her new hotel room. Here I find her grieving. I sit with her till the morning and listen to what she has to say.
After this incident, for more than a year, I receive mail regularly from Cindy. In letters she is telling me what she is doing and how life is treating her. She thanks me for going well beyond my call of duty. She is grateful for my having time and lending an ear to her when she needed help, at her loneliest, darkest moment. Her last letter says: “You will not believe it. I have met this great looking man. I shall work for him soon.”
After this introduction, she lists the benefits in full colors, travels around the world and chauffeured limousines. She mentions fine restaurants and feeling appreciated above her biweekly paycheck and the profit-sharing plan. I have not heard from her since.