“All I could do in such a room was to follow the sound of their breathing. Stretch out my hands in front to sweep the air for obstacles, and rely upon spatial memory, that the bed was so many steps from the doorway, the night table to its left as I faced the bed, but that memory proved false, for I kept on walking and walked for a long time until a hand grasped my forearm and pulled me hard to the bed, where I collapsed into a sea of blankets. A spotlight came on near the foot of the bed, and there atop a piano sat one of the chanteuses, spilling from a leather bustier, legs in fishnet stockings, lips blood red, and a bowler cocked over her brow. She winked, and the light snapped off, only to spring on several paces to her left. There in the second spotlight stood another woman in a costume made of bubbles, transparent balloons strategically arranged, and when the first one popped, the light shifted to the third woman, partially hidden behind a fan of feathers. One leg, bare to the hip, snaked out in front of her fan. The fourth was a Godiva, blonde hair down to her bottom, atop a white mare, though I instantly wondered about the logistics of maneuvering that horse on the stairs. The fifth was a French maid teasing with her duster and her ooh-la-la. The sixth was a starlet in a strapless sequined gown that left nothing to the imagination. The seventh was clad entirely in form-fitting leather, even her face hidden in a leather mask, brandishing a bullwhip. She flicked it and the tip nearly took off my tip. When the last light went out, we were once more plunged into black ink, and the bed itself moaned in anticipation.”
I stopped to look about the bathroom to see if anyone else was listening to our conversation, not that I feared they would contradict my account, but because I was suddenly conscious of their feelings and struck with the notion that providing further detail might be unchivalrous, particularly since the participants were within earshot. Fortunately, nobody paid any mind to me. Adele was sitting on the edge of the tub having her hair done in French braids by Marie. Flo and Alice and Dolly appeared to be engaged in a contest to see who could most quickly slurp the ice cream from the bitten-off bottoms of their cones. Jane had the babe in arms at the sink playing with some miniature plastic—at least I hope they were plastic—sea serpents in the water. Even the old man seemed glazed over, but when I caught his eye, he smirked and nodded. “So, what is it like to go to bed with seven women at one time?”
“That’s just it,” I said. “There were eight.”
“You inconsiderate bastard. Eight?”
“Yes, the seven and another waiting for me in the bed.”
“Where did you even know to begin with eight?”
“Here’s the strange thing, though. It seemed like one woman with eight mouths, countless arms, hands, breasts, legs. I could not keep up with her, them, and every moment was chaos and soaked through with pleasure. I could not see a thing but only felt the curve of flesh over bone, roundness, the swell of tissue, the fissures and holes, the softness of skin, and wet hidden places. The smell of them different each to each, and yet the same musky heat and taste of mint and enamel and last night’s dinner and tangle of hair and perfume. Too many hands on me. Like having sex with a goddess in a bowler hat. Eight limbs, pinned down, devoured, spent. Ecstasy, yes, but too much and too brief. All washing me out to sea before I could tell what in the world was going on. I remember falling into a stupor, a kind of sleep, wanting to stay and experience it all again, but more slowly drowning, for something was wrong with me. I had hit my head and I was out.”
“Too bad you weren’t wearing a bowler,” the old man said. “They are usually very hard and stiff, and you may not have been hurt when you hit your head. Oh, don’t look so shocked. I once knew a man named Idaho Slim who liked to have sex wearing chaps and spurs and a ten-gallon hat, and, of course, there is Mr. Meyers who could only diddle with a sash around his middle. And Mrs. Wilma Houghton-Thorne who only screws while wearing alligator shoes. Takes all kinds. What’s a bowler hat in bed? A trifle, a jaunty jape, a sign that one is not too serious when it comes to the old slap and tickle.”
I sat on the threshold, my back to the empty hallway and my feet resting on the cold tiles. My head ached and I was very tired at having reached the point of the foregoing story when I awoke in the early morning hours with the urgent need to relieve my bladder, which in turn led to the bump on my head and the ensuing encounter with the old man and the women gathered in my bathroom, but something was not right. Something was missing. Asynchronous. Out of order.
“There is the matter of the seventh suspect,” the old man said. “Would it be wise to sit with your back to the bedroom?”
I swiveled to see if anyone approached.
“You could always confront her first, rather than be surprised like with the others. You would have the upper hand.”
Rising to my feet, I contemplated his suggestion. He handed me the toilet plunger, ostensibly for my protection, and thus armed, I stepped into the darkness. Behind me the door closed with a thick click caused by the failure to turn the doorknob. Almost instantly I regretted having left behind my companions and venturing alone into the unknown. Only a few paces separated me from the bedroom door, but I was afraid of what I might find. Six of the seven had attempted to kill me, but the old man had thwarted their assassination attempts. Why would the next one not have similar intents? Only now my so-called friend had sent me to face the killer with nothing more than a suction cup on a stick. I thought of comforting myself by whistling, as my mother had taught my brother and me to do when afraid, but then reconsidered the whistle as a dead giveaway when sneaking up on the enemy. I tiptoed silently to the door and gently cracked it open.