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“Yes, but let’s not forget that I earned that special night out,” Angelina responded.
“Hmmm…refresh my memory,” asked a quizzical Harry.
“Oh, c’mon, Harry. It was that time when you met that hick superintendent from Texas at a conference in the city, got drunk and invited him to tour Riverdale so he could see what kinds of administrative ideas he could adopt for his district in bumpkinville, or wherever he was from.”
“That’s right. Big Enos Smith. He was a fun guy. Hey, he liked you. He kept calling you a ‘pretty little filly.'”
“Yes, I was not charmed. You asked me to join the two of you at that godawful country and western bar in Rutherford, where he insisted on square dancing with me all night.”
“That wasn’t so bad.”
“Not so bad?! Have you ever danced for two solid hours in a pair of cowboy boots, with a big clod, who kept stepping on your toes? My little doggies weren’t barking, they were screaming.
“But that wasn’t the worst of it. Then, because my house was closest to his hotel, you asked me to drive him home. Only, we had to stop at my house first, so he could use the little buckaroos room to rid himself of the two pitchers of beer he consumed at the bar. Then he insisted on having a drink at my place, which turned in to two and three. With every drink his sexual advances became more aggressive. I finally got so desperate from fighting him off that when his back was turned I slipped a sleeping pill in his drink. Only, somehow our glasses must have got mixed up. The next thing I remember was waking up the next morning on my living room sofa – thankfully, still fully clothed – in that hideous checkered shirt, jeans and cowboy boots, with Big Enos passed out on the floor beside me.
“That was a close call, Harry. Too close. You owed me a big favor for that one. And since I knew your brother was a childhood friend of writer and Studio 54 regular Clayton Winchester, I thought he could get us in there.”
“Yeah, I remember. The next week was the school’s holiday break. My wife went out of town for a few days the day after Christmas, so we were able to get into the city one night and go to the disco then. Boy, that was a great week we had together, you and I. We must have set the Guinness world record for the number of times we made love.”
Flashback to December 28, 1978
At 9:12 p.m., Angelina Lione stepped a spiked heel from her knee high, red patent leather boots out from a parked taxicab and onto the chilly pavement at 254 W. 54th St. in midtown Manhattan. Moments later, her other booted leg touched the ground. Standing up, she surveyed the chaotic scene and her high spirits dipped. Before Angelina was a sea of humanity – held back from the infamous Studio 54 entrance solely by velvet ropes – all vying for the attention of one man: discotheque 54 co-owner Steve Rubell. The gatekeeper, who decided which of the nameless hopefuls waiting in the cold would spend the evening inside rubbing shoulders with celebrities and which would be dispatched – sometimes, with an insult about their appearance.
“Oh, no,” she sighed. “Look at all these people. We’ll never get in.”
Harry Seymour finished paying the cabdriver his fare and took his first gaze at the crowd.
“Relax, we’re on the guest list, remember? C’mon,” said the determined 60-year middle school principal.
Taking his seductive mistress by her black leather gloved hand, Harry began pushing his way past the queue of wannabes. With her other hand, Angelina held her faux fur coat closed to protect her sexy body against the night’s 30 degree temperature and 13 mph wind chill.
Jostling and pushing, moments later the couple pressed through the gauntlet to the front of the line and to within no more than a foot from Rubell.
“Excuse me, sir,” said Harry to the diminutive club owner.
Either unable to hear the greeting over the din of the crowd, or intentionally ignoring the call, Rubell’s downcast eyes were on his guest list.
“Excuse me, SIR!” repeated Harry, only louder.
Rubell looked up from his clipboard and at the man whose voice was ringing in his right ear. Before speaking he carefully scanned Harry from head to toe.
“Are you kidding me?” Rubell asked Harry, sarcastically. “Forget it, old man. You’re not gettin’ in. Go home to your rockin’ chair.”
“But we’re on the guest list,” cried Harry in persistence.
“What’s your name?”
“Harry Seymour. We’re guests of Clayton Winchester, one of your regulars.”
Rubell looked back down at his clipboard and ran his right index finger down the list of names on page one. Apparently not finding Harry’s name, he flipped the page and again proceeded to trace the names with his extended finger.
“Nope. Sorry, Pops. You’re not on the list,” said Rubell.
“There must be some misunderstanding,” insisted Harry. “I just talked to Clay last week. We grew up together. He said he’d make sure we got in tonight.”
“Forget it! Now beat it, before I have the bouncers remove your old ass!”
Suddenly, a sharp wind gust blew across the entrance, momentarily lifting Angelina’s fur rus escort coat up past her bare midriff, before it re-settled to her knees. The brief glimpse of skin attracted Rubell’s attention.
“Hey, what’re you wearing?” he asked her.
“Who? Me?” Angelina responded shyly.
“Yeah, you. Take off that cheap fur.”
Angelina handed Harry her thin brown, leather purse and slowly and reluctantly peeled off her coat, not particularly wanting to expose herself to the night’s chill. Harry took the coat from his girlfriend, then stepped back from Rubell’s view, to allow for an uninterrupted look at the sexy Angelina.
Resting black-gloved hands on hips in a seductive pose, the 41-year-old middle school librarian gave the disco owner a sultry half smile and let her ogle her for a good half minute. The glittery red dress was held together at the neck by a diamond choker. Just below her neck, the dress parted, making a hard turn to each half so as to only cover the outer two-thirds of each of her firm, baby eggplant-sized breasts. Nipples, unprotected by a bra, shone through the thin silk fabric. Further south, was Angelina’s completely exposed stomach, taut and toned from her low-fat diet and daily, morning sit-up regimen. The matching lower half of her frock cut off just past knee level where her pair of spike-healed red boots perfectly swathed her sinewy legs.
“Turn around,” Rubell commanded.
The woman spread her arms and the fabric covering it fell to gravity in the shape of upside triangles. Then she did as was told and slowly rotated on her booted heels, so Rubell could see her firm ass and bare back.
“We opened last year. Where have you been hiding for the past 18 months?” he asked, when Angelina completed her 360-degree turn.
“I live in New Jersey,” she answered with a slight chuckle.
“Jersey?!” Jersey doesn’t deserve such a sensuous and gorgeous creature like you.”
Rubell bent over at the waist, took Angelina’s black gloved left hand and kissed the top of it, with an exaggerated chivalry.
“Studio 54 was made for you!” he gushed. “Please, be my guest. Go in and get freaky!”
Rubell unhooked the velvet rope and allowed her to pass through.
“Wait, not you!” said Rubell sternly, as Harry walked forward to accompany his date.
“It’s okay, he’s with me,” Angelina told Rubell.
“You’re kidding.”
“No. He’s my boyfriend.”
“Lady, you could do SO much better, but hey, if you’re into old guys, so be it.”
Rubell shook his head incredulously and waived Harry in.
The little man took her by the elbow and led her to the disco’s entrance.
“Hey!” Rubell shouted at the beauty. “What modeling agency do you work for?”
Angelina stopped, turned around slowly for dramatic effect and gave the man a sly smile.
“Oh, I’m not a model,” she responded, with a twinkle in her eye. “I’m a middle school librarian.”
With that, Angelina turned back around and sauntered like the model she thought she was in another life, through the disco’s open stain glass doors, Harry at her side.
After dropping off her fur at coat check and removing her leather gloves, folding them neatly and placing them in her purse, Angelina and Harry were directed to a set of wooden double doors.
“Enjoy, sir, madam,” greeted the handsome, bookend doormen in stereo, as they opened the doors for the couple.
“The moment of truth,” Angelina said to Harry with a grin, before taking his hand and walking through to the dance floor.
“Oh, my God, this is spectacular!” she said, stopping in her tracks to drink in the scene.
“It’s really loud,” answered Harry, in a far less excited tone of voice.
In the middle of the room, dozens, perhaps hundreds, of guests moved as one on the checkered, wooden dance floor to the pounding bass beat from an obscure dance song that blared from several grounded and mounted speaker cabinets. On the perimeter, bare-chested, boyish-looking waiters in tight short-shorts scurried about the tables where the balance of the guests – including scores of celebrities – lounged.
“Look!” screamed an excited Angelina to Harry. “There’s Liza…and Cher! And isn’t that Calvin Klein, talking to John Travolta? Darling… catch me. I think I’m going to faint.”
Swaying unsteadily on the obscenely thin heels of her boots, eyelids behind her owlish glasses flickering ten times faster than the disco beat, Angelina fanned her face with a bare hand in a desperate attempt to take more air into her lungs.
“Steady,” said Harry, holding his mistress up at the waist. “You’ll be okay. Just take deep breaths. Deep breaths.
“Hey, there’s Clayton,” Harry said, suddenly spotting his childhood companion at a corner table holding court before an entourage of hanger-ons. “He’d better have a good explanation for why we weren’t on the guest list.”
Harry made a beeline to the table, leaving the still-shaky Angelina behind. Rather than pass out, however, as she’d feared, Angelina somehow steadied herself from the jolt of being left behind.
“Harry Seymour! How sıhhiye escort are you?” asked Clayton, acknowledging the man, who appeared at his table. So glad you could make it. Have a seat.”
“Clay, why wasn’t I on the guest list?” asked the perturbed man, as he stood over his childhood friend. “We almost didn’t get in.”
“I haven’t seen you in 30-some-odd years, and this is how you greet me? Sorry. I must have forgot. Please, sit down and I’ll order you a drink.”
Emerging from the background, Angelina joined her boyfriend at his side.
“Ah…I need to use the restroom first,” answered Harry. “I’ll be right back.”
Harry did an about face and left the table before introducing his date for the evening.
“What’s his problem?” asked Clayton.
“I don’t think Studio 54 is Harry’s kind of fare, I’m afraid,” responded a disappointed Angelina.
Clayton unfolded his legs, stood up and extended Angelina a hand to shake.
“Don’t worry, my dear. Your husband will loosen up soon enough,” he said with a reassuring smile.
“Oh, Harry’s not my husband?” answered Angelina, meeting the writer’s right hand with hers. “At least, not yet, anyway.”
“No? You’re not Marian?”
“No, Mr. Winchester. My name is Angelina Lione.”
“Angelina? I’m confused. The last time I saw Harry, was at his wedding, and that was to a woman named Marian.”
“Yes, that’s his wife.”
“I don’t follow, my dear.”
“Harry’s my boyfriend.”
The lightbulb suddenly went on over the famous writer’s head.
“Harry Seymour! That old dog!” cried out Clayton. “I’d have never thought he was capable of having an affair – much less an affair with such a beautiful woman.”
“Thank you, Mr. Winchester,” said Angelina. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve read ALL your work. You’re one of my favorite contemporary writers.”
“How charming of you to say, my dear. And call me Clay. I should have known better, than to accuse you of being his wife. You’re FAR more attractive than that dreadful woman. Even in a white wedding gown she looked like a dirty sweatsock. So, how long have you and Harry been a secret couple?”
“About a year and a half.”
“That’s a long time to carry on an affair.”
“Well, I’m working on making Harry my husband.”
“Delightful. Good luck to you, my dear. Where did you meet, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“We work together. I’m the head librarian at the school where he’s the principal.”
“You’re kidding. An office romance, at a middle school? I’d have thought you met at a country club. In that frock you look totally refined and high society.”
Angelina smiled at the compliment and reached into her purse to fish out her long, black holder and gold cigarette case. Within seconds, she’d deftly prepared her holder to smoke.
“A cigarette holder?!” gasped the gay writer. “Why, I haven’t seen a woman smoke with one of those in ages. You ARE sophisticated and continental, aren’t you? Please, allow me.”
Removing an expensive, monogrammed cigarette lighter from the inside breast pocket of his tuxedo jacket, Clay flicked the lighter and held it in front of the woman. Angelina placed the black, plastic end of the holder on her tongue, wrapped her lips around it, accepted the light, inhaled, then removed the holder from her mouth and let forth a voluminous creamy overhead exhale.
“Thank you, Clay,” she said, as the last smoky remnants of her exhale oozed out of her mouth and nose.
“My pleasure, my dear,” he replied, eyeing her slowly from short, dark-haired head to pointy-booted toe. “I must say. Harry’s one lucky man. If he had any sense whatsoever, he’d divorce his wife, no matter what the cost, and marry you, before another man steals you away.”
Angelina smiled, then brought her left hand that was in possession of her cigarette holder to her mouth to cover a yawn.
“Am I boring you, my dear,” asked Clay, with a note of concern.
“Oh, no, Clay,” she replied. “Sorry, it’s not you. It’s just that since his wife went to visit relatives a couple days ago, Harry and I have been partying non-stop. I’m exhausted.”
“We can’t have you waste your night at 54 being tired. Say, I’ve got just the thing to perk you up.”
Reaching back into his breast pocket, Clay stealthily withdrew a small vile of white powder.
“You’ve done cocaine before, haven’t you, my dear?” he asked Angelina.
“Oh, sure. Several times. It’s become a main staple in our social circuit,” she lied, with a dismissive, pretentious waive of her cigarette holder, not wanting to appear unhip to the disco drug scene.
In reality, however, the strongest “drug” Angelina had ever taken was Extra Strength Tylenol, after a particularly stressful stay at school. And her only vice – and the only substance she’d ever smoked, for that matter – were the Virginia Slims cigarettes she lit up on primarily special – and sexual – occasions, filtered through her dinner and theatre-length, black holders.
Clay gave a toothy smile and tapped out a 2″ line of cocaine onto the table.
“Bon sincan escort appetite, my dear,” he said, handing the librarian a tightly-wound $100 bill.
Despite having never snorted coke before, Angelina was quite familiar with the process from reading about it in magazines and newspapers. Without hesitation, and with a “When in Rome” attitude, she bent over the table, brought the bill to her right nostril and hoovered up the line like a seasoned recreational drug user.
“Good girl,” said the writer, slipping the vile back into his pocket. “Let me know if you need any more during the night.”
“So, you two’ve met, I see,” said Harry from behind, returning to the table and addressing his mistress and old friend.
Quickly, so as her boyfriend wouldn’t detect anything untoward, Angelina turned away from him, pressed her left index finger to her left nostril, gave another snort, then wiped the bottom of her other nostril with the hand that was clutching her long, black cigarette holder.
“Harry, old boy, I misjudged you,” said Clay, wrapping his right arm around his friend’s left shoulder and giving it a hard squeeze. “Whatever you’re doing, keep it up. Angelina is a treasure! She’s classy and refined. Her figure totally flatters that dress she’s barely wearing. Anyone else would look perfectly camp with a long cigarette holder, but she pulls it off with such panache. She’s like a sexy Rosalind Russell in Mame.”
After a momentary pause in the music, the speakers crackled with the sound of a familiar tune.
“Oh, my God!” cried out Angelina. “I LOVE ‘Do the Hustle.’ C’mon, Harry, let’s dance.”
“My trick knee is acting up,” lamely replied the principal.
“Oh, no you don’t, you old pooh. We’re dancing.”
Grabbing her boyfriend by the hand, Angelina led the reluctant man to the checkered, wooden dancefloor.
“You lovebirds go and have fun,” shouted Clay. “I’ll see you later.”
After carving out a spot on the dancefloor, Angelina got right into the music. Harry, on the other hand, was still putting down roots.
“I’m sorry, Angelina, but I’ve never done this before. How do I disco dance?” asked the 60-year-old man, standing still as a post.
“Just go with the music, baby,” answered, Angelina, shaking her hips to the beat.
Stiffly and slowly, Harry started dancing, pounding the dance floor with his size 8 penny loafers like he was squishing bugs. Meanwhile, Angelina seemed totally oblivious to her dance partner’s awkward moves. Completely losing herself in the music and the moment, Angelina popped her lit cigarette holder into the right corner of her mouth, freeing her hands to shake them overhead in time to the beat or place them on her gyrating hips.
After dancing non-stop to three more songs, Harry finally begged off the dancefloor.
“Angelina, I need to take a break,” he said, gasping for air. Let’s sit the next one out.”
Harry led his mistress back to their now-empty table, where they both sat down.
Cuddling, Angelina was mesmerized by the disco’s strobe lights, as she gazed open mouthed about the room. Placing her left hand on Harry’s right thigh, she seemingly absentmindedly began stroking it softly. Intended consequences or not, the caress promptly provoked an erection in Harry’s tuxedo trousers.
“Don’t you just LOVE this place?” she asked Harry. “Thank you SO much for taking me here. I don’t know that I’ve ever felt closer to you, than I do right now.”
Her chronic hot blooded, amorous nature fueled by cocaine intake, Angelina turned to Harry, cupped his cheek with her right hand and planted a delicate kiss on his lips.
“My pleasure, sweet heart,” answered Harry, after the couple had unlocked lips.
“Let’s do some exploring,” Angelina said suddenly, popping up from the table.
The woman proceeded to lead her beau about by the hand to all four corners of the disco, gawking at celebrities and commoners alike, until they again met up with Clay, by the bar.
“Enjoying yourselves, you two?” the writer asked.
“Very much so, Clay,” answered a glowing Angelina.
“Care to dance, my dear?’
“I’d love to.”
The two continued to the dance floor and soon melted in with the crowd, away from Harry’s eyes.
“Did the coke help?” Clay asked Angelina, shouting to be heard over the strains of “If I Can’t Have You.”
“Very much so, Clay,” she said.
“Good. Would you care for seconds? Another pick me up, to help get you through the night, perhaps?”
“Sure!”
Clay stopped dancing long enough to produce his vile of white powder and poured some out on the top of his hand. Barely skipping a beat, Angelina leaned in and soon another line had disappeared up her nostril.
“This isn’t your first time at a disco, is it?” asked Clay.
“How can you tell?” Angelina asked with a smile, playfully bumping her curvy booty to his.
“Because you look so very much at home on the dance floor.”
Angelina’s revealing red-sequin dress, shimmering under the disco balls hanging from the ceiling, attracted the attention of a 20-something, mustachioed and lithe dancer, with a perfect part down the center of his jet black hair. As if unaware of Clay’s presence altogether, the man moved into dance with the librarian. In short order, Clay faded from the picture and just Angelina and the stranger were left to boogie together.
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