DOUBLE DECKER
by
Alessia Brio
Copyright © 2010 Alessia Brio
Cover art © 2010 Alessia Brio
All digital rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
ISBN 978-1-4523-0665-0
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
A Purple Prosaic Production
Smashwords edition
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Double Decker
Chapter One
There are times when I feel like sex on legs. Sex. On. Legs. I usually know before even opening my eyes in the morning if it's gonna be an S.O.L. kinda day. No, not "shit out of luck," but "sex on legs." Maybe some sizzling dream inspires the mood. Or, maybe it depends on my cycle or the phase of the moon or what I ate the night before. What-ever. I've never been able to pinpoint the cause, nor have I really tried, but I absolutely love the effect.
That particular morning, my first conscious sensation involved my nipples, which is always a good omen. I rolled over and pulled the spare pillow to my chest, savoring its coolness as it brushed against the hard points. Though it was still dark, I could feel the coming dawn—like the world holding its breath, about to exhale with the long "Ta da!" of a brilliant sunrise.
Reaching over to the night stand, I turned off the alarm exactly three minutes prior to its set time, pleased that I'd somehow managed to wake without its shrill tones—another sign that the day would be a pleasant one. If I ever hit the lottery, my first order of business would be to banish alarm clocks from my life. Period. Unfortunately, I've not yet hit the lottery.
The day's schedule crept into my awareness, details swirling around and then coming into focus one by one: casual Friday; boss on vacation. Lunch date with an old friend who was in town on business. It just kept getting better and better! The last detail, however, brought the most anticipation: karaoke night at the local dyke bar.
It was a quarterly event at the Double Decker. A touring gig out of Baltimore—Musical Marks—with a way cool electronic voting setup came through town every three months or so. For the first ninety minutes, in three sets of nine, anyone could have the mic for up to three minutes—and not a second more—just by signing up at the door and paying the requisite fee. Twenty-seven acts. The top third of the vote-getters moved on to the second round and the top third of those on to the finals. After that, judging was by percentage of encore votes. The performer called back to the stage the most often with the highest number of requests won a weekend trip for two to an exclusive mountain spa. I wanted that trip in a major way—enough to fork over the c-note entry fee instead of putting it toward new tires for my car.