game show kitty

It starts like every other evening, with me trouncing up the stairs to the second floor downtown apartment I share with my older sister.  We call it downtown, but you would probably think it’s a little city compared to yours.

From my pocket, I produce a pack of cigarettes and clench my fist around it, crushing most if not all of the squares inside.  This is the first pack I’ve ever bought, but I just decided I don’t want to start.  I just can’t cross that line yet.

The rain splatters against the window, the grayness of the clouds staining my bedroom walls and ceiling and floor.  Instead of switching on a light, I turn on my radio and fall into my beanbag chair.  I start to drift off a little, thinking of her.

I saw her this morning, when I was on my way to school.  Her name is Caitlin, and she’s roughly my age.  Her hair is that nondescript color, more peanut butter brown than chocolate.  Her friends call her Kitty, but I call her neighbor.  I tingle when I think of her sleeping just ten feet away from me, on the other side of this wall.

Whenever I hear the hissing of hot water for showers through drywall, I can picture Kitty being pelted by sizzling hot beads of dihydrogen monoxide, and it suddenly becomes very hard to concentrate on anything else.

For now, I just listen to the generic rock music echoing from that tin-can I call a clock radio.  Right before I fall completely asleep, I can hear a sharp rapping on the wall.  Three quick knocks, all in succession.  And I knock back.

For five minutes or so, we’re knocking back and forth.  This is the strangest kind of flirting I’ve ever been a part of, but I’m definitely intrigued.  All at once, there’s silence.  Confused, I scratch my head and wonder what the next step is.  I’m answered with even more knocking, but this time it’s coming from the door to the apartment.

When I open it, I see a petite young minx with rail-thin arms and hair that’s straight and past her shoulders.  She’s smiling, and her hazel eyes give me the impression that it doesn’t matter if I’m witty or clever or charming, at least for tonight.  I try to say something, but she just puts her finger over my lips and motions for me to follow her.

Down the stairs we go, emerging on the street.  We walk about fifteen feet in the rain and now we’re going up more stairs.  She opens the door and immediately I am blasted with sound, game show theme music.  We are two steps from the door to her bedroom when her grandma shouts from the living room.

“Kitty, aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

And now I’m in the living room, standing in front of a fossil.  She’s really big, with tanned skin, a fluff of white hair, and glasses as thick as the soles of my tennis shoes.  Then there’s that sky-blue muumuu.  Kitty has gone into her room and left me here to fend for myself, and all I can do is try to be sociable.

“Uhh…Hi.  My name’s Paxton.  Nice to meet you.”

I give kind of a half-smile before I scurry off to a room with sunflower-patterned wallpaper and a white dresser.  Kitty’s only wearing a silk bra and panties, both are pastel pink.  Confused, I point through the wall, towards the television.  “What about…?”

Her eyes flash open an extra millimeter for a split second and she just laughs.  “Don’t worry about her, she’s oblivious.”

We’re alone, and the door is shut (no lock) and I almost think the deafening applause is for me as she pulls my shirt over my head.  Let me tell you a little about this show that Kitty’s ancient grandma is watching.  It’s called Tribal Trivia, and it features an audience of about 50 people, with the middle aisle separating green and yellow chairs.  Every seat has a buzzer, and for every question the camera focuses on a random audience member from each team who has to try and buzz in with the correct answer in less than 6 seconds.

I’m kissing my neighbor, and she’s licking the outside of my lips when the first question comes through the wall, distracting the hell out of me.

What was the capital of Japan called before it became known as Tokyo?

Out of habit, I disengage my lips and say, “Edo,” without thinking.  Kitty beams at me as she has an idea.  “Y’know, this doesn’t have to be a bad thing.  Maybe we could play a little game.”

“How’s that gonna work?” I ask.

She scrunches her face up in thought, but it’s only a second before she starts explaining the concept to me.  “For every answer one of us gets right, the other person has to shed an article of clothing.  That part will be easy, since we’re both down to two.”

“What about my shoes and socks?”

“Those don’t count.  Once we’re past that, the person who answers a question right can tell the other person to do something kinky.”

“Okay, but my first answer was right.  You’d better take that bra off.”

And so she does, revealing breasts that would look small in any other context, but here they are perfect. 

On The Simpsons, what alias does Bart use to obtain a credit card?

Before I can say it, she says, “Santos A. Halper” and I’m down to my drawers.

And now we’re laying on her bed, on her Rainbow Brite comforter, grinding and sloppy kissing like it’s some kind of competition.  I kiss her neck, her shoulder, and finally work my way down to her left nipple as the next question comes blaring through the wall.

In the movie Office Space, what is the name of Peter’s boss?

This gives us both a moment of hesitation, but we both spout the correct answer at the same time. “Bill Lumbergh!”

She shrugs and drops trou, and I do the same.  Now we’re naked and fondling each other.  My pointer and middle fingers are sliding in and out of her wetness.  Her breathing is picking up at marked intervals and I can tell she’s enjoying this.  If I can only keep this up for a little while longer—

Which respected inventor developed the alternating current dynamo AND was the first person to induce man-made lightning?

My fingers stop, and I look up at her.  I don’t think she knows the answer, but I sure do.  “Nikola Tesla!”

The announcer laughs though, because the contestant said that too.  Sorry, that’s not correct.  This is a trick question.  We said which respected inventor.  Tesla was never respected.

Now she’s the one laughing.  “Rules are rules.”  As she says this, she pushes my head down towards her tuft of sticky hair and directs me towards the spots she wants me to lick.  At first I try and protest because I believe I was right, but it doesn’t really matter at this point.

When I hear them cut to a commercial break, I realize I’m going to be down here for awhile.  So I resign myself to methodical licking, reaching up to twist Kitty’s nipples as I munch away.  After what seems like years, I’m relieved to hear another question.

What Japanese term describes a seismic tidal wave?

“Tsunami!”  I say it and it doesn’t take too long for me to become the one  sitting on the edge of the bed, watching the top of her head bob up and down.  Ah, how great it is to know pointless things.  I have some ideas for how they could spice up Jeopardy a little.

We ignore the next few questions until I’m about to trigger.  Right before it happens, she stops and sits next to me.  “Now I think it’s time to try something a little different.”

I shrug.  “That’s ONLY if you get the next one right.”

Confident as ever, she pulls a blindfold from her top dresser drawer.  I can only wonder what she’s thinking. 

What active ingredient in Tylenol PM helps you fall asleep?

And I’m looking at her, thinking of what I want her to do to me.  I know there’s no way she knows this answer, and if I’m lucky she will make a guess and be wrong. 

She says “diphenhydramine hydrochloric acid,” and now I can’t see anything because there’s a blindfold over my eyes.  My mouth is gaping.  I don’t know what that is, but I can hear the announcer repeating the term to the exasperated contestants.

She whispers in my ear.  “Let me just go get a little something.  I will be right back.”

There are footsteps across her carpet, followed by a door opening and shutting fairly quickly.  I think she put a bathrobe on before she walked out, but who knows.  After perhaps a minute, the door opens again.  It’s not long before I feel some kind of  pasty substance on my junk.  She starts to lick it off, and now I’m really enjoying this.  It almost justifies the fact that I didn’t know the answer to that last question.  She must really be getting into it, she sounds like she’s even panting.

I can feel her sucking and licking and licking and sucking and while she’s doing this she kisses me on the cheek.  Wait.  She can’t be doing both at once.  I lift the blindfold a little and look down to see a cocker spaniel, an open jar of peanut butter, and a very amused-looking Kitty.  Her face is red, and I can tell she’s trying not to go into a laughing fit. 

This is just too much.  I feel sick.  It doesn’t take long for me to dress completely and stomp home without saying anything else.  And here I am, pulling a mangled pack of cigarettes from the trash, salvaging one of the ones in the middle that’s not too terribly bent.  Sometimes, you just need a smoke.

(c) 2003 J Baugher