By Slipstream (slipstream_chan@hotmail.com)
It was crowded in the little room with the speckled scarlet wallpaper. The furniture was old and a little frayed at the edges, the polished wood suggesting some grand history before they had come to inhabit the only room without a mattress in that shabbily glamorous brothel housed in an aging Victorian a few streets over from the main wharf. But the alcohol flowed freely and the more they drank the less the patrons seemed to care about their seedy surroundings, and the party only grew in volume as clamoring male voices drowned out the tinny phonograph recording of “When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again.”
Frodo shifted uncomfortably in his starched uniform, twirling his hat nervously in his right hand while running the chewed stubs of fingernails on the left across the freshly shaven skin that had once boasted a mop of dark curls. “God, I don’t even know why I let them talk us into this…”
Sam glanced over, his gray eyes and tanned face matching smartly with the navy blue and white trim of his uniform. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but a sudden roar of laughter from the huddled group next to them drowned him out. The happy drunk amoeba of flesh broke into separate cells and Merry and Pip, their faces bright with alcohol, stumbled through the crowded parlor to greet them.
“’Lo boys!” Pippin hooted, swaying a little and laughing at his own two feet. “You ready for the real fun to begin?”
“I don’t know why I let you talk us into this…” Frodo repeated grumpily, settling against Sam’s strong shoulder and draining his glass in a swig.
“Because you’re drunk,” Merry slurred, stabbing him in the chest with a thick finger. “You’re drunk, you’re horny as hell, and you’ve been stuck on that god-damn boat for four months. That’s why.” Frodo opened his mouth to protest, but Merry dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “Oh, don’t try to deny it. We’ve heard you ‘swabbing the deck’ at night, you’re rather loud, actually, so just shut yer yap and enjoy yourself, cousin.”
Sam and Frodo exchanged nervous glances but their companions were far too drunk to notice or insinuate anything. ‘Does he…?’ mouthed Sam, and Frodo shook his head, mind reeling, and was brought back down to earth when warm hands brushed against his quivering knuckles before subtly wrapping themselves around the tips of his fingers. He calmed, sending Sam a grateful smile, and was about to risk leaning over to lick the sensitive spot right below his ear and then blame it on the booze when a burst of cheering and clapping drew his eyes up and away.
At the foot of the narrow stairs stood a stout older woman, perhaps in her forties, wearing an only slightly out of fashion dress suit and a pound of face paint. She smiled, holding up one heavily ringed hand to signal for silence. When the crowd of navy men had calmed sufficiently, she spoke.
“Evening, boys! Having a good shore leave?” There was a roar of clapping. “Ready to have a better one?” The roar was deafening. She smiled, the red shine of her lipstick cutting through the haze of smoke. “The girls and I would like to thank all you men and boys for protecting us and keeping business good…” Laughter. Frodo was beginning to get a headache and all he could think about was leaving and finding a nice, quiet place with Sam all to himself.
“…Hell, you aren’t really listening to me, are you? I know who you really want to see, and I won’t keep you apart any longer.” She stepped aside, gesturing upwards, and a line of girls, all gaudily clad nearly to the point of indecency, came tittering down the stairs. The cheers and catcalls from Merry and Pip made Frodo’s head pound and he rubbed at his forehead absently, admiring the cheap eye candy but inwardly wondering how much longer they’d have to stay.
Then SHE came down. His mouth dropped open slightly and he could feel Sam tense as well and shift his focus from the slow circling of Frodo’s fingers along the back of his hand to the top of the stairwell.
Rich chestnut curls cascading over a slim milk-white neck, big eyes hidden under dark make-up and full lips drawn into an almost-frown. She wore what obviously used to be a house dress made of a tacky explosion of flower patterned cloth, with the war and fabric rationing that was to be expected, but she had tailored it to better suit her profession. The neckline dipped dangerously low across her breasts, the shoulder straps slipping suggestively down bare arms, a wide belt cinching the flared skirt at the waist. The skirt! Oh, it was much, much shorter than what some dusty house-wife had originally intended. Frodo’s eyes roved hungrily over the creamy exposed thigh, traveling up, up, up the slit that seemed to go nearly to her waist, and he felt a flush of heat blush over his body at the sight of the black lacy slip and the rose tattoo barely hidden beneath its silky folds.
Frodo and Sam surprised each other by shouting in unison, “I want the Rose!” Their gazes whipped at each other in shock and then back up to the stairs in embarrassment.
The girl looked a little taken aback, but looking down upon the two furiously blushing sailors her dark lips broke into a gentle, loving smile that melted them in its inviting warmth. She cocked her hips and flung her head back, her gaze flirting with them beneath long lashes. “Boys boys… no need to fight. You can have all the Rose you want, that is, if you’re willing to share.” She winked, her smile curling suggestively before turning to climb back up the stairs with sashaying hips. The sailors around them whistled loudly and pounded Sam and Frodo on the back.
The two looked at each other a final time, came to a decision, and pushed their way frantically through the heated press of bodies, clambering up the stairs on suddenly clumsy feet, tugging at too-hot collars and touching each other in anticipation.
They didn’t mind sharing. No, not at all.
~
Pretty Good Year