Drunken, Greek orgy under the California sun

There’s a woman in the chair next to me. She’s blonde, buxom, in her late 30s and married. She’s touching me—really, coming on to me and I realize it’s my first time caressing a blonde woman. “They’re soft,” I think.

She fondles my arm until it becomes uncomfortable, but I’m too spaced out to care. “Go ahead, lady,” I think. “It’s your marital bliss that’s on the line.” My girlfriend watches from afar, smiling.

There’s a man hovering over me, and he asks if I “like it.” He reminds me of a young Rodney Dangerfield, down to the used-car-salesman vibe, gravely voice and gruff, sexual tone.

“I guess I like it,” I think, but I’m too buzzed to speak. I nod my head, “Yeah.” But when I think about it, even for a second, I don’t like it at all. It’s uncomfortable. My girlfriend, despite her smile, is jealous. I push the soft, blonde woman away.

When I wake up, there are hundreds of people—shouting, laughing. The sun is stabbing at my eyes and I’m dazed, like waking up on the highway after a road trance takes you through three towns, past your exit.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I think. There’s a surly dude with a mustache hitting on me.

Suddenly, I’m in the midst of a 17th century Greek orgy. There’s even a young Asian boy not far away, passed out on top of a blonde woman. A Nubian with European features grinds on young Dangerfield.

When I awake, the mustachioed man is nuzzling my shoulder. “It’s kind of sweet,” I think, and put my hand on his head until he sleeps.

Confusion, like a thick cloud of hashish smoke, surrounds my head, and I watch with curiosity as a fat man screams at voices emanating from inside his fishing hat.

It feels good to sleep.

I’m refreshed now—in fact, I feel as sexy as a schoolgirl. Festive music plays and my lips sting, like plump little chili peppers; I want to use them on a man to spice up his afternoon. I get up from my chair to find a suitable one. An older gentleman shies away when I try to kiss him. Another one’s face turns red, but I can tell he wants it. His wife clutches him tighter. Finally, I find a threesome of young boys sitting down and head toward them. One shields his face and the other cowers in disgust. “He’s creepy,” the last one says, and ducks for cover behind his friend.

Ah, my little munchkins, if only you knew: nothing is “creepy” under the spell of Terry Stokes, resident hypnotist at the California State Fair. It’s just really strange, euphoric and embarrassing. During the warm shower of applause, I wipe off my lipstick, try not to look at anybody and make a beeline for the funnel cake.