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09-15-03, for Nick Urfé
Coming Together
She's excited. “Buzzing” with excitement, one might say (although One would be advised not to use that particular phrase around Our Nymph, otherwise One might be treated to a rant about insensitive nincompoops who don't know the difference between an undersized nymph and a mudwasp and how hideously difficult it is to get pesticide stains out of nymph wings. Despite what your grandmother told you, club soda is not a cure-all for stains. We'll just leave it at “excited.”
Of course she's excited. It's only once a year that Our Nymph gets to don this particular jacket. In fact, it's been a very long time since anyone in La Taverna has seen this particular jacket. It's comfortably worn in the sleeves and, for some reason, slightly scorched around the hem, but it looks so nice wrapped around Our Nymph's shoulders as she flits into the bar tonight. There's a rustling noise as she moves. One is brought to mind the delicate rustle of taffeta, or maybe netting under organza, or perhaps starched cotton against woolen stockings (but we won't discuss that particular association, at least not on this Fine Birthday).
A patron holds out a hand to stop her progress down the center aisle towards the stage. “Um, Nymph? You're dragging something. That's not,” her voice lowers to a stage-whisper, “toilet paper, is it?”
Our Nymph harumphs and draws herself up to full height (hush, now) before taking out her wand. A sharp rap on the patron's table and the candles flicker briefly. “Certainly not. And I'll thank you to think before you ask such things.”
Hm. So Our Nymph is feeling feisty tonight, is she? This could prove interesting.
She reaches the stage and trips lightly up the stairs on delicately slippered feet. As she settles on the wooden stool and adjusts the microphone down to reach her lips, she crosses one leg over the other. The patrons realize, interested now, that Our Nymph is flashing leg covered only by silk stocking under said jacket. She's holding the collar closed with her left hand, and with her right she's trying to gather up the extensive roll of parchment paper that was dragging behind her. But it's obvious to all that this is more than a one-handed job. With a disgusted shrug, Our Nymph lets go of the jacket collar, and with both hands begins to draw the paper up to the stage where it puddles in crinkley waves around the legs of her perch. Now unfettered, the draped collar of the silk jacket falls slightly open, revealing the beginnings of a flush between Our Nymphs breasts.
This being La Taverna, after all, the patrons take appreciative notice, and the flush grows deeper. Our Nymph squirms slightly before beginning. She leans forward, closer to the microphone, and speaks.
<ahem>
“Thank you.” She glances at the paper in her hands and begins to read.
“We are gathered here today for many reasons, for why else do people gather? They may be joining with one stated purpose, but aren't there always layers of reason and reasoning? We go to a wedding, purportedly to witness the union of two people for whom we wish a lifetime of happiness. But, in reality, we're there to be seen, to give our support, to dish about how well the dress hides the true reason for the wedding. We're there for the free food and free champagne, and perhaps for a chance at a furtive kiss with the maid of honor and a quick grope of the best man, maybe to see if we can discern whether or not he truly is the best man? It's all layers.”
She gathers more of the paper to her, and as she moves her arms the jacket gapes open, just slightly, but the observant patrons take careful and very verbal notice. The flush deepens to a full-on blush.
<ahem> “Where was I? Ah, yes. Multiple reasons for coming together - not that anyone really ”comes“ together. Simultaneous orgasm is an overrated and overreported phenomenon. When a couple climaxes together they don't double their pleasure, they halve it. Pleasure, after all, comes not only from our own physical release, but from experiencing the joy of our partner's climax as well.”
She shifts uncomfortably on the stool, and the slightly-scorched hem falls aside, revealing red silk garters holding up the previously mentioned stocking. A front-row patron whistles, and she sends him a glance designed to be withering, but falling short.
<ahem> “Where was I? Ah, yes. Climax, gathering 3;” She falters with the paper, upon which she's obviously prepared this particular speech. And, given that the scroll wraps around the legs of the stool at least twice to end in a knee-high pile under her feet, the Patrons order second and third rounds and settle in for a Urfe-style greeting.
“Gathering. Yes, we've gathered here to celebrate 3;” A thoughtful patron hands her a glass of liquid, and with a grateful sigh, she wraps her fingers around the stem of the flute. As she does, the paper in her hands flutters to the ground. Exasperated, Our Nymph throws her head back and swallows the drink in one long, gasping gulp.
She looks at the paper at her feet, then out to the expectant patrons. A quick, full-body shudder as the drink hits bottom, and she raises her wand. Aware and experienced patrons shuffle nervously backwards, hopefully out of wand distance. A quick flick, followed by a loud bang and the papers at her feet disappear, leaving her sitting in a cloud of pearl-white smoke.
“Sorry, folks. We're going to go with simple this time. Raise your glasses. Happy Birthday, Urfe. No one, not even the Nymph, can out-Urfe you, and this Nymph isn't going to try. So, Mr. Urfe, wherever you are, may this be a happy one!”
