I am the party favor, breaking the ice and easing the tensions.
There had been no discussion of my serving in that capacity, yet turning down the invitation was out of the question, inasmuch as it wasn’t an invitation; it was an unspoken demand.
What does one do when one is the unwitting party favor, sprawled on the table for guests to poke and laugh at?
Late in the evening, after the guests had consumed wine and tequila and thrown their clothes and their inhibitions to the floor, I became the naked steak, marbled with fat and tossed on the hot grill to bubble and sizzle and sear for their prurient enjoyment.
Their smiles were malicious, it seemed to me, but one does not question the motives of inebriated guests, full of lust and loathing, when one is the party favor, the sustenance that keeps the party alive, coursing with excitement, throbbing with energy.
When the bottles were empty and the sheets were wet with the fruits of unchecked carnal companionship, I watched regretful guests slink away, wearing unmatched boots and brassieres; men wearing camisoles and women clothed in camouflage boxer briefs.
The host and hostess were soaking, nude, in the koi pond as I slouched past on my way out the garden gate. “You! Bring us coffee and then wash the memories out of the bed clothes!”
I thought they were friends until I became the party favor. Now, though, I know they are owners; I will remain their party favor as long as they like.
