For the uninitiated, going to a Halloween party as a couple can be a tricky thing. There are dangerous waters ahead, and if not carefully navigated you will go down with the ship. For starters, you cannot return any flirty advances from a woman, even the most innocuous. You can't act like there is another costume that is more creative, more slutty, and more revealing than the one being worn by your date. For that matter, it's better off just to act like there are no other women there, period.

It should be noted that there is a nasty double standard at work, because the woman's role at a Halloween party is to use her wiles to attract the attention of as many male admirers as possible. Your date is included in this as well. Just because you, as the male, are implicitly forbidden from participating in the festivities in a nonverbal, sexual manner, don't think for a minute that your date is doing the same. This is the one time she gets to vacariously live through the persona of somebody else, a sluttier, nastier, sexier version of herself. Go single to a Halloween party and you might cash in on one of the many women playing the part of somebody else. Go with a date, and you're in for a different experience altogether.

I took a glance at my watch as I navigated little Santa Monica Blvd., speeding towards the Century City Shopping Center. 2 P.M. Time for a little shopping and maybe a stop off at the local watering hole, I thought. My own Halloween party companion, otherwise known as Melinda, had called earlier with directions to her place. I'm supposed to pick her up at 8. This chick was sure taking every step in making this seem like a date. When we agreed to this is was as nothing more than friends, you know, two people going to a Halloween party because there was nothing better to do. It seemed like she's making more of this than necessary. Or maybe I am. Either way I'm uneasy about it. I'll know her intentions in a few hours.

I hit Bloomingdales to get a new black leather belt and look for some of the regular things - a new dress shirt, maybe some slacks. In the corporate world you are judged on a daily basis by what you wear and how you accentuate yourself, as if your fashion sense equates to general sense. I've seen many a soul shot down due to poor fashion judgement, and I'm not about to become a fatality. It's too early in my career for bad fashion judgement to be the cause of not climbing the corporate ladder.

I circle the tie rack and in the display mirror notice a woman behind me checking me out. Instead of turning, I pause and continue looking at ties in the circular display closest to the mirror so I can watch this woman check me out - you know, see if it's just a passing gaze or something more. It's something more, almost unnervingly so, as her gaze becomes a stare which in itself isn't so bad, but by her entranced, unmoved focus I realize that this has just crossed over from flirtacious beginnings to psychotic longing. She hasn't even blinked. This is unsettling. I like looking and flirting, striking up conversations, but this has me more than a little nervous. I decide to press my luck by turning toward her and smiling as I hold a tie up to my neck. Van Heusen. Silk. Nice. She smiles back. I turn my attentions back to the tie as I hold it in the mirror, trying not to focus on the woman who has moved slightly to the side but is still within my view. Oh crap, now she's coming closer.

"Hi, do you mind if I ask you a question?" she says.

"Uh, not at all, fire away."

She gives off a slight laugh in response to me and starts: "I've noticed you in here before, actually the last time I was in here. Maybe even once before that, I'm not sure."

"Okay," I respond, a little uneasy. She starts to talk again, but my mind has drifted and I'm no longer listening. I'm imagining the scenario: She's admired from afar but would never be bold enough to come up and say something, and me being the loggerhead with tunnel vision that I am when I shop, never noticed her gaze, her smile, her signals.She's gone home on more than one night and thought about the lost chances of having not approached me, how she wishes she had a stronger constitution and could be the one to initiate things, how her friends she's casually mentioned the incidents to have chided her for not sacking up and approaching me, how this could have really been a good thing. I wonder, does she work here? Has she been watching me, maybe going so far as to provide the security guys manning the eye in the sky camera with a photo so that whenever I reappear in the store they can alert her of my whereabouts? It's slightly romantic and slightly insane at the same time, but most conceptions women have of the romantic borders on the slightly insane as well.

I'm knocked from my train of thought and back into the conversation when she says "What do you think? Could you help?"

"I'm sorry, come again?" is the best I can muster as I try to regain my focus.

"I said that with your better-than-average taste in clothes and a body frame that pretty much matches my boyfriend's, do you think you could model an outfit for me?"

"What, you want me to play fashion understudy? I don't have the time for that," I say in a rude tone.

"Oh," she says, pausing. She looks down as she says this. She's embarrassed, I can tell. It probably took a lot for her to come up and ask this, but because what's gone on in my head doesn't come close to matching the reality of the situation, that has made me a little pissed. But it shouldn't and I know it.

"Look, it's not like that, I'm not trying to blow you off," I begin, "but I really am short on time." I glance at my watch. 2:30. "Tell you what, what are you looking to buy him?"

"No, no, don't worry about it, sorry to bother you," she says, head still down.

For fuck's sake lady, either you want my help or you don't. Don't go wishy washy on me now! "No, really. I may not have time to model, but you can throw it against my back or whatever. I can probably tell you what colors will work."

"Um, okay," she says, raising her head and losing the hurt animal look. She's not that bad looking - black, straight hair that cuts off mid-neck and curls up somewhat on the ends like an update of the Doris Day flip; simple print tee and jeans, nice ass, decent boobs. Maybe a push-up would dress the area better, but all in all not so bad. No model, but no charity case. Eye color is nice, a greenish, but there's something funny about the eyes, they're too big, like she has a gland problem or something. She's probably 21, maybe 22, which could explain her timid nature. She's not used to having to convince somebody of what she wants. A bat of her eyelashes and a provocative smile are probably all she's needed in life so far.

We make our way over to the Kenneth Cole section. Now, I like Kenneth Cole, and I've dropped many a dime on that line of clothing, but of late it bores me. It's moving away from what it once was - a bold and dashing take on the dreary grays and blacks of the fashion world - and moving towards the same mediocre stew currently occupied by Perry Ellis, Polo, and Claiborne Men. And don't get me started on Kenneth Cole shoes. What a racket. You can find better craftsmanship at the local discount shoe warehouse. Given the choice I'd rather pay for Skechers' lousy attempt at business footwear, and it is just that - an attempt.

"He really likes the earth shades and the darks, which is why when I saw you it instantly reminded me of him," she says pointing to a brown pair of wool blend slacks hanging on the rack. So I remind her of the squeeze? That's how it usually starts. Women are always interested in somebody who in one way or another embodies qualities of an boyfriend, past or current. That's usually why guys can slide right in and steal a woman away from her man. She doesn't even know that it's happening before her eyes. But she acts as unknowing participant, all the while letting the guy get closer and closer because he reminds her of the boyfriend, an ex, or somebody she was crushing on heavily in the past.

I've got no time for that amount of work. Not today. Between Melinda and a few others I'm stretched thin. Too thin, even by my own horny estimate. I'll juggle women but there's a limit to the insanity. Even if they all put out the odds are such that the guy will lose. The house does not win when juggling women is involved.

"Would you wear something like this?" she says, holding the slacks. I look at them. They're not bad. They could easily be worn at work, but not on a date or to a party. Well, maybe if the party is more upscale. There isn't much range with these slacks.

"Well, it all depends. What's your name, by the way? I'd feel really bad just saying 'hey you,' while we're doing this, you know?"

She laughs a bit, caught off by my change from asshole to understanding participant. "Janine," she replies.

"Janine. Good name." I wasn't lying. I dated a woman in college named Janine. Very adventurous, very excitable. I was wowed by her ease with doing just about anything - nothing shocked her - and by how she alternated between being a sweet little wholesome girl and a nasty whorish vamp. I may have also been awestruck at first by her age, six years older than I, and though I usually tend to put older women on a pedestal, in time Janine became just another woman, as regular as the rest, though in my private pantheon of women, I hold Janine in pretty high esteem. Even though we dated for only three or four months, by the end the reasons to no longer stay together were apparent: She needed to get on with her life, her career, and I, as the young, 21 year-old, party-consumed frat boy, was the thing she least needed. We had our fun and there were no regrets. Looking back I consider what we had a long fling, and when it was over I knew that she would never look back and blame me if she didn't get her adult life off the ground when she was looking to do it. "I'm Reed. Nice to meet you." We quickly shook hands and continued.

"Where would he wear these things - work, or when you two are out on the town?" I asked.

"Out on the town," she replied.

"Yeah, these don't really cut it as on-the-town garb. They're too restrictive, too conformist, you know?" She didn't know but she nodded as if she did. I made my way over to another section of Kenneth Cole slacks. "These," I said, taking the gray slacks off their hanger - fucking gray - "are more versatile. He can wear them at work or when out with you. Notice the flat front," I said, pointing below the belt line, "the lack of pleats make them a litter hipper, which helps the look when you go out to...where do you go out, anyway?"

"Well, I want to get him to go to clubs with my girlfriends and I, but he won't because he says he doesn't have the wardrobe for in there. That's why I asked for help."

Oh brother, I thought, if he isn't going of his own will, he's never going. "Don't expect a change of clothes turn him into a clubber. For a guy, clubbing takes careful footing, and I don't mean dancing. Every guy is under the microscope at a club. He has to look right, dress right, act right, move right, show the right choice in drinks, what he says, how he approaches a woman. All that. It's a big production for men to go through."

"Wow," she says, pausing while she looks past me and into space. Who knows where her mind is. Soon enough she comes back to the moment. "I didn't know it was so involved."

"Yeah, and if he slips up you'll notice. Your friends will notice. Strangers will notice. It's a major embarrassment and the greatest reason why guys do not go clubbing. It's got nothing to do with if he can dance or not, it's the other bullshit. It's going through pre-paced steps. There is no room for spontaneity on his part for fear of attracting attention should he falter. If you want to dress him up and take him out on the town, fine, but take him to Lucky Strike, or the Standard, or some hip pool hall where you can just hang out. You can still show him off in public, I mean, that's the whole reason you're doing this. Don't go the club route. You'll thank me later."

We continued moving from section to section, with me holding up combinations of shirts, sweaters, and pants against myself and Janine oohing and ahhing over how much her boyfriend would either love or hate it. DKNY, Claiborne, Ralph Lauren, Armani, we rifled through them all in search of one outfit that would make Janine's guy look respectable in public and would draw all eyes in the room to him, which is what Janine wants after all: A hunk of meat to show off. Besides, this whole "dressing him up" maneuver is just a sneaky way to for Janine to shower attention upon herself. They'll enter a room, people (by people I mean other women) will see Janine and boyfriend, notice how good he's looking, and then zero in on Janine while wondering what's she doing with him? How did he settle for that?, and so forth. Janine's shopping today is nothing more than an investment towards stroking her own ego some Saturday night. And I'm an accomplice. Fucking great.

She finally settled on an outfit: A DKNY sheer lycra sweater and black flat-front Armani dress slacks - uncuffed at the bottom for a more contemporary look. I threw the slacks out there as something with potential. Sure, at $95 they were a little pricey, but at this point I didn't give a fuck. I'm not the one buying them. I just wanted it to be over with so I could get on with my day.

Janine paid the bill while I waited over near the Sean John display, looking at a pair of overdyed black jeans I knew would be a killer addition to my wardrobe. "You liking these?" Janine asked as she approached the display.

"No," I lied, "I'm just feeling the material. Might be a little cheap." I'm coming back for these later. There's no way I'm pimping out any more advice to Janine about what to buy for her boyfriend. I'm sick of the whole situation already.

We exit the store and I begin saying my goodbye when she interrupts with "I feel bad that I dragged you up and down the men's section trying to find something for Steve." Great, his name is Steve. I bet Steve was the football captain in high school and he and Janine were voted cutest couple in the yearbook. "Can I buy you lunch?" she asks.

Normally I'd take Janine up on the offer and chat her up more during the meal. I have a suspicion that Janine's boyfriend makeover is her way of fixing something in the relationship, not just making him look better. Maybe on some minor level she's sending the message to Steve that this is the guy she wants him to be. Women are social workers when it comes to relationships anyway - they take on a guy they want to change, fix, mold in another image. Why should Janine be different than any other woman? Today was not the day for such investigations however; I really needed to get going.

"Sorry, I'd love to, but I really have some pressing items I need to attend to. But thanks so much for the offer," I respond, trying to sound as gracious as possible.

Janine looks a hurt, but shows it only for the slightest moment. Then she turns to her purse, fumbles around for a few seconds, and comes up with a pen and paper. "Well, since you can't do it today, maybe another time?" she asks while writing out her name and number. She hands it over with a smile on her face. "And I'm serious, you really saved my butt today. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it. Maybe I can call on you again."

I take a quick gaze at the paper holding her phone number, and wonder how serious she is about repaying me for my help. I wonder if her boyfriend even knows. Then I think about how the guy won't even show up when Janine wants to go shopping for him, and it makes me think that this guy Steve doesn't care. Maybe he's banging somebody else on the side. Maybe he's been thinking of ending it with Janine but she's too sweet to drop abruptly so he's slowly letting the air out until there's nothing left in the relationship. Maybe then she'll end it and save him from looking like the bad guy. You're slick Steve. Very slick.

"Yeah, maybe," I reply. "Another time." I move my sunglasses from the top of my head into place, say goodbye, and turn for the parking garage. When Janine's out of sight I crumple up her phone number and toss it in the nearest trash can. Another time, Janine.
____________________________________________________________________
Everybody needs a place like Cheers - a bar you can proudly call your home base, where you're known throughout the joint . It should be like Switzerland, completely neutral and free of anything or anybody who can bring harm to you, your reputation, or anything that transpires within its walls. My little haven from the outside world is the Townhouse in Venice, a 50s or 60s-era bar near the boardwalk that is dimly lit, always populated by the same crowd, and probably hasn't changed since the day it was built. The original nondescript lighted sign still adorns the building fascade high above the entrance, sending a beacon responded to only by a select few. I like it because it is every stereotype of the local corner bar, and because I'm usually the youngest one to saddle up to a stool, allowing me the opportunity to suck in the wisdom and experiences of the bar's older patrons. I also have a major flirt war going with Lisa, the bartendress who works the lion's share of the bar's hours. Lisa is one hot item: Long legs, dark hair, svelt body, beautiful auburn eyes that sometimes show a gleam of yellow in the right light, toned arms and legs, cute ass, and looks as comfortable in a simple cotton tee and jeans, hair in a ponytail out the back of a ballcap as she does in a skirt and pumps. That's not even the hottest thing about Lisa - it's her mind, her attitude. She always has a comeback for any verbal parry I have, and her advice is never condemning. She's sometimes even motherly. Probably the result of our age difference and her continual use of the pet name she has for me: "Spring Chicken."

I pull off the freeway, make my way over to Ocean, and cruise through southern Santa Monica into Venice, making my way towards Townhouse. Yeah, it's the middle of the afternoon, but I feel like a drink. I also want some banter with Lisa - maybe get her two cents on this giant mistake I'm about to make by taking a co-worker to the Cross's party this evening. Do I really need to come up with a reason for having a drink? It's like Will Ferrell's line in Old School: "It tastes so good when it hits your lips."

I throw open the doors and walk in, showering light like a sheet on the inside of the bar. It looks darker than usual. The five or six people sitting at the center of the room cover their eyes and scurry back into the dark like rats who have been discovered in the kitchen in the dead of night. I briefly look around and take a mental inventory: Cathy sits at the far end of the room, a mid-40s divorcee who praises bi-relationships but from month to month swears off women entirely, calling them "devious trolls"; Nick, a retired army vet and career drunk who may have called Townhouse his home from day one; Tricia, the hispanic/irish mutt who resembles the fabled "hooker with the heart of gold," but is no hooker. Get her drunk enough and she'll be pressing you to take her home for a nightcap; and, Jerry, who is the kind of guy who always tries to work his way into a conversation in order to sabotage and turn it into a spotlight discussion about what a great guy he is. I hate Jerry, but he can be a very generous fellow, so when he's the one buying the rounds it's very difficult to hold a grudge against him for too long. That's biting the hand that feeds you.

There are a few more people in the bar today. Some I recognize but do not know, while others are unfamiliar altogether. I figure them to be tourists. I walk over to the bar. I don't see Lisa. What gives? She's always here. I reach over the bar and grab a Bass Ale paper coaster from a stack that looks like it hasn't been used in years. There's a big gouge in the bar below my hand, and another spot to the side where the laquer is worn thin and the wood undersiding has become discolored. That's all I notice before the doors I've come through stop swinging and the room is once again swallowed in a sea of darkness.

"Hey there, stranger," says Tricia from the far end of the bar, "haven't seen you in here for some time."

"Uh, I was in here two days ago, Trish, but I didn't see you. Maybe that makes YOU the stranger." I respond. She looks at me strangely, and I swear I can see the gears turning in her head as she tries to follow the comment. She's likely been drinking since 10 this morning.

The doors to the stockroom fly open and out comes Lisa, a case of Budweiser bottles in her arms. "Well look who's here, my darling Springy," she says. "Couldn't stay away, could you?"

"You know me, I'm captivated by your smile and smoldering chocolate radiance."

"As a 'strong African-American woman,'" she begins, throwing extra ghetto twang into the phrase, "I should be offended by the sexest remark. But from you it sounds so cute, honey. You want the usual?"

The usual is scotch on the rocks. "Give me that voodoo that you do so well," I respond.

She shakes her head and plunges a very used-looking rocks glass into the ice bin and it comes up filled with the stuff. "Hey, hey, I want to be able to taste the scotch, you know?" I say. Lisa sticks her tongue out at me, and then dumps some ice back. "What's the occasion for gracing us with your presence today?" she asks.

"I've come to ask you for fortieth time to marry me."

"And for the fortieth time I must politely decline."

"And why is that?" I inquire.

"Besides the eleven year age difference we have and zero in common?" I hate when people respond to a question with a question, even when they're flirting.

"For you, I can look past all that," I say, and we both laugh. My drink is tasting awfully weak today. Either too much ice, or she's switched to a cheaper brand of scotch.

I down most of my drink in silence, then point at it for a refill. She grabs the glass and begins to refill. "So what's on the docket this weekend my little Spring Chicken? Any chickees you're planning to spend time with?"

"Yeah, as a matter of fact, I'm going to some Halloween costume to-do tonight with somebody from work."

Lisa pauses from what she's doing behind the bar and makes eye contact with me. "You're taking somebody from work? Big, big, mistake baby."

"Yeah, I should have asked you," I reply with a shit-eating grin.

"But I'm working," Lisa says, "I'm always working. You know where to find me."

"You should never, never make dates with people from work. Don't shit where you eat," Jerry interjects, making his way over to our portion of the bar. "I'd never date somebody I work with. That's just asking for trouble. I could only imagine what would happen if you slept with her and then suffered the fallout at the office where you always see her. Or is it him?"

"Funny Jerry - I appreciate the effort, but she is most definitely female." Oh, I could most definitely have dirty fun with Melinda, and I know it wouldn't take much doing to get her into the bedroom, but there is no way I'd chance doing that. I couldn't even see myself dating Melinda, and if I slept with her and flat out dropped it right there, the crap I'd have to hear at work would be...

"Reed, you know better than to ask a co-worker out on a date, that's just stupid."

"The strangest thing, Lisa, I never asked her out, she kind of invited herself along since she had no better options for Halloween and I never told her no."

"You never told her no?" Jerry repeats, "You never told her no. God, why wouldn't you? I tell them no. Whenever I don't want a woman to go out with me, she knows in no uncertain terms."

"Oh yeah? When was the last time you went on a date, Jerry?" asks Lisa.

"Well, it's been a long time," Jerry says, scratching his head. "But I'm talking about the past, my salad days."

"Uh huh," Lisa replies as she goes back to whatever it is she's restocking behind the bar.

"Thanks for the concern guys, but I'll be fine. There are no pitfalls here, no traps to be wary of. You'll see. I'll come out unscathed. I always do." Lisa shoots me a skeptical look, and I try to reassure her: "The next time I decide to date a co-worker Lisa, it will be you; I'm here so much I consider you a colleague."

I pay the bill and I'm off.
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Ken Cross is a frathouse friend from the college days in Alpha Tau Omega. He's three years older than me and was very much the studious type all through college. Most of us were focused only on partying and women; we always knew where and when the next kegger, rally, or social would be. Our calendars were never bare. Ken was the guy who got enough of partying to be satisfied, but generally spent the majority of time alone in his room, studying.

Upon graduating from college, Ken received $10,000 from his folks, their hope being that he'd take it and travel up and down Europe, taking in the international experiences. Instead, Ken took a job as a financial analyst with an internet start-up company who offered stock options in lieu of competitive pay. The paltry price of their stock left a lot to be desired, but Ken saw something in it that others didn't, and not only invested a lot of extra money in buying his company's stock, but he also turned all $10,000 of his parents' gift into company stock. He let it sit, and though he could have squeezed a little more performance from it, he chose to cash out entirely when the stock he'd originally purchased for about $2.10 a share topped $100 per. He did this about two months before the bubble officially burst on tech sector stocks.

Ken still works, but mostly freelance jobs. He leads a comfortable life. He has a nice home in Rancho Palos Verdes, very private with a good chunk of land. The pefect location to host a party. With money, Ken's popularity has risen, and he's no longer the bookworm holed up in the back bedroom of ATO house; he's now the center of attention, and I couldn't be happier for him. He took a gamble with that money, and laid a bet down at the craps table of life. Some would make the case that what he did at the time was an even bigger gamble because he was trading the experience of traveling the world for a ship that might never come in.

I pull into Ken's long, downhill driveway with Mel in the passenger seat, still complaining about my choice of music as she had been doing for the last twenty miles. Apparently listening to Crystal Method won't put you in the party mood. It has to be something bordering on gay, like 70s disco or the uber-synthesized sounds of some 80s New Wave. Mel actually doesn't know how lucky she had it. On the drive over I was pumping the Nine Inch Nails live CD And All That Could Have Been. At least Crystal Method makes you move.

"Oh my God, this house is like, huge," Mel says as she gets out of the car. I knew she'd have a reaction like that. Mel is all about appearances and the size of a person's checkbook, so bigger and flashier is better. "How is it you know this guy?"

"We went to school together. I told you that earlier while you were crucifying my taste in music," I reply.

We walk up to the door looking every bit the dating couple. We're adorned in his-and-hers 70s porn outfits, mine being a tee shirt which reads "porn star," a bad mustache, puffy wig, cordoroy pants and CHP-style Ray Ban glasses. Melinda's outfit is a short, nondescript pink skit, go-go boots, and the same porn star shirt, though she's cut a V into the neckline so that it plunges down the chest revealing a good amount of cleavage. She's also done herself up with bad 70s makeup - lots of pinks and blues - and straightened her hair as much as possible. I'll admit, even in this getup Mel looks good, and I'm sure she'll be getting looks throughout the party tonight, thanks in large part to the custom job she's done on her porn star shirt. She sure knows the rules of Halloween partying.

I spot Ken inside entertaining a crowd by an old 50s record player he keeps around purely for kitsch. He's demonstrating something with his hands, then as we get closer I realize it's blowjob-related.

"...and she's holding it like this, like it's some delicate flower," Ken says, demonstrating with his hands, "and I tell her 'honey, if you keep up at this rate I'm gonna lose my bloom!'" The crowd around Ken erupts in laughter. I've heard him tell this one before.

"My my, look at the porno king!" says Ken as I break through his circle of admirers to shake hands. "So fitting. I think the only thing that could top it is if you come next year as a giant penis."

"Charming, so charming," I reply, taking his outstretched hand. "Thanks for having us."

"Us?" he questions, craning his neck to look around me at Mel, partially hidden by the crowd. "And who is this?"

I reach through the now disbanding circle and grab Mel, pulling her into the conversation. "Melinda, meet Ken, our gracious host and part time lush."

Ken comes back with a loud "Ha!" then, "I have to catch up to people like you, who have been drinking people like me under the table for years. I consider myself a nouveau lush."

I continue: "And Ken, meet Melinda, my date for the evening." I swallow a little, that gag reflex thing, as soon as the word date comes out, but I force it down enough to get out the rest of the sentence. I bet I just sent entirely the wrong message to Mel by calling her my 'date.'

Ken and Melinda exchange pleasantries, and before excusing himself to go schmooze with some other freshly-arrived guests, cautions Mel to not let me out of her sight. "You never know where this guy will end up," he says.

"I won't Ken, I won't," she replies, squeezing my arm for added effect. Great. So much for having a good time this evening. I steer Mel in the direction of the bar set up in the kitchen and grab two vodka tonics.

Looking around the room, this looks like a pretty ordinary Halloween party. All the costumes are the same: Men as draculas, zombies, mummies, and the like. A few brave souls tried their take on the backwood yokel, complete with mullet and trucker hat. Others are dressed as doctors and one even is a "walking breast cancer test," with a w-shaped cutout in the shape of boobs with a sign below instructing us to "place boobs here."

The women, however, have taken it upon themselves to go far beyond what I expected the slut level to be. In addition to the norm - naughty nurse, french maid, naughty angel, naughty devil -there are some variations on the sexy kitten outfit. What the hell is it with the feline theme anyway? I don't understand the fascination women have with being sex kittens. Some of the costumes leave little to the imagination. I don't mind if a woman's entire ass is hanging out of her costume, or if her top is ripped to shreds with only a carefully placed piece of fabric over the nipples, just know I'm going to gawk if you put it on display like that. One woman has come as Eve, going so far as to design a wire thing with a band of leaves around it to act as bikini top, and a leafy-colored thong down below.

For a while the night seemed to be going at a good pace, no doubt due to the rate in which I was gulping down the booze. I was feeling a good buzz by the time I was some of the bud people down the hall had been smoking. The scent of weed had permeated the whole house, and I knew it would just be a matter of time before it came my way. I waved it off and it was passed to Melinda, who took a pretty long drag - no cough, I was sorta impressed - before exhaling in my face.

"Nice," I said.

"C'mon, get in the mood, don't you want any?" she asked.

"I don't want it to interfere with my alcohol buzz," I respond. I make my way out to the balcony for some fresh air and to get away from the potheads. The balcony is dotted with tobacco smokers. I should have brought a cigar with me. I look out into the darkness that is partly Ken's yard, partly somebody else's, and from the smell probably a portion of the equestrian trail, thinking about how I'm going to erase the notion from Melinda's head that this is a date. Aside from her comment to Ken, she hasn't acted like it's a date, though the his-and-her costumes and the whole picking her up, dropping her off thing has me convinced otherwise. I take a couple sips of my vodka tonic and ponder stuff when I get a tap on the shoulder.

"You got a light?"

I turn and am met with the most stunning green eyes I have ever seen. Maybe they're colored contacts. Fuck it, I don't care. The eyes belong to a slim, statuesque blond who, I notice as a widen my focus past her eyes, is dressed like a tree, with her head in the midsection of the trunk, her arms for branches, and her legs for roots. This woman has a beautiful face, pouty lips, and you know about the eyes, yet here she was, dressed in the least slutty costume of all.

"Uh, you know what, I don't. Sorry." I wanted to kick myself because even when I'm not enjoying a cigar, I still make a habit of carrying a lighter. You never know who will need a light. Besides, it's a great for kicking off a conversation with a woman, a prop for breaking the ice.

"Oh well, thought you might," she says with an embarrassed smile. I glance at her hands - no rings on any left hand fingers. Good. I want to say something witty as a comeback, but I'm feeling a little bit of the buzz which is strange because I am more witty with the banter when buzzed. She gives me the look over and I can tell she's debating whether or not to give me 5 more seconds to strike up a conversation. So I take the bait.

"You know what I do have," I say as I put my now empty drink down on the balcony ledge, "I have an empty glass. I need a refill. Care to join me in a vodka tonic?"

"Sure, but I'd rather not go inside, the marajuana fumes are too much," she says.

"No problem. Wait here and I'll be right back." I push my way past a person, making my way for the door and slide it open. I'm immediately met by a cloud of smoke. Inside I don't see Melinda anywhere, but I don't care. I ask one person we've previously talked to of her whereabouts, and she mentions that Mel might be in the bathroom. Maybe somebody's snorting lines off her ass, I muse.

I get two vodka tonics and head back outside, doing a quick scan of the room for Melinda before I duck out the door. Still no sign. Outside the tree is still there, and when she sees me with drinks in hand flashes her pretty smile.

"Here you are," I say, handing her a cup. "I'm Reed, porn star," I say, motioning to my shirt.

She giggles and responds with, "Hi, I'm Shannon. I'm supposed to be one of those trees from The Lord of the Rings movie, but it didn't come out right."

"Oh, one of those trees that beats the crap out of everything in the movie? Awesome. Tell you what Shannon, I won't tell if you won't."

We toast cups and chat more. It turns out Shannon was supposed to come with some girlfriends but they cancelled at the last minute, one because she fought that night with her boyfriend and wasn't in the mood to go anywhere, and the other just flat-out flaked. Shannon, as the only one of the three who actually knew Ken through a previous job decided to go it alone rather than stay home where she had no candy to pass out to demanding trick-or-treaters.

"Are you here alone?" she asks. I had to tell her the truth, I couldn't begin as the snake in the grass. I mentioned Mel, and how she was my co-worker who wanted something to do Halloween night rather than, like Shannon, be faced with staying home. I told her Mel and I were here as friends, nothing more.

"Well, you're a very nice guy for doing that and not leaving her at home," she says.

I lean in. "Shh," I say, "I've got a reputation to uphold and that's the sort of info I don't want getting out."

We both laugh. Right now I'm pretty much breaking all the guidelines of Halloween party going I laid out earier but I dont' care. I'm feeling the booze and I'm starting to have a good time. Shannon seems like a cool chick. Then the strong smell of marajuana fumes blows from behind us as the door slides open. It's Melinda. She makes her way out, drink in hand, just reeking of weed. "So here's where you've been hiding," she says, saddling up along side of us. Then, coldly as she stares down Shannon: "Who's this?"

I introduce Shannon to Mel, and though Shannon is cordial and friendly, Melinda is most definitely not. She barely says two words to Shannon. Sensing the tension, Shannon says she has to go find the bathroom and excuses herself.

"So I leave you alone for five minutes and you go find another woman for yourself?"

"Whatever. I came out here, she asked for a light and because I didn't want to go into the hash den in there, I stayed out here and we got to talking."

"Likely story."

"Why are you acting so jealous? Did you see us liplocked? Why are you acting like this - it's not like we're dating or anything. I mean, we're here as friends, right?"

She's silent.

"Right?" I repeat. Still silent.

"FUCK!!!!" I yell, loud enough that the other people on the balcony momentarily stop and turn around to see what's going on. I slide the door open, smoke billows out again. "Come on," I tell Mel, and step inside. I grab her by the hand and navigate the pockets of people as we make our way to the staircase, where I briefly pause before shooting up the stairs.

"Slow down!" Mel says, but I don't listen. Upstairs, I dart down the hall looking for an empty bedroom. Two are locked and another has a "do not enter" sign posted. Probably Ken's room. The last room on the right has its light on and a man and woman are inside, reclined on the bed and talking.

I knock on the door as we enter. "Hi, are we interrupting something here?" I ask.

They both sit up quickly, taken back by our surprise entry. "Uh, no, not interrupting, no," says the man, and the woman adds, "nothing, no."

I smile. "Were you two gonna fuck or something?"

"What? No, no," says the woman.

"Good, then get out. This is important." I stand clear of the door and both of them leave, a little puzzled, and more than a little pissed. I shut the door behind them and lock it, then turn to Mel who is leaning against the dresser on the other side of the room. "Now what's all this about?" I ask.

"What? What's what about?" She says. I've gotta get to the bottom of this before the alcohol and weed cloud her thoughts.

"You know what. Since the minute I said it was cool to come with me to this party as friends - something you yourself called it - you've been treating it like it's a date or something. Then you get jealous because I talk to a woman at a party. I talk to a woman at a party. What the hell is that?"

"You abandoned me, Reed. You just up and left. I turn around and you're gone. And you didn't even come looking for me."

"I left because the place reeks of weed and you were blowing the shit right in my face, darling. I'm wasn't in the mood to take a hit. So I went outside for fresh air. When I came back inside for a drink refill I looked around for you, but you were nowhere to be found. If I were as insanely jealous as you're being right now I'd question where you ran off to. But I don't care, because we're here as friends. If you came up to me and said you met a really cool guy who you want to pursue, I wouldn't hold you back. Fuck, I'd put in a good word for you if you wanted."

Melinda looks a puzzled. "You would?"

"Yep. So I hope the way you've been acting is the product of marajuana paranoia and not something else."

Mel sighs and moves from the dresser over to the bed, where she lays against the pillow and crosses those gorgeous legs of hers. "I'm sorry about out there," she begins, "I didn't realize I was acting like that, but - don't get mad - I was kinda hoping this might be the start of something."

"Melinda -"

"Wait, hear me out." She straightens her hair and continues. "I like you Reed. I think you and I have something that could be great -"

"But we're -" I begin.

"Let me finish," she interjects. "I know we work together, and that doesn't bother me. We have a lot in common and I know you have feelings for me, I can tell by the way you act around me. I think this is something we could explore to see if it goes anywhere."

"Well, it does bother me that we work together, because if it goes south I have to continue working with you within the new strained relationship it would create. And I don't appreciate the bait-and-switch you pulled tonight. If you wanted a date, then you should have asked me out. You shouldn't have done it like this."

"If I had asked you out you would have turned me down instantly! I've heard you before talking about the negatives of dating a co-worker."

"And knowing how I felt, you still pressed it," I said, trying to lay on the guilt trip.

"Well, I thought..." Mel began, pausing and swallowing before continuing "I thought that maybe you wouldn't care about that stuff after you got to know me more outside of work, as somebody different than a colleague."

"Oh, Christ," I say, rubbing the bridge of my nose. My buzz is quickly wearing off and I feel a twinge of a headache coming on because I have to deal with this now. I move towards the door. "Don't go anywhere, I'm gonna go grab us two more drinks and we'll continue."

"I don't want a drink," Mel says in a faux whiny voice.

"But I do," I say, slamming the door behind me. I come down the stairs and notice the hemp haze has dissipated, and a the crowd has gotten smaller. I look past the main room and out towards the balcony, noticing Shannon is still there. She's talking to a small group of smokers. I step to the bar and make myself two strong vodka tonics. As I pass the sliding door on the way back upstairs, Shannon sees me and comes inside.

"Everything okay?" she asks.

"Yeah, it will be. We just have a mistunderstanding about what going to a party 'as friends' actually means."

"Oh, I see," she says, gazing upstairs at where she thinks Mel is.

"Well, you win some, you lose some," I say and start to motion towards the stairs.

"Think I can get your number Reed? Maybe we can get together over a cup of coffee sometime, you know?"

I give her my number, apologize for having subjected her to all this, and go back upstairs. Melinda is reclined on the bed, almost asleep.

"Oh no you don't," I say, shaking her. "Wake up."

"Sure you don't want to join me?" She says coyly.

"Funny. Here, drink this," I say, handing her a cup.

"I said I didn't want any," she says, but takes the cup nonetheless.

I sit a few feet away at the edge of the bed and take a sip to help my nerves before I begin. "So you thought you could change me, huh? You thought that despite our working relationship, that once I went out a few times with you and got to know you, maybe had a night in the throes of passion, I'd toss all that to the wind. Once I got to know the real you."

"You make it sound like my motives are so sneaky," she says with a yawn.

"That's because they are!!" I exclaim. "You don't see it? I am not going to fall into that trap. Look I admit it, you're a hot piece of ass - there, I've said it - and you'd probably be a lot of fun on a regular date where your not competing with the rest of the women out there -" here I motion at the door to signify the women downstairs, "- but as long as you and I work for the same people that is never going to happen. Besides, you've got your motives for picking this time of the year instead of five months ago, don't act like I don't know."

"Why?" she asks, suddenly interested by my interest in talking about this.

"Because you don't want to be alone for the holidays. You don't want to be the one in your group of girlfriends who doesn't have the safe haven of a relationship to fall back on during Thanksgiving and Christmas."

"What?!? That's crazy! What do you mean?"

"I'm talking about your winter of discontent! I'm talking about you trying to avoid being alone during the holidays. I'm not gonna be some fill-in to get you over the hump of the holidays and into Valentine's Day next year. I'm not gonna be some pawn in your ploy to be safely at arm's length from the feelings of lonliness that attack single women this time of year, that's what."

Melinda gets up, visably upset, and puts her drink on the dressing bureau before adjusting her miniskirt. "I don't know what you're talking about, but this is crazy. Obviously you are blowing this way out of proportion."

"Oh yeah, am I?"

"Yes, you certainly are, and I can't be around you when you're like this. I did what I did and said I'm sorry for it, but now you're talking about all this other crazy stuff. I need to leave."

"All right, fine, I'll take you home."

"No way, mister, you've done enough to make me enjoy Halloween," she says, fumbling in her purse for her cellphone. "I'm calling a cab."

"Look, I can still give you a ride home," I say.

"Forget it, I'm taking a cab, and maybe when you're in a better frame of mind on Monday we'll talk about it then."

The cab came pretty quickly considering the vast expanses of Palos Verdes, and Mel left in a huff. I finished off my drink and went to work on what she left of hers. Like she didn't deserve that, I thought. The woman flat out admitted she tricked me. She had romantic overtures all along. I finish Mel's drink and made my way downstairs, where I got another vodka tonic before looking around for Shannon. She was gone, as was much of the crowd. I looked at the time. 12:30. Where did the time go? It seemed like it was 9:00 just moments ago. I finished my new drink, talked to some people from my college days, and went in for another. Now I was beyond buzzed. I was flying. I was feeling good.

After draining my latest drink, another glance at the clock showed it to be 1:00. Okay, time to go. I fumbled around for my keys, made my way slowly in what I was sure was a straight line but was likely a series of zig-zags to the door. I thanked Ken for the great evening and assured him I was in perfect condition to drive.

"Didn't you come with somebody? What's her name, Melina? Melinda?" he asks, shaking my hand.

"Melinda. Melinda, she couldn't stay so she caught a cab outta here. Whoosh." I say, shooting my flat hand into the sky like a plane. "Whoosh," I repeat.

"Okay dude, be careful. I don't want to see you on the news tomorrow."

I find my car in the darkness of the driveway and pull out, high beams on. On the way out I blind a couple looking for their car on the side of the road, and after dimming the lights to normal, I lower the window and apologize, saying "I can't see a thing in the dark when I've been drinking."

I meander along Western Avenue, slowly making my way down the hill that leads towards Torrance and the 405 freeway ahead. They say that when you close one door another is opened. That the end of one thing is the beginning of something else. The way out is the way in. I'm sure there's tons of ways to say it. Melinda's door was thankfully closed, but I didn't want another one opening. And I didn't want Shannon being that next door to open. I knew my meeting Shannon smacked of bad timing, and besides, if a woman sees you in bad form with another woman she'll think you're that way with all women. She won't chalk it up to the dynamics of that relationship, the environment, or anything else. Shannon didn't want anything but coffee, but that was now. Who knows what she might want a month from now.

I made it home and pulled into the garage, my head spinning out of control. I honestly don't know how I made it home alive. I think I blacked out somewhere between the Hawthorne and Rosecrans offramps. I made my way into the house and immediately Sophia barked her "who goes there" bark in the darkness.

"Hey girl," I slur, "it's just me." Sophia responds with her "where have you been" whine, and as I collapse face-up on the bed, she follows suit and showers me with licks to the face and neck. Her tongue feels cool, almost relaxing upon my skin.

As the room spins around me and I grasp the edges of the bed hoping I pass out before I puke, I start thinking about the last few women I've been with and how they've all ended on not-so-nice terms. Maybe I need to be more discriminating in my choice of women. Maybe I need to date them a little longer before jettisoning. Maybe I just need to take a break, swear them off for a little bit. Couldn't hurt. Maybe the absence will make me focus better upon what I'm looking for. That's what I should do. Forego women for the 'He-man Woman Haters Club,' just for a while as a transitional thing.

And that's when the phone rang. Oh God, at this time. Who could it be? Can the room stop spinning long enough so I can find the phone? I manage to lay my hand on it and pick it up. I'm too far gone to focus on the caller ID readout. "Hel-hello?"

The voice starts. It's familiar, breathy. "Reed? Hi baby. It's Monica. I miss you. I want to come over."

Crap.