Turning Thirty
by Dorothee Lang

“Time to Celebrate!!!,” said the card. And stated day (“Saturday 07.05.!”) and place (“my garden, rain or shine!!”). At the bottom of the page, and a little less enthusiastic, the cause of celebration and the signature followed (“turning thirty - Cathy”).

Cool, I thought. A summer birthday party. Pinned the card on the kitchen board. And waited for some inspiration regarding the appropriate gift for Cathy. Of course, inspiration didn’t show up in time, and so I found myself Saturday morning, still giftless, rushing through the city. Maybe flowers, I thought. Or a good bottle of red wine. Or rather champagne? But wouldn’t all of that look a bit too last minute? Then I saw the bookshop. That would be it, I decided. A witty, inspired, thoughtful book. Something that would match Cathy’s personality. Now which to take. I stared at the books on display, piled up under a “Your Sexy Summer Beach Read” sign. Dance Macabre. No. Chasing Destiny. Not really. BreakupBabe. No way. With a sigh, I turned towards the next sections, and found it under L. The perfect timeless book for any round birthday: Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.

On the way to the car, I picked up the bottle of red wine I had thought of before, and spent the rest of the afternoon on the terrace, sipping iced tea, and, pretending to search for the perfect quote, followed the call of the white rabbit together with Alice once more, starting at page one. When the story reached the tea party, I decided it’s enough, and opened the red wine. Aperitif-time, I told Alice. Twinkle twinkle, Alice remarked.

The Cheshire Cat’s smile stretched towards dusk as I reached the ending lines of Wonderland. Reluctantly, I said goodbye to Alice, and scribbled a personal note for Cathy on the first page, quoting Caroll: “But what am I to do?” said Alice. - “Anything you like”, said the Footman. While I wrapped the book in flowery pink paper, I cited the quote to my twin in the mirror on the wall. Then I wrapped myself in a shiny black skirt and went on a search for the matching pair of shoes.

I knew I was running late, but I decided to ignore the clock and the highway, and take the old country road instead, the one that moved through small towns and large fields. While driving, I watched the streams of cloud in the sky turn from white to pink to red. The perfect warm summer night for a birthday barbeque. I thought, when I arrived in her street at the edge of town and parked the car. Yet instead of bird songs and muffled voices, there was a mix of loud rock music and cheering welcoming me. "Maybe there is a second party going on," I guessed. Walked through Cathy’s front yard, to the back of her house.

There was a table with chocolate cake and fruit bowl. Fire pots on the ground. Lanterns. Friends and family.

And there was Cathy. Sitting on a chair, in front of her guests. And in front of Cathy there was - a male stripper, dancing for her. In black leather boots and black boxer briefs. There in her garden. In front of her friends and family. The stripper looked good, no doubt about that, tall and tanned and blond. And kind of ridiculous, dancing there, between her strawberries and her parents, in briefs with a zipper. But maybe that was me and the fact that I was coming straight from Wonderland. The others obviously weren’t bothering about the setting.

Just smile, I told myself. Imagine the Queen of Hearts is already on her way. The thought did the trick. I relaxed. Which was not necessarily a good thing, I learned some seconds later, when the stripper suddenly, almost as if he had heard my thoughts, turned, and gazed at me. I gazed back. Now what, I thought. And realized that he didn’t know the answer either, that the moment had caught him as off guard as me. He kept dancing, but different than before, his moves falling into a slow motion, while he brushed back curls of hair with his fingers. It was the cheering girls who broke the moment. “More,” they demanded, bringing his attention back to the fact that there was a job waiting to be done. With a yielding gesture, he turned to them, his fingers resting on the zipper. The girls started to clap their hands, and chant an one word song: “More, more, more!”

Not that there would have been much more left to undress, apart from the boots and the briefs. But he wouldn’t go that far, would he? I looked at the gathered crowd of guests, and it was only then that I saw Cathy’s two young nephews, standing next to the strawberries, all amazed by what’s going on right in front of them. Maybe someone should take the kids inside now, I thought, but no one seemed concerned about their presence. Maybe it’s just you, I thought, and tried to convince myself that he wouldn’t go much further anyway. All eyes were fixed on the slowly opening zipper, which revealed - oh-joy-and-wonder – a golden nylon thong. Dressed, or rather: undressed like this, a bottle of sun oil in the hand, he shifted around Cathy to the wild boy tunes of DuranDuran. Talk about summer memories. I closed my eyes, but my curiosity got the better part of me. When I looked up again, he was sitting on Cathys lap, while Cathy was covering his back and chest in said oil. Glorious, I thought.

But the best - or at least: the last part - was yet to come: the ultimate peek under the belt line, right in front of all. A questionable pleasure that was reserved for the birthday girl. To make sure that the view stayed private, and at the same time had some of that California Dream Boy feeling, he wrapped an American Flag around his hips, turned to Cathy, nestled in the darkness beneath the flag, and allowed Cathy to get close, and take a look underneath.

“OOOOHHHHH,” the cheering girls screamed when Cathy’s face surfaced again, her cheeks blushed by excitement. Or by embarrassment? “You didn’t close your eyes, did you?!” one of the girls hollered. The answer to the question got lost in the goodbye of the stripper, who made sure his flag was wrapped just fine before he waved farewell to the party. Then he turned, and his eyes searched mine for a second time. Bye, I whispered, and watched him tangoe out of the scene, leaving a memory without a name.

A moment of silence filled the garden, then it was summer music again, and Cathy’s aunt appeared, carrying a cake with burning candles. “Happy Birthday,” she started to sing, the cheering girls joined her, and in no matter of time the whole setting fell back into a cheerful innocent family gathering. The only proof of the strip was the slightly overexcited undertone the conversations still held, the giggles of the cheering girls, and a black piece of trouser that lay there forgotten between the strawberries, waiting for someone to carry it back to the owner.

I helped myself to a fruit bowl, undecided whether I should pick it up or not. A question that had answered itself when I walked back, as someone had beat me to it. One of the cheering girls, I guessed. Or Cathy herself? Another mystery that would remain unsolved, I figured and settled on one of the benches to listen to the hum of conversation that was spinning between tables – and to get Cathy’s nephews take on things. “Dad!,” one of them said, still amazed. “Dad, what has this man been doing there on Cathy’s lap, and why did she have to touch him and put the oil on him?”

“Uhm,” his Dad said, searching for a child-compatible answer. Finally he found it:  “See," he said, "when we go to the pool, mummy has you sit on her lap, too, to rub sun oil on you back and your chest.”

I tried hard not to break into laughter, and decided that this would be a good time to get another glass of bowl, and to congratulate Cathy to her birthday.

“In a few months, it will be your turn,” she said, giggling.

“I know,” I said and mimicked the unconcerned sun oil look of her nephew’s Dad.

Cathy didn’t take it. I never had been good at fooling her. Damn, I thought, and forced myself to smile. “Actually, I am looking forward to it,” I added, and made a mental note to trade my birthday party for one of those Chasing Destiny reads and a last minute ticket to a destination that would remain unrevealed to anyone but me.

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Dorothee Lang lives in Germany, and is a freelance writer and web designer. Her work has appeared in The Sunday Herald, The Mississippi Review, The Funkytraveller, Babylon Travel, Dicey Brown and Moondance, among others. She edits The Blueprint Review and her first novel, Masala Moments, was published by CautionaryTale Press.