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The woman on the stage was naked, as were the three women surrounding me. It was at about this time that my instinct for self preservation kicked in (as usual running a bit behind) and I began to wonder how I would adequately explain this to my wife. "Gee, honey, they said all the other hippos have done it," just didn't seem like it would carry much weight.
One of the supernaturally endowed women standing near me was wearing the hippo head wiggling about in a lewd manner. She looked like some silicone enhanced goddess from ancient mythology. This disconcerting image still finds its way into my dreams on occasion.
Another of the women was running her hands around my shoulders and back. I was too thirsty and out of breath to bother pointing out to her the amazingly obvious. Namely that I was wearing a costume, that I was receiving absolutely no sensation from her roaming hands and, most importantly to her, I had no pockets and therefore no money. So a tip of any kind was out of the question.
Someone placed a bottle of water into my hand. I fumbled with the cap before one of the women took it away and opened it.
"Here you go, baby," she said.
I was beginning to feel like a sheik in his harem. The water was cold and delicious and I drank it all without stopping for air. The handsy woman had stopped her groping. Either she had figured out that the financial remuneration for her efforts was going to be non-existent or she had gotten carpet burn on her palms.
"Let's get him up on stage," said the blonde closest to me. Her breath reeked of alcohol.
"All right, ladies," I heard a familiar voice say. "Time for the hippo to leave. He's had enough full frontal nudity for one day." It was Marty, one of my coworkers, come to fetch me back to the parade.
"We were going to have him dance," one of the women said.
Marty was having none of it though, and with the sheepish smile of an adolescent caught reading his father's Playboy, I waved goodbye to the gathering of ecdysiasts. They smiled and waved back with wiggles designed to shrink a man's wallet The hippo-head was unceremoniously plopped upon my shoulders and Marty tugged me back outside into the street.
Marty ran off to catch up with the car but I, much to weary to run, plodded down the center of the street. The last vehicle in the parade, a fire-truck, blasted its horn at me. I stepped aside, startled, and let it pass. After all the chaos and excitement it was a bit disheartening to be the last guy in a parade, waving at a crowd whose short attention span was already drifting elsewhere.
- Timothy Friend
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