Excerpt

Introduction to A Vanilla Three-Way with a Cherry

By Dean Wesley Smith

When the ghost of Marilyn Monroe joins you and your girlfriend for a milkshake with a cherry on top, things change in a relationship, sometimes for the better.

Especially when your girlfriend thinks she just might be Norma Jean.

A Vanilla Three-Way with a Cherry

Chapter One

Someone had hung a framed, black-and-white photo of Marilyn Monroe right over the diner's only urinal. The picture was about a quarter life-sized, which made her a very dominating presence. The bathroom was the standard restaurant bathroom, with a tile floor, metal stall, and painted walls. It was as clean as I had ever seen a bathroom, no graffiti anywhere.

Only Marilyn's picture.

In the photo Marilyn had turned her shoulders sideways, keeping her face straight and looking over her shoulder. She was wearing a low-cut black evening gown. Real low cut, actually, with the old fifties-style bra cups that looked so sharp they could poke out a guy's eye if he went in at the wrong angle.

The points on those breasts were right at head level as I stood at the urinal, and for half the piss I couldn't look at anything else.

Then I glanced up.

Marilyn's face was framed by light, almost angel-like. She stared down at me, sort of smiling, as if she had known when the picture was taken that some guy would be holding his dick while staring at her tits.

I almost couldn't finish the job I was there to do.

And, to be honest, after looking into Marilyn's eyes, I had trouble looking back at her breasts. It just didn't seem respectful, even though those points were right there in front of me, and she was long dead.

So I kept my neck cranked upward, staring at her perfect face, that I-know-what-you-are-doing-smile, those dark eyes. I have no idea how long I stood there, penis flapping in the air-conditioning, just staring at her. I don't even know what I was thinking. I had never been attracted to Marilyn before.

Finally, I realized I was finished and managed to pull away from the picture, get myself zipped up, hands washed, and headed out the door.

"You all right, baby doll?" Betty asked as I slid back into the booth, her gum popping as it often did when she was flustered. Clearly I had been in there with Marilyn for a long time.

Betty and I had been dating for five months, from the moment she had come into my garage to have her classic T-Bird's transmission fixed. Betty loved anything about the fifties. She kept her blonde hair in the old flipped up way, and often wore fifties-style blouses, poodle skirts, and shoes with white socks. When she dressed like that it made her look one hell of a lot younger than her twenty-eight years.

And hotter.

She also loved Happy Days on television, and any movie set in the fifties, no matter how stupid. I know, because we had watched a bunch of them.

This diner, "The Fifties Place," was her favorite restaurant, with its Elvis pictures on the wall, Wurlitzer bubble jukebox, and bright red vinyl booths. But tonight was the first time the Marilyn picture had been in the bathroom. I was pretty sure I would have noticed it before.

The diner seemed busier than it had been when I had gone into the bathroom. And the waitress had already brought us the vanilla milkshake we had ordered just as I left to pee.

What the hell had happened to the time? People had always said that Marilyn had a strange effect on men, but this was getting silly. It was just a damn picture.

I pulled my thoughts back out of the men's room and focused on the table in front of me and at the three milkshakes.

"Three?"

The servings in this place were so big, we usually ordered only one shake, and an extra glass to pour the rest of the shake out of the tin mixing cup. But this time we had three vanilla shakes on the table, all in the nifty glasses. The top of the tall, heavy, glasses was wider than the bottom, which tapered down to a glass base.

The waitress had added whipped cream to the top of all of them, and two of the shakes still had their red cherries perched on top. Only the cherry from the glass in front of Betty was missing. She loved the things, so I had no doubt that cherry had given its life over her thick, full lips.

"They needed the mixing cup," Betty said, "so the waitress just poured it all in glasses and gave us extra whipped cream."

I nodded, just staring at the three milkshakes. Maybe I should offer one to Marilyn.

Betty reached a hand forward and touched my arm. "Baby?"

I looked into her deep brown eyes and saw the worry there. I hadn't gotten past second base with her in six months, because, as she said, "Good girls don't do that sort of thing." Maybe if she thought I was sick or something, I might get a little nursing.

I instantly decided against that idea. Betty liked the image of guys from the fifties who were macho types, with their cigarettes rolled up in their tee-shirts, who fought over their girls at drive-in movies. Sick played no part in any image Betty had of me, I was sure of that.

"Fine," I said, smiling at her. "Just got staring at a new picture of Marilyn in the bathroom. Can't make myself believe how much you look like her."

Betty's face turned red and she smiled like I had just promised her a meeting with James Dean. "You really think so?"

"I sure do," I said, squeezing her hand. Actually, she sort of had a passing resemblance, but not much else. And her chest was half the size of Marilyn's, even without the pointed bra.

"You'll be my Joe DiMaggio?" she asked.

I wanted to say sure, if you let me slide into third base tonight, but instead just smiled and said, "Not sure if I can live up to that guy, but why not try?"

Betty loved humility in her man, and I could be as humble as was needed.

Suddenly her smiling face turned serious. "I've got an important question to ask you."

"Go ahead."

"Can I have your cherry?"

I almost blurted out, I thought that I was supposed to ask that question. Somehow I managed to say instead, "Which one?"

She laughed at that.

I slid the milkshake closest to me toward her and she took the red cherry, holding it over her mouth for a moment before letting it go.

"I'll drink this one," I said, pulling back my cherry-less shake and putting a straw in it.

Then I put a straw in the third glass and slid it over to the seat beside me. "We'll save that one for Marilyn."

Betty smiled again. "You think she might join us?"

"Depends on if she can get out of the men's room in time," I said.

Betty actually laughed at the lame joke.

Chapter Two

Betty started talking about a coming dance she wanted me to go to with her, and I got to nodding and thinking of Marilyn and that amazing look on her face.

Then the hamburgers came. I took the onions off of mine because Betty did the same, and sometime later tonight I hoped to be kissing Betty, and I didn't want onion breath spoiling the moment.

It was during my first bite that Betty said, "Not fair. You ate Marilyn's cherry."

I glanced at where the third shake sat. She was right, the cherry was gone, and the glass looked like someone had taken a good drink from it.

"I thought you didn't like the cherries," Betty said.

"I don't," I said, looking closer at Marilyn's shake without touching it. "The cherry must have just sunk when the whipped cream melted."

"Maybe Marilyn ate it."

Betty was looking at the shake and I had no doubt she was half serious. I just shook my head and went back to eating my burger.

But three bites later the level of the third milkshake was lower still, and there was no sign of the missing bright red cherry.

I hadn't touched the thing, and I knew Betty hadn't reached across the table and drank any of it. In fact, she was still staring at it, her eyes wide, her burger forgotten.

"What?" I asked.