Erica Lucke Dean

"Making the world a better place, one book at a time."

trick or treat

Welcome to the Weekly Guest Blogger series.

 

DC McMillenTonight’s guest blogger is DC McMillen, author of the Nauti-Lust series.  For more about DC, click on her photo to visit her website.

 

So, Halloween is coming.

In case you were wondering, I plan to go out this year as a Fly Girl. You remember Fly Girls, right? Those scantily clad dancers from the 90’s TV show, In Living Colour? The show that gave Jennifer Lopez her start? Yeah, I am going to make an awesome fly girl. I know, because Jennifer Lopez and I have approximately the same size ass. Now only if we had the same size waist. But I digress.

Now that I think about it, the last time I went out trick-or-treating was when In Living Colour was still on the air. If you do the math, that would make me a trick-or-treating teenager. That’s right, I trick or treated well into my teen years. See, I recognised a good deal when I saw one. Free candy is free candy. And it is surprisingly easy to get loads and loads of free candy if your boobs have developed to the size of mangos (ripe, firm, super hot mangos, in case you were thinking something different) and you are not shy about going door to door begging for the good stuff.

Now, here is a fun fact. It does not actually have to be Halloween for a girl with mango boobs to get free candy from neighbourhood strangers. And I do know this is a fact. See, the last time I went out trick-or-treating I was 16 years old and it was one full week before Halloween. The stupid grocery store I worked at scheduled me to work on Halloween and since I was the lowest member on the totem pole in both the company and the union, there was not a damn thing I could do about it. So, I improvised.

I held my annual Halloween costume party the weekend prior to Halloween. After my guests had ample time to get drunk off fruit flavoured beer (it was a real thing in Canada, not sure if it still is) and wine coolers, I cajoled my entire party into going trick-or-treating. After all, I would be damned if being a grown up would stop me from being a child!

The first house that we arrived at, my friends held back, suddenly overcome with shyness. So it was up to me. In full hippie dress, which consisted of bell bottoms, a halter top, giant peace pendant, rose coloured glasses and head band, I knocked on the door.

No answer.

I knocked again.

I heard some shuffling and then a plume of sweet smoke assailed my nostrils as a man with red eyes and dumfounded expression opened the door.

“Trick or treat!” I said with beer induced enthusiasm.

The man’s expression did not change as he stared intently at my breasts. In his defence, he was not a tall man so my breasts were pretty much at his eye level. Finally, without a word, the stoner shuffled away, leaving the door open. Patiently waiting, I heard cupboards opening and items presumably landing on the floor. I even watched a box of cereal sail past the open doorway. Then he returned with an entire, unopened bag of O’Henry’s, which he dropped into my pillow case.

“Thanks dude, you rock!” I bounded down the steps to show my shy friends my spoils.

Well, now my friends were completely on board. We ran around my neighbourhood knocking on doors until about 2am. And no one got upset! A group of ladies playing bridge gave us hard candy and then asked us to pose for photos with them, which we did. Creepy men with no candy dropped bottles of beer into our pillow cases. Some man who was drunker than any of my friends handed out full packs of cigarettes. One lady even woke up her kid and brought him to the door to prove that trick or treating was still cool. Someone gave us popsicles and ice cream sandwiches. People went to their windows or the bottom of their driveways to watch the reactions of other homeowners. By the end of the night we practically had a block party going on.

It was obvious to me that I would not be able to top this trick-or-treating experience no matter how hard I tried. So the following year, I did not feel even a hint of sadness when the grocery store booked me for every Saturday in October (those pricks).

 Fly Girls

 

 

 

D.C. McMillen lives in Toronto, Canada. She enjoys writing about dirty sex in questionable places, but occasionally writes about other subjects. Please visit her blog (click on the photo above) for info about her latest and upcoming releases. Oh, and D.C. is obsessed with Twitter and invites you to look her up at @mcmillendc, or on Facebook, where she goes sometimes.

 

Until the next time…I’ll be working on Sunday’s Daywalkers. Have you been bitten yet?

Copyright © 2000-2016, Erica Lucke Dean. All rights reserved. Any retranscription or reproduction is prohibited and illegal.