I fucking hate Halloween.

It’s amateur night for people too ashamed to dress sexy any other time of the year. Sexy nurse. Sexy librarian. Sexy serial killer. It’s like when I go to a bachelorette party for one of my backward high school friends and she gets “joke” gifts of “joke” lingerie and cheap hot-pink vibrators. Big joke, right, Tiffany? If you knew what your cunt could really do, you’d leave that plastic shit behind and put on some quality underwear for your schlub fiancé to rip off. But I digress.

Me, I dress sexy all the time. Low-cut cleavage shirts a size too small. Short skirts. Scandalous cutoffs. Nothing I’m not comfortable in, but nothing that doesn’t say, “I’m comfortable in my skin.” That’s why I’m over Halloween. People try too hard. They say it’s an excuse to dress sexy, but it’s really just a cry for help. That whole week I usually dress down, in protest.

“The handicapped stall was vacant and he had my sweatpants down in a second.”

Which is why, last Halloween, I was the victim of a cruel twist of fate. My sister had broken her ankle on the way out of a costume party (the heel snapped on her cheap sexy-scientist outfit), and she needed someone to chaperone her kids around the neighborhood for trick-or-treating.

I love my sister and her two rug rats, so of course I said yes. But I wasn’t happy about it.

“I thought you’d be dressed all slutty,” my lame sister said upon opening the door, whispering the last word. “You’re dressed like me!”

“That’s right, Amanda,” I replied. “My Halloween costume is dressing like someone who doesn’t have sex.”

“Very funny,” she said. (I was pretty sure Amanda had had sex twice.)

I escorted my Harry Potter niece and my Pikachu nephew around the neighborhood, falling in with a group of parents as we went house to house, making sure the kids said thank-you and avoided the sketchier homes.

One of the parents in attendance was Steve, a single dad with two kids around the age of my niece and nephew. They knew each other from school.

“Why aren’t you dressed up?” he asked.

“Non-sexy is my Halloween costume,” I said.

“Hmm,” he responded, looking me over in a way that I’m not sure I would have appreciated on the subway, but which was kinda nice now. “You’re not really pulling off ‘non-sexy.’ That sweatshirt looks good on you. And the gym tights? Nothing left to the imagination.”

I liked this guy. We circled the block having an animated discussion about which candy we were going to steal once the kids went to bed.

“Why aren’t you dressed up?” I asked.

“It’s a double standard,” he said. “My options are either some nerdy thing I’d have to explain to everyone, a monster costume that’s not gonna get me laid by the single moms, or a sexy-policeman outfit that will just make it look like I’m trying too hard.”

Turns out Steve knew my sister and her husband, and lived a few doors down from them. When we dropped off my niece and nephew, he asked if I’d join him for a drink at a place nearby. As we left Amanda’s house, I swore I saw her shoot Steve a smile.

At the bar, Steve and I maneuvered our way through throngs of Halloween revelers in cheap, barely-there outfits. I liked the way he gently but firmly held my arm as we found the only available table by the restrooms. After he came back with drinks, I asked him how he knew Amanda and my brother-in-law.

He said, “We swing together sometimes.”

You could have knocked me over with a cheap hot-pink vibrator.

“No fucking way,” I said. “Amanda?”

“Uh, yeah, Amanda,” Steve said, looking like he was savoring a memory.

I realized I was the worst kind of person. The sexual elitist, buzzkilling Halloween for all the people who waited for this moment every year to show off their tits in public.

I stood up and led Steve, firmly but gently, to the men’s bathroom. It wasn’t empty but fuck it.

The handicapped stall was vacant and he had my sweatpants down in a second. I undid his belt with a practiced flick of my wrist and he was ready with an extra-large condom, his cock growing as we groped each other. He hefted me up on the baby-changing shelf like he’d done it before (turns out he had mdash; with Amanda), and thrust into me with a violence that would have hurt had I not been so wet. He kept up a pace that was somewhere between Quickie Fuck and Porn Star Perseverance, and I felt that familiar feeling building in me.

“Get it get it get it,” I said, needing just 30 more seconds, hearing various pissers come and go outside the stall.

Steve kept pounding and I felt that curtain start to fall, the ultimate pleasure hanging there in the air. Then he pushed through it and I came, his hard thrusts turning squishy with my juices. Then he erupted in response.

We kissed long and slow, our breath adjusting. The first thing I remember him saying afterward was, “Glad you came as your sister this year.”

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