Feb 092013
 

You read my version of the beginning of the evening. Here’s V’s:

I get there a few minutes early on purpose– my little way of having some control before the night begins. Being in the bar settles me into the imminence of the date, of being with N., and I crave that feeling.

I order a bourbon neat and head back to a table.  The bar is more crowded than I expect, but not unpleasantly so.  I get a few looks, more dressed up than the rest of the crowd by far, and I’m sitting on my own at a busy time of night.

I sip on my drink, watching the street and other people around me.  At 10:01 I text him, “You’re late.”

I don’t mind in the slightest, but I couldn’t help getting him back for when he chided me on date one.

“That’s true,” he responds.

I enjoy waiting for him.  It simultaneously puts me more at ease and more on edge.  I am more comfortable having arrived, having a drink in my hand, but I’m more nervous and slightly anxious about what’s going to happen. And I know it will happen soon.

I feel sexy all dressed up for him.  I absentmindedly play with the buttons down the front of my dress, I circle the top of my rocks glass with my forefinger, I slip my left hand up my dress to the outside of my tights and underwear and press just a little.

I think I see him come in and my breath catches.  Then he ducks behind a table, and I lose sight of him. I keep drinking, not checking my phone, waiting for him to find me… but he doesn’t.

I decide perhaps he’s e-mailed me and finally I check. There are a slew of e-mails, all porn along with a sentence about what he’s going to do to me in each scene. I touch myself as I scroll through.  Some I go back to twice.

Finally I see him approach the table, and I smile.  He’s as handsome as ever in his usual t-shirt and jeans.  It works well for him.  He leans over the table and kisses me, hard. I moan against his mouth.

“Can I get you a drink?” he asks.

At this point I’ve finished my first whiskey, so I ask for another.  He returns with both drinks and asks what it is I had him order.

“Bullet,” I say. “Just some bourbon. Want a taste?”

“I already did,” he says with a smirk as he puts the glass down.

We sip and talk.  It turns out it wasn’t him who I saw earlier.  He feels for me under the table and I push my knees along the inside of his legs.  I want to reach under the table and feel him through his jeans, but logistically this isn’t possible.  I should’ve snagged the smaller table, I thought– next time.

He asks for my hand and he nips and sucks on the tip of my pinky finger as if it’s my clit.  I start to breathe even more heavily than I already am. My thighs clench under the table.

He puts his knees in between mine and spreads my legs with them– wide.  I tell him how wet he’s getting me. He

asks me to show him.  I put not one, not two, but all five fingers of my left hand in my underwear, and slide them down my clit.  I bring them back up and he licks them, puts them in his mouth, and sucks on them.  (Remember when this completely freaked me out only a few weeks ago?)

He asks me to undo another button on my dress, so I do.  My bra is now peeking out.  He asks me to put my hands behind my back.  I do, and cross them at the wrists.  He asks me to sit up straight.  I’m reluctant to do so–  there are a lot of people who have a direct sight line to our table, but I adjust, sitting up a bit straighter.

He asks me again, “Sit up straight, please.” I’m fighting my natural instinct to just un-do my hands and look normal.  My legs are spread, my dress unbuttoned and my hands are clasped behind me; I feel ridiculously exposed. I try to comply, and sit up a bit straighter, but am not fully in the position he wants.

He’s ready to go.  He downs his scotch, blows out the candle at our table and asks me to put it in my purse.  I flash him a surprised look for just a second, before picking up the votive. I grab my coat and walk ahead of him, hoping he’s watching my ass in this dress and my legs in these heels.

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