Context: Charlotte had behaved poorly in the 24 hours leading up to this date. Not just in relationship to my wishes (though surely, in relationship to my wishes), but also, and much more problematically for me, in relationship to her own interests in life.
I instructed Charlotte to give me a five-minute warning before she arrived. She failed at this task, her first of the night. My phone vibrated – “I’m here.”
I had been, and still was, sitting at the bar, writing notes in a newly acquired, cheap notebook. I usually travel with a little Moleskine or similar, but recently, I switched bags – from a black
Jansport North Face one I’ve used for years to a gym bag. My Moleskine notebook was in my North Face backpack. So I stopped at a CVS and bought myself a simple red lined notebook.
I expect that, before this post is done, you’ll have seen at least one of the pages I wrote…. The table of contents? For now, though, the contents of some of the pages I wrote:
Items from Charlotte’s list, sorted into three columns:
- out (not gonna happen): five items
- maybe: twelve items
- in (gonna happen): twenty-three items
I added a short fourth column – additions – and added six items.
Three columns: one, a little brainstorming about how we would spend our evening. One, a list of negative feelings I was experiencing (twelve items). And the third, a list of positive feelings I was experiencing (six items).
Two columns: on the left, all the items from the recent BDSM questionnaire Charlotte had completed for me, with twenty-seven of the forty or so boxed, to indicate my expectation that they would most likely transpire on this very evening. And on the right? On page three, three sections – one, devoted to documenting my actions this evening (for this post); one, some things Charlotte had done in the previous 24 hours that pissed me off; the third? turns out it was a continuation of the second.
On page four, the right-hand column had two sections – one, what I planned to order for Charlotte (oysters on the half shell, shrimp beignets, and two house-specific cocktails); the other, an indecipherable plan for my upcoming interrogation (see below) of Charlotte.
Page 5: “I instruc” [sic]
That is all.
Back to real time: my phone buzzed, Charlotte was present, having disregarded my instructions to tell me five minutes prior to her arrival.
I told her to wait for five minutes – she didn’t yet know just where I was, she was on a busy corner, and I was relishing her discomfort. I continued my writing. After six or seven minutes, I told her where I was, and instructed her to sit two seats to my right at the bar.
Charlotte, intent on disobedience, sat directly next to me. Or rather, she started to sit right next to me.
I (not so) gently reminded her, “Two seats to my right.”
Charlotte started to walk around to my left.
“My right.” I think I might have growled this, as I pointed to the specific chair – unmistakable, given my very clear instructions – which, finally, she occupied.
As she sat there, I withheld eye contact. Forbade, implicitly, conversation.
We texted back and forth. I told her what to order (see above) first. I had eaten some hummus before she arrived, and now ordered some cheese. And also some duck paté.
One of the bartenders was an unappealing guy with a blue mohawk. As we were sitting apart, as Charlotte appeared to all comers to be a single lady, he took a shine to her, and started painting attention to her. I joked with her by text that I was going to tell her to tell him that she couldn’t speak with him because she was property. She said, are you jealous?
I said, no I was not jealous, but I did like making her uncomfortable.
There was another couple in the bar wearing Hawaiian shirts. Celebrating the birthday of a friend At first. It seemed that they were coming on to Charlotte as well, but over time, it became clear they were just being friendly. In a way that marked them as anything but locals. [Just as we were about to leave, they bought us a round of drinks – who were we to say no?]
Eventually, I invited Charlotte to slide over to the chair next to me. She was uncomfortable with this. So I slid down, next to her. She told me I looked good, which was genuinely a first and I pointed that out: “You never give me compliments.”
She said, “Well, you look really good.”
At one point, I joked I would make her remove her panties in the ladies room and leave them visible, at the top of the many items in her purse. “I’m not wearing panties,” she confessed: an oversight. I had, of course, asked her to wear black panties. At the time, she had told me she had no clean panties, to which I took offence because she knew she had a date planned with me. And, I figured, she’d fucking solve the problem. Wrong.
Whatever. More bar fun ensued. Conversation. Playfulness. Teasing. My rage was abating somewhat, being replaced with, if not ardor, at least – well, playfulness. We left the bar, having eaten and drank plenty, and walked to the nearby strip club. I ordered her a glass of white wine, and me a diet coke. I told her to pick a lady out to dance with her which she did.
She picked a small Asian woman whom I said looked not unlike Hera. For a moment, at least, this bummed Charlotte out; not so much that the woman looked like Hera but that – as she said – I was thinking of a woman other than her while we were together. I pointed out that we were in fact, in a strip club, that it was a woman she had been thinking of, that she had selected, that all I had done was noted an unmistakable resemblance.
This seemed to mollify her, and the Hera look-alike danced for her. [Of course, the truth is, Hera is much hotter than this dancer – her skin is much clearer, her features much prettier and more well-defined.] The dance was meh, and after it ended, I said, “Pick either one for me or two for us….”
Charlotte picked one for me: I didn’t understand the appeal. She had huge augmented breasts and prodigious collagen or silicone in her lips – a look that does less than nothing for me.
I, then, had a second woman dance for me. This other woman was the one I secretly had hoped Charlotte would choose. And Charlotte had thought she was hot too, because, while silicone lady had been gyrating on me, Charlotte had recruited my target for herself. This woman had tiny a cup breasts, no silicone anywhere, an incredibly cute giggle. The dance itself, the dances themself? Meh. As all but a very few strip club dances are, I think. The performativeness, the oohing and aahing, the moaning, the theatricality – they all turn me off. For fuck’s sake, I just want to feel a woman gyrating on my cock, touching my chest, my neck, my face. Is that too much to ask?
After a few more minutes, we left the strip club and not to the hotel, just a couple of blocks away and checked in.
Stay tuned for Part 2….