I arrived at the hotel and met the lovely Anastasia in the lobby. Her outfit surprised me: tan slacks and a crimson vest. She looked hot, but in a much less overtly sexual way than I had imagined. This particular difference between my imagination and reality actually was an improvement. She was subtly hot, as opposed to sluttily hot.
We deposited the gift bags in the room Anastasia had booked and set up, brilliantly, with drinks and snacks. We descended to the restaurant, where we had an unfashionably early 5:45 reservation.
I had a Scotch (Ardbeg 10). Anastasia stuck to water. She had the halibut. Just because. And I had scallops. The food was good, if not quite deserving of its cost, and I padded my stomach with bread. I wasn’t planning to drink much, but I wanted hangover protection nonetheless. It was going to be a long night.
Throughout the meal, we checked our phones. The last of the photos streamed in. Serena belatedly gave me three different outfit choices (several days after they’d been “due” and only thirty minutes before her scheduled arrival). I selected black jeans, a sexy black bustier, and a sheer white blouse. “And for fuck’s sake, leave!”
Amira characteristically chafed against my selection, a slinky, short black dress with a bodysuit beneath. “I feel very naked in your dress for the bar. I can outfit change for you.”
Clearly she and Serena both would be late.
Polina, the most compliant of all on this evening, had sent a smoking hot picture of her in her bodysuit before we sat down to dinner.
“You look smoking hot!” I texted. “I’ll take good care of you.”
She reread some of what I had written about the evening as she approached. “Oh you write so nice!” she said. “Although it was hard to read for me with your rich vocabulary.” Her first language is Polish. (Serena’s and X‘s is Spanish; Saya’s are French and Arabic; Amira’s, English and Arabic; Anastasia’s, Russian. Only Cee and I have English as our sole mother tongue.)
As we finished our dinner, as our reservation in the bar at 7:45 approached, it was becoming clear that the women would arrive more like 9 than the called-for 8, that the party would start an hour later than I had planned. My anticipation was aching, painful, and the loss of this hour briefly stung me hard. Only briefly, though. I was really working on my reconciliation of my dreams to reality, and, honestly, what was 60 minutes?
Anastasia and I discussed the potential challenge in the bar, should the hostesses not want to seat her at a table for seven prior to the arrival of even one other. “I’ll just grease their palms,” she said of the hostesses, utterly confidently, utterly competently. I’ve never greased a single palm in the continental US, and was impressed by her ease at the thought. (No palm greasing was required. But she was ready, willing, and able.)
We briefly sat together at my table, a two-top in the back of the bar. I ordered another Scotch. Anastasia, a bottle of sparkling water. Before the drinks arrived, though, Anastasia relocated herself to the front of the bar, to the booth at which she and the ladies would convene. Where she would sit (no palms greased) for the next forty or so minutes by herself. We texted a bit. I wrote in my journal a bit. Recorded some voice memos. And waited. And waited. And waited.
Polina was the first to arrive. I could barely see her, as she was positioned behind a column (and the ladies’ table was all the way on the other side of the bar from me). Then, Cee. Then, at the same moment, Serena and Amira. I watched as the ladies smiled, laughed, getting to know one another. My view was clearest of Serena, Amira, and Cee. Anastasia’s back was to me, and Polina was obscured. But I watched as Serena and Cee, in particular, seemed to be smiling, laughing, having a great time.
As I was watching, sipping my drink, a tall drink of water approached me wearing a long silver bodycon dress. Sultry. Sexy. Hot. It was Saya. I’ve known Saya for a while, but I had forgotten how tall she is. And she had lost a lot of weight since the last time I saw her. I barely recognized her.
“Where am I supposed to go?” she asked, after we kissed hello.
“You look fucking hot,” I exclaimed, and pointed her to the front of the room. She walked up there, past the table, and out the front door. I figured she was on a quest for X, so they could arrive together – X being the only lady not to have met me before, Saya was protective of her.
Moments later, Saya proved me right, and she and X flowed through the front door, and sat at the table, completing the party.