Charles, who sat across from me at the dinner table, cut his lasagna with a knife in his right hand and the fork in his left. He then set down the knife and ate using the fork in his right hand. After each bite, he dabbed the corners of his mouth with the black cloth napkin that he had placed on his lap. He paused between each bite to, I assume, enjoy the flavors.
My first thought: He went to a private school where he was required to wear a blazer to class. Maybe an all-boys boarding school. Elite. Expensive. Demanding.
Or else, all the other guys I had gone out with were nitwits, lacking any sort of panache.
The answer could go either way.
Make note. I didn’t assume Charles’s background because he used silverware properly or wanted to avoid wearing ricotta cheese as lipstick. Instead, he had a mystique. And these minute details revealed his upbringing.
I could mention his crisp blazer and the white cuffs of his button-up shirt that were nice wristbands of color between the navy blazer and his manly hands. Or his dark eyes, which enamored me.
What struck me most, by far, was that he asked questions about me. He was interested in me the person.
I sound pretentious, as if I had graduated at the top of my low-brow high school class in selfishness. But a man asking about me? Come on, you know it’s a rarity.
He wanted to know my preferences on all sorts of life. He asked about the history that made me me and the passions that get me up in the morning.
Few guys know how to do that, or they simply don’t care to.
And even more! He actually listened. I knew he listened, even when cutting his lasagna, because he asked follow-up questions.
He had me head over heels simply by that. In a few hours, he may well have me heels over head if I didn’t calm down. Good conversation is a great way to get me into bed.
At dinner, all I could do was take tiny bites of my risotto and steal glances at him. Why did I feel I needed to steal glances when he sat directly across from me? These glances weren’t looks, as polite engagement or as me listening. These glances were valuable. If too obvious, he might pick up on what was going through my mind. He might recognize the diamond-value of these glances. I needed to remain aloof, polite, and pleasant to dine with. Really, I had to raise my personal veil for protection from myself.
He looked down to cut into his lasagna. And I lifted my wine glass and stole another glance.
He had rounded ears with lobes perfect for nibbling. When that came to mind, I checked myself by tightening the veil. I redirected my mind as I continued the conversation.
“Your choice of restaurant makes me think you’ve taken a lot of women here, you know the chef, or you have a taste for good Italian food.”
He set down his knife, still holding his fork.
“I enjoy eating.” He shrugged his large shoulders that were sharpened by the blazer. “That’s another possibility for choosing this restaurant.”
“Then you must have tasted some bad food to find the best.” I set down my glass after the tiny sip. I had to remind myself that only small sips preserve and protect the night.
“I can’t deny eating disappointments. But taking chances is necessary. In fact, it’s often worth it.”
He made me melt inside. When I melt, a feel a prickle in my right shoulder, like a sticker from a briar bush on bare flesh. Don’t ask me why. I have no deformity or previous accidents to cause that prickle. I can only guess my physical body and my mind are warning each other that a molten lava of horniness is nearing the surface. This prickle has happened since I was a teenager when I had a crush on John Raymond. A long-haired blonde dude.
All through dinner, I tried to convey my interest with smiles and feline interaction, which means everything and nothing all in one. I attempted to avoid—more so, restrain—the sultry glances that, from a woman, can convey too much too quickly to a hungry man.
Sitting with Charles, I would not mind if the intriguing man offered to extend the evening. I actually hoped he would. He had to move it forward though, not me.
“You never answered my question,” I heard him say.
“Oh, I’m sorry. What was it?”
He swiveled in his chair. “Is there something behind me that has your attention?”
“No, no,” I said with a light laugh. “Ask me again.”
“You said you enjoyed horses.”
“Riding, that’s right. It was when I was younger, a young teen. Since then, it got burdensome. More of a hassle than a pleasure.”
“I was on a horse a couple of times. It was on a mare and—”
As he spoke, I nibbled my lip, realizing how handsome he was. I saw the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. They were the makings of a tempting fifty-year-old.
How long it had been since a man had roused my mind as much as my body.
“During a game of Polo?” I interrupted as my mind reengaging.
“Yeah, that long stick, riding boots and the hat with the short brim.”
He laughed. “I only played water polo in school. In a pool with a ball. No horses.”
“You had water polo at school?”
“Played in college too. I’m even in a league these days too. So—”
He left the topic of water polo and returned to horses, likely because it was a similarity between us.
Charles sat upright to recount his story. “The horse was a mare with a new foal. I rode her …”
Imagine two teams of tough men in tiny, skin-tight underwear fighting for me. Again, I had to beware of my imagination, because those water polo caps with the big ears could ruin the visual.
“… was not going to leave her baby. Since then, horses haven’t interested me.”
“Did she get you off—off of her?” I asked.
“No, I got hold of her. No harm done. But forever I’ll say, if I had to be a cowboy, I’d be a twenty-first century cowboy, riding a six-wheel ATV over the plains.”
He gave a quick laugh.
I lifted my wine glass. “I can picture you riding the six-wheeler and wearing the famous ten-gallon hat.”
I winked before sipping the white wine.
“I should show you my diamondback cowboy boots that I have at home.” He winked back.
An intriguing night at his house to see his boots. I liked the idea already. Maybe he could be my ATV. I bet he had a six-pack—on his body. Not only in the fridge like most guys.
Again, there was the prickle in my shoulder.
“You didn’t wear them tonight?” I asked about the boots. “Disappointing.”
“I’m not really a man for cowboy boots in everyday life.” He lifted his wine glass. A counteraction to match mine.
“You don’t ride any more—at least, horses. Are you a cowgirl in any way?” He set down his glass and picked up his knife and fork again.
“I have one pair of worn-out boots, and I do have a few pairs of cutoffs. That may make me a twenty-first century cowgirl. Nothing more than that. Country music doesn’t get me, so all clothing choices negate my cowgirl status.” I then added a response to him. “I still do ride.”
“Ride, what? Waves. Bicycles. Skis. The wind?”
Did he miss that comment? Is he so ‘Ivy League’ stuffy and ‘diamondback’ gritty at once that his mind voided understanding?
“Why limit myself? I ride the whims of life,” I said. A stupid line, but it’s all I could do.
He raised his glass. “A toast to the whims of life leading who knows where on who knows what.”
“Hear, hear. Ride on who knows what.”
And our glasses chimed together.
After the waiter cleared our table, he ordered dessert for us. When the waiter set it down, Charles said, “It’s cherries poached in red wine with Mascarpone cream.”
Cherries, red wine, and cream. It’s a combination that was made solely for sex. It was even the progression that leads to a great night naked in bed. A cherry, wine and finally cream.
Ouch! That damn prickle again.
The dessert slowly disappeared via our two spoons.
With the last bites left for me, Charles set his elbows on the table—I assume an Ivy League faux pas—and tangled his fingers together.
“This has been a great night. It’s only 10. Want to come over? I have an open bottle of wine from South Africa. I’d hate to finish it alone.”
His smile, Wow! Elbows on the table was forgivable. I couldn’t control a broad smile and the prickle pulsed its painful waves of worry.
“I’m worth only an open bottle?” I asked.
“And …” His wrinkles tightened around his eyes, as he grinned. “it’s half-gone.”
He had been playful all evening, and I had bantered back, testing his willpower against a quick-witted woman.
I put my hand over my heart, patting my chest. “That hurts me. My heart is in pain, in real pain.”
“Wine heals wounds. And I have a lot of healing at home.”
“I wouldn’t need healing if you hadn’t jabbed me, Chuck.”
“Don’t call me ‘Chuck.’ I told you already how much I dislike that name.”
“You actually said you ‘hate it.’ Not just ‘dick-like’ it.” I covered my mouth suddenly with both hands. “Oh god! I didn’t mean to say that. For real. It was not …”
My words faded as my face flushed and my cheeks heated up.
A posh Ivy-Leaguer and a woman with an uncontrolled mouth and dirty mind flowing through her lips.
I continued to apologize. He tried to conceal his laughter while reassuring me everything was all right.
“You’re fine,” Charles consoled. “It was an … innocent … mistake.”
“I need a glass of water, please.” My glass was empty, and my mouth was parched.
He handed me his glass and said, “Wine has more acidity to clean a filthy mouth.”
The condensation around the glass was cool and wet, offsetting my spike in bodily temperature by way of embarrassment.
As I drank the water, I noticed his Adam’s apple jumping up his stout neck.
“Michelle—” He took my hand. “—honestly, it’s okay. You only made the night’s highlight reel. Nothing more than that.”
“The highlight reel, huh?”
“Yes, it’s where the most memorable plays are rerun.”
His comment didn’t help. Yet, the water calmed me. My cheeks remained red. I exhaled and laughed away the embarrassment as best as I could.
He took my cool, wet hand in his strong hands. “How about that bottle of wine at my place?”
His voice was low and easy, almost as if another means to graciously expel my fumble from the table.
“For wine,” he said again.
Charles and I settled in closely in the backseat of the cab. I let my left shoulder rub along his body when the cab hit rough spots during the ride. Soon, he placed his arm around me and pulled me tight against him. He had a spicy scent with that cool demeanor or was it a cool scent with a spicy demeanor? Whichever, the scent eased me, and I let fall another line of date-night defense.
The driver stopped at the tall apartment building.
Getting out, I adjusted my skirt and straightened my blouse.
“I can stay for a half a glass,” I reminded him.
“If there’s even a half-glass. Not much is in the bottle,” he said in his coolness.
“I deserve more than that. At least for making the highlight reel.”
He shrugged. “You get what you get.”
He entered the code to unlock the exterior door of the building and then led me inside to the elevator. The elevator door closed. It tickled my stomach as it rose. Or was it him? Do I have to again admit he was that intriguing?
The tall man led me out of the elevator, his hand touching my lower back just above the waist of my skirt, guiding me with the tips of his fingers.
Around the corner, he unlocked apartment 5E. The place was simple and clean. No extravagant furniture. The walls were mostly bare. On the kitchen counter were two stemmed glasses. He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with the open bottle of wine that had been the topic of flirtation—before I misspoke.
When I took the chilled bottle from him, it was just as he had said: half-empty.
“So you weren’t luring me up here.”
“Lying forces me to work harder than I want to work. Honestly, I’ve tested my hand at lying and was fired rather quickly.” He snapped his fingers to show how short.
“Who’s pouring?” I asked.
He evenly poured the wine between our two glasses. There wasn’t much in either one. I saw it as another bit of protection.
We nestled into his couch. Me, on one end, my left arm on the arm rest. He started at the opposite end but scooted to the center.
We had an awkward moment as we restarted the conversation.
“I like your place,” I said. “It’s, er, simple.”
“I haven’t found the right artwork or the décor for me. So I sit in a dull place.”
He sipped his wine and directed his eyes toward the window.
“Do you like any particular type of décor?” he asked, looking back at me.
“Do you picture me with a certain type of design?”
I rested my right arm on the back of the couch. I spread my arms wide, letting him see my chest waiting, open, and available. Would he catch the message this time? He had missed an obvious play during dinner and gentle nestling in the cab. If I had to do any more to get my message through to him, I’d have to be naked.
I answered slowly. “I try to keep up with the latest trends—when I need to replace a piece.”
Relaxed in his private apartment, rather than being upright and calm in a restaurant, eased my protective veil. I reminded myself to take only small sips of wine to preserve the night. Big drinks of water also help with preservation. At that time, there was no water, and from then on and without obvious intent, I began to drink wine faster with longer sips.
“Let me get you more. I’ll open another bottle.”
He returned with a fresh glass full of wine. I handed him my glass to refill, but he denied it.
“New wine, new glass.”
Yes, no doubt, he was an Ivy League highbrow. Who else would know that? He probably was a kid who had a pool in the backyard, and his first car was likely a brand-new sports car. Nevertheless, he had a round butt in his slacks and a water polo body hidden underneath.
“You haven’t shown me those diamondback cowboy boots that you say you have.”
“I forgot about that.”
“Not just making up big stories for conversation?”
“They are size thirteen, if you’re thinking of ‘big’ stories. I can show them to you.”
“Proof is important, very important.” I lowered my eyes as I brought the glass to my lips.
“I’ll bring them out right now.” He stood and left.
Charles, I wanted to scream, you missed the entire message! Take me to your room to show me!
He had to be a virgin. Or he was a virgin for a long, long time until a patient girl came along. No, she must have been a patient woman, because those who were girls when he was young had matured into women by the time that he caught his first unspoken sexual message.
“Here they are.” He came out holding a boot in each hand, dangling them as proof. “I got them when my college team went to Texas for a tournament.”
“Water polo, I assume.”
“Have you ever worn … Never mind.”
He seemed intrigued. He set the boots on the coffee table next to his wine glass.
Any mother would never allow such a thing. But his mother—or his nanny—likely would rap his fingers with a ruler to punish him.
However, knowing it was terrible to put boots on the coffee table and doing it anyway, this guy may have a wild streak, somewhere. I could imagine him running and shouting, insanely, through the halls of his boarding school or wearing his blazer inside out. As much a rebel as high society might allow. I assume high society has strict rules and hard rulers to rap hands.
“What were you going to say? Have I ever …”
“Do you have your water polo swimsuit?”
“My speedo, yes. I have the cap to protect my ears.”
“No, no!” I raised my hands to object and shook my head. The image of the caps could ruin everything. “Please save me from those caps.”
He laughed. “They protect what’s needed. I can’t complain about that. Now, back to what you were about to say.”
“I can envision a bunch of college guys—where did you go to college?”
“Brown in Rhode Island.”
“—going through Texas in cowboy boots they had just bought.”
He laughed harder. “You have a good imagination. You’re on target too.”
I only nodded and smiled. More thoughts came to mind as I looked at him. My shoulder felt the prickle. Damn!
“You and the guys ran around Texas in those boots. How brave are you these days?”
I again was being pretty obvious. I hope he would catch my drift. If he didn’t, the next step was to ask for the water polo ball in order to hit him in the head.
“I am brave.”
I think his voice cracked.
“You have boots and you have your speedo here at home.”
“Put them on for me.”
“Speedos, diamondback boots, and nothing else. I want a fashion show.”
I saw his cheeks redden, like mine had about an hour ago over my word-fumble. He waited too long to move.
“Git along, little dogie.” I shooed him away.
He looked at me skeptically. “Cowboy boots and a speedo, huh. First, there’s got to be a deal.”
“Like what? I’m not wearing that damn cap.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He sat on the arm of the couch. “What crazy thing did you do in college? Oh, and what school did you attend?”
“American University in D.C. I wasn’t crazy in college. I was there to learn.”
He crossed his arms and straightened his torso.
“If that’s the case—and I don’t think you’re being fully honest with me. Well, it’s now time to act like you are in college.”
He read me well. I learned a lot at American. But I also experimented a lot outside of biology class.
“If I get down to my skivvies,” he said, “you will need to shed some too.” I saw his eyes scan over my outfit.
Thank goodness, my increasingly overt messages had finally cracked his skull.
I tugged at the lapels of my light blue jacket. “I’ve got on layers of clothes.”
“I hear there’s a two-for-one special tonight. One night only.”
“I didn’t hear about it, but then I don’t read or watch the news nowadays.”
I paused for a moment. “But what should I take off?”
“I’ll be down to my polo speedos and boots. You get down to your ‘speedos’ and shoes.”
I raised my eyebrows, questioning him. “Doesn’t sound two for one to me.”
He unbuttoned his shirt. “This is another special for one night only. Heard about it?”
“Never. I have an ad blocker.”
He pulled the shirt off his strong body. “Been advertised for a while now. I can’t believe you haven’t heard of it.” He tossed the shirt onto the arm of the couch. The light fabric floated like a feather.
He was down to his slacks and an undershirt. The white shirt was tight enough to outline the curvature of his upper body—chest, arms, shoulders—and the narrow waist.
This was—he was nothing I had imagined. I mean I met Charles at the laundromat. On a Friday night for that matter. It’s a great story to find a love of a lifetime in a grimy place like a laundromat. With its laundry baskets with one broken wheel and outdated magazines. I was reading an edition of People.
Standing tall before me now, I salivated at the sight of this man. The prickle hit my shoulder harder than ever. I slapped my hand against the sharp, pulsing pain.
Charles paused. “Something hurt?”
“Oh, no, no. Nothing. Just a … I don’t know.”
He undid his belt, letting the leather smack and metal buckle clack. The belt hung loosely, open, welcoming.
I could not remove my eyes. My mouth was probably hanging open. A black cloth napkin would have been perfect at that moment to sop up drool.
I was about to say something witty—I’ll never remember what it was—because he grabbed the boots and turned away before he unbuttoned his dark slacks.
He stepped toward his bedroom.
“Wait!” I reached out my hand as if drowning. “Where are you going?”
My dessert was leaving me. And he wasn’t even going to show me all the dessert. Cherry, wine and cream.
He paused and glanced over his shoulder. “I’m going to change clothes, like you want. I expect you to do the same.”
“I um …” He had finally fully fucked my mind right there and then. My brain would not process thoughts and produce language to communicate.
I only stood. He looked at me. I started to unbutton my blouse. As I did, I followed him.
We ended up in his bedroom. A fresh-smelling, clean room. The bed made. A broad bed covered in a thick black blanket. The room vacuumed and organized. Several bottles of cologne on the dresser.
Comparing this room to other guys’ rooms that I had seen through the years, I dated idiots. Every single damn one of them.
Charles recovered my attention when I heard his pants and belt clank hitting the floor.
He already was in briefs. The speedo might not be necessary. I had pictured him as a man in boxers or long jockeys tight around his tree-thick legs and cupping his manhood. The briefs did him well though. My, did it ever!
“I’m going to be done before you start,” he told me to urge on my removal.
I shed my shirt, leaving only an everyday bra. I turned my skirt, so the zipper was aligned with my navel. I slowly peeled the zipper toward the floor, the skirt opening like a morning glory.
For the briefest moment, I tried to remember what panties I had on. They must’ve been sexy—mostly. However, I was not expecting Charles to be this Charles. The night was supposed to be wine and dinner at an Italian restaurant near the coast.
Whether sexy or plain panties, my panties were about to be revealed to Charles.
He had a devilish smear across his face. It was the face of a mafia man getting paid what he was owed. He had stopped disrobing to stare.
My skirt dropped. It became a crumpled halo around my ankles.
I had on French cut panties, a baby blue cotton. Sort of sexy, more so just womanly. Blue, particularly baby blue wasn’t so much sexy as it was safe for a night that had a question-mark ending. Red panties would assume sex no matter what. White meant there was no chance for him. Beige would convey that I had put little thought into the night and would rather be home doing everyday life.
Standing before me, he smiled wide enough to reveal his perfect teeth and close his eyes. Me, I was overheated, hoping the fabric cupping me hadn’t yet darkened from baby blue to adult blue in wetness. I wanted to keep him in suspense for a moment more.
He pulled his T-shirt over his head. The water polo body was uncovered.
Let me note that the man first attracted me over dinner when he listened. Now his body was cream on the dessert—a thick cream.
Water polo did him well. My eyes slid down his torso to the band of his briefs and I saw the obvious heftiness, trapped against his body leaning to the right. By now his cock pushed against the band to get out.
“Let me get my speedos.”
His comment unhinged my mind from the band of his briefs.
“Leave them. Put on the boots. The boots … on.”
He slid his feet into the snakeskin.
“Wow. I never expected …”
He set his foot on the chest at the end of the bed and rested his elbow on his knee.
“Howdy, ma’am, you needin’ a ride?”
I didn’t answer. It was pointless. Instead, I wrapped my arms around his neck and tugged him onto me.
I thought he lacked experience with women because of his thick skull. I was so wrong.
He handled me. No mercy. I was crushed into the bed by the man above. He kissed me like there was no tomorrow. Our hands smeared over each other. No place was off limits.
Eventually, he broke our making out.
We worked off my bra and tossed it somewhere. I unsheathed his dick from the briefs. I gripped it and didn’t let go. It was radiating pent-up heat. My hand jerked up and down its length.
He arched his back as he enjoyed the attention. I loved his pose because he was basking in the pleasure I was providing.
When Charles’s thoughts reignited, he attended to me. Again, no mercy. I shed my panties. The dark wet stain was obvious. Except to him. He was too ferocious. He gobbled my breasts, squeezing them together and nibbling on my nipples, licking circles around my areolas.
I moaned and egged him to continue. I yipped though when his dick bumped against my pussy, which was slippery and ready for him.
“Get it in me,” I ordered. “I need it.”
He surged into my slipperiness. His dick was lubed upon first thrust. I was enamored by that same thrust. My face winced and my back stiffened.
I loved every part of him and the night. He banged the shit out of me on that bed. There was no let-up, no remorse.
He rolled over, and I climbed on top of him. And to be obviously cliché, I rode him a full eight seconds and longer. Finally, I fell off him, to lay flat on the bed.
From what he did, he had shot me into a new, higher plane. I sparkled throughout and felt a sweet prickle not just on my right shoulder but across my body, head to toe, finger to finger, deep into my lower back. My pussy imploded like a black hole sucking in the universe. Then it was as if a glow encircled me, as my body processed the orgasm.
I didn’t want to leave him hanging. I guided him into me once more. The feeling was much more intense in the state of my body. Soon I heard him grunt a couple of times. His face tightened, looking as if he was near tears. The tendons in his neck appeared harshly.
“On my face,” I begged, dragging my matted hair behind my ears. I directed my face upward as if to the sun.
I felt my pussy’s lube splash on my face as he jerked himself fast and hard.
I waited, feeling the wet particles hit my face. I opened my eyes once for a glimpse, and I saw Charles shoot.
The heavy cum smacked high against my cheek. I closed my eyes and felt another clump land on my eyebrow. A third shot landed near my hairline. He flung the last bit onto my chest.
I fell backward on the bed. I was worn out, tired, limp, paralyzed, glowing, riding waves of joy. Messy.
Charles lay next to me, cleaning my face. We were there for a long time.
As it should, a simple dinner date ended with wine, a cherry, and cream.