She broke eye contact within a few seconds but conveyed in that time all I needed to know. I turned back to my White Russian. The night was young and I am nothing if not a patient man.
The guy obviously didn't want to risk letting her out of his sights, but his bladder was stronger than his will, so an hour down the road he took a gamble. The moment his ass was off the stool, the woman he hoped to be going home with set her sights on me, her gaze now locked and loaded. I gave no indication that I noticed. In fact, I had disregarded most of the glances cast my way throughout the evening, acted as if transfixed by the mixture of Kahlua, vodka, milk and a splash of coke in my glass. She struck me as someone used to getting what she wanted, so I knew my best bet lay in putting the matter in doubt. When I finally did acknowledge her, the hardness of her stare was as blatant as a punch to the face. She wordlessly demanded to know if I was qualified to handle such a precious commodity. I headed over to answer the question posed by her midnight eyes.
As I approached she stood up, meaning that she was ready to leave, with me if I said the right thing, alone if I said anything less. She was taller than expected, proportioned like a fashion model who wasn't hooked on heroin just yet, attired in money-is-no-object style. Such women inevitably tend to be preoccupied with themselves, which I suppose is excusable, since everyone else is preoccupied with them as well. Unfortunately, such a personality trait usually forebodes a lousy lay. But from the first words she spoke, I knew I had pressed a wrong key in my stereotype.
"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't let that guy buy me half of Saks?"
"Saks doesn't sell vibrators."
"I have a trunk load at home. But you won't be needing them."
In the midnight hours of a Manhattan night, a cab can go from the top of the city to the bottom, or vice versa, without catching a single red light. The absence of those sudden stops and starts can make for one hell of a blow job if you find the right mouth to accommodate you. I had no complaints.
In a more conventional lovemaking locale, as we sprawled out on my bed during rest periods, I learned that Michelle had married and widowed well. She claimed not to have had decent sex in over four years, the last time being with the stripper from her bachelorette party. Michelle had been a good girl for a long time. I let her be bad again, and again, and again.
I told Michelle I was a writer, for that is what I fancy myself, and impressive lies were unnecessary by this point. Not having to work for a living allows me the opportunity to attempt whatever comes to mind. Writing the Great American Novel seemed like a good idea. Starting it has not been a problem. I have written thirty-four first chapters, at which point I always run out of steam. I didn't tell Michelle this. I just bent her over my writing desk. Lack of steam was not an issue.
I suppose I could have griped that unlike the stripper, I did not have advance notification of Michelle's upcoming nuptials. But I'm not one to complain. Knowing that I was having my way with someone who was about to become another man’s wife would have sprinkled additional spice on what had been a red hot night. I would have put in some extra effort to guarantee that the end of her single days be as memorable as possible. Marriage is a pretty tough gig from what I hear, so best to enter such a state on the highest possible note.
If you missed the Prologue take this link to it, then return here.