He thinks about it for a moment, then takes another to place his mouth over one of my nipples as, it seems, I’ve leaned forward a bit too much.
I quickly pull back and playfully pat the side of his face in a mock slap.
“I’m sorry,” he says, “what was the question?”
“Does my fantasy have to be something we could do here, now?”
“Not necessarily,” he says, “but yeah, that’d be preferable.”
I lean forward, but preempt his mouth’s return to my chest by kissing his neck.
“Hmm…” I breathe as I continue to kiss him.
“Oh, I know you’ve got something in mind,” he says.
“Yeah, but you kind of freaked me out with yours,” I chortle. “I mean, doing it in the bathtub? That’s kinky.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he says, and I’m feeling a little self-conscious about telling him my fantasies.
“Well, you’re not secretly a fireman, are you?” I ask.
He’s clearly unsure whether I’m serious or not. It’s pretty hilarious.
I bring him back to focus easily enough, though.
“No, I’m not a fireman,” he says, “but I’m sure it wouldn’t be too hard to get a costume or—”
“It’s not the uniform so much as it is the fact of being a fireman. If you’re not, you’re not. That’s okay, though,” I tell him.
The truth is that I’m just trying to avoid answering the question a little longer. My fantasy’s nothing ultra kinky or anything, it’s just not something I really talk about that often.
“Well,” I say, “if you’re sure you’re not a fireman…”
“Pretty sure,” he says, placing his hands on my hips, guiding my motion, his light push and tug suggesting a slightly quicker pace.
“Under a waterfall at sunrise,” I tell him. “But that’s not really something we can do now, is it?”
“Not really,” he says and laughs.
“Well then,” I say, leaning forward once more.
His hot breath makes the sensitive skin tingle, and the attention of his mouth makes my toes curl.
“If you’re not a fireman, and we’re not under a waterfall at sunrise,” I say, “I guess there is one thing we could try.”
He leans his head back into the sofa cushion.
“Yeah?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I answer. “It may sound kind of weird,” I tell him. Now I’m really nervous.
“That’s okay,” he says.
“I’ve always wanted to go out to a bar or some other public place,” I start again.
“Yeah?”
“Pretend we don’t know each other,” I continue.
His hands move to the small of my back.
“Yeah?” he asks, pressing himself into me sweetly.
“Have an ‘impromptu’ date,” I continue.
Yes, I make the little bunny ears with my fingers.
“Then go back to your place and make passionate love, knowing that this is the start of something beyond our wildest imagination.”
All right, my fantasy’s out there.
Weird, maybe, but not kinky.
“One quick question,” he says.
“What’s that?” I breathe, running my fingers through my hair as I slowly ride him.
“As your place is kind of my place, too, would that still work?”
I scoff and lift myself off of him.
“You have no imagination,” I tell him. “You’d bring me back here, unlock the door and we’d obviously end up in your room.”
I kiss him deeply and pat him on the chest.
“Right now, though,” I tell him. “I really have to pee.”
* * *
After my less-than-dignified departure from our lovemaking, I can’t help but feel self-conscious again. It’s a stupid and ridiculous expectation that women can never be assumed to be creatures that use the bathroom, but there it is.
That said, I came back out to the living room to find Dane missing from the couch.
I called out to him and he answered from his room.
Still naked, I asked him what he was doing, and he answered, simply, by saying, “I have a feeling I’m going to meet a beautiful woman in a bar tonight. My psychic senses—which, I certainly have—tell me that her name will be Leila, and that we’re going to have one of those once-in-a-lifetime meetings. I want to make sure I’m prepared.”
He was laying out a black button shirt, black pants and a red tie.
Now, I’m sitting at Locus, ordering a tequila sunrise.
“I’ll buy that drink,” a dashing, if somewhat overdressed man with a red tie tells the bartender.
“Thanks,” I say, then quickly turn my attention away from him.
“Mind if I sit?” he asks.
I shrug. “Just keep your hands to yourself,” I tell him.
“That might be a problem,” he says.
I turn and, mouth agape, ask, “What did you just say?”
“I said that won’t be a problem,” he rejoins, smiling. “So, where are you from? Are you a born New Yorker?”
“Not at all,” I tell him. “I’m from a dreary little town where the movie theater only shows movies that came out ten years ago.” It’s a lie, but tonight is about improvisation.
“Sounds terrible,” he says.
“Actually, I really miss it,” I tell him.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I wondered if you could help me with something.”
It’s a bit forward, but I’ll allow it. “With what do you need my help?”
“Fancy,” he teases.
I roll my eyes.
At no point did I tell him my fantasy involved me making it easy for him.
“I’m a chef at l’Iris,” he says, “and I find myself with the night off and nobody to enjoy a nice dinner with me.”
“l’Iris,” I say. “That’s pretty impressive. I love their confit de canard.”
“You know, we actually just call it candied duck in the kitchen. The whole overuse of French thing is kind of played, don’t you think?”
He’s apparently not going to make this easy for me either.
Well played, sir.
“Losing my lady boner,” I tell him. “Yeah, I really can’t get away with saying that, can I?”
He laughs.
“Well, it’s about the last phrase I expected, but it put a smile on my face.”
“Okay,” I start again, “so you’re a chef at l’Iris with nobody to join you for dinner. Is there anything else, or were you just lamenting?”
“I was wondering if you might know anyone who’d be interested in a free, very high class dinner.”
“I might,” I elude, “but I hardly know you, and I haven’t even finished my drink yet.”
I may have forgotten to mention that torturing him a little was part of the game.
He takes it in stride, though.
“Well,” he says, “I can certainly understand that. These days, you can never be too careful. For all you know, I might be one of those corporate types who works for one of those evil investment firms.”
The statement probably wouldn’t have been near as amusing if I hadn’t just taken a sip of my drink. I cover my mouth and do my best to control my laughter long enough to swallow the liquid.
“Oh,” he says skeptically, “don’t tell me…”
“I’ve been an intern at a brokerage in town for a while now, and I just got hired on fulltime at Claypool and Lee in Jersey.”
“Oh god,” he says. “Not only do you work for those greed mongers, you’re actually moving to New Jersey? The humanity!”
“Sad to say we can’t all cook for a living,” I rejoin.
“I know, but can you imagine what a wonderful world that would be? Everyone makes a living making delicious food?”
“That would be insanely boring,” I tease.
I’m about to relent and agree to dinner, but he just keeps going.
“Oh well, I guess you all know what the pinch was like during the recession—oh wait, you’re the only people in the country that profited from it. Isn’t it weird how big businesses tell us that any kind of government aid is socialism, but those same companies are so quick to snatch any bailout money or tax breaks that come their way?”
“Yeah, we should probably stay away from politics,” I tell him.