Chapter 9. TROUSER MEAT
“Good morning,” Annie greeted me cheerfully over the phone.
“Good morning sweetie, how’s your day going?”
“Fine. Did you have a good weekend?”
So far the conversation was the mom daughter usual. Now to reveal the big news, “In fact I did.”
“Mom,” she continued oblivious of the song in my voice. “I met someone.”
Headline news if I ever heard one, and I tossed back a front-page double, “So did I.”
“What? No kidding?”
“No kidding. Remember that guy I told you put me in a taxi a few weeks ago?”
“Yeah, the one you hoped wouldn’t call cuz you wanted his friend to call?”
“Yup. Well, he didn’t exactly call. He sent a note.”
“A note? How romantic. What did it say?”
“He asked me to dinner, at Rossini’s. We had a great time. We sat in a private dining room, in a big high backed…”
“Oh, damn, my train is coming, going to lose you.”
“Call me after work, I’ll tell you all about it.” I yelled over the sound of the incoming subway before the connection was lost.
I grabbed a cup of coffee and sat down to write a piece about a new housing development next door to a marina that was in full swing for the summer season. About three hours later I typed # # #, the three hashtags in a row to officially end the press release. I took a deep inhale and stretched my arms to clear my head of business thoughts. I remembered Annie saying “I met someone” just before the subway cut us off. Hmm, I thought, no doubt the newest in a line of adorable bartender losers, like the last “someone.”
And that brought my thoughts to the someone taking me to theatre on Saturday. I quivered as my hand, as if with a mind of its own, slid between my thighs and gently pressed against my furry furnace. I arched my back, rocking with the warmth as I caressed me. Oh, Lori, I chided myself, he’s got you panting, you foolish lady.
It was so nice to feel that spark for someone again. My head, heart and body felt the excitement of possibilities for the first time in a very long time. Giggling, I danced my way across the carpet and into the shower before I succumbed to the powerful desire to reach for my vibrator and another round of self-play.
By 5pm Saturday I was once again freshly showered, hair blown dry to smooth perfection, and make up in evening mode. My newest blush was named Super Orgasm, which I looked forward to enjoying later, as I swiped the luscious peachy tone across my cheek bones. I decided on a smoky haze across the eye lids with a hint of deep green kohl eye liner. I steered away from the black eye liner because it was too severe for my blond spring color palette, but I wanted the drama to play up my green eyes.
Jimmy buzzed the intercom at precisely six o’clock, “Ms. Fox? A black limo just pulled into the driveway. The gentleman says to tell you Mr. Grand is here.”
I had padded around the living room in bare feet and dawdled in front of the mirror trying on earrings, as if to convince myself I was not over-eager for Mr. Grand’s arrival. Of course, you and I both know that the only person I was fooling was myself. My heart jumped when the intercom buzzed and I glanced at Grandma’s clock to confirm Dick was right on time. I had a feeling he would prove to be right on time for more than just dinner dates. Oooo, I wriggled in my panties at the thought.
“Thanks Jimmy,” I blurted, slipped into my shoes, and dashed out the door to the elevator.
Dick relaxed in the back seat as the driver walked around to open the door for me. I was only slightly perturbed that the driver kept his eyes politely averted, but completely satisfied that Dick was unsubtle in his assessment and clear enjoyment of what he saw as I slid into the backseat. As gracefully as I could, I was careful to allow my mini dress to inch up just enough to show plenty of thigh, yet delicately shy of the panty line. Mr. Grand would have to offer more than an on-time arrival to warrant black lace in the hidden crevice.
It’s always exciting to go to theatre, and on the arm of Dick Grand, going to theatre felt like I hit the jackpot. The show may have been Tony Award winning, but I hardly noticed what was happening on stage. We sat in the box seats, and Dick held my hand in his lap. From the opening number to the intermission his man parts pulsed under my fingertips and my brain was spinning more than the dancing on stage.
At intermission I rushed to the Ladies Room. Fantasies of secret escapades in the private little balcony had paled in comparison to the titillation of my hand in Dick’s on top of his trouser meat. In the bathroom, I blotted a wet paper towel across my cleavage and behind my neck. The Super Orgasm had turned a shade of flushed rose, but somehow, I calmed myself and managed to walk steadily back to our seats. Dick had a glass of champagne waiting for me and a martini in hand. We toasted wordlessly as the lights flickered then dimmed for act two.
After the show we bustled our way through the Times Square crowds, four blocks north to The Palm Restaurant. Dick ordered a Kir Royale for me, and another martini for himself, three olives and a mist of vermouth, neat in a high ball glass.
“What did you think? Good music?” he asked.
“Best Little Whorehouse in Texas doesn’t miss a trick when it comes to clichés, just as the reviews promised.” I quoted what I had read in the New Yorker the week before.
“Oh, it was fun. Carlin Glynn did a great job as Mona. But there’s no catchy tune. I should walk out of there singing, or humming the chorus. Like The Music Man. Who can stop singing,” and I burst into song, “Seventy-six trombones led the big parade!”
“With a hundred and ten cornets close at hand.” He finished the line, on key.
We laughed, and dinner was served, and the conversation flowed. One lobster, and two glasses of wine later, as we sipped a Colheita Port for desert, I tipped my glass toward him, and pointed a manicured nail at the monogram on the cuff of his shirt. Slurring flirtatiously, I asked, “So, Mr. Richard Grand, what does the J in RJG stand for?”
“Ms. Fox, I think it’s time to take you home and put you to bed.”
“Oh promises promises, Mr. Grand.” I teased back, and softly sang the title song of the Broadway hit, “Promises promises, you made me promises promises,” as we headed to the street and a waiting car.
The next morning, when I woke up alone in my own bed, I was irritated, infuriated, exasperated and any other synonym that means really pissed off to find myself in my own bed. Alone.
“Shit and damn!” I cursed reminiscent of my daughter Susan’s usual morning greeting. I pounded the pillows. “Shit and damn.” Dragging myself up, I stepped on my sparkly mini dress in a heap on the floor. That’s when it occurred to me that I was still wearing my lacy bra and panties. A glance in the mirror confirmed grey shadow and green kohl make up streaking down my cheeks. Not a pretty sight.
“Well,” I said to me in the mirror. “At least he doesn’t have the pleasure of seeing your morning after face.” I turned on the shower, counted to ten to let it heat up, and climbed in. As the steaming water poured over my head, I began to fit together the pieces of the last evening. I remembered being very drunk. I had lost count of how many or what I drank, but I remembered it started with a glass of champagne at intermission. “Ouch,” I said to no one in particular, as I dialed the shower head and needles of hot water hit my neck and back.
An hour later I pulled on jeans and a t-shirt, and headed out to get some coffee and a newspaper. Jimmy greeted me in the lobby, “Good morning, Ms. Fox, how are you today?” I nodded, so he continued, “That’s a nice gentleman brought you home last night Ms. Fox.”
Now I was alert. “Oh, uh, thanks Jimmy.”
“He’s a big tipper, Ms. Fox. A real nice guy.”
“He tipped you?” I asked mildly surprised.
“Sure did. He said take you straight to your door and that’s just what I did. Right Ms. Fox? You tell him, for me, that’s just what I did.”
“I will, Jim, and thanks again.” I reassured him, and vaguely recalled Dick watching as the elevator door shut and Jimmy rode up with me, helped me with the key and said goodnight. With relief I realized that I had managed to lock the door behind me, and take off my own dress before falling into bed.
With renewed bounce in my step, I headed out into the city. The sun was shining, the crosswalk signal blinked “walk” and it was the start of a new day. I promised myself that the next time Dick Grand and I met, there would be no dulling the senses with alcohol. “Promises promises, Mr. Grand,” I sang to myself, “The next time Ms. Fox will be in control and your trouser meat will be putty in my hand. Promises promises.”