Blind Date

I'm on a plane to San Francisco, and the pilot has just announced that we will be landing shortly. I'd been napping, but my eyes fly open at that, feeling a tickle in the pit of my belly.

I'm excited this is finally happening, our chance to meet. We've been talking a while now, and there is a sense of tension between us. It's still a crapshoot—what if that physical oomph, spark, just isn't there? But, we've talked about that too, and at this point, we've become real friends and promise to be up front about it with each other.

You'd asked me to pack some specific things and, since the thought of doing so excited me, I did. When you asked me - hell, no, told me - you'd added 'you won't be needing anything else.' I'd agreed then, but then started thinking about it. What if I'm totally turned off for one reason or another? What if he is? Or doesn't know when to turn it off when I'm actually there? This could be a fiasco. I could end up at Rachel's for more than the couple of nights I'd planned to spend with her. And then, I'd need much more than the few things he'd requested.

I feel the bump of the landing gear hitting the tarmac, and my stomach lurches a bit as the plane slows. Wow. This is really it.

I actually don't know what I'm doing once I get off the plane. I'd made a call to Daniel as I was boarding, to let him know the plane was on schedule and shouldn't be delayed. I asked if he would meet me, but he'd cryptically said, "Oh, you'll know what to do." Well, fuck it! I'll go get my bags, step out to the curb for a smoke, wait 15 minutes max, then give Rachel a call if what I'm to do isn't revealed.

Still no bags on the carousel, so I duck outside quickly to smoke. Even though I've cut down quite a bit, 6 hours without one is trying. I light it, inhale deeply, and feel that little nicotine surge. Ah....

I feel something being slipped into my back pocket, and a hand on my arm. I turn to look but hear, "No," in my ear....just loud enough for me to hear, spoken firmly, with confidence. My breath catches, grows shallow. I can feel breath on my ear, and I wait, gulping slightly. "Daniel?" I stammer out.

"What does your bag look like?" I'm asked.

I reply in an even tone, but it's dropped a bit, my voice slightly dazed and slightly singsong, girlish, "It's a bright yellow hard-sided bag, on wheels. Daniel?" I try to turn again, and this time I feel a hand lace into my hair and grab.

"I said no." Again, that even tone.

"Ah, shit, Daniel, can't I at least get a look at you?" I ask, trying to sound offhand, friendly, bold. I can't pull it off though. I'm excited, a little scared, and very turned on, and you can hear every bit of it in my voice.

"No. Now, get into the cab line and when they ask where you're going, say The Ritz-Carlton. Once you're in the cab, you may reach into your back pocket and you'll find everything you need to know right now there. Go." And I feel my hair released with a little push to propel me forward.

I walk toward the cab line, and turn slightly to try to catch a glance, but it's impossible. There are so many people waiting for bags, and I really can't pick him out among them. There are a couple of men that could be him, but they also could have been on my flight, too. I catch sight of my bag on the carousel and stare intently, craning to see who goes to pick it up.

"Miss?" I hear, and realize I'm up to the cab stand. My head whirls toward the cabbie quickly, and I signal "one sec!" by holding my finger up, then whirl back.

"Um," I'm still trying to look, but now I've lost sight of my bag. It could have been picked up...or it could still be on the carousel, just out of sight. Damn.

"Um, yes, I'm going to the Ritz-Carlton," I say, and get in the cab.

"Got an address?" the cabbie asks?

I reach into my back pocket and find a small envelope. Inside there is a business card for the hotel, one of those electronic card keys and a folded sheet of paper.

"Yes," I say, and hand the cabbie the card.

I settle back in the seat, and unfold the note. It reads:

Johanna,

You know your little rant the other day about 'what if we aren't attracted to each other in person' is bullshit, don't you? You've wanted to fuck me since the beginning, and that's exactly what you are going to do; eventually, after I do what I've wanted to do since you contacted me. I do like things on my terms, so here is what you are to do when you get to the hotel. Don't even think about deviating from it. I'll know.

Go directly up to the room. The room number is on the card jacket.

Do whatever you need to do to freshen up after your trip. Just do it quickly. Everything you need is there - if it isn't there, you don't need it.

At precisely 7 pm, come down to the lobby bar. That means you leave the room at 7 pm on the nose.

Sit at the bar and have one drink. Just one. Charge it to the room.

At precisely 7:30 pm, get up to return to the room. Be sure to take the elevator.

That's all.

D

As I read the note, I feel my body come alive. My mind is racing, pulse pounding, skin tingling as I feel all of my senses perk up, come alive. And my pussy is throbbing again, insistently, so much so that I reach down and press the seam into my clit, rocking my hips slightly. I am so turned on I could come right here, now, and the driver would be none the wiser. Just a little orgasm to stem the urges a bit - take the edge off. I keep rubbing and rocking, getting so close.

"He said you might do that," the cabbie remarks, looking at me in the rearview mirror. My eyes fly open, and I look back at him.

"Wh..what?" I reply, snapping out of my interlude.

"You should stop, miss. He said I should tell you that if it looked like you were enjoying yourself too much," the cabbie replied, grinning back at me. "Not that I mind, miss - hell, it'd make my night more interesting - but he did tell me to tell you that."

I sit there, staring, cunt aching more now. 'It's all arranged....every last detail' I think to myself, and the thought of that is so powerful. It's that...that sense that it is all out of my control, every bit of it, that is what gets me to that space where reality fades away.

The cab comes to a stop and I get out. I realize then that all I'm carrying is my purse. My other overnight bag was taken from me at the airport by (was that Daniel? I'm trying to remember the voice, match it up with the one I hear on the phone) whomever told me what to do. My god, what am I doing?

I look around, and walk slowly toward the doors. I step inside and look past the registration desk for the elevators. My mind is wondering, racing, god, should I do this? But my body is propelling me there, as if on auto pilot.

I step into the elevator, and quickly pull the key out to check the number. 1601, sixteenth floor then. I press the button, and the doors close.

I close my eyes, gulp, think for a minute. Should I just call Rachel? Tell her what's going on, so someone knows? Call Tom and tell him where I am, that I'm staying here? I have to call him - he'll worry if he doesn't hear from me. Even though we are separating, we're still good friends, lovers, and living in the same house, albeit separate rooms now. I take out my phone, realizing that I haven't turned it on since I got off the plane, and I'm greeted by messages. I dial to listen to them.

Rachel, calling me back and telling me to call her tomorrow. Cathy from the office—shit, why does she always call when I'm taking a vacation and she knows it! Tom, who says, "Hi sweetie. I know I won't be talking to you tonight. From what I understand, you won't have the time. Sounds like fun, doll. Wish I was there to watch your eyes. So, have a good time and give me a call tomorrow."

My jaw drops, and I go to dial him back, but just then the door opens at my floor. I step out into the hallway, and turn right. The room is at the end of the hall - a corner. I'll get into the room and then call him.

I unlock the door and step in, moving toward the bed. There are a few boxes there. I glance around and see a few other things: a box on the dresser, a bottle of wine as well, flowers on the nightstand. And something odd, out of place - a yardstick and 2 pencils on the desk. I gasp. Did I tell him that? I can't remember.

I walk slowly into the bathroom and all toiletries are laid out. All of the things I use, but not my things. And another box. Oh my god....

I can't believe this. Everything. Every detail. It's just like I've thought about for so long; the ability to let go, let every decision go from my head. Let go completely, get into that headspace where I'm free, no thoughts but obeying. I'd tried before, but I was always one step ahead of them and that really broke the concentration, the focus. So far, he is one step ahead of me, and I love it....

I step out of my clothes right there, and start the shower. The hot water feels wonderful after the long flight, and wash carefully, being sure to shave and primp. Mmmmmm. I can almost taste the drink I'm going to have - that will be nice.

I step out and start to do my face, my hair, then notice the box again. I open it up. Small, simple earrings, thick silver hoops lie there. Goddamn, everything, I think to myself. And I smile.

I walk out to the bed and start opening boxes: garter belt, g-string, stockings.....I kind of guessed that.

Black dress - an unbelievable wisp of a black dress. Not horribly dressy, very unadorned and simply cut with thin straps, but I can tell that it's not awfully long, and it's not entirely opaque.

Black shoes, a simple pump.

And one more box - small - on the dresser. I open it and find a thin leather band with a clasp. The clasp is actually a tiny lock, decorative, and I assume that it's worn in the front. Oh wow....when I put it on and look into the mirror, I'm there, getting there, that space in my head where everything goes except him.

As I see myself in the mirror, naked save the jewelry I've already put on, I catch my breath. I know that this is how he will often want me: unadorned, every surface of my skin ready, accessible to him. I can see (and feel) my nipples harden, partially due to my excitement, and partially due to the room temperature. I stand there for a moment just looking, and notice that the eyes looking back at me have changed. There is a softness in their gaze, reflecting acceptance. As much as my logical mind rails and questions how crazy all of this is, the way my body responds indicates I will go forward. I will do everything he asks, with no deviation.

I turn then, and dress, taking care. I was right about the dress. It is not opaque, but not sheer either; instead, somewhere in between. If you look closely you can see shadows beneath the soft fabric—the outline of my nipple, a bit of dark at my tattoos, a glow of light through my thighs and the dark tops of the stockings. It's not obvious, but it is still exposing, and I feel naked even though I'm pretty modestly covered.

I glance at the clock. It reads 6:47 p.m. I still have 13 minutes until I'm to leave for the bar, and I don't know what to do with myself. My purse, on the bed, has spilled open, and I see my mobile phone peeking out. "Still time to call Tom," I think to myself, but as soon as I have the thought, another follows very closely, drowning the first out.

"He would not like it if you called. Tom knows you are safe."

I'm frozen in the spot I stand, and I imagine my eyes resemble a deer caught in headlights. Instead, I sit on the edge of the bed, almost primly, folding my hands together on my lap, and I wait.

-----

Time passes very slowly when you are merely waiting, not occupying yourself with something, anything to fill the moments.

6:52 p.m.

I sat, and wished that the clock was the traditional kind, where you can see the seconds passing. Instead, it is digital, and as I stare at the illuminated numbers waiting for them to change, the lights blur into each other.

As often happens when I travel, especially when dealing with the opposite coast, I am starting to feel a bit sleepy. Just a little. The shower helped, though, so I'm not falling asleep. Instead, I'm feeling mellow, relaxed. And at the very same time, thoughts are rushing through my head: craving the drink I'm allowed, wondering when I will get some sleep, trying to guess what comes next.

6:57 p.m.

I notice that my breathing has changed. It's rapid, a little shallow. As much as I want what's sure to happen, I'm also very nervous. I want that drink, damn, I'm craving that drink, something, anything, to take the edginess I feel down just a notch. But I'm guessing there is some other reason for getting me down there and out of the room for awhile, or, I don't know, something....

6:59 p.m.

I've moved forward just a bit, perched on the edge of the bed, my weight already shifted to the balls of my feet, ready to spring up when the numerals change. I'm definitely breathing differently now, almost panting, and I feel a chill of excitement.

7:00 p.m.

Once the numbers are there painted across the screen before me, it takes me a moment to move. It's almost as if I think it a mirage. As I get up, my knees buckle a bit, but after a few unsteady steps I'm at the door. As I walk down the hall toward the elevator, I feel that tightening in my belly. The next step - I'm taking the next step.

I emerge from the elevator in the lobby, and notice it has become more crowded since I went upstairs. Several people mill around, and it seems there is some kind of reception going on, as many of the people are wearing name tags. I make my way toward the lounge and it too is bustling. There is one available stool at the far side of the horseshoe shaped bar, and I weave through the crowd toward it.

As I round the corner, I see that it appears vacant but is apparently occupied, just missing its occupant. There is a bit of a drink left on the bar in front of it. As I turn to scan the room for another available seat, I hear, "Miss?"

I turn back toward the bar and see the bartender clearing the drink, and wiping down the bar.

"Would you like this seat?" he asks, and I smile, nod, and slide onto the stool.

"What's your pleasure, Miss," he asks, a grin lifting the corners of his mouth.

I smile back, searching his eyes to try to interpret if he knows something, too, like the cab driver. It's impossible to tell.

"Tanqueray and tonic, lime, and make it a double," I reply. He said one drink, and technically that's what I'm having. But something about ordering a double feels naughty, as if I'm trying to appear to follow direction, but not really.

The bartender sets the drink in front of me. "Enjoy, Miss," he says.

I reach for the glass, and talk a long sip. It's perfect, just the right burn going down, and the scent of juniper tickles my nose. I return the glass to the bar, and notice a folded piece of paper lying there. I glance around quickly, wondering how it got there, then pick it up. It is only folded once, and says simply, "Thinking about me?"

The bartender is at the other end of the bar so I don't think he could have dropped it there. The gentleman to my right is engaged in a conversation with another man and woman. There is a woman to my left, with a cell phone to her ear. She is wearing one of the aforementioned name tags, and it reads 'Lila.'

Again, I am caught off guard, and feel a burning and tingling sensation radiate outward from my belly, my core, and spread throughout my body. I look around the bar, seeing if I can spot you. It's so difficult to tell, as I've only seen those few pictures of you, and there are many people who are your approximate height and weight. But I know, as much as I know anything else, you are there, somewhere. I feel your presence, even if I can't pinpoint your location.

I glance at my mobile phone to check the time. 7:12 p.m. At first, I'm elated—nearly halfway through. Then I remember how long my wait upstairs felt, and that had been only a little over 10 minutes.

I've been drinking my gin & tonic as I've pondered this. I glance down, and realize that I'm more than 2/3 of the way through my drink, and realize that I'd better slow my pace in order to make it last the next 20 minutes or so.

"Miss?" inquires the bartender, and I notice that he is placing another drink down in front of me. "Compliments of the dark-haired gentleman over..." he turns to point down the bar, stops himself, and says, "...now, where did he go?"

And I am now faced with a decision: Is it worse to refuse the drink that may have been sent by him, or to have it knowing that I'm deviating from what I've been told to do? I feel like either way is incorrect. I feel like whatever I do, it will be wrong, and cause for chastisement. I nod my head slightly, acceptance, deciding I'll debate the matter with myself and not with the bartender.

"Thank you, and if he returns, please be sure to thank him and point him out to me," I request.

"Of course, Miss."

I pick up my (first) drink and take a sip, surveying the bar again. Lila, on my left, is now off her phone, and meets my eyes, smiling.

"Hi there," she offers.

"Hi."

"I have to tell you, that is a gorgeous dress," she starts, "so subtle."

"Thank you," I reply, flashing her a slow smile, and averting my eyes a bit. I'm thinking that he knew that the dress, and I in it, would attract attention. I felt eyes on crawling all over me as I traversed the lobby and weaved my way through the crowded lounge. And I loved every moment of it.

"Staying here at the hotel?"

I meet her eyes, "Yes, at least for tonight."

"I'm in for the convention. Are you?"

"No," I respond, "I'm here on pleasure." At least, I think I am. Some combination of pleasure and pain anyway, but I don't add that.

"So, I've heard...," she purrs, her voice dropping as she winks and nods toward the note I'm still playing with.

I giggle nervously. She must have been the one to drop it then. I wonder how much information I can glean from her.

"Oh, my," I say, "I'm beginning to feel as if everyone around me knows what I'm up to. Is it written all over my face?"

"Not really," she says, thoughtfully, "You appear quite calm. But, then again, you don't really have anything to worry about yet, do you?"

Yet. Yet. The words echo in my brain. I think my pulse has quickened a bit.

"Do you know him?" I ask quickly, my voice dropping.

She glances sideways at me. "No, not really. Well enough to know you're here on a blind date of sorts, though."

"How well?"

She turns to face me. "A man approached me as I was walking in the door. He asked if I'd be willing to help him out with something, and offered to buy me a drink for doing so. We sat here, he ordered drinks, and told me that someone he'd met online would be meeting him here, but that he wanted the mystery to remain a bit longer. Then he asked me to drop that note for him. And he left."

I grin, wondering if she knows more, or if she's hiding something. I really have no reason to think this, but I'm getting edgy, feeling like everyone knows what is to happen to me but me.

I turn toward her to ask her what you look like, if she found you attractive, what she sensed about you, but she begins to speak first.

"I find your situation very interesting," she starts, "there is someone I've been talking with online, but we haven't met yet."

She proceeds to tell me about her internet interest, and my natural writer's curiosity takes over. I let her talk, asking clarifying questions where appropriate, nodding and acknowledging her story.

I'm sipping as I'm listening and, all of a sudden, I realize that I've started on the second drink without even noticing. In a bit of a panic, I then look at my cell phone and see the time: 7:33 p.m. I slide off the chair quickly, nearly dropping my drink, and turn to Lila.