I'd once heard that women decide if they will sleep with a man within three minutes of meeting him. And that was the case the first time I had sex with a stranger—the first time I met you—I knew within minutes.
A few years ago I was in Chicago on a trip for work, my colleagues had left earlier that evening, and I found myself in the hotel bar, nursing a vodka tonic alone. This particular bar was fairly small, placed in front of the entrance to the hotel's pricy restaurant. I saw you in the long mirror that ran the length of the old oak bar, a tall figure with broad shoulders, dark eyes, dark hair. I always was a sucker for tall, dark and handsome in a suit. I watched you order a drink, something manly that came in a low tumbler, nothing pink served in a frosted martini glass for you. I saw you glance my way, eyes lingering on my legs, "Excuse me, mind if I join you?" gesturing to the empty seat next to me.
"Not at all," I replied. Giving you a small smile, I slowly swiveled my chair around to face you, my legs crossed, my black dress clinging, glad I had touched up my makeup before leaving my hotel room. Looking you up and down—taking in the dark hair, the casual way you wore your suit, the drink served neat—I said, "Let me guess: your name is Don Draper?".
"If it was, that would make you Joan Holloway," you immediately shot back.
"But in the show, Joan never sleeps with Don," I pointed out.
"Well, that's true. But he should have," you said, while signaling for the bartender to pour another round. "And if you don't mind me saying, you certainly have the figure—and the style—for the role." Leaning a little closer—as if you were about to tell me a secret—your voice became a little lower, as you told me, "You know, I've always loved seeing a woman wearing seamed stockings—something about how they frame the legs—how they disappear into that little square bit at the heel, like they're teasing me. Making me want to take off that heel and follow the seam down to the tips of your toes."
I took a long sip of my fresh drink. I could hear the trace of an accent in your voice, something southern, but not the harsh and twangy accent of my childhood, something smoother and more costal. You saw my eyes flicker down to the gold wedding ring on your left hand, wondering where this was going. Up close I could see that you were older than me—late thirties or well maintained forties— and your hair was starting to go gray around the temples, with laugh lines crinkling out from the corners of your eyes. I liked what I saw. "I don't usually have conversations like this with married men I don't know," I told you.
"Oh, so just the single guys you don't know?" you replied, giving me a knowing look.
"No, just the married men I do know," I laughed, as you watched me.
Still staring at me, you took a sip of your drink before teasing, "Just remember, anytime you want to stop, the safety word is rhinoceros." I knew you were joking but I couldn't help replying, my mouth opening before my filter could kick in, "Actually my safety word is red. I usually use the red, yellow, green system. It cuts down on confusion."
"Now Joanie," you said, "you know it's not nice to tease a man. Especially a man like me who's been traveling for work a lot lately, and feeling a little lonely and a little frustrated—and who finds you incredibly sexy".
