It's Just Lunch
®
. It seemed like a good idea.
My name is Jack, I'm thirty-seven years old and my divorce was final seven months ago. It had been a difficult but satisfying seven months after thirteen years of marriage.
I began to have suspicions about a year earlier. Too many questions about when my tee time was and when I'd be back after playing. Too many questions about if I was working late or had work business travel. Too many unexplained unannounced outings to run errands or shopping trips without purchases. Too many mysterious phone calls while in the bathroom or hang ups when I answered the phone. Too many after shopping showers. And too many new pairs of unusually sexy panties and bras.
It cost me some cash but I hired a private investigator to either refute or confirm my suspicions. He was really good. It took him only five days to get pictures through an open window of my wife in a compromising embrace with a guy I recognized from her last holiday office party that we attended together.
When the investigator followed her to the same location two times in a row, he assumed that it was a regular stop for the amorous couple, so he rigged the room with a dozen cameras and sound recorders including several with amazing close up capabilities.
Twenty-four hours after my unfaithful wife's latest unsuccessful shopping trip, I had hours of video of her activities when she wasn't in the mall. Five days later, I had two more examples of her unfaithful meetings.
I filed for divorce two days later. She was served at work as was her co-worker who was named as a correspondent. She denied everything, of course but she moved out of the house when I changed the locks.
She counter sued for a minimum of half of everything we, or I, owned. I offered her car and clothing. She refused and we went to trial.
She denied everything. When I introduced evidence of her visiting the same location repeatedly, she insisted she had benign reasons for being there. So, I introduced the videos from inside the room, close ups and all.
The close up of her lying naked on her back with her legs up, spreading her labia with her fingers and her lover sliding into her in 4K was worthy of a professional porn movie. The accompanying stereo sound effects were icing on the cake. I'll never forget her standing up in the courtroom, tears streaming down her face and screaming, "Turn it off. Turn it off."
She got her clothes, her car, one half of our joint checking account and one third of my 401k. I got everything else, my car, the house, everything in it and the videos. The private investigator suggested I could sell the videos for enough cash to recover most of my losses. I refused but agreed he could try to monetize the videos. He agreed to split whatever money he made.
I haven't received anything yet. I don't know if he was unsuccessful or he lied to me. I really don't care. Nobody's mentioned identifying her on the internet and I haven't looked.
Anyway, It's Just Lunch
®
had some appeal to me. I hadn't spent time with a woman in almost a year. I called them. When I learned it required a membership and guaranteed only one lunch a month that I had to pay for, I did the math. It came to about two hundred dollars a lunch. I hung up.
But the concept still appealed to me. But how to make it happen? I'd hadn't been on a date in over fifteen years. I had no idea how to meet women in the current climate. I knew one thing for certain. I couldn't just walk up to a woman in a bar and ask, "You wanna fuck?"
I checked out dating sites, from Tinder to SilverSingles. I tend to be conservative in my personal life and I concluded that I couldn't trust the profiles on any of them since I concluded most members were similar to me, seeking sex and, unlike me, willing to stretch the truth to find it.
I decided to try something else. I posted a message on our town's "What's happening" Facebook site.
"I'm interested in learning more about women's issues in our community. I'll finance lunch for someone who is willing to educate me."
I checked the web site almost hourly for the next dozen hours. Not a nibble.
I got a Facebook private message two days later.
"Lunch? Your place or mine?"
The wording was ambiguous enough that I was unsure of the meaning. Was she accepting my offer of lunch to discuss "women's issues" or had she decoded my intent? I didn't know.
I checked out her Facebook page. Her picture was appealing as I expected. Her posts were reasonable, without rancor or personal attacks. I took a chance. I messaged her.
"Lunch. Neutral location."
She messaged me her phone number and I called her.
She sounded even better on the phone. We talked for about ten minutes and settled on a time and place for lunch.
Still cautious since I still hadn't seen her except for her Facebook photo and that could be years old, I got to the restaurant early and sat at the bar waiting for her to arrive. I was pleasantly surprised that she looked exactly as her photo. Shoulder length dark hair, smooth skin and alive eyes. The rest of her was as well constructed as her face.
I let her be seated. I stood up, paid my bar tab and approached her table.
"Hi. Bree Ann?" I asked.
"I am," she replied. "And you're Jack?"
"I am," I replied.
"Have a seat," she offered.
A waitress brought us water and menus.
"So," said Bree Ann. "You're interested in local women's issues?"
"I am, Bree Ann," I responded.
"You can call me Bree," she replied. "And can I get right to the premise of this lunch?"
I tensed. I didn't know where she was going. "Sure," I said.
"I'm guessing that the 'women's issues' include how difficult it is for a thirties something, divorced woman to find a datable thirties something divorced man," she ventured.
I laughed. "Was I that transparent?" I asked.
"No. I'm just good at reading between the lines," Bree told me.
"It was only a two line post," I stated.
"I told you I was good," Bree laughed.
Her laughter was like musical bells. "And quick," I suggested.
"Not in everything I do," she insisted.
Unable to respond without sounding inappropriate, I said, "With that out of the way, why don't we have lunch and see what happens?"
"I'd like that," she said.
The waitress returned to take our orders. Bree ordered a broiled fish dish and white wine. I ordered a salad with shrimp and more white wine.
Our conversation was easy and fun. I laughed when she told me about her ex-teacher, ex-husband and his skirt chasing propensities and how he got caught, naked in the backseat of his car with a sixteen year old student.
Bree almost fell off her chair laughing when I described my ex's courtroom antics when she saw the videos my private detective had captured.
"Do you still have those videos?" she asked when she steadied herself.
"I have copies," I told her. "Do you want to see them?"
"Not yet," she answered flirtatiously.
The rest of lunch was immensely entertaining and informative. The conversation was littered with innuendos and double entendres. I caught most of them but, as a confirmed insecure male, I ignored them or pretended not to understand. I'm sure it bothered Bree since she seemed to be leading me in the direction I wanted to go but was afraid to pursue.
We parted friends. Outside the restaurant, we agreed on another meeting, dinner this time, and Bree gave me a hug and kiss on the cheek before leaving. I may not wash my shirt where her breasts pushed against my chest when she hugged me.
We met for dinner a week later on a Friday night. I choose an Italian restaurant with white table cloths, muted lighting and candles on the table. The service was superb, the food spectacular, the wine plentiful and the conversation intimate. Bree and I seemed to be firing on all cylinders.
After dinner, we stood in the parking lot. Neither of us wanted the evening to end. We held hands and wondered aloud about what was next. Bree wondered where we could find more wine, a hint about a comment I had made during dinner about the extensive wine collection I had at home.
Not wanting to leave her car at the restaurant overnight, Bree followed me to my home. She was very complementary about the atmosphere inside. She followed me into the kitchen where I selected a wine. Bree noticed the wine glasses behind a glass cabinet door. She grabbed two glasses and followed me back into the living room. I poured two generous glasses of wine and we sat on the sofa.
After the ease of the restaurant conversation, suddenly neither of us was very gregarious. I sensed a real sexual tension in the room. I got up and put some soft jazz on the stereo and sat next to her again.
Over the next several hours, we talked, we snuggled, we danced and shared a kiss or two. However, we were stuck on the final outcome. I think we both knew what we were headed for but I, who hadn't had sex in over a year and with serious concerns about encouraging a woman in a direction she may not want to go unless she made the first move and Bree, a traditional woman who believed the man must take the initiative, couldn't close the deal.
The hour drew late and, after a second bottle of wine, we grew giddy. "Look at the time," Bree commented. I should be getting home."
I didn't know if she was serious about leaving or prompting me to suggest an alternative. I took the latter path. "You really shouldn't drive in your condition," I said. Then I hesitated. "I could drive you home," I offered.
"You shouldn't drive either," commented Bree.
"You could stay the night," I offered and then I balked again. "I have a guest room upstairs, with its own bathroom. You could stay there."
"I don't have anything to sleep in," said Bree.
Was that another opening? I didn't know. Instead of taking the risk, I offered her a long t-shirt of mine that could serve as a nightgown.
Bree followed me into my bedroom to get the t-shirt. "This is very nice," she commented while testing the firmness of the king sized bed. I handed her the t-shirt. "I'm not sure this is long enough but it should serve in an emergency. Let me show you the guest room."
