This is the tale of the first chick I saw on any regular basis who used a diaphragm for birth control, but it's really a story about another kind of control. Though I remember her in detail, I have racked my brain and am embarrassed to say that I cannot recall her name.
It was the fall of 1982, and I was on what turned out to be one of my last dates with then-girlfriend Judy when we met this woman and her date in a bar. Both couples had been waiting for a shuffleboard table, and when one became available, we made it a game of the two of us versus the two of them.
To even up the competition after a couple of one-sided games, we switched partners, so I played with the new woman on my side and got better acquainted. Around a dozen years older than me in her mid-30s, she was an interior decorator.
That she was an attractive and sexy natural blonde with an extremely nice physique was of secondary importance, as Judy, also a good-looking, sexy blonde with a fine body, was my steady girlfriend that I was delighted with. We'd started dating when I was home the spring break before I graduated college, and I had been faithful to her since returning home for good at the end of the summer. So, I wasn't seeking a new girlfriend or even any "extracurricular activities."
No, my primary interest in the interior decorator was business. You see, I was building a home restoration business at the time, and had learned from experience that interior decorators can be an excellent source of referrals. Homeowners using a decorator to spruce up their home often need painting, cabinets, flooring, and such, and that's where I came in.
Anyway, we got along really fine that night, with a splash of something beyond the purely professional, and exchanged business cards.
Shortly thereafter, Judy stopped calling and returning my phone calls, and then my birthday came and went unacknowledged, so I knew our relationship was toast. She'd been a great girlfriend, but sure sucked at breaking up.
I'd remembered where the interior decorator said she lived, and made a mental note of approximately where her house was at the time she told me, only a mile or so from me.
I was out riding my bike one cold and gray December afternoon when I realized I was very near her house in the sharp bend of the street. I was freezing, but with no girlfriend or sex in over a month, very horny. Her business card in my Rolodex back home had her address on it, but there I was. Let's see, exactly which house was hers?
A car guy, I recalled the decorator had mentioned she'd just bought a red BMW. Aha, there, parked in a driveway of a small but very tastefully appointed home, was a new red 318i. This had to be her place.
I was still debating with m myself as to whether to knock on the door, go back home and call her, or just forget about it. After all, it had been a couple months since we'd met, with no contact since. All of a sudden, she comes out the front door and saw me right away, straddling my 10-speed on the sidewalk.
Surprised that she actually remembered my name, the cutie called out, "Hey, what a coincidence, I was just thinking about you! I remembered you said you knew a lot about wine, but I couldn't find your card, and I could sure use your expertise to stock up for the holidays."
She was glad to see me, REALLY glad, and gave me a big hug. Having a wonderful, wide smile; beautiful, shoulder-length blonde hair blowing in the wind; and exceptionally nice curves quite obvious in tight white turtleneck and corduroy jeans; she was a true ray of sunshine on that dreary day.
She said she was on her way to the liquor store and invited me to come along to help her pick out vino, so we stashed my bike inside, and off we scooted in her zippy Bimmer. We were getting along fabulously.
On the way back, she said, "Listen, I don't have any plans for tonight and was just going to stay in alone and watch a movie I rented. Would you like to drink some of this wine and watch it with me?"
I pondered that for all of a nanosecond and said, "Sounds great!"
Back at her tastefully decorated little house, she said she was in the mood for champagne—a good sign—but, of course, not one bottle of the entire case of excellent yet affordable Cordoniu I suggested she get was cold. While putting several bottles in the fridge, I noticed sitting on the floor beside it a fire extinguisher, the wrong kind for a kitchen fire but perfect for what I had in mind.
"Watch this," I grinned, taking a bottle of bubbly and the extinguisher out back.
In a few moments, she followed me out, where I sat the bottle down in the back yard, gave it a few short blasts with the fire extinguisher, and voila, ice-cold champagne.
"Wow, what a great idea. You sure know how to handle your hose!" she kidded with a double entendre. "How'd you learn that trick?" she asked, standing on the back steps in the cold outside air, her bare, rigid nipples clearly visible through the loose weave of the cable knit sweater. I was almost sure she'd had a bra on earlier, yet now it was gone. Hmmm.
"I staged a stupid stunt in college when I pulled the fire alarm in the girls' dorm early one morning and ran down the halls blasting a fire extinguisher just like this one. The intent was to get the girls in the shower to run out naked—which worked—but in the process, the blast hit my feet, and I found out the hard way that this kind of extinguisher expels a super-frigid, wide blanket of 'snow,'" I explained.
"You are a wild man," she commented with an approving tone.
Back inside, she closed the back door and fastened no less than three locks. I opened the bottle with a festive flourish, and poured the bubbly into her Waterford fluted champagne glasses on the antique mahogany coffee table sitting on a genuine Tabriz rug. She was well into her career with the means to collect the finer things in life, and it was a refreshing to be with a cultured woman in contrast to the somewhat redneck Judy. We sat there in the den on the couch, drank that bottle, then another, and had such a lively conversation that we didn't pay much attention to the flick. Every time we'd get up to pee, we'd sit a little closer to one another until our legs were touching.
One of the things I remember vividly that still cracks me up when I think about it was her pet greyhound, Jeeves, a former race dog she had rescued at the end of its "career." A very large, intelligent-looking animal, it just lay there on the rug, quiet but so alert and attentive, turning its head toward me when I'd speak, then toward her as she talked, back and forth, as though it found our conversation ever-so interesting! Don't ask me why I remember its name and not hers.
"You remember my date at the bar? That was my girlfriend, Judy. I say 'was' because she suddenly and without one iota of warning, dropped me like a hot potato," I said, letting the decorator know I was available without complications.
"Really? The fellow I was with that night—well, I'll just tell you straight up I was in an abusive relationship. After we came back here, the son of a bitch slapped me around just because I was friendly with you. I made up my mind right then and there he was history, so I had some guy-friends come over the next day to make sure he didn't beat me to a pulp when I told him I was dumping him. Been scared ever since. He bird-dogs my house and beats on the door, but he's the LAST person I'd ever let in. No telling what he'd do if he knew YOU were here. It's perfect that you're on a bike, and that it's hidden inside—there's no sign anyone's here but me. But don't freak out if he shows up tonight," she said, glancing at the well-fortified front door.
So, she was available, too, but perhaps WITH complications.
Up until that point, I'd been really uneasy about the big Browning Hi-Power semi-automatic stuck under my jacket in the small of my back. People tend to be either very pro- or very anti-gun, and I'd been carefully keeping my back against the cushion so she wouldn't discover it and possibly think I was some kind of nut. Even the most liberal people become suddenly pro-gun when they meet violence head-on, and no matter what her politics, I could now safely predict where she stood on the gun issue. With no car outside to stash it in, I'd been wondering just what the hell I was going to do with it if things got any more touchy-feely with her, and this was the perfect opportunity.
"Don't worry about a thing as long as I'm here," I said, removing my jacket and nonchalantly placing the hefty 14-shot Belgian pistol carefully on the coffee table with the business end pointing away from us. "Yes, it's loaded. Yes, I'm carrying it legally. And, yes, I know how to use it."
The greyhound looked at it, then back at me approvingly, and then at her.
A decorator, her comments were, predictably, purely aesthetic.
"It's beautiful, really a work of art. I don't know anything about guns—except that I'm thankful you have one—but I do know that wood in the handle is a very fine grade of walnut, and I see how exceptionally smooth and shiny the finish is," she remarked, hovering over it to run a finger sensuously down the length of the slide.
That could be her finger running down the length of my cock, I imagined, feeling it pulse to life within the tight confines of my Levi's. But for the gun, I would have made a move much earlier. Now was the time to move in.
I leaned for her lips, she shifted toward me, and we met in the middle for a passionate French kiss that portended just how good in bed she would be.
