Whoopee -- a real date. I mean a REAL plan-ahead, "I'll pick you up at 7:30, we're going to this new, elegant, make-reservations-three-weeks-in-advance-restaurant" DATE. Women know exactly what I'm talking about. Gentlemen, you just have to trust me on this one, and read on, because I'll tell you one way that we (the female of the species) can show our appreciation for you putting on a suit and tie on a Saturday night.
And for giving us a bona fide reason to buy a new dress, and shoes, and, um, other things for a special occasion. I found the perfect dress -- black silk velvet, with a high neck and long sleeves. It's fairly short, stops just above my kneecap. Sheer black stockings -- the kind you like with the lace around the top. And the shoes: Yes, dear, in some circles I suppose they would be called "fuck me" shoes. Black velvet, with a rhinestone T-strap up the front and around my ankle, and very high heels. With a little help, I can even walk!
I found the most amazing bra -- in black, of course. It's like a shelf, with straps. Lots of support, which I need, but nothing on top -- where I usually overflow a bit -- and no bra lines. Truly an engineering marvel. No, I didn't go whole hog and get my hair done. I know you hate the "stiffening agents" they put on it as much as I do. But I did spend quite a bit of time making sure that it's clean, soft and shiny, and bounces nicely around my shoulders.
Am I ready when you ring the doorbell! You look the tiniest bit startled when you see the dress -- it does look demure, at first glance, doesn't it? And then you flash that great smile, and give me a big hug.
"My GOD, that's soft! I can feel your skin through the dress." Your hands start roaming. "Mmmmmm, no panties. Good girl. And are we going bra-less tonight?"
"Not quite."
"Looks like it. Feels like it."
"Definitely not it. Let's go, before you trash the dress with your exploration."
I know you're a little startled when I won't let you play the usual car game. Each time you start to reach under the hem of my dress, I gently remove your hand and raise it to my mouth. I kiss it, or take a quick suck on a finger, so you know I'm not mad, just not playing now. It's a quick trip from my place to the restaurant, so you don't have too much time to wonder what's up with me. The restaurant is exquisite. They have private curtained banquettes. The maitre d' shows us to the farthest one. We sit across from each other. You are so handsome, in anything or nothing at all, but I do love that suit. And you're wearing one of the ties I brought back for you from 57th Street. Nice, honey, and very elegant. We begin with drinks and, before you get too engrossed in the menu, I reach into my bag and hand you a small package.
"What's this?" You ask, quizzically.
"A present," I reply.
[Rip, tear.] "Looks like a remote control."
"It is. I found a new toy."
"And this new toy would be. . . . .?"
"It's the cutest little thing. I have it on right now. It's a vibrator cup that fits over my, shall we say, intimate region, and has a little probe up inside me. That's why I couldn't let you play 'wet check' in the car. I didn't want to spoil the surprise."
Silence, while you picture this.
"It's stuck on with super glue? ouch ouch ouch"
