Please enjoy reading my submission for the 2012 Summer Lovin' Story Contest. Comments are always welcome...thanks for reading! Ella <3
A French 75 is made from Gin, Champagne, lemon juice, and sugar. The drink was created in 1915 at the Paris landmark, Harry's New York Bar by barman Harry MacElhone. The combination was said to have such a kick that it felt like being shelled with the powerful French 75mm howitzer artillery pierce. Also called a "75 Cocktail", or "Soixante Quinze" in French, the French 75 was popularized in America at the Stork Club. The drink's recipe was first recorded in The Savoy Cocktail Book in 1930.
It was the summer of 1984. I was twenty-one, a guest at this wedding with a man 14 years older than me. I had been with him for four years; I knew he screwed around constantly. He was in sales -- he went out of town a lot, and had a girlfriend in every city -- but I was too lazy to move on. It was just too convenient having a steady boyfriend. He had money, a house and was nice to me, most of the time. Sometimes he treated me like I was inferior (i.e., stupid) because of the age difference, but I largely ignored that. Our relationship was based on sex, which initially had been fantastic. It really was the only thing we had in common. He had a slight kinky side; he tried to play the role of Dominant and tried to teach me to be submissive, but I was young, unwilling to learn and I didn't completely trust him because of his infidelity. He liked to pretend he had some control over me, but outside of the bedroom, I was just as feisty and immature as ever. We had reached a point of stagnation. Like anything else, the "newness" had worn out. In truth, the relationship had pretty much run its course. But he thought he loved me and I thought I loved him, so we were still together that summer when his friend invited us to his wedding.
The reception was very casual, in the back yard of the bride's parents' house. Although I really didn't want to be there, I was enjoying the glorious summer afternoon. It was sunny and relatively comfortable for August in North New Jersey. I was standing at the edge of the porch with no place to go and no one to talk to. My "date" was sitting at the picnic table under the porch awning, reminiscing with a bunch of his college friends. (Remember when I laid this one? Remember when I laid that one? Blah, blah, blah...) I was effectively excluded from the discussion. In all honesty, I was bored, so I wandered to the far side of the yard where the bride's younger brother was playing bartender.
I found a lawn chair under the shade of a tree and watched him for a few minutes. I guessed that he was close to my age and I found him to be quite attractive. Thick, blond hair, piercing blue eyes and, oh, those lips. They seemed...so deliciously kissable. He was well-built and I found myself daydreaming what he would look like without the shirt. He looked like one of those athletic rowers I had seen practicing out on the Schuylkill during Spring break; his muscular arms stretched the tuxedo shirt almost to the point of tearing. I didn't realize I was staring until he waved to me, an amused look on his face. In a stupor, I waved back, blushing with the realization that I had been caught. He motioned for me to come over and get a drink.
I think the trouble started when he offered me a French 75. I watched him pour the champagne and I smiled at the way the bubbles danced and sparkled out of the glass, like liquid fireworks. It looked so tantalizing. So I told him, "Yes, I would love one." The cocktail was light and refreshing and when I sipped it the bubbles almost made me sneeze. He laughed at my attempts to ensure that I didn't. We fell into an easy conversation about music and school. I lingered there, talking and flirting with him, as he continued to dole out drinks to the wedding guests.
My date called to me with a snap of his fingers to get him another drink. It was his third drink, not that I was counting. I delivered the glass to him, looking at him closely. I really, really looked at him. In comparison to the handsome bartender, he suddenly looked...old. After being paraded around as his trophy for so long, I think I had reached the point of no longer caring to salvage what little was left of our relationship. Besides, I really didn't like to be around him when he drank. Sometimes he could turn mean. That day, however, he was becoming more and more entertaining to his college classmates by the minute. He didn't seem to be missing my company. So when the bride's brother refilled my glass without my asking, I didn't refuse it. He was young, I was young, and my date was...old, and getting drunker by the minute. There would be no sex happening for him later, that was for sure.
I made my way back to the bar to talk to the bride's brother. During the course of our conversation, he began to talk about his new car. He asked me if I had ever been in a Fiat Spider convertible. I told him no; I'd never been in any kind of convertible before. With an excited look on his face, he grabbed the glass from my hand and poured it into a plastic cup, topping it off with more champagne. Then he took my hand and dragged me over to where my escort was now loudly holding court, his fourth drink in hand and a full pitcher of French 75 on the table in front of him. The bride's brother patiently waited for the man to stop talking and then he asked permission to take me for a ride in his new car.
I held my breath, waiting for some kind of sarcastic response. Instead, we got a slurry "Oh, sure!" and a dismissive wave of his hand, with some inane comment about "letting the young people go out and have some fun." I was shocked! Sensing that my date might change his mind, I quickly pulled the bride's brother out of the back yard to the street where the car was parked.
He opened the passenger door of the small red car for me and I remember thinking what a gentleman he was. I put on my seat belt while he held my drink, and after he buckled himself in, he peeled away from the curb like the devil was on our tail. I laughed and made sure that my summer dress was tucked tightly beneath my legs. My long hair was windswept and tangled in a matter of minutes. He was driving so fast that I was afraid I would spill my drink, so I finished it as quickly as I could and tucked the cup between the seat and the door so it wouldn't fly out of the car. He had the radio blasting, and I couldn't help singing along as Bon Jovi was wailing out of the speakers.
I had no idea where we were going, and at that moment, I didn't care. It was a beautiful, warm summer day and I was in a fast car with a hot guy The champagne and gin were starting to have an effect on my head. I closed my eyes and leaned my head back for a few minutes, just enjoying the sun and the wind. It felt good. I felt good.
When I opened my eyes we were coming up to a traffic signal. I recognized that it was close to the house and I wasn't ready to go back. I reached my hand over and put my hand on my driver's thigh and gently squeezed it. He looked down at my hand and then at me. I didn't say anything, but I didn't move my hand. When the light changed, instead of heading back toward the house, he turned in the opposite direction. I smiled, wondering what was in store, feeling very wicked and naughty.
As we made our way out onto the highway, he reached over and tugged my dress up from where I had tucked it under my leg. He cautiously slid his hand across my thigh and between my legs. I moaned, shifting in the seat to allow him to reach even higher. That was all the encouragement he needed. He pulled his hand away and threw the car into fifth gear. I still didn't know where we were headed, but I had a really good idea of what was going to happen when we got there. He tore off the highway at the next exit, hardly slowing down.
