It was the end of January and by sheer luck a full 24 hours of sunshine had burst through the sky in Toronto melting most of the ice and snow away from the sidewalks, outside of the large black piles stacked up next to the roads from an immense snowstorm less than a week ago. I walked out of my hotel as gingerly as possible in the 4" black, knee-high, stiletto-heeled boots that I had no business wearing regardless of the winter conditions.
"It's only one block," I whispered to myself as I cautiously moved as close to the building as possible in case I suddenly needed to catch myself in mid fall against something. "Damn it. I knew I should have practiced more."
In the back of my head, I was secretly glad I wasn't meeting my boyfriend for dinner. There were way less people on the street at 9 p.m. to gawk at my awkwardness. I also knew that if I could just make it to the barstool at the wine bar and put my butt in it, I'd be okay until the walk home, when I'd have an extra set of hands to guide me.
A cold wind blew up the street and my teeth chattered. The few inches of skin covered only by thigh-high stockings between the top of the boot and my short dress felt the burst of chill the hardest. The ball of my foot ached in the boots. I shook my head. "The things we do for fantasy," I whispered.
A taxi driver pulled up next to me on the sidewalk. He rolled down the passenger window and called out in a heavy African accent, "Need a ride, lady?"
"No, thanks, it's just a few doors down."
"I like your boots," he said smiling. Then he whistled and drove on.
When I reached the door of the wine bar, I felt a little proud of myself. I hadn't broken a shoe or fallen on my ass. I opened the door and felt the heat warm my face. I walked as casually as I could to the row of empty bar stools and took off my conservative black wool coat revealing a very short, very expensive, bright red dress. The lacy tops of my stockings were hidden while I was standing but would be slightly revealed when I sat down. The dress was fitted for someone a little taller and a little leaner than I was, but the back bunched in such a way around a large, solid black zipper that ran from the top of the dress to the very bottom that it did wonderful things to emphasizing my ass. It was the first size 4 dress I'd fit into in my life, and I was more proud of that than I was of making it down the block in the hot boots.
I put the coat on the back of my chair and pulled myself up and onto the stool, crossing my legs delicately and reaching for a drink menu.
The bartender had been behind the bar when I walked in, but I was too focused on getting from point A to point B safely to realize he had been watching my every move. When I looked up from the page to say good evening, he wore a dopey grin on his face that I read as guilt. He'd been caught checking me out.
He was close to my age, mid thirties, around 5'11" tall with dark, overstyled hair. He was of Latino descent with amazing skin, bright white teeth and a build that was nothing but thick muscle underneath a very tight gray t-shirt.
"What can I get you?" he asked quickly putting a napkin down in front of me.
"Blue Moon, please," I answered folding the menu over and pushing it away.
"Yes, Ma'am," he responded reaching for the bottle in the refrigerator under the bar. I looked up at the screen. No surprise: hockey. The Senators were pounding the crap out of the Habs. I watched for a few seconds more before the bottle appeared in front of me.
"You know if this were a Friday or a Saturday, you'd have men all over you in that dress," the bartender said as he popped the cap off the top and reached for a frosted glass.
"Keep the glass," I responded. "The bottle is fine."
"On a Wednesday, though, no one is here to notice, which isn't usually why a woman wears an outfit like that."
I took a sip and raised my blue eyes to meet his brown ones. They were extraordinarily dark but filled with flirtation. I smiled. He smiled back. "Have any special plans tonight," I asked teasing.
"I caught a glimpse at the zipper on the back of your dress when you took off your coat and was hoping you'd let me peel it off of you after my shift," he said.
I blushed and smiled again. "I'm afraid that act is reserved for someone else," I answered.
He nodded and smiled. I reached into the pocket of my coat for a $20 bill.
"Drinks are on me, at least until he gets here," he responded.
"Thank you," I said picking up the bottle and taking a long drink while staring up at the TV again. The Canadiens were starting to make a comeback and the fans in Montreal were going crazy in the stands.
Minutes passed and I got lost in the game. I was halfway done with my beer when I felt a large, determined hand push my brown hair aside before soft lips hit the back of my neck. I bowed my head giving him greater access. His hand moved down from hair to the zipper at the top of my dress. Slowly, inch-by-inch, he gently pulled. When he reached around the area where my bra strap was, I protested and turned to face my lover behind my chair.
"What? Like that's not what it's intended for?" he teased while quickly rezipping the dress, kissing me softly on the lips twice, as a greeting, and resting his right hand on my left thigh possessively as he sat in the stool next to me.
The bartender studied my lover as he took his drink order. Lover is older than I am. He's tall and has an affinity for black work jeans and polo shirts. What's completely amazing about him isn't in his look – which is very normal. It's in his specifics. I adore the way his beard is graying. Every few months the gray slowly overcomes more and more of his curly brown hair, but in the beginning it started at his temples and crept down his sideburns toward his black goatee.
I also love his hands. In his every day profession, he's an artist, mostly drawing and painting and computers. But he also builds with them: carpentry, tile work, etc. He's good with them. The first time he touched me I expected them to be rough and a little worn from his frequent projects, but instead, they were smooth, immaculately clean and much better manicured than my own.
Then there are his eyes. He dismisses them as just being normal blue. But they're not. They're the kind of blue that you notice if you sit on a hillside in the Caribbean observing where the expected greenish water of the shallows hits the slate blue of increasing depths. Those eyes have looked into mine with such heat that my legs weakened in response. They've watched me with an intensity of such examination for so long that years after we'd become intimate, I still don't feel like I have the strength to stare back into them for longer than a few fleeting moments. At the same time, I've seen them turned stormy and frustrated. Once or twice they've put me in my place, but more often I've seen them turn nasty in response to life's annoyances and difficulties.
Lover looked up at the screen and shook his head. "Fucking hockey," he said with a sigh. He was not a fan of sports that took place outside of the bedroom.
"You'll live," I responded picking my beer up again to take a swig with my right hand, while pushing the hand he held on my thigh a bit under my dress. In response to the invitation, Lover closed his eyes and smiled. He was entertained by my audacity.
It had taken me the better part of the afternoon to get over my girl freakout in my hotel room. When I'd first put on the get up, I'd literally smacked myself in the face and then hid my face in my hands. Who knew that dressing sexy would also feel ridiculous and completely unnatural.
"Only three people wear outfits like this in public," I said to myself in the full-length mirror, "One: Cougars looking to get laid. I know it's not supportive of my older, divorced sisters, but it's true. Two: High-priced hookers. And Three: Girlfriends who are happy to indulge their lover's fantasies."
I happened to be number 3, but I felt more like number 2. Julia Roberts at least knew to go cheap. My get up had cost me an insane amount. And in the end, the $400 dress and $300 boots were likely to just end up wadded up on the floor. I wasn't really excited by how I looked in it either. I felt like I was looking at a completely different person. Who was that girl and what, in these particular clothes, did my lover hope to experience?
I had thoughts of just putting on a decent pair of jeans. He would be slightly disappointed if I waited to put on the costume until we were back at the hotel, but he'd understand. So why bother with the costume at all? For me, it wasn't the sex that was the pay off. It was how he'd look at me. The pure enjoyment on his face while watching me do something out of my comfort zone, experiencing a different level of my own sexuality. In short, I liked to play the game. I liked that I had control over how things went. And I liked when I genuinely surprised him.
The bartender had wandered off to serve a table of three that had just arrived in the corner leaving us alone for the moment.
I felt lover's fingers run over the top of my nylons under the skirt. "The tops of your thighs are wonderfully soft," he said just slightly louder than a whisper.
"Tell me what else you like," I said quietly.
