Dave Matthews is a poet, in the purest, most magical sense of the word. There’s something ethereal about what he do with the image of a couple laughing and dancing in the rain.
We walked down the busy sidewalks hand in hand, looking in store windows, pointing, smiling. Bright lights, big city. The city that never sleeps. The Big Apple. The big Everything. I had never been to New York, but when the opportunity came up to go there for a three-day training session, I talked him into meeting me there. I told my husband that it was a week-long trip, which left me and my lover four entire days to play, laugh and fuck. Four days in a city of millions of strangers, with no worries or cares about who saw us together. No interruptions from the everyday toils of home, with family and work and friends and the constant interruptions of people and problems oblivious to the fact that we’d really just rather be, simply, left alone.
So now we were. Alone, but together. At first it was really weird. It’s a big leap going from stolen moments of passion – long anticipated and too quickly passed – to actually sleeping next to someone and waking up there the next day. How do I deal with morning breath? What if he snores? Worse, what if I snore? And the $10,000 question, what will it feel like to wake up in the middle of the night, having shared my bed with the same man for thirteen years, and have a different man there beside me? Confused? Petrified? Perfect?
I had refused to think it through before now. Despite the fact that we had planned for months and the problem kept battering at the closed door in my mind, I had successfully denied the worry access to my fear centers. But now it was show time.
I took a cab to JFK to meet him early Thursday morning, since we had booked the first available flight into town. I had to get up at an absolutely absurd hour in order to shower, get dressed, allow for Midtown traffic (ohmygodhowdothesepeoplelivehere?) and be there when he came through the gate. I am SO not a morning person, but it would be worth it to have the extra hours alone. Though, just exactly how all those hours were going to be filled was preying on my mind.
No doubt, some (many!) of those hours were going to be used for really hot, loud, explosive sex. On the ride out to the airport, I wondered if the cabbie - a Mr. Habib Azu-bar, who thankfully didn’t have sufficient English skills to attempt a conversation, and who cared little that my own communication skills were hampered by a severe lack of caffeine and an overabundance of whoremoans - could tell that, despite the early hour, my panties were already soaked with pussy juices. I could smell my wantonness, and was so horny I felt like every person within a city block must be able to hear my cunt screaming with anticipation.
The look in his eye and the way his mouth attacked mine the moment he saw me let me know he was very much in the same frame of mind. To anyone noticing in the meet/greet area, he appeared to be a handsome man arriving home from a trip, eager and ready to see his woman. And get her alone. As soon as possible. Now.
As he kissed me and pulled me into a tight embrace, I could feel his hard erection pressing against me. I delivered the line I’d been waiting three days to use: “Is that a baseball bat in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”
He groaned at the corniness of the joke. “Woman, you have no IDEA what torture the last four hours have been for me. Not only do I have the hard-on of the century, I also had the pleasure of the obnoxious-non-stop chatter of the bitch in the seat next to me. Add that to the certain knowledge that you’re going to make me wait until we get back to the hotel room before you let me take you, and you might, just maybe, begin to get an idea of the pain I’ve suffered to get here.”
I stroked the side of his face, and stood on my toes to kiss his forehead. “Oh, you poor thing. . . was it really that bad?” I rubbed away the lipstick smudges over his eye.
“Yes, really and truly. She didn’t even have nice legs . . .” he said, wide-eyed and grinning.
“What – ohhh, you jerk! You’re going to pay for that one.” followed by a petulant foot stamp. Not very threatening coming from a tiny size 5 slipper, on a curvy petite woman barely over five feet tall (picture a pissed off pixie), but enough to give pause when paired with my sly, teasing glare. “Just for that I’m not giving you the present I brought. And I made it special for you, just for this moment, too.”
“Oh, ‘bettina, I’m sorry. Please, I don’t want to spoil your surprise. Won’t you give me your gift?” Absolutely playing the part of the repentant, as I knew he would. My name is actually “Elizabettina” but no one ever uses the whole thing. My dad tells me I just never grew into it, and even he usually calls me “Tink” or “Tinkerbell” (yes, like in Peter Pan. Now you understand the pixie reference, huh?)
I laughed. “Silly Kristoff, check your pocket. I slipped it there when you first kissed me!” The man is very cold-natured. It’s late summer and I’m in a pale pink, cotton sundress, but he’s wearing a jacket.
His right hand slowly reached into his pocket, and sudden understanding dawned on his face. His eyebrows arched as he asked “Is that what I think it is?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you should smell your hand to be sure . . .”
“You little bitch! You set me up ~ you put ~ your panties are in my pocket,” he stammered. “And they’re soaking wet . . . so that must mean . . .” He looked at me with pure lust in his eyes, and for a moment was struck speechless as his mouth opened and closed, but no words came out.
“You’re not wearing anything under that dress, are you?”
I gave him a perfectly innocent “now would I do that” sort of smile. And tried to dash out of his reach before he could catch me to bend me over his lap for a spanking. But it wasn’t a spanking I was to receive, but another long, passionate kiss. As his tongue plundered my mouth, his hands ran up and down, across my back and shoulders, across my hips and up my arms, caressing and stroking my waist, hips and butt through the thin material of my dress. When we broke apart, he breathed in my ear, “I knew it. There are no lines anywhere around you. You’re soaking wet and soon the juices will be running down your thighs, because whatever you might have had on to catch them – I’ve got it in my hand.” With that, he showed me the little scrap of lace and string that was my thong, crumpled up in his fist. He brought his hand up to his nose and breathed deeply.
