I never wore lingerie until that night.
Up to that point, I'd always enjoyed the idea that somehow someone would notice there was nothing between me and the world but a protective layer of fashionable clothing.
It was my own personal game of self-arousal.
I'd wear short skirts and satin tops, my nipples often hard, just to see if anyone knew how stimulated I was during the mundane chores of daily life. I'd move seductively in grocery store aisles, and sit cross-legged at sidewalk restaurants, all while waiting for the right person to catch a glimpse of my secret invitation.
To me, it felt like a public game; and yet, I knew I was the only real player. Waiting for someone else to join in was exciting, but with each passing day, without so much as a furtive glance from a passing stranger, the game grew less appealing.
More than once, I had stopped in the Intimates section of some shop to browse through the options of underwear. But each time I'd pass by a set of silk bras or run my fingers along the lace panties section, I'd fantasize that somewhere in this city a fellow scoundrel would finally notice my open display and enter the game.
As I walked along that evening I began to consider how long I was willing to wait for just the right player. I questioned why I hadn't noticed anyone recently who even suggested they had caught a glimpse of my nipples showing through my blouse or sneaked a peak between my legs while I sat openly in a short skirt at the lunch counter.
The warm breeze floating on the night air was getting balmy as I walked along so I opened another button on my top before entering a quaint street-side bistro.
It was late and the crowd had thinned, but I needed a little something to carry me through the night. I ordered a small appetizer and a glass of wine to help as I reflected on my unique plight.
And then she appeared: My waitress.
She quietly handed me the check and seductively slipped me a note. Somehow during the process of ordering, I hadn't really noticed her; not until the note, that is.
It was a small, pink piece of paper, and written on it were only six words:
'I like a woman in lingerie.'
This wasn't how I had imagined my game to progress, but a new player had definitely entered the arena.
Instantly, I knew I'd been found out and surprisingly, the very idea got me wet. Finally, someone had received my subtle message.
She was slightly younger, with dark, shoulder-length hair and horn-rimmed glasses. And she was very attentive.
I began to wonder how to proceed. She'd noticed me, but clearly had a preference for women in decorative underwear. Yet aside from the note, the meal was uneventful. She made no other mention of it and made no overt gesture to suggest an ulterior motive.
Questions began to flood my mind, and the most prominent of all was the idea that receiving the note had been a mistake.
And so I thought of a plan: Return to the restaurant the next night dressed as usual to test her again.
The next evening, I arrived early and requested the same table. I even went so far as to make sure she noticed my willingness. After being seated, I undid another button on my blouse and pulled the fabric slightly to expose as much skin as public decency would allow.
Moments later, the same young waitress arrived to take my order. She'd pulled her hair back and was sporting a different, yet still sexy, set of eyewear. What hadn't changed was her unique appeal and attentive nature, and my excitement grew as the meal progressed.
But aside from our bantering over my satisfaction with the food, she remained cool and distant. Perhaps I'd mistaken the message, or worse yet, had received the note by mistake.
It wasn't until she handed me the bill that I knew for sure; inside was another pink note.
'A woman in lingerie leaves room for imagination and exploration.'
The game was on and she played by an enticing set of rules.
I spent my lunch the next afternoon shopping for just the right sexy pieces; a matching bra and panty set with stockings and garters seemed ideal, so I hastily made my purchase and eagerly prepared for the evening.
This time I decided to play it more relaxed so I intentionally arrived later than usual, an hour before they closed, to build anticipation. I'd chosen a sheer, pale blouse to highlight the dark bra straps underneath.
There would be no doubt that I had made the effort.
But at first, I didn't see her. The restaurant was still fairly busy, and many faces passed by my table. As I waited, a slight sense of panic set in. It dawned on me that this was the first real chance to play my game with someone new. As much as the idea had always excited me, I felt I wasn't truly prepared for it.
It was too late; the game, it seemed, had begun.
Yet when my waitress arrived, she once again gave no indication that anything was different. Was she testing me as well? Was this how her game was played?
I attempted to dine casually, to keep up the appearance of someone in no need of outside attention, but inside I was burning. After all this time, someone had finally noticed my subtle signals, and the anticipation of where it might lead was unbearable.
Then, as she brought my dessert, she leaned in and gently whispered in my ear.
"I get off at ten. I could get you off by eleven."
She set the small bowl of gelato just beyond the reach of my fingers, and before returning to the kitchen her hand lightly grazed the edge of my shoulder.
It was deliberate and inviting.
I ordered a glass of Merlot, finished my dessert, and sat somewhat paralyzed while the restaurant began to close.
It was 9:55.
What was I going to do? The game had taken on unforeseen elements and I started to question my willingness to go through with...
My mind went blank.
