As the streets move out to the river from the center of the city the buildings become smaller and older. Here, where the end of 57th Street meets Second Avenue, all the buildings are only three or four stories and narrow. Rental space is expensive and antique dealers, up-scale boutiques, decorator lighting stores and pricey specialty shops occupy every floor. Bustling during the day, late at night only an infrequent cross-town bus or an occasional person walking to or from Second Avenue interrupts the pristine scene.
At midnight the store interiors and recessed doorways go dark. Street lamps illuminate some store windows, sending shadows of naked branches across others, and leave the rest in the city's darkness. It is a chilly night made worse by a wind coming off the river unimpeded by buildings between there and the water. This block leads to the stop where I often wait with Diane for the bus that takes her over the bridge and home. She almost always goes home when we are out together on a weekday and today is Wednesday.
Curfew for our friends on a weekday was usually midnight but Diane and I sometimes continued on our own for a couple or more additional hours. There were a few times we partied until five or six in the morning giving us just enough time to go home, shower, change clothes, and get to work. Staying the night at my place was not practical because she didn't keep a change of business clothes there. And showing up at work wearing the same outfit worn yesterday was similar to having a dozen red roses delivered to your office; both broadcasts you got laid last night. Receiving roses says you were especially pleasing. Coming to work in the same outfit says you were out last night whoring. Although there is nothing wrong with a woman doing either it is usually not good office etiquette to advertise.
I'd rather she went home anyway. Keeping some of her clothes at my apartment smacked too much of commitment. I wasn't ready now nor did I think I would ever be ready to see her exclusively. Unfortunately, that was exactly the idea I had led her to believe and there was almost nothing Diane wouldn't do to keep it going.
I hardly ever have Diane stay at my place on a weekday. She never seems to run out of energy and ways to expend it. The first thing she does when we get to my place is pour us drinks—as if we usually didn't already have enough. Then she cooks us something quick and spicy from whatever I have, or, if that's not possible, she orders Szechwan. Spicier is always better no matter how many times I ask her to turn the heat down. By the time we have finished our "snack" it is three o'clock in the morning or later and this old guy—I'm thirty-six now—likes a couple hours of sex followed by some sleep.
Diane is only twenty-seven and even at three o'clock in the morning with too many drinks in her system and a full day of work facing her she will fuck me or suck my dick until I insist she stop. She can arrive at work later in the morning than I can; I have to get to my office on time. When it comes to sex Diane gets right to it; there is little foreplay and less romance. I know what to expect from her and if I want a more tender experience I see someone else.
She loves to cover my cock with something tasty—I'll follow suite when I go down on her—but the absence of a "topping" never diminishes her enthusiasm, at least not that I can tell. I like watching her head bob up and down while I run my hands through her shoulder-length, auburn hair. Thank God for contacts, without them I couldn't see her glistening full lips encircling my shaft.
Diane is easier to deal with on the weekend when it doesn't matter what time we get out of bed. Yet there are times even on the weekend when I will send her home early in the morning by taxi. Diane has an enormous appetite for sex and liquor. She has satisfied many of my "drunk woman" fantasies but after she passes out she is just a sleeping drunk. And she's not very appealing when she awakes hung over. If I think she might crash I'll get some coffee in her and call a cab.
She always looks great when we go out. I don't know how she does it; she doesn't have time to go home first and the outfits I see her in are inappropriate for the conservative company she works for. Maybe she keeps a change of clothes in the large Coach bag that is always on her shoulder. I know it's an expensive bag because she told me how much it cost. I also know her travel bag is expensive because she also told me what
it
cost. The more I see Diane the more I learn about the prices of women's fine accessories. I wear a suit to work so I'm always dressed appropriately. Although, during a time when I was consulting north of the city everyday was "casual Friday" but I had time to stop by my apartment and change, before heading downtown. I'd often just wear a sport coat and maybe leave off the tie. On occasion I'd wear a turtleneck.
Our evenings together often, but not always, started the same way: we would meet at a hotel bar, have a drink or two, then move on to a club or restaurant where there was food and drink. If there was dancing, that was a huge plus. Diane knew many of the ritzy hotels with bars so she usually suggested one we haven't been to together.
I got hung up at the office with my manager. He was antsy about my largest project and called me to his office so he could micromanage the parts that were going fine without him. Despite this, he was actually one of the better managers I worked under. When he needed to, without hesitation, he would get the right person on the phone and set things up for me to follow through on or resolve an issue that was holding me back. He was authoritative but always pleasant with me and we got along well. There was no doubt in my mind he valued my talents highly because of the double-digit raises and other perks.
So while I thought I might be able to leave around six o'clock it was now closer to seven and we weren't slowing down. I excused myself for a hygiene break and called Diane on her cell,.
"Hello?" she answered.
"Hi. It's me. I'm hung up at the office. I'll be there as soon as I can."
"Oh, that's okay. I just got here myself. I haven't even ordered a drink yet."
"I'm sorry. I thought I would be able to skip out a little early."
"Don't worry about it. This is a great place. You should see what they're wearing."
"What? Who?"
"The women of course. Men's clothes are boring."
"Oh."
"Not you, sweetie. You always look delicious."
"Thanks. I'll call you again before I leave."
"Do you just want to meet at the restaurant?"
"Give me a half hour or so. I'll call."
"Okay, I'll wait here. It's 'Happy Hour' so there's free food and the drinks are cheap."
"Fine. I've got to get back. Pace yourself."
"Don't worry about me. Just get here soon; I hate drinking alone."
"As soon as I can, Babe. Bye."
I wanted to tell her not to drink too much but I couldn't think of any way to phrase that without appearing prematurely judgmental.
When I got back to my manager's office, I noticed he had taken out a couple of bottles of single malt scotch he kept in the credenza behind his desk. He would invite those in the meeting to have a taste whenever a meeting went on until 7:00 PM or later. Being a single malt aficionado myself and wanting to keep the golden goose happy, I would make sure the scotch supply never wanted for a new label. Breaking out the scotch was a signal that the meeting was ending. It didn't take long for us to feel the whiskey on an empty stomach. By then the meeting became less productive and we reached a point where we were talking more about the Scottish highlands, Canadian accents, and old "war stories" than whatever the subject of the meeting was. My manager was facing a two-hour train ride home so we adjourned. I called Diane to let her know I was on my way.
Diane was seated at the bar when I finally got there. I walked up behind her, put my arms around her waist, and kissed her several times on the neck. She swiveled around, smiled, enthusiastically, said "Hi," and kissed me on the ear as I was sitting down on the adjacent stool.
I don't like when she kisses my ear because she always plants it in the center leaving an annoying ringing. I've told her not to do it but she thinks it's cute and smiles at my protests. I didn't say anything to her this time because I should have known better and worn ear protection. Diane could be hard on a guy.
She had been waiting a while for me and was finishing off her second drink. The scotch I had at the office added up to about one drink so I ordered another. She ordered another so we would both have a fresh drink. Diane told me what transpired in her office today including the family members, medical histories, and attire of everyone involved. She laughed when she told some stories and took a serious tone telling others. This cued me on when to smile and when to shake my head. Getting a word in edgewise wasn't an option even if I had wanted to. I didn't know or care about the people, wasn't interested in what tragic illness had befallen them or one of their family members, and definitely had no interest in what the gay mail room guy wore.
Diane can talk on and on but I will still get enough 'air time' to tell her about my day. I work in a technical field and few people—even those in the same profession—understand what I really do. Therefore, our conversation—if you can call it that—at the bar consists of Diane going on about things I could care less about and me telling her things she doesn't understand. There will be plenty of time later to broaden the scope of our conversation but for now all I wanted to do was sip my scotch and look at her cleavage.
When it was time to go all I had to do was interrupt her and say, "We should leave now."
Diane would stop talking in mid-sentence and reply, "Oh, okay," and we'd be off.
Diane was really a sweet kid and we danced well together. Play almost any music that lent itself to partner dancing and we could put on a show. Finding a place to dance the quicker Latin and swing dances was not difficult but locating a club that played slower music like Foxtrot, Rumba, or Tango was not so easy. Argentine Tango was the exception. With a revival of the dance brought on by Hollywood and Broadway there were several exclusively Argentine Tango places. Unfortunately, Diane didn't dance 'Tango Argentine,' as it was sometimes called.
Diane is five foot six and I'm five foot eight, but in her dance shoes she's taller than me. It doesn't matter to her or me and apparently not to many other women either. Very often, although we would arrive and leave together, we would dance with other people. On occasion, the woman would dance breast to chest or leg to groin, rubbing her body against mine. If they're that bold they'll follow-up with their name and phone number. Diane knows I collect the slips of paper, napkins and matchbook covers for possible future 'play dates.' but she no longer says anything.
Maybe it's insensitive, but I never ask for their names and addresses; they pass them to me unsolicited. Rather than being ill mannered I simply stuff the paper in a pocket and when I later undress throw it in a drawer of my nightstand. Perhaps days or weeks later I might call one of the women. It's not like I'm a rock star; I'm not deluged with offers. And it is not as if I'm cheating on Diane. So why do I feel like a son of a bitch?
Once, as I came off the dance floor after dancing several dances with the same woman, Diane pointedly said, "I thought I was going to have to cut you two apart with a knife."
