Late for My Date

I'm late. Between the game that started much later than planned and your basic subway fuckedupness, I'll be an hour late for my date with my Beautiful Katie.

I communicated this to her with reasonable heads up time, but she went to the bar anyway. She cleared the decks for me and is taking advantage of time she set aside for herself.

Every other stop or so I check my phone. The text is a doozy. It makes me smile: "I'm being hit on."

The entire female world can be divided into two groups: women with highly sensitive antennae and women with no antenna at all. We all know both types. The highly sensitive group think that a smile and the word `Hi' constitutes hitting on them. (You have to be careful with them. They'll take that smile and get the word out that you're coming on to them.) The no antenna women are funny; they don't know they're being flirted with or listed after until, well, you get the idea. It's actually difficult, sometimes, to communicate interest to them.

I'm trying to calculate how Katie fits into this equation. Maybe it was crude to divide all women into two camps and maybe Katie is somewhere in between these two extremes. I could rethink this whole thing and develop a sliding scale. If it turns out no one is hitting on her (unlikely since she's hot and alone at a bar) she'll be lumped with the high antenna class.

Being your basic male who thinks with his dick, my two responses aren't particularly enlightened, clever, or evolved. First: "Really? What makes you think so? Then, caveman Jeff: "What are you wearing?"

Two subway stops later: "Three garments and two of them are shoes."

My heart skips a beat. "Oh! Blazer?!?!"

I think I might have come a little in my jeans when I did the garment math. Mostly, though, I'm happy. I have a hot girlfriend. She's crazy in that way some some people (read: I) can really enjoy. We talk about multiples and quirks and kinks. We make videos. We express our sexuality with no fear of hurting feelings or yielding jealousy. It's supposed to be fun. And it is fun.

Finally the next stop. "I counted wrong. It's four garments." I do some more garment math. Could be the blazer with a thong or some sexy panties. Possibly a bra, but the panties are much more likely. It's fun to imagine what Katie's wearing at a bar. More than fun. It's fun fantasizing about it in the abstract. But now she's texting me from a real bar wearing four real garments.

"Don't start strip poker without me!"

Penultimate subway stop. "The guys bought me my wine and one told me I'm sexy."

!!! Plenty to think about! All of it cool. I've got to get to this bar quickly, if only to see how many guys are plying my Katie. And then there's that blazer!

Finally. The bar is perfect. No music, so you can actually hold a conversation. Myriad beer options, and too good of a cocktail menu. Sports on a few screens. The bar is perfect because Katie is there in four garments laughing it up with two guys who, other than wanting to get their hands on my woman, look essentially harmless.

Katie isn't wearing a blazer. That is simply where my mind went. It is a fantasy she's aware of, after all. But she delivered! She's in a long-enough man's button down, and indeed, two shoes. It is the most perfect sight.

She gets up to greet me, and I do what I always do, which is, since the day we first met, move a hand to her ass. I pull up the back of her button down to give her a squeeze, assuming that I'd get a handful of cotton. No cotton. Just ass. The dudes just got a quick view of her ass. Katie instinctively pushed my wrist down so that her ass wouldn't show.

More garment math. I could tell there was no bra. No cap from her college. No necktie, and now, I learned the hard way, no panties. She sees confusion in my face and asks what's wrong. I just look at her, trying to work it all out and the fourth garment is staring me in the face. I should have noticed. The belt.

I make the requisite adjustments. Disappointed she's not in the blazer, and elated she's this hot, this slutty, extravagantly happy, and mine. In fact, the button down is right up there with the blazer. (The things men think about, you know?)

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Katie introduces me to her new friends. I'm not that great with names and as they're generic enough, they go right through. To me they're tall dude and stubble dude.

Naturally the first thing I want is to figure out which of these very optimistic young men told Katie she's sexy. I could just ask, but that would feel a little klutzy. Also, it might embarrass Katie to be outed like that. I don't know if she let them know she was texting me such delicate information.

But I think I know within a few minutes. Stubble dude is the talker at our little table. In general Stubble is the ring leader, if two dudes constitute a ring. Tall dude is a little more reserved; he seems less likely to tell a woman in a bar that she's sexy.

Stubble sees empty glasses on our table. "Dude, we've been here an hour. You need to catch up!" I don't disagree, as part of the fun of being out with Katie wearing so little would include dashing my own inhibitions. But now I'm wondering if Stubble is friendly, lonely, horny, a little off, or some combination of all of the above.

Stubble offers to buy me my beer. I decline, getting up to buy my own at the bar. Now the wheels are spinning. Was he trying to ply my Katie, or does he just like buying people their drinks? Enough alcohol and I won't be worrying about it at all.

Life is perfect. I'm sitting with a beautiful woman, drinking a beer, glancing at the Rangers on the TV. Katie's more of a soccer fan, so I pretentiously blab everything I know about hockey. She's had enough to drink; who knows if she's retaining any of my ersatz wisdom? And who cares? She's showing a lot of flesh. You can see a sweet, rosy breast if you position yourself perfectly.

Tall dude has, in fact, positioned himself perfectly. When the hockey gets particularly action packed and most of us are watching a cool replay Tall is watching a cool breast. When he sees me taking notice, he blushes a bit and makes an apologetic facial expression. I never knew there was such a thing, but now I know. I shrug and smile some and his smile is wide, maybe grateful. A bro moment, I guess.

It takes a few minutes for my next beer. There's only one bartender and plenty of drinkers. I'm distracted by a conversation at the bar between two seriously knowledgeable Ranger fans. Finally I turn back to our table. Stubble has his hands on the sides of Katie's neck. Her head is tilted back, indicating she doesn't mind. He doesn't notice me.

I take a more circuitous route to our table. I'd rather let nature take its course than interfere with it. The reason Stubble didn't see me is because, standing behind Katie, who was sitting, he's looking down.

I sidle next to Stubble, who still hasn't noticed me. Standing next to him now, we have the same view. One more button from Katie's shirt is unbuttoned. Did she unbutton it or did he? I'll ask tomorrow. Alcohol is funny.

Stubble is startled when he realizes I'm next to him, when he realizes a potentially possessive and athletic boyfriend has more or less caught him both touching and ogling his woman. I hold a finger up (trying to keep him from freaking out) as I sit next to Katie. I have a hand high on her thigh, I lean in. "You cool?"

"Yes, J. Are you?" I kiss her high up on her cheekbone by her eye. I look up at Stubble.

"It's all good."

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Toward the end of my second beer, I am getting into the spirit. (This isn't exactly fair, I was abuzz with the first text I got on the subway.) That is, I'm in a good beer groove. Stubble and Tall at this point are old friends. I also know Katie and I are cruising toward a reckoning, but it's a good kind of reckoning.

Stubble has just spotted real life old friends. He takes his hands off Katie's neck and his eyes off her tits to reconnect. Tall has pulled his chair clockwise so that he's now sitting next to me on my right; Katie is on my left and rests her head on my shoulder.

Tall, reserved when I showed up, has transformed a bit. Maybe he was self-conscious about having the hots for Katie in front of me, or maybe he was loosening up after I don't know how much alcohol. But it's obvious. When the Rangers score a goal, he bursts out of his seat, roars out a big YEAH!, and high fives both Katie and me. So much for reserved.

When the replay shows the horrified reaction of the Philadelphia coach to the goal, it's funny. Everyone in the bar has a good laugh. Tall's initial shyness, followed by some loud enthusiasm, yields camaraderie. We're all just enjoying a free night. He leans in front of me to grab a chip, but he has something he wants to get off his chest.

"Your girlfriend's hot, man."

I snort and smile. "Thanks. I think so."

It's not lost on me, this ultimate form of deferral which in itself is also the ultimate form of aggression. On one hand, Tall is bestowing upon me a higher place in our developing pecking order. After all, how does the male universe work? We compete for athletic achievement, money, influence/power. We strive to be better looking than other men. We want everyone around us to know we could beat up the other guy if a fight were to break out (while at the same time, everyone needs to know we are above losing our cool). But all these qualities, what do they really amount to?

It's pussy, of course. Oh, sure, there are men out there who work hard to pay bills and do things for the kids. And some guys are out there exercising for their health. But in the male universe, what could be more authentic currency than pussy?

Tall is indicating to me that I am where he'd like to be (yes, I'm planning on being there myself in a couple of hours) and he respects my elevated male status. He has also aggressively laid bare what we both already understand: he has assessed Katie and by saying so would put himself in a position of being qualified and authorized to judge her. (He's also seen her tits and probably gotten a quick glimpse of her ass. And who knows what I missed while on the subway!)

It's a game we play and it's not easy to determine what winning is. If Tall manages to grab a fistful of ass when he hugs her goodbye later, is that winning? A kiss? A long kiss? What's winning? Is there winning? Permanent winning? If Katie dumps me for some guy who's better looking, taller, richer, bigger dick, famous, or just plain cooler, have I stopped winning? Have I ever won? Alcohol really is funny. I'd better get me some more.

When I get back to our table with my third beer and more wine for Katie, Tall's got his hand on her thigh. He's calmed down since the Ranger goal, and appears deep in some sort of meaningful conversation with my girlfriend. It's funny seeing two very different personalities hit on the same woman on the same night. Stubble is all energy and personality. Whenever he opens his mouth, his goal is to be funny; he achieves it often enough. Tall is your basic teddy bear whose M.O. is revealing that sensitive side. Kate is not only OK with Tall's hand on her bare thigh, she responds in kind. Our eyes lock; she smiles, I smile back with a shrug, as if to say, Anything goes. I trust you, and these two dudes seem OK.

Anything does go, actually. When I say I trust Katie, I mean that I want her to have every experience she's interested in. (I also want to be included in them.) And it goes both ways. She wants me to be happy and she wants to contribute to that happiness. While this all sounds abstract, we've had specific and concrete discussions about some outside-the-box scenarios. She knows I"m interested in seeing her fuck and suck. Another guy, multiple guys, women, all this is just too hot for jealousy to interfere with. An important component of our relationship is that we'd like to produce for each other both freedom and opportunities.

Katie, too, has expressed a similar interest. She even has an image in mind: she'd like to see my face buried deep in two DD breasts. I haven't figured out why this specific vision turns her on, but I have no complaints! (Would I enjoy seeing her blow some guy who had 2-3 inches on me? I'd say it does have its appeal.)

I have a little saying: "It's supposed to be fun."

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Katie's told me a few times that she wants me to be selfish. And I like to tell her I'm working on it. There's progress, clearly, because my thoughts have been selfish since that first text on the subway. After receiving the text about guys hitting on her and buying her her wine, my first thoughts were not 'How do you feel about that?' but to wonder what she's wearing, the hope being that she's in something revealing and/or slutty. That is, how I always fantasize about seeing her in public.

Then, when I'm witnessing firsthand Stubble and Tall touching my girlfriend and coming on, each in his own way, instead of first considering Katie's own experience and her well-being, I see it as my own new sexual experience. And my cock grows quite hard.

So well into my third beer now, and aroused by Katie's appearance, her effervescent sluttiness, and two bros' interest in her (and further ignited by the thought that they've seen her tits), a moment of clarity. Let's talk.

Let's figure this all out, I'm thinking. We're sitting together, drinking and watching hockey. I'm in jeans and a flannel shirt, basically invisible. Katie's in a button down and basically nothing else. She's noticeable and noticed. We're pressed up against each other's sides and can communicate with reasonable privacy.

"You OK?" She's the center of attention, which, weirdly, is more my fantasy than hers. But this is smaller than my crazy porn star fantasies, where Katie does God knows what with God knows whom for a significant and appreciative audience. Thoughts move quickly. A deep breath and I catch myself.

"I'm having a great time. Are YOU OK?" I'm more than OK, I tell her.

"Sometimes you do your things, things that are for you and don't necessarily involve me, even if I enjoy hearing about them. Then sometimes you do things that are for me, but I hope they're never things you're uncomfortable with. And then there are things you do for both of us. I think this is where we're headed."

Katie's shirt was still open enough for me to slip a hand in and massage a breast. "Where are we headed, baby?"

I like being challenged like this. She's going to make me come out and speak directly. I've had three beers, and most of the blood that usually fills my brain is in my penis. I can be straight, so to speak.

"Which of them do you like?"

This is such a hip conversation. Katie is going to look me in the eyes with no fear of hurting my feelings and tell me she's interested sexually in a guy sitting at our table.

"They're both fine. Neither is anything special." A mixture of disappointment and some sort of pride that this somehow makes me, well, some sort of winner. I don't know if that makes sense. "But it would be fun to fuck both of them."

Well!

"I remember you telling me about your desire to handle two cocks."

Katie turns her back to the hockey, faces me, and straddles my left thigh. Even in high school, I don't think I was ever this hot. I undo a button - one of the bottom buttons of her shirt. I haven't seen her pussy in a week, so I'll continue being selfish. She doesn't object; it's a bar and dark enough that it's unlikely anyone sees, let alone minds.

She has her bush trimmed the way I like it: an inch thick and 2" high patch of light brown. Perfection. The Jeff Rectangle. (We talk about this too; based on literary porn, it seems a majority of guys prefer the fully shaved pussy to other choices. But I like something you can see in a photo, or from a distance at the clothing optional beach - or here at a fun bar.)

"Two cocks?! I want three. I want you first."