I always knew there was a difference between making love and fucking.
Until I met Trey the night I turned 30, I never knew that fucking existed.
As a privileged white girl, I was raised with a soft hand a large piggy bank. My mother was a lawyer and my father was a plastic surgeon. I had nannies, babysitters and private schooling for most of my life. I was what many considered spoiled, but I never, thankfully, turned out that way as an adult. I had made my own choices, I had a conscious and I gave back to the community as much as I could. I figured I had the money, might as well make some good out of it.
When I was 25 I married Charles. He was an upper crust white boy, raised with the same soft hand and large piggy bank. The difference between us was that I gave two shits about other people. As long as his bankroll kept increasing, he didn't care about much else.
My marriage to Charles was plain as a sheet of paper. It was always the same, always boring. We planned parties, went to parties, and were friends with those who could make our social climb easier. I found it all quite boring and stuffy, but Charles lived and breathed for it.
I could care less.
The monotony of his life carried over to our love life. We had sex missionary style with the lights off and my satisfaction was never of importance. Now don't get me wrong, I loved Charles very much, and I know he loved me as well, but we just never had that passion. I suppose that persons of our stature were supposed to lead these trivial boring lives, but I never thought it was like this.
My mother never complained. I assumed that either she didn't have the passion I was storing in my body, or my father had just sucked the life from her. God, I prayed every night that I won't end up like my mother. So why did I marry Charles? Why else. He was rich, good looking, and one of the most eligible bachelors in Manhattan. Who wouldn't want to be married to him?
When I turned 30, my mother and best friend threw me a birthday party to celebrate, including all the girls from the office (well, my fathers office) and the various friends I had collected over the years. Not in attendance was my father who was in Rio and my husband because, well, he was busy diddling his secretary. At least I suspected anyway.
Which was fine with me when the girls and I made our way from bar to bar that night. I didn't feel over the hill at all, and my body didn't betray me. My perky tits and firm ass had stayed in place, and my weekly Pilate session with Francesco had paid off. I was dressed all in black. Not because I was 30, but because I genuinely liked the color, and I felt extremely sophisticated in my black slacks, black sleeveless turtleneck and black stilettos. Of course the girls had to throw in a party hat that quoted "Kiss me, it's my birthday". I tucked my long brown hair behind it and sucked it up. I was going to have a good time no matter what.
"Reagan!" my best friend Carol called from the bar when my entourage and I walked into the first bar of the night. "Over here!"
My friends and I made our way over to the bar where Carol had courteously already ordered several shots.
"What the hell is this?" I asked giving her a hug. "It smells like gas!"
"Not sure! Just drink it!" Carol responded, handing me the small glass. "Come on, a toast!" she said raising her glass to the other girls and me.
We all raised our glasses and Carol made a small speech, which entailed my most embarrassing moment in prep school (at which I got drunk the first time) and which also included me recent achievement of turning 30.
"To Reagan!" She shouted, and we all took our shoots.
Several hours later, and too many shots to count later, we ended up in a small bar right around midnight.
"Okay, girls." I said, covering my mouth to giggle. Although I was bordering on drunk, I was still trying to be proper. "This is it for me. I don't want to leave this bar. We are here for the duration!" I got a round of cheers from my friends and we gravitated to the bar.
I got there first, and motioned for the bar tender to come over by waving around a 50 dollar bill. At least my money got me some things. Fast service was one of them.
"Hi!" I said loudly. I giggled again and tried to calm myself. The bar tender smiled and hung the glass he was drying. "I want to order some drinks for my friends and I."
"What will it be?" The voice was strong. I focused my vision a little and took in his look. He was a black man, built, not overly like those psycho body builders, but had serious definition. He wore a black t-shirt and snug jeans. I could only imagine what his ass looked like. "What will it be?" He asked again, leaning against the bar.
"Um, something top shelf." I said giggling again. He smiled and his dimples deepened.
"Coming right up," He said as he turned. I got a good look at his ass, and my eyebrow rose. I was heated, a little drunk, and bordering on horny. What the hell was wrong with me? I put on a poker face as he returned to the bar with the small glasses and the booze. He expertly made a show of pouring the drink and then slid them across the bar. "That will be 23 dollars." He said as he wiped his hands on his pants. I handed him the 50 and when he returned with the change, I told him to keep it.
"That's an awful big tip, lady." He said, trying to give the money back.
"No, really I insist." I said, trying to behave ladylike in the face of drunkenness. "Besides, we plan to be here for awhile, and I might forget to tip later."
"In that case, I'm your man." He smiled. "My name is Trey, and if you need something else, come to me. I got you." He turned his head when his name was called from the other end of the bar and nodded back. "Enjoy." He said to me as he walked away.
I carried the drinks to my remaining friends (the others had to go home to their kids and husbands) and we each took the shot. I couldn't tell you what it was, but it was smooth going down. A good sign. Or a bad one, depending on how you looked at it.
20 minutes later I was back to the bar, crooking my finger at Trey to come hither. He leaned over the bar and smiled.
"Hey, it's my big tipper. What can I get for you, ma'am?"
"First, I still would like to believe that I am too young to be called ma'am, even though I am 30." I pointed to the hat I was wearing. "And second, please call me Reagan."
"Well then, Reagan," Trey said reaching for more shot glasses, "I thought this was your 21st birthday, not your 30th." I blushed and giggled again. God, I was acting like a goddamn schoolgirl.
"Please!" I said, smiling and blushing some more. "I hardly think so, but thank you for the compliment." Trey pushed the glasses towards me.
"Well, seeing that it is your birthday, and that cute little hat says to kiss you because of that fact, I'll let you have these drinks for free if you allow me the honor to kiss the birthday girl."
I just about choked on something imaginary and Trey stood back and smiled. I think he was impressed with himself. Or cocky. I couldn't tell which.
"Free drinks are really not necessary." I started. "And I am not sure the statement ‘kiss me, it's my birthday' is meant to be taken literally."
"Well, I was never one to pass up the opportunity to get a kiss from a pretty woman. I'd think you're using false advertising."
"I hardly see how that is the case, but…"
"And really," Trey said, now almost laughing, "think of how jealous all your friends will be." He nodded to my group of friends, who were, at the moment gawking at Trey, drool practically dripping from their mouths.
"Trey, I appreciate it, but…" I stopped, looking at him and shrugged. What the hell. By now my husband was probably bending his secretary over the desk and all Trey wanted was a kiss. It
was
