Bernita: Or My First Job in Advertising
Early one evening I'm sitting alone at the bar in Jorjet's wondering if I ought to leave this place because tonight it's like a graveyard, when the street door opens and a tall woman dressed in black walks in and looks around for a place to sit. She can sit anywhere, since there aren't more than six customers in the room and except for me the barstools are empty. She turns and she looks at me. She's about forty, with a long neck and an oval face, dark eyes and dark brown hair drawn back in a tight chignon. She finally pulls her eyes away and she walks past me to sit at the bar only two stools down.
I look her up and down, at the sleek hairdo and the sheer black hose. I watch her order white wine, and then when the bartender brings the wine I watch the woman's long fingers as she lifts the wine glass to her lips. Maybe she's closer to forty-five than forty, a stately brunette with small clip earrings. She could be a bank executive because she's so efficient looking, some kind of business woman, no rings on her fingers and obviously on the prowl walking into a girl bar like this one. She's not here by accident. She gives me a glance again and her sultry eyes look interested. And I'm interested too, and wondering now who will make the first move.
For a while I pretend to ignore her, sipping my draft beer and not turning to look at her. Then I decide it's too much; either we connect or I leave, because what I don't want is another wasted evening. I turn and I stare at her until she turns her head to look at me with those dark eyes.
And I say: "Hi, I'm Verna. Can I sit with you?"
Now comes the terrible moment of a possible rejection.
But she gives me a quiet smile and she nods.
Relief.
I move over, dragging my beer along the bar, settling onto the stool beside her, smelling her perfume for the first time, and I say: "I don't have any money to buy you a drink."
Does she mind? She smiles. "I was going to invite you to sit with me, so I'll buy. What would you like?"
"I'll have what you're having."
The bartender brings me a glass of white wine, which I like much better than beer anyway.
The woman says: "My name is Bernita." She has red lipstick on a wide mouth, and when she smiles she merely stretches her lips without showing her teeth. "You're very attractive," she says, the eyes sultry again. "You look very sexy. Are you sexy?"
Is she teasing me? I look directly at her. "I'm always sexy."
She smiles. "That sounds interesting."
"I like the way you dress. Black is my favorite color."
"Is it?"
"Are you a banker?"
She laughs. "No, I'm not a banker. Why?"
"I don't know. I thought you look like a banker. Or at least an executive of some kind."
"Well, I am an executive. I run a small advertising agency."
"That must be interesting."
She smiles again. "Right now I'm more interested in you. You're very pretty."
"Oh, I'm not that pretty."
"Yes, you are. And I bet you're even prettier when you have your clothes off. Would you like to come home with me?"
Her eyes are steady, boring into mine. No more games. Five minutes later we're out of there and into a taxi, the evening fixed for me.
She takes me to a swank apartment on East Chestnut, a rug about a foot deep, huge rooms, a magnificent view of the Gold Coast, the lake, the hi-rises like a wall running north. She sends the maid away and she mixes us a pitcher of martinis.
Bernita says: "I like martinis more than I ought to."
"I'll pass out."
"No, I won't let you."
"I won't do more than sip mine."
She looks at me, a hard look, estimating me. "Do you think I'm an old dyke?"
"You're not old."
She smiles. "Some people would say I'm a dirty old dyke."
"Well, you don't look it."
"I'm just an ordinary dyke who likes lovely things, lovely girls like you. Especially with their clothes off." She hesitates, looking at me directly. "Would you?"
She hasn't even touched me yet, but I'm imagining it. "I don't mind."
"I'll give you some money later. Will a hundred dollars be all right?"
"That's fine."
"Why don't you undress and lie on the carpet over there while I change into something more comfortable."
She walks out and all I'm thinking about now is the hundred dollars and what I can do with it. So I'm hustling, but so what? Isn't everyone hustling in one way or the other? I suppose she expects me to earn the money before the evening is over. But she turns me on anyway, so I don't mind doing whatever she wants. The idea sends shivers up my back. Maybe I can get even more than a hundred out of her. I'm greedy. I drop my clothes, strip naked and lie on the rug near the one of the wide windows. If anyone is looking in here with a telescope they might see something interesting. The rug is soft and delicious under me. I lie there looking at the high ceiling and the chandelier with a zillion little bulbs, wondering what the apartment cost her.
Finally she returns wearing a long white and black embroidered caftan. She stands near me and she smiles down at me as she looks at my body. "I just want to look at you awhile."
I say nothing, and she goes to an easy chair a few feet away and she sits down and she sips her martini. She has a blissful little smile on her face, as if it's perfectly ordinary for her to be sitting there like that near the window overlooking the city with a naked girl lying on her rug. Should I show more of my pussy? I casually lift one knee to make my crotch more visible. Then I slowly roll on my side and I lie facing her as I try my best to appear cool. Does she approve? I'm nervous because she still hasn't touched me. That's a bit weird, isn't it?
And now she says: "You're really lovely to look at."
"Thank you."
She sits there so chic and composed, her eyes rattling me as they take me apart. The way she looks at me makes me hot, the way she moves her eyes back and forth between my breasts and my pussy. I'm tingling down there. If she's trying to make me crazy, the attempt is a success.
A long time passes during which she says nothing, only silence in the room, and an occasional soft sound as she sips her martini. I watch her mouth, her red lips.
Then she asks me how long I've been out. "Is it a long time?"
"Only a few years."
"Does your family know?"
"No."
She crosses her legs under the caftan. What the hell difference does it make whether or not my family knows? I stare at her feet in the gold slippers.
And then she looks amused and she says: "Do you enjoy it with dykes like me? Or is it just the money?"