My tuxedo was draped over the back of a chair in our bedroom, where it had been since the MIT genomics department Christmas party on the 22nd. This was now the evening of the 27th.
I picked it up, intending to add it to the pile of clothes to be taken to the dry cleaner, but then had a thought. Holding the coat at arms length I decided it could still be worn.
Our bedroom occupies the third floor of the tall, narrow brick Beacon Hill house that has been in my family for seven generations. Pressing the intercom, I said, “Lisa?”
A few seconds passed before she replied. “Yes.”
“Where are you?”
“In my office. Why?”
“Let’s go out and have a drink someplace.”
“It’s freezing outside. Far less than freezing. Lets have a drink at home.”
“I’ll warm up the car for you and we’ll just go to one of the hotels around Copley Square where we’ll leave it with the valet. You won’t be outside more than five seconds.”
“What brought this on?”
“I thought I would wear my tux once more before sending it to the cleaner.”
“How can I resist such an invitation? Give me a few minutes to finish this page and I’ll be up.”
I was tying my cummerbund when I heard footsteps on the stairs and saw in the mirror my wife enter the room.
“Don’t you look distinguished,” she said. “And what am I supposed to wear?”
“Your new black dress would be nice and the black patent heels.”
“And?” Her reflection smiled mischievously.
“That’s all.”
“That dress is short and backless. I’ll freeze.”
“I’ve already explained why you won’t freeze. And after sitting across from you and watching your beautiful bare flesh while we have a drink or two, I promise to warm you when we come home.”
“I need to take a quick shower.”
“Meet me in the garage in fifteen minutes?”
“It’s a date.”
As promised, I had the Mercedes comfortably heated when Lisa came down.
Her hair, more blond when we sailed in the summer, now darker in the winter, accentuated by her long black coat, caught the light as she climbed into the car. As did a flash of bare thigh.
Copley Square was only a few blocks and, that evening without much traffic, only a few minutes away. Some function was being held at the first hotel we approached. Too many cars were backed up, so we drove to another hotel overlooking Boston Common, which for reasons that will become apparent I will not identify.
Once inside we went to the main bar, which has a clubby atmosphere, wood paneled, dark and quiet. A few mostly older couples were scattered around the room. A tuxedoed waiter showed us to a window table overlooking the street below. In view of what happened I find myself trying to remember my first impression of him, but, as should be true of any good waiter, I can’t. He was deferential and faded into the background. Later I looked at him more closely and decided he was about my age, which is 50, of average build and looks, thinning gray hair. He looked like a man who had gladly spent his life discretely serving drinks at a five star hotel.
He murmured the usual banalities about the weather and the holiday season before asking what he could bring us.
“A martini,” Lisa said. “With two olives.”
“Laphroaig,” I said. “Neat.”
“Very good, sir,” and he gave me the nontourist smile.
As we sipped our drinks and talked comfortably and inconsequentially, my eyes moved between the headlights of the traffic outside and the darkness of the Common to my wife.
In a world obsessed with looking younger, Lisa is the only woman I have ever met who generally wants to look older. At 35 and a full professor with expertise in a field that laymen, including me can only vaguely understand, she appears at least ten years younger and is often mistaken for a student. In her professional life, she plays down her appearance, but tonight, she let herself look beautiful. Her winter pale skin made her green eyes dramatically deeper. Her breasts, larger than her fine bones would suggest, and as I knew with great pleasure, firm and perfectly formed, moved beneath the loose fabric. The dress I had given her for Christmas was cut high in the front and was not tight, except at the waist, rather it flowed with the curves of her body. I thought I could see the hard points of her nipples.
Catching the direction of my glance, she grinned. “Do you like what you see?”
“Indeed I do,” I smiled.
Beneath the table I felt her bare leg press against mine.
“Shall we have another or go?,” she asked.
“Let’s have another,” I said. “I’m enjoying the view and the anticipation.”
I singled to the waiter, who was standing at the bar, talking to the bartender. On this quiet night, they were the only ones on duty. He nodded in acknowledgment and soon bought a second round.
A few minutes later, Lisa said, “Excuse me for a moment while I go to the ladies.”
I stood and pulled back her chair. “I’ll enjoy the view.”
“I thought you might.”
And I did as she walked away on long legs, the line of her spine and her bare shoulders and back, the mysterious movement of her hips beneath the short dress. I was naturally proud that the eyes of all the other men in the room followed her too, including, discretely, those of the waiter and bartender.
A few minutes after she left I noticed that the waiter left the bar too, but did not think anything of it until Lisa returned, sat down, and grinned. “Our waiter thinks I’m a hooker.”
I gave a surprised, “What?” “He must think I’m your escort. He was waiting for me just outside in the lobby and whispered under his breath that I should come back after ‘dinner’.”
“Dinner?”
“I think that was his discrete way of saying after my time with you was up.”
I considered this for a few moments. While I am tall and trim, I am fifteen years older than Lisa, who of course looks much younger than she in fact is. My temples are touched with gray. I wear a Cartier watch and my clothes are those of the affluent real estate developer I in fact am. Although I have never had to pay for female companionship, it was not an unreasonable conclusion for the man to have drawn, particularly the way we both were dressed. That we both were wearing plain gold wedding rings may have been outweighed by Lisa’s bare legs. Who else goes without stockings around Boston with the temperature at 7°F?
“I’m flattered,” she said.
“Probably a first for the faculty at MIT,” I replied.
“Oh I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” she laughed.
“Well, perhaps not.” I paused before continuing, “Any other reaction?”
“Surprise, of course. Curiosity about the details. What he would say, what would happen. Even, I admit, a frisson, a tingle of excitement. It is so out of character, not a way I have ever thought of myself.”
“So do it.”
“You can’t be serious?”
“Why not? It might be interesting.”
“And how far do I go with this?”
“As far as you want. I doubt anyone is going to rape you. You can walk away whenever you want, get a taxi at the door and be home in five minutes.”
“You really want me to do this?” I studied her. Despite the incredulity in her voice, her face was flushed, her eyes bright, her breasts moving with rapid respiration.
“If you want to. It might make for some interesting talk when you get home and we fuck.”
“How would it go?”
“We’ll finish our drinks and leave together.” I knew she had not brought a purse and her dress certainly had no pockets. “I’ll give you a twenty for the taxi. Put it in a shoe. I can’t think of anyplace else. You wait about ten minutes and return here. I’ll drive home and wait for you with high lust and expectation. You taxi home when you’re ready. And we fuck our brains out while you tell me all about it.”
“Do you really think this is a good idea?”
“Only if you want to. I can’t imagine that anything will happen you can’t handle.” h Taking a deep breath that did spectacular things to the front of her dress, she exhaled, and said, “All right.”
Although we tried not to hurry, we more or less gulped the remainder of our drinks. We both were excited. I know my cock was throbbing hard.
Leaving two twenties on the table, which included a generous tip—though how generous his tip would be the waiter did not yet know—I stood.
Lisa took my arm and as the waiter opened the door for us and wished us good evening, she gave him an almost imperceptible nod.
“God,” she said as we walked across the lobby, “My pussy is so wet I’m afraid it is going to run down my legs.”
“Perhaps you should use the interval to go to the ladies’ room to cool off.”
Still under the watchful eye of the waiter who lingered near the bar door, we entered an elevator and rode to the eighth floor before we got off and took separate elevators back down. I went first. Just before the elevator arrived, Lisa came into my arms, glued her body to mine from breast to thigh and gave me a kiss of pure lust.
Breaking apart when the elevator door opened, I said, “See you soon.” And rode down.
Finding the waiter no longer in sight, I crossed to the main entrance, to which the attendant brought the Mercedes, and drove home, where I started to pour myself another scotch, before changing my mind. After rekindling the fire in the fireplace, I turned on the television, where I tried to be interested in one of those obscure bowl games named after a restaurant chain, which I am not likely ever to patronize. I was not successful, barely being aware even of what teams were playing as the figures scampered across the screen and the crowd, some of whom apparently did care, screamed.
My eyes kept flickering to my watch. My ears were tuned to the sounds of cars passing on the dark street outside.
No specific images formed in my mind. Rather there was an inchoate but all encompassing awareness of sexuality, that something enormously erotic was occurring at that very moment. The sensation was only heightened by my not knowing exactly what. I loosened my tie and removed my jacket and cummerbund. Once or twice I stroked the hard bulge in my pants. If Lisa’s juices threatened to run down her legs, clearly mine were seeping through my pants which were now unquestionably destined for the dry cleaner. But I wanted to save it for her.
I didn’t really expect her for at least a half an hour. After that I grew increasingly anxious, both with lust and, as the minutes passed, with concern. What if I was wrong and she had walked into something she could not handle?
It was with great relief that I finally heard tires crunch through the crust of frozen snow in front of the house. By the time I reached the door, Lisa was ringing the bell. She flew past me.
“Are you all right?” I said to her retreating back.
Stopping in front of the fireplace, she turned. Her face was split by a huge grin. I noticed that her lipstick, which had remained intact through our last kiss, was now almost gone. Strangely sexy. “Splendid. Perfect. Wonderful. I have found my second career, my true calling. Science be damned. In short, sir, I got the job.”
“What job? Tell me all about it.”
“Let me get warm and I will.”
“Do you want a drink?”
“Yes. No. I’ve had enough. Two with you. And two more with Yves.”
“The waiter?”
