Fulfillment 10

ONE

So. It all starts with an email, one you almost deleted. You didn't recognize the email name. For some reason, however, you opened it. If you hadn't none of what I have to record here would ever have happened.

The happened in July, a very hot one, and you were still stewing about missed chances, lost opportunities in Vegas. The two of you had come so very close. The young bartender, the suite, the drinking. In retrospect, she had been as ripe as a peach just at the instant when you can start to dent it with your thumb, almost ready to fall off the tree into your hand.. A miss so close that it was like Pujols missing a fastball, a millimeter. In this case one Vodka Red Bull too many.

Then, have come all that long way, have made all that progress, she had fallen back, lapsed into the American prudery which, in her case, was not very deep or forceful but just forceful enough to make her shy from your great dream. When you brought up Vegas, she'd say she had forgotten it. When, in the throes of love-making you mentioned it, she acted as though she hadn't heard you. The love-making, in spite of her beauty, started to seem flat. She even gained a pound of two, something she had never done before.

"Dear . . ." read the email.

I hope you have opened this and remember me. I'm the bartender from the El Cortez—or I was. I guess a lot of visitors to Vegas remember their visits for life. It's rare that a visitor is remembered her. But you are. Or, to be honest, your wife is.

This is a city of beautiful women. Many are pros, and so being beautiful is their profession, in a sense. Any man who actually lives here gets satiated with beauty, the way a Pasha with a harem must get tired of sex. So it takes someone extraordinary—an Angelina Jolie—to turn heads in any of the hotels.

Frankly, however, my head was so turned by your wife, I have to go to a chiropractor. Every day I kick myself—I should have known better because I am a bartender—for giving her that one last Vodka Red Bull.

Anyway, let me cut to the real reason I am writing to you. I am not the only one who noticed her. Dozens of guys, even guys I don't know, have kept coming up to me 'Who was she?' 'Did you score with that fantastic blond?' 'Have you ever seen a butt that pretty, and those breasts, the smile?'

And, most often 'When is she coming back?'

I consider you guys friends, so I didn't answer some of these guys. The questions kept coming, however, and, eventually, I weeded out all but twenty or so guys, and the remaining were good friends and trustworthy. I told them the truth about what happened (or didn't), but I never gave them any way to get in touch with you.

One night, one of them, a friend called Ray, who works at Trumps, got very lucky at the blackjack table. It's a long story. Ray has a great memory if you know what I man. Anyway, he comes out of the casino with over a hundred bills, the ones with the picture Of Grover Cleveland on them. And he is buying drinks, and a bunch of these guys, my friends, heard about it, and we had a big party, with a couple of girls and everything, the works.

Well, some of these friends of mine are rich. One of them is related to Trump, another has a big interest in Harrah's, another is a lawyer who represents two big casinos here. Anyway, Ray, in his enthusiasm, brings up your wife, and there are moans all around the table, and remarks like 'What a piece of heaven.' and 'Where did that super hottie go?' Other guys couldn't even talk. They just moaned.

And so Ray says, 'Tell me the truth, Bobbie, you know where she is?' And I am a little plastered and so I nod yes.

Ray takes five bills out of his wad. 'Give her this. Tell her to fly out. The husband too.' (All the guys who met you liked you, and they thought you were really 'generous).

Next thing I know, all the other guys are taking out big bills. The short of it is that you now have $30,000 in an account at CityBank. The guys want you to use it first to buy her clothes and stuff and then to fly out her for a week or two. They got you the penthouse at Trump's. So that's free. 702-693-7111

Call me at this number 702-693-7111. It's the Bellagio. That's where I work now.

Oh yes, there's no obligation. These guys will be happy just to look at her, to talk with her, to dream that they have a chance. So don't take this the wrong way.

Bobbie.

TWO

can't say she minded the shopping spree a bit. Wonderful dresses—club wear she called them—shoes so stacked you didn't see how a woman could walk in them, underwear of the best quality, perfumes. Her fans in Vegas were out ten grand before we even got on the plane.

At the same time, she was reluctant. She kept saying that the two of you were going to Vegas to have fun and meet people, nothing more. "I don't remember just what happened last time, and I glad I don't." Then later "I think I'll give drinking a rest. It seems that I kind of lose my head when I drink and do things I don't want to remember. So I am on the wagon, at least until we get back from Vegas."

These remarks weren't exactly music to your ears. You knew that she was quite right—in part at least. Without the alcohol she would hardly flirt with another man, let alone sleep with him. You rested your hopes on the notion that the Vegas atmosphere and the company of so many people drinking would break down her resolve. Like a lot of people, once she took the first drink, the next was inevitable, and so on.

No one was at the airport to meet you, but when you got to the hotel, the suite was filled with flowers. You went out on the balcony and took in the great view of the city. She began to relax a little. Maybe she had expected to be mobbed.

Dinner was quiet. They met with Bob, who showed them to a table where a fine old Chateau Mission, on the house, awaited them, along with caviar and other hors d'oeuvres. The wine was delicious, but she wouldn't touch a drop, clinging to her vow.

After dinner Bobbie introduced us to two of his friends, Al, who owned a piece of Harrah's, and Dave, who was a stock-broker. Both were young good-looking men. They invited us to Tryst, where a good band was playing, and the next thing you knew you were on our way in Al's chauffeured Rolls.

We sat at one of the club's huge couches, with Bobbie on one side your wife and Dave on the other. You could see that they were pleased with their attention. Both were fixed on her. Yet she still hadn't ordered a drink.

Both men are drinking rum-and-tonics. When Bobbie's second arrived, he offered her a sip. She shook her head no, but he kept insisting and swore he wouldn't touch the drink until she had tasted it, and so, to be polite, she did. She took a sip, and then a deep swallow. "This is so good—I've never had anything like it," she said.

"Well, it's yours. I'll get myself another."

It is a warm night, and you are all pretty thirsty, and she knocked down the drink in record time, and then, to your deep satisfaction, ordered her standard, Vodka-Red Bull. You know that the particular combination in that drink, the caffeine and the alcohol, would loosen her up fast. She isn't slow about knocking back her second Vodka-Red Bull, and your heart began to beat with hope.

The band has started up. You could see one of her pretty feet, her stiletto half slipping off, rock in time to the music, and her calf rocks and her thigh, inches of which were visible, white and sweet, rocks too. That's when Dave asks you if he could dance with her. You told him yes, trying hard to keep your excitement from creating a tremor in your voice.

Helping you to remember all this is not the same as telling you something you simply don't know. Nonetheless, like most readers, you are in a rush to hear what happened next, and you will resent this interruption, so I will make it short.

Dave (his full name is Dave Winston) is a stock broker, who had made his millions well before the crash of 08. He had gone to Brown University where he was the star shooting guard on the basketball team and the quarterback on the football team. Majoring in Economics, he graduated as class Valedictorian, only the second Black student to win that honor in the history of the university.

He took his first job with Bear-Stearns, made partner by the time he was 26, and retired in two years, a multi-millionaire. He improved, in another arena, as a passer and shooter, with a reputation for satisfying women that was unequaled among his peers. There were rumors that he had unique moves and extraordinary equipment. He has kept in shape, never gaining a pound since the days when he deluged the basket with three-pointers.

He dances well too. You could see that. His hand on her back, her back bare because of the low cut of the gown, he back so beautifully muscled and yet so creamy in the low light. Now thoroughly tipsy, she stumbles, and he pulls her to him to support her, his hands moving down to her heavenly hips.

You watch them, your heart thumping. He whispers something. She laughs. She glances at you. He is pressing her to him harder now, his hips and groin thrust against her soft belly. He is talking to her. She laughs. You can tell by her laugh that she has drunk enough now to lose control. He kisses her quickly, lightly on the lips. The kisses take effect like shots of vodka. After each kiss you can see that her mouth is opening, all the more ready for the next. And the next comes more quickly, deeper, longer.

You see her twist and gyrate, rotating her hips, pushing against him,. She feels him. She feels him now huge and granite hard. Her naked image comes into your mind, the belly so soft and yielding, and you imagine it dented now by David's erection. You come back to the real, you take another drink. You look at them again. You can see now that she has insinuated her left hand between the two of them, her long fingers have opened a button on his shirt, and ventured in.

One of his hands is now full on her butt as they dance. You cannot see where the other is, but as they turn, you watch, amazed, as her face floods with ecstasy. His finger between her legs, he still dances gracefully, leading her steadily, but she is frenzied now, hardly able to keep the beat. She twists against him, shameless now in this public place, unable to help herself. He kisses her deep as they dance. She all but collapses against him. They pause. He kisses her again, a long, long staggering kiss, and she comes out of the embrace woozy, her pupils wide open. She is like a fighter who keeps getting up off the deck, each time a little slower, a little more vulnerable to the next knockdown. Or a butterfly caught in the web and kissed by the quick spider, at each sting less able to flutter or escape or resist.

She is beside herself. Her hands move everywhere. They fly to his neck, to his butt. They slide against, they stroke the Himalayan bulge in his pants. She is vanquished. No. She is going over to the opposing side. She has gone over to the side of the invader, is abetting in the siege, and slips the key to the main gate into his hand.

His hand, still on her full butt, presses her hard against him, his hand so black against the whiteness of her dress. He draws her to him hard, and she grinds against him. She has forgotten that she is married, that her husband is watching, that she is in public.

He kisses her again.

They swing near, turn again, and you see that her hand, removed from beneath Winston's shirt, is fumbling desperately with his belt buckle. She tries to bring her other hand to bear on the task.

Winston smiles. Taking her by that hand, he leads her towards the elevator. He looks at you over his shoulder with a triumphant but conspiratorial grin. He nods.

As though you had received a printed invitation, you follow.