Another week in San Jose, and my trip was stretching on longer than I had planned. Unfortunately, my product marketing team and I weren't able to get exactly the right people in exactly the right room this week, so I have to stay the weekend before trying again the following week.
I had called my wife, Mary, the day before to tell her I wouldn't be coming home that weekend after all. It was a shame. She always had something fun planned for when I came back from these trips, and I apologized up and down for being delayed. I really did feel bad even though the prospect of being on my own in San Francisco for the weekend wasn't the worst thing I could imagine. She assured me she totally understood about works and she was okay with it and I shouldn't worry. It would good for me to go up to San Francisco and have fun for the weekend. I probably would later, but that Friday night I was still kind of beat from days of arguing about marketing plans. She told me not to worry about her; she would be fine just hanging out with her friends.
So there I was sitting alone at a small table in some slightly swank Asian-fusion tapas gastropub. It was still early, a little after 6pm California time, so it was not crowded. But I was still half on New York time so that was that is after 9pm to me, and I just wanted to unwind over a quiet dinner. I had not been to this place before, but the menu looked interesting and the Yelp and FourSquare reviews were pretty good. That is really all I was looking for: something different, something new. I ordered a beer and a few small plates to start and got out my tablet to text my wife.
Me: Hey, babe. Finally done at work. Just having dinner now. What are you up to?
Mary: Hey. I'm just getting ready to go out. Nothing looks right. This is the third outfit I tried on. Sorry. No more complaining. How are you?
Me: All good. I'm just trying a new place. A gastropub near the hotel. I'm sure all your outfits look great. You're in them after all
😉
Trying on three different outfits? Mary is usually pretty casual and didn't usually worry too much about what she wore to hang out with friends at the pub.
A minute later she sent a picture of herself in the full length mirror in our bedroom. She was wearing a low cut red top with something black peeking out underneath and a tight black skirt hugging her hips. But my eyes went right to her incredible cleavage. Her breasts were amazing. They are always amazing, but after a week away I wish I could reach out and touch them. Squeeze them, run my tongue slowly around her nipples. My eyes traced along every curve of her body and savored how beautiful she was. Her face was partly hidden behind the phone in her left hand but I could see her lips are pursed like she was not quite sure.
Me: You look incredible, hon. I wish I were there but if I were, you might never get out the door.
Mary: Ha! Are you sure? I have another skirt I'm thinking about. It might be easier to dance in.
Me: So not O'Malley's tonight?
Mary: Not tonight. Sarah and Emily convinced me to go clubbing instead. The new place down 9th from Sarah's. Are you sure about this outfit?
Me: You look amazing. Have fun.
😘
I went back to my craft beer and kimchi dumplings but kept looking back to that picture. Mary looked incredible, and I wish I were going to that club with her. I imagined how sexy she would be moving with a pounding house beat, the way her hips shook and her ass bounced with the music. But I didn't want those thoughts to get the better of me while I was stuck here in a bar thousands of miles away.
I ordered another beer and some bulgogi sliders and switched my tablet to a magazine instead. I only flipped back to her picture once or twice.
Maybe an hour later another message popped up.
Mary: This place is crazy packed but the DJ is amazing. Everybody is on top of each other dancing. Em is already making out at the bar with some guy!
She followed with a blurry pic of the dance floor that she probably took by just holding her phone overhead. Then another from chest level of a group of people I didn't recognize. Her friend Emily was in the back grinding on skinny kid with floppy blonde hair like she liked. Then another of the same people but one of the other guys must have seen her taking the picture and smiled into the camera. Broad shoulders, short dark hair, a tight black t-shirt and jeans.
Mary: That guy has been eyeing me and moving over this way. I think he was here with Em's guy.
Me: Moving over like creepy?
Mary: Not creepy. Just wants to dance.
Me: Can't blame him.
😉
Mary sent another pic a minute later. It looked like she had danced over to where he had been. He was right in front of her dancing and sort of playfully mugging for the camera. He was young, maybe early twenties, and looked like he knew his way around the gym with muscular arms and six-pack abs.
I tried to switch back to my magazine but nothing seemed all that interesting. I paged through the beer menu for a fourth and fifth time. I checked Facebook and Twitter and scanned past forgettable memes and whiny updates. I just couldn't focus on any one thing. A while later:
Mary: Hey, baby. Waiting at the bar to get us drinks. I was dancing with that guy. He was just hanging back so I moved up closer and put my hand on his side and he put his hands around my waist and then sort of slid down to my ass. I didn't exactly stop him. Are you mad?
I paused for a second. Yeah, no. I wasn't mad.
Me: Not mad. Have fun.
😘
Mary: Really? You're the best. Miss you.
Mary: Hmm. How much fun should I have?
😉
Me: How ever much you want. Seriously.
My heart was beating hard and I kept looking back at the pictures my wife sent. I imagined her pressed up against him on the dance floor with his hands sliding down the curve of her hips to her ass. A few minutes later I get another message pop up.
Mary: Fixing my outfit...
And then a picture of her in the ladies room mirror. Her back is to the mirror and she is looking over her shoulder smiling. Her skirt is pulled up in back showing her bare heart-shaped ass. One thumb is hooked into her panties pulled down to mid thigh to show me that she was taking them off.