I.
It didn't matter at all that Christine was married. She met Bobby at the mandatory course for all new admittees to the DC Bar. In a large ballroom of the Ronald Reagan Building downtown, Christine was seated at one of the endless rows of tables, apathetically glancing through the course materials. The room was starting to fill up; there was the low background murmur of idle conversation.
"Hi, is anyone sitting there?"
Christine looked up. A man dressed in a shirt, sport coat and no tie was pointing at the seat next to her. He had a Danish in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other, and he was cute, about her age; just gently past thirty.
"No," Christine said. He began to turn away. "I mean," she corrected herself, "no one's sitting there. You can sit here. Please. I mean, if you like."
"Are you sure?" he asked with a wry smile.
"Yes," Christine said, smiling back. "Sorry about the mix up." He settled into the chair next to her.
"I always get frazzled at these Bar seminars," Christine explained. "They're always so long and boring."
"Me, too. And they make you get up so early just to put you back to sleep."
"Well, maybe we can be discreet and do what my friends and I used to do in law school during boring classes—have very thorough games of hangman."
"You did that too?"
"Almost my entire third year."
"Me too! We used to play legal hangman—the word was always some sort of legal term or phrase."
"I see, well, you're obviously much more sophisticated than we were," Christine said with a pretty smile. "I'm Christine, by the way," and she extended her hand.
"Robert. But please, call me Bobby." They shook hands.
"Where else are you admitted?" Bobby asked.
"California. And you?"
"New York."
They did not play hangman, but had a very pleasant conversation during the breaks, and passed notes furiously like high schoolers during the more mind-numbing presentations on DC Court practice. They exchanged business cards when it was all over; Bobby found out that Christine Greene was a labor attorney for a medium sized firm downtown that represented businesses against labor unions. Christine learned that Bobby Lehman was a trial attorney for the Department of Justice.
Over dinner that night, Christine's husband, Vince, asked "How was your course today?"
"Oh, you know how these things are," she replied. "Boring, boring, boring. I brought some things to do from work, some cases to review, and worked on that during the really dull parts."
That was the extent of their conversation about what happened to Christine at the seminar.
II.
Two weeks later, Bobby and Christine met for lunch downtown. Bobby had just returned from a big narcotics trial he had won in southern Illinois, and through the appetizer course he entertained Christine with stories from that case. During entrees they compared notes about their relationships.
Bobby saw the ring on her hand and asked about it. Christine said she was halfway through her third year of marriage, and that her husband taught "high school English at one of the private schools in Northwest D.C."
She asked him, "What about you? Do you have a girlfriend?"
Bobby had a long-standing, serious girlfriend; three years of dating, but they still kept separate residences. She was a graduate student at the University of Maryland, and currently in Colorado doing research for her dissertation. Bobby did not tell Christine all of that; he simply said, "Yeah, I've been seeing someone, kinda off and on for awhile now. You know."
That was the extent of their conversation about any significant others they might have. After the entrees were brought, Bobby directed the conversation to Christine—what her practice was like (interesting), how long she had been out in D.C. (only one year), where she was from originally (central California), how she liked the East Coast (the four seasons were nice but she still wasn't used to the cold).
"Well," Bobby said to that, "having grown up in the East, I think the best part of the cold can be the keeping warm." Christine understood that he was not talking about hot chocolate.
The calendar read sometime in mid-October.
III.
Three days later it was a Friday and they met for a drink in the early evening at Zola on F Street. Her husband was going to be late at his school, coaching the fall drama production. Christine and Bobby drank a toast to the "DC Bar" and then they drank another toast to "new friends." They talked about their childhoods and told embarrassing stories. They had another drink and told stories about their college days. She told a secret about a hazing party for the sorority she joined (after a "Pimps and Ho's" party, the pledges were dropped off in the center of town and had to walk the four miles back to the campus in their stilettos and platforms and other hooker-inspired ensembles). He told about how he was hazed when he joined the sailing team (all new members had to run a naked mile through the small New England down, going down to the docks and then back to campus on the weekend before Thanksgiving, when it was cold and the male anatomy did not show off to any great pride).
Often their fingertips touched, and they kept their hands in close proximity, as if little electrical sparks were jumping from one to the other. After about an hour, Bobby made was making a point and for emphasis put his hand on her knee. She was wearing a skirt, so he could feel her stocking underneath his palm. When they parted a half an hour later, his hand had worked its way up to about her mid-thigh.
IV.
The next week, they met again for another end-the-week drink at Zola.
"I really like your hair," Bobby said, reaching over and fingering the tip of her straight, brown bob. "I think it's very stylish, very sleek."
"Thank you. I used to have really long hair; I just cut it down in the last year or so. I think it looks more professional." Her hand crept up the length of Bobby's arm.
"Of my goodness!" Christine exclaimed, surprised. She was feeling his bicep through his suit jacket. "You are so strong!"
"What can I say," Bobby said, in mock self-deprecation, "those law books are heavy. All those case reporters . . ."
She smiled. "And you just hide all these muscles, it's just not fair. Men's clothes. Really! You see, women's clothes, I mean we just have to put it all on display, I mean, you can't hide anything," and with that she crossed her legs, letting the skirt of her suit ride up on her thighs.
"Well," Bobby said, "I think that's a public service you do, letting men see those excellent legs of yours." He leaned in closer to her, only inches away from her mouth. "I think you definitely fulfill your pro bono obligations to the bar each year."
"Yes, and I also fulfill my pro boner obligations," and with that Christine gave his crotch a quick squeeze.
Bobby, still playing with her hair, leaned in even closer—but when their mouths were almost touching she pulled back. "Excuse me," she said, lowering herself from her bar stool, "I think I need to go to the ladies'." Bobby watched her sashay out of the bar, her trim frame moving gracefully, her pert ass perfectly shown off in the gray tweed skirt suit.
When Christine came out of the ladies room, she found Bobby there in the secluded little area by the restrooms. She started to say something, but Bobby closed the distance to her and silenced her mouth with his hard, masculine kiss. Their arms wrapped around each other; Christine kissed him back, passionately, urgently, with need.
They backpedaled into the ladies' room and stumbled, mid-embrace, into a stall. Christine had just applied her bright red lipstick and now it smudged over her mouth and his. They could taste the alcohol on each other's breath. He groped brazenly for her breasts through the white oxford cloth of her blouse and she loved it, encouraging his strong hands to feel her body everywhere. He squeezed her ass, her thighs. He held her close against him so she could feel the throbbing lust he had for her between his legs.
In her turn, she wrapped a stocking-clad leg around him, rubbing herself against his body obscenely. Their tongues met in a frenzy of saliva and skin; she could smell the deep, manly scent of his cologne, and he could still smell the delicate conditioner she rinsed her hair with that morning.
It ended when he began to reach for the buttons of her blouse.
"No, not yet," she protested, French kissing him like a college sophomore.
"Why not?"
"I'm not wearing a very nice bra today. I don't want you to see it."
"C'mon . . ." he said, cupping her left breast and savoring the feeling.
"No. I wasn't . . . Monday. You can on Monday."
"Monday?"
"Mmmm-hmmm." They had broken their kiss now, and he could see her face: she was flushed, bright red. He could feel the blood in his face, his heart still pounding in a rush.
"But there's a whole weekend in between."
"Then you'll just have to jerk-off wondering what I'm like now won't you?" she said, taking hold of his cock through his pants.
"Let's go to a hotel, then. My treat?"
"Oh yeah?"
"If you're going to make me wait, I'm going to want to take my time and enjoy it."
She kissed him once on the mouth, quickly. "Okay."
V.
Monday was cold and overcast. Even though it was only a few blocks from her office, Christine took a taxi over to the Willard Hotel. The doorman opened her cab door, and she stepped out of the cab. She was wearing an overcoat and sunglasses, even though there was no sun in the sky. She had a leather tote bag with her. Quickly, she walked up the steps into the opulent yet compact lobby. A grand, fresh floral arrangement in the center of the lobby dominated the room, its perfume wafting over to Christine as soon as she passed through the revolving front door.
So this is what indecency smells like, she thought to herself, thinking that the organic earthiness of the flower bouquet made a fitting parallel to the earthy musk of sex itself.
