Angela has a Shameful, but Enjoyable Night. Or Two.
A Texas Congressman picks up Angela with the help of a fat wallet
Caveats:
There is no actual incest in this story. There is instead delusional incest, provoked by Angela hooking up with a man who reminds her, rather intensely, of her father. There is, however, sex for money.
**
I was at a conference in New York City. I never stay at the Convention Hotel, despite their special rates for our conference. I hate those huge hotels, so I was staying at the Sofitel, a short fifteen-minute walk, twenty minutes in heels, from the Times Square Marriott. There's another reason, too, that I'm at the Sofitel: I'm around my colleagues all day long at the talks, and I don't need to be around them in the evenings, too!
It had been a long day, and I was tired. I decided I needed a cocktail to unwind, and I went to the bar at the Sofitel. I took a table, and sat down, crossing my legs, showing a hell of a lot of nylon, but you know what? I didn't care. I was just too mentally exhausted to care.
All the men in the bar seemed to be checking me out. I have nice legs, granted, and that's why I tend to wear short skirts, even though I'm in my early thirties. Other than my legs, however, I'm nothing special. I have small boobs, and I do not show them off. I have nice skin, brown eyes, brown hair, and it's nicely coiffed, as the bills on my Amex card indicate it should be. I guess I was being checked out so much because I was the only single woman in the bar. For the men fantasizing about some casual sex with a willing woman, it's any port in a storm, right?
It's kind of nice to be the object of lust, after a long day at a conference, and for a woman in her early thirties. It's flattering, in a shameful kind of way. It's not what I wanted; I'd much rather have been the object of lust of just my former husband Shane, but he was back in what used to be our home, in Indiana, and the former was very operative.
Nevertheless, I was exchanging loving texts with him, even though we were divorced, when the waitress came and asked if I'd like 'another of the same.' I was drinking the house cocktail, involving a French champagne and a peach liqueur.
I wasn't so angry with Shane anymore. It helped that the bimbo he dumped me for, had moved on to another husband who was richer. Her rejection did more to hurt him than my bitterness ever could. I'm just not a mean person, I can't summon up the anger or the hate that I know I should have. Maybe it's there, and just heavily suppressed, and will emerge in a fit of pique at some inopportune time. I hope not.
By the time she brought over the second cocktail, my texting days were over, and I was browsing "news alerts" on my phone, when it happened. A man who reminded me of my father (approximately the same age, same salt and pepper hair, same crooked smile, same general gestalt) sat down at my table with me, to my great surprise. I suppressed saying 'Hi, Dad,' to this stranger. The resemblance to my Dad was remarkable, even if his face was quite different from my Dad's face. My Dad is better looking, in my opinion.
"Nice legs," he said. Well. My father had never said that to me. He had never complimented my body at all.
Come to think of it, he never complimented my mother's appearance, either, but it was obvious he liked it. Or, at least, it was obvious he liked to fuck her. I still remember her moans and orgasmic screams. My Mom, may she rest in peace, was a noisy fuck -- just like me, I guess. They didn't seem to care that I could always hear them. It led to an interesting adolescence, you might say.
Gobsmacked, for once in my life I had no clever retort to his compliment of my legs, and only managed to get out a pathetic, and quiet, "Thank you."
Then came the usual mindless banter, are you staying at the hotel, what brings you to NY, etc. During the banter, I convinced myself the man was, in fact, not my father, despite the similarities. He made himself at home, asking the waitress to put all drinks at the table on his tab, as he ordered a double strength, single malt Scotch whisky. He had a commanding presence.
The man explained he was from Cincinnati and looking for some companionship for his last night in 'the Big Apple.' He had a southern accent, or better, southwestern. Texas or Oklahoma I'd imagine, but maybe he had lived someplace in the southwest, before moving to Cincinnati.
I ignored his crude remarks about my body, and changed the topic to Cincinnati, which I consider a little gem of a small city, tucked away in the blandest large state in America, namely Ohio. I'm from Indiana, but where I live is equidistant from Indianapolis and Cincinnati, so I know both cities rather well. We discussed Mt. Adams, Grater's Ice Cream, the Bengals, Hyde Park, and the beautiful architecture lining Fourth Street. We also discussed the strangely named Fifth Third Bank, the Mercantile Library, and the complicated stardom of Pete Rose.
All this time my mind was racing. He was wearing a wedding ring; so too was I. Was he really trying to pick me up for a one-night stand? Did he care about the twenty-something years of an age difference? Well, some men are like that, I suppose. After all, he was far from Cincinnati, and his wife would never know, unless I gave him an STD, but there was no worry on that score, although he didn't know that, of course.
James (his name) was not that handsome, but then I was not that pretty. He had a gut. He was balding and had a horrific comb-over. His big plus was that he was smart, and he shared my interest in renaissance chamber music. I didn't tell him that I was from Indiana, not that far from Cincinnati. I had no plans, and no desire, ever to see him again once I had finished my drink.
Why would he think I was pick-up-able? Did I look like that kind of a woman? God, I hope not! Did he think he himself was handsome, some kind of an old, some might say ancient, Don Juan? If so, he needed to get over himself.
Maybe it was simply because I was alone in a bar, a single woman, who was showing a lot of leg. He was just trying luck; nothing ventured, nothing gained. I finished my drink, and I was saying goodnight as I rose to go to my room, when James said, "Angela, before you go, may I ask you a question?"
I sighed internally, but sat back down, smiling. My mother, may she rest in peace, would have been proud. She always wanted me to smile at men, and to be polite. James then told me a heart-wrenching story about how his daughter had died at the hands of her boyfriend, and how it had destroyed his wife, and now she too was dying of cancer. He had no sex life, and hadn't had one for some time. I really didn't need to know that.
We had just met, in a hotel bar, and he had brought up his lack of a sex life? It was clear to me what his agenda was, and I strongly suspected it involved me on my back with my legs spread far apart. Well, everyone's entitled to their fantasies, I suppose.
My mother too had recently died of cancer, may she rest in peace. In my mother's case, it was a particularly nasty form of breast cancer, called Triple Negative, which is notoriously hard to treat. The cancer spread, and she died a horrible death.
I felt bad for him. The experience of my mother gave me automatic empathy for him, but not enough to let him pick me up! I made all the appropriate sympathetic noises, and then, now a half hour later, explained I had my conference in the morning and needed to get some rest. I again began to leave. Again, he asked me to remain another five minutes, since he had something he wanted to ask me.
It was close to Christmas, and I don't know why, but I thought maybe he wanted some female advice on a Christmas present to give to his dying wife. Or, perhaps, he needed some life advice, perhaps about dealing with grief? Not that I'm especially wise, but I'm not especially stupid either, so once again, to be polite, I sat down.
The waitress appeared and she asked if we'd like yet another cocktail? I'd already had a third one while we had talked, so this would make cocktail number four. I was already over my limit on the drinks, but while it was only more or less champagne (which I love) and peach liqueur, I had noticed that light-headed feeling I get sometimes after the third cocktail. I convinced myself I was not too drunk, still in control, that it was not too bad. Now I was soon to be sipping at the fourth? Danger symbols appeared.
"You'll need the drink once I ask you my question," James said, seeing my hesitancy over yet another drink. To say that this sparked my interest is an understatement. I was more like, Hoo-boy! Actually, James had scared me. Why was I doing this? Sometimes I'm just much too good of a Christian.
James waited until the drinks arrived and then he dropped the bomb.
"Will you please spend the night with me, Angela?"
I was gobsmacked a second time, and it was not because he said please. Of all the questions he could have asked me, that one had not been in my realm of possibilities. I know that sounds strange, given I had thought all along he was trying to pick me up, but we had developed a rapport. We literally had discussed life and death, and if anything, we had become friends, sharing life experiences of the dramatic, horrible kind. Sex right then was far, very far, from my mind, even if he did remind me of my Dad.
He didn't suggest we go for a walk together, nor did he offer to walk me to my room, or tell me it was a romantic evening and we should go for a ride and see the sights and lights of New York at night. No, he just came right out with it, and asked me to spend the night with him. That's maybe how things are done in Texas, I don't know, but I do know it's not at all the Cincinnati way.
I sat there, silent and stunned. Perhaps I should have seen it coming? He sat down with me, engaged me in conversation, and once I relaxed a bit he played the wife's cancer card, and lack of sex life, on me. Yes, in retrospect, I should have seen it coming. I just didn't expect it to be so crude.
I thought back to my ex-husband, Shane. He was alone, back home in Indiana, probably watching Law and Order reruns. He's a good man, my Shane is. He's unexciting, mediocre in the bedroom, and unimaginative; but he's pleasant, loving, and even adoring, and dammit, I like those traits in a man. He's a good provider, too. There's more, even a lot more, to life than exciting sex. Still, a little excitement from time to time might be nice. It might be quite nice.
