In retrospect I had no one to blame but myself. I love clothes. I can't remember when I didn't. I wanted to be a designer. Mom thought that impractical and said I should be nurse. After all, Mom suggested, with my looks I could rope-in a doctor husband. Chasing dreams was something rich people did. So I was in college, in my second year of a pre-nursing program and I hated it. Every minute of every day, I hated it.
So what did I do? I met Charles Clinton. He was from a good family, one of those families my mother approved of, and he offered an out. He would take care of me and save me from a career I detested. That he was as controlling as my mother, telling me what to wear and what to do, was a red flag I choose not to see.
I am more self-forgiving as to a second, more obscure red flag. Charles would assume that I would be grateful that a rich man like him would choose a poor girl like me. He expected, after we married, to have carte blanche to do what he pleased.
Of course, it was not only my mother, but everyone else who seemed to think it was a great idea. Well, almost everyone. I had a high school teacher, Janet Prosnit, whom I held in awe. After I graduated the seven year difference in our ages seemed unimportant; she became a friend I loved and adored. She had always urged me to pursue my dream, a career in fashion. When I talked to her about Charles, she suggested I think it over real hard.
And now for a third and, I promise, my final act of self-remonstration. I could have said no the night we made love without protection.
His family was not happy about the union, but I worked hard to win their approval and while I can't say I fully overcame their reservations, I was far more dutiful daughter-in-law than he a son. They could, and did, depend on me and if not their unconditional love, I won their respect.
Unfortunately for his relationship with his macho father, our son inherited my love of design. It wasn't clothes, it was drawing and comic books. Charles signed his son up for football, baseball, soccer, and basketball. Rick dutifully participated. He just wasn't particularly good.
After Rick's failure in sports Charles, to Rick's immense relief, paid minimal attention to him, leaving Rick free to pursue his interests. I was not my mother, I fully encouraged him. Thus, during the summer before his senior year in high school when he expressed a desire to go to New York to visit the Parsons School of Design and the School of Visual Arts, the country's leading graphic design schools, I was supportive. His father said no.
"I am not sending my son to college to learn to draw!"
I brokered a compromise. Rick was about to turn eighteen. My birthday was a week after his. How about a family trip to New York as a dual birthday present? Charles, reluctantly, agreed and said he'd come along, a proposal I would have abhorred more - I didn't want to go to New York to watch baseball games - if I wasn't sure Charles would find a reason to back out of the trip. A cultural trip with his family in New York was most certainly not his thing. When one came up he started imposing arbitrary financial restrictions on the trip - it was his way of showing who was in charge. Charles decided Rick and I would share a suite at the Ritz-Carlton. I argued that there were far cheaper places to stay where Rick and I could have separate rooms, but Charles was adamant: his wife would get the best. However, his "pussy" son did not need his own room. He could sleep on the couch.
Rick seemed unoffended; he had long ago taken the measure of his father.
Rick, who had also assumed his father would bail on the trip, had insisted on planning our vacation. He had, he said, a thousand ideas and plenty of surprises for his mother. Especially day one. Day one was my birthday.
We touched down in New York on Friday evening, making it to the hotel with only enough time to unpack, brush our teeth, and hit the sack. The bed was huge and I offered to share it with Rick. He declined, heading for the couch.
He was up early the next morning, bringing me a cup of coffee in bed. "Happy birthday Mom. Today you get anything you want, whether you're supposed to have it or not."
He then unveiled his "suggested" schedule. He had done his research; it exceeded my imagination. We started out by visiting the museum at the Fashion Institute of Technology, famous for its collection of gay and lesbian inspired clothing, and then the more traditional fashion collection at Metropolitan Museum of Art.
We went to lunch at Jungsik, a Korean-French restaurant. I scanned the menu: sea urchin, octopus, squid.
"Your Dad would never come here."
"That's sort of the point."
I had three glasses of wine and we went shopping at Lavin's and Bloomingdale's. Rick encouraged me to buy whatever I wanted. I checked the prices.
"You're father will have a fit."
"He'll have a fit no matter what we do. And remember today's theme: you get anything you want, whether you're supposed to have it or not."
That, at least to a woman with three glasses of wine in her, made perfect sense. I bought several outfits, sexier than I would normally.
We got back to the hotel and I, still buzzed, lay down, my head on my son's leg, and fell asleep. I woke about forty-five minutes later, slightly groggy. My son, just getting out of the shower, was wearing a towel. I inspected his body. I had not realized how long and lean he was. My husband was broad shouldered and barrel chested, Rick's body was much closer to my slender build. I had let my husband's criticism of Rick's athleticism and sport of choice, bicycling, influence me. Rick was far from the chiseled body builder my husband idealized, but he was lithe and muscular.
"You better get ready. We got places to go."
"What are you talking about?"
He pointed to the pillow next to me. It was Fashion Week in New York and sitting there were two invitations to the show of my favorite designer.
I held them up. I stared. "Ohmigod! How did, where, how, ohmigod, thank you." I felt tears well-up. I wiped them away.
"Now aren't you glad we went shopping?"
* * * *
I looked in the mirror. I wasn't going to compete with the ladies on the runway, but still, I thought I looked pretty good. Through the years of my marriage I had maintained my figure and I still carried only 115 pounds on my five foot six inch frame. I had also discovered one nice thing about the B breasts I had complained about when I was a teenager; at thirty-eight they remained pert and firm.
I went with a simple strapless coral dress that hung to my knees. The dress was sexy, but understated, and it showed off my shoulders and back. It went well with my caramel brown hair, which flowed past my shoulder blades, green eyes, and lightly tanned skin. The shoes, well there I got a bit impractical, choosing ivory open-toed evening sandals with 3½ inch heels. Some simple gold earrings and a bracelet completed the look.
The evening was fabulous, as fabulous and magical and sexy as I imagine any evening could be. Rick and I were surrounded my beautiful men and women and beautiful clothes. A bit intimidated by the crowd, I stayed at his side and when we walked back to our hotel we held hands. Once in the room I gave him a big hug and poured out my appreciation. When done Rick placed his open hand on the side of my face and said, "It's how you should be treated every day," and kissed my lips.
I was already aroused - how could you spend an evening like that and not be - and felt a sudden explosion down below. I put my hand on his shoulder and closed my eyes, realizing that I was waiting for another kiss. He didn't deliver. Instead he sat me on the edge of the bed. "Let's get these off you." He took off my shoes and cradled my feet. "Are they sore? You don't often wear heels all evening."
My voice was almost meek. "A bit."
He went to the bathroom and returned with a warm wet wash cloth that he used to clean my feet. He rotated my ankles and toes clockwise and counterclockwise and then pulled on each toe. He applied lotion to his hands and walked his thumbs over the soles, pushing deep, finding the pressure points. Turning to the balls of my feet, he moved his thumbs in semicircles, working back and forth, and then focused on my soles, the massage starting at the top and ending at the heel. He finished by cupping his hands and sliding his palms and fingers forcefully up and down my feet. It was wonderful. I could get used to this.
"How do they feel?"
"Much better. Oh Rick, this has been the best day of my life."
He lay on the bed next to me. "They should all be like this, but today's not over yet. Remember our theme: you get anything you want, whether you're supposed to have it or not."
He kissed my forehead. I thought about how I had wanted him to kiss me again when we first got back to our room. I opened my mouth, running my tongue along my lips, inviting him to do so again. He tilted his head and kissed my lips. I kissed him back and when he returned for another peck, I worked my lips against his, flexing my jaw. He broke the kiss and took my head in his hands, bending it forward to kiss my forehead, kissed my mouth and eyes, turned my head to the side and took an ear lobe in his mouth and, oh so carefully, dragged his teeth across it.
Up until that point I had been quiet, unwilling to make the slightest noise fearful of disrupting the perfection of the moment, but I let out a low long moan, "Unnhhhh..."
Rick whispered in my ear. "I've always thought you were the most beautiful woman in the world."
We moved up the bed. I lay on my back, he next to me. He turned to face me, propping his head up on an elbow. His other hand was traipsing down the side of my body. We resumed kissing. It was like being back in high school, when kissing was not just a step on the way to another place, but an end in itself. I explored his mouth. After awhile he pushed me away and again kissed my mouth, my cheeks, my nose, my chin, my ears; his face wore a radiant smile. His hand had become bolder, his fingertips were gently caressing the sensitive skin of my inner thighs. I spread my legs; my moans were louder and insistent. I needed more.
His hand slipped under my loose fitting dress, it's heel sitting on top of my panties. He cupped my pussy.
I stiffened, not sure what to do. Then his voice again, "Remember, whether you're supposed to or not." He squeezed and kneaded my pussy mound. The soaking wet lips of my sex slid against each other. He shifted the position of his hand so its heel sat on my clitoris and worked his fingers along my labia and pussy lips through the panties. He rocked the heel of his hand on my clit.
"Oh Rick," I said, acknowledging who he was for the first time, "Ahhhh...uhhhmmmm." I pushed my hips, and clit, into his hand.
His pulled up my dress so it was above my waist. A single finger, starting at the top of my labia, slipped under my panties and slowly, ever so slowly, surfed through the moisture to the opening of my vagina. It massaged my pussy lips, sending shivers throughout me. My vagina swelled and spread, the lips of my pussy opened. He placed the tip of his finger inside me and it sank inside as my vaginal spasms drew down as if it was standing on quicksand.
He twisted it around, rubbing the interior walls of my snatch. I was murmuring in delight when I felt a sharp explosion of pleasure. So there was such a thing as a g-spot! I held his upper arm and moaned.
"Am I'm doing it right?"
"Oh, yes!"
He kept moving inside me, sometimes returning to my g-spot, delighting it with the tip of his finger. I was getting wetter and wetter. Drops of juice ran down my thighs and butt. The walls of my vagina swelled and ballooned, opening themselves to him.
My son noticed too. "I can feel how turned on you're getting. You're so incredibly wet. Your pussy..."
When he said that word I groaned, pushing my sex against him.
