Not everyone cheats, or thinks about cheating. Yet enough of us stood on those tectonic plates of shifting moral integrity to keep life interesting.
The tidal wave of humanity that sweeps through the National Art Center on any given day had left me at 6 p.m. washed up on the foamy shores of a draft beer at A971 waiting for Margot and James. Even before James had called I had not contacted Lisa, Steffi, Miriam or any other friends. When Margot and I were out man watching we did not bring the other girls. They were, despite Miriam’s unhappiness, very, very married. I had never been as married as them even when I was legally attached to my ex. Only Deidre, my fashion journalist pal, Margot and I shared with each other the sexy and/or often hilarious tales of our adventures. The other girls received PG versions – if that. Deidre was, unfortunately, off in Hong Kong covering some Asian Fashion Week. I was beginning to regret I had asked James to join us since I realized I could not entertain Margot with tales of my latest meeting with Bill and his suite at the Conrad.
http://conradhotels1.hilton.com/en/ch/hotels/index.do?ctyhocn=TYOCICI
I met up with him not really reluctantly since he was very entertaining and a real sexual sophisticate, but cautiously. We had had some great times together but he had gone and spoiled everything a few months before by wanting to get serious. He had filed for his divorce and he immediately asked me to run off first to India for a meeting he had to attend and then to New York for a week so he could introduce me to his friends.
“I am dieing to show you New York,” he’d said. “And take you shopping.” When I told Deidre this she sobbed in envy. Despite her high fashion sense and cultivated haughty auteur, the woman loved romance novels. “Oh my god Sacha, you are living every woman’s dream! The suites overlooking the Bay, Champagne on ice every time, expensive gifts, now he wants you to run away him.”
But I did not want to run away.
I liked where I was right now.
Stronger cupid’s arrows than his had blunted on my armor, I said ‘no’ and those month’s of silence ensued prior to the call at the Chinese restaurant.
He wanted to meet in his room, “No, Bill,” I said. “How about if I wait for you at the Conrad lounge and we can have a beer?” Though he was always, always ready to offer champagne I truly, dearly, longingly wanted to sit down and have a beer in the evening.
My family, prior to my sister’s descent into a Vodka fueled Dreamtime of Aboriginal proportions — or maybe it was a spirit journey? The spirits being vermouth and bitters. Anyway, we were wine and martini people, and Champagne, of course. There were always several bottles of Champagne in the refrigerator chilling – at least until my mother divorced my father and he left loading up every stick of furniture into the back of a Bekin’s moving van leaving only my sister’s and my beds with the lambs cavorting on the headboards, four Stiffel lamps and two Ethan Allen maple side tables which my mother had purchased with her own money. After that there were several lean years of only intermittent Champagne bottles.
I was unrepentant and my mother used to declare I brought shame upon the family. “Beer is such a plebian drink,” she would sob. “How can you?” As though I had developed a crack habit and was hanging out in back alleys with shady fellows in oversized Fubu jeans and forgetting to put the final consonant on words.
Considering I am the only sane person in the family I feel, perhaps, there is something to be said for avoiding the martini habit.
Bill thought it was sexy that I didn’t care what the Merlot and Sex on the Beach (the cocktail, not the sub-culture) people thought. Setting my Chanel bag by my side and my La Perla bottom in the chair I invariably ordered a draft.
The lounge at the Conrad in Shiodome is hands down my favorite lounge in town. It is hard to say why, perhaps because it was the prelude to some of the most interesting sex I have ever had – insert Bill’s name and various parts of his anatomy here. I loved the dim lighting, window-side seats and the view of the Shuto Expressway below, Rainbow Bridge, the Bay and Odaiba beyond. Forget smile slut, I am such a whore for a view. I will go anywhere to look over a city at night.
After his call midst my spicy pork and bok choy sometime ago (see Suite and Spicy, 04/03) things had not gone as planned, Osaka turned into Hong Kong instead of Tokyo and the cherry blossoms were long gone when he emailed me his Tokyo itinerary. I sat in the Conrad lounge wearing a black matte jersey dress that showed off my waist and flat stomach and a pair of mock-crocodile black stilettos that, to the connoisseur showed off something else entirely. Whether sex is on the menu or not, it is lovely to dress for a man who likes women both clothed, unclothed and all the stages in between. Bill was definitely a man like that.
One of the most erotic parts of a woman’s body for him was the small of her back, just before the swell of her bottom Touching me there, in public or private, would bring the smallest intake of breath, the pleasure taking him viscerally every time. He loved to go to a restaurant and placing his hand on my back propel me ahead of him. He was very chivalrous and I understood his sexuality was tied up with this. Not to mention his bondage fetishes. This dress would make him happy as it left very little to his fertile imagination.
I arrived first, waiting to order. Do not come to the Conrad lounge hungry. Just don’t. The amounts of food they serve are so small they would cause a bulimic the barest gag to expel.
He came in tall and handsome, his hair very short, his suit a complicated deep blue with indigo undertones. I kissed him on both cheeks; his hand lingered on my back pressing me to him. Very few men I made love to engaged my mind as much as my body as did Bill. We chatted, he scooted closer, we talked more, drinking our beer and attempting to eat the tiny portions of food that pass for appetizers here.
We had decided to walk from Shiodome down to the Ginza with a stop at Don Quijote that mad 24 hour emporium of everything. I had been wanting visit there together for a long time to show him the erotic clothing section and maybe pick something out but we never seemed to get far from the hotel. Not that I ever complained. http://www.donki.com/index.php
He indicated his suit saying, “Would you mind if I changed into another shirt and lost the tie?”
“No, not at all. I’ll wait here.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“No,” I said in what I thought was a firm voice, “I think it would be better.”
What women say and what men hear are often two very different things. I said, ‘No, I think it would be better..,’ what he heard was “Fuck me baby, fuck me now.”
Right?
“Sacha, I promise I will be a perfect gentleman. Cross my heart, just come and see the view while I change. You can freshen your lipstick and eat macaroons. Or,” he considered, “Eat the macaroons first then freshen your lipstick.”
I liked the Conrad’s Macaroons.
“Plus I have a new duck.”
The Conrad had a series of rubber duckies made just for them. They were a gift for guests and I adored each one since Bill always gave me his.
“The Crown is gold instead of silver.”
“Promise to be nice?” I asked standing and taking my bag, smoothing my dress across my tummy.
“Baby, I am always nice.”
He was certainly that.
I walked a little ahead of him, the place filling up. My hips swayed on the stilettos. Balancing on the thick carpet of the elevator hall took some doing in heels like this.
He walked me to the room, saying nothing.
It was his regular suite. The place always sparkled, I thought. Marble, lacquer bureau, windows, view, everything reflected light. We walked over together to look out the window.
“Oh,” he said, “Your duck is over by the door, I forgot.”
Turning I walked away from him to claim the duckie. My heels click, clicking on the polished floor.
“Oh god, that walk,” he moaned. “You know what that walk does to me.”
I laughed, “It’s just my walk, you know. Not an affectation,” I said coming back.
“I know, but my god, those hips. Where did you ever learn to walk like that?”
“My mother taught me when I was in first and second grade,” I answered truthfully. “She said a lady should cultivate a beautiful walk with her feet placed almost in front of one another. I used to practice all through elementary school on my way home, stalking the center line of the sidewalk.”
“All I can say is I am really glad my wife did not teach our daughters to walk like that.”
“I am not sure how to take that comment,” I said, eyebrows raised.
He reached for me sighing “Sacha, baby,” kissing me so expertly I couldn’t, wouldn’t pull away. His lips were a little thin for my liking, I love a sensuous mouth on a man, but he knew how to use them to advantage.
This had not been entirely unexpected, our evenings usually ended up like this, our plans for dinner or other outings in a pile on the floor along with our clothes. What I had wanted to tell Margot over dinner though had been an ‘only with Bill’ story, the kind Margot and Deidre both loved.
I don’t think I mentioned or maybe I did, Bill liked to talk. Not babble, just low voiced conversation his voice deep and resonant, no matter what the circumstances. He was the first man I had met who could talk – unless his mouth was otherwise engaged – virtually the whole time during intercourse. I am not kidding. He ran like a gazillion miles a day, had a body like an athlete and the stamina to match.
He loved to talk about fantasies, what he was doing to me, what he was going to do, what he would like to do, what he would do if only I would let him. Unless he was kissing me, between my thighs, or taking a sip from his glass of whiskey by the bed, he was talking. It was one of his most endearing traits – that and holding my underwear hostage.
I was in my black garter belt, stockings and stilettos and nothing else when he felt compelled to tell me the fantasy he had masturbated to last night thinking about meeting me.
For those women leading sheltered lives I should explain this is a compliment not an insult.
“I imagined I was married to you,” he said, hips rocking. “But I knew you were cheating on me, I knew but I loved you too much to let you go. That night I sat on the edge of the bed watching you get ready, putting on your panties and bra, you lace teddy and a pair of black Italian stockings. Those one like you wore before.”
I made some sort of assent that apparently satisfied him, my back arched, breathing hard, my hands clawing at his thighs, because he continued.
“You put on this backless velvet dress. I asked if I could touch you and you said, ‘I’m not for you.’ And you left.”
Meanwhile the part of my brain not occupied with sex is asking WTF?
“Late that night you came back, you hair was no longer perfect, the barest of tangles visible at the back, the clue to where you had been.”
Remember he is speaking in not only complete sentences but very passionately while continuing to ride me like Pecos Bill on a Texas whirlwind.
“There’s just a touch of mascara under your eyes. I know you’ve been fucking another man but I don’t care, his cum still inside you. Finally you sit on the bed and spread your legs, your underwear is gone, and you say ‘You can fuck me now’ and I do.”
Then he pauses and looks down into my eyes which are only barely glazed over obviously waiting for me to comment.
“Oh, uh,” I panted, “that was amazing, so sexy, wow, what a turn on.” Or something like that when all I really wanted to say was “Faster, faster, damnit!” And I didn’t mean talking.
“Now it’s your turn tell me your fantasy about me.”
‘Oh FUCK!’ My brain screamed. I buried my face in his neck to hide my confusion because, me being me, I didn’t have any fantasy about him. Not like he meant. I never had fantasies about men. I liked sex exactly as it was; all I needed was a nice hard – naked – man who knew how to move heavy equipment, if you know what I mean and my fantasies were fulfilled.
“Tell me,” he said, pulling up onto his arms, the muscles knotted and hard, “Tell me your fantasy.”
Most men are happy with all those sexy little cries and moans I make.
Not Bill.
Maybe if I just took off one of my stilettos and hit him in the head…
Thinking madly and gasping for breath I said, “Um, well, I pretended I was a Call Girl and you had reserved me for the night.”
The motion of his hips convinced me this was a good plotline.
“I had your room number written on a piece of paper. I was wearing a leather sheath dress, black vinyl stiletto boots, crotchless panties –the only thing on the list so far that I actually possessed – and a strapless bra (wait, I did have several of those) with the center cut out so my nipples peeked through (but not that).”
Oh he really liked this image, I could tell.
“Oh God,” I moaned under his excitement. How could he talk and do this?
“What next, what next,” he said eagerly.
“I came in and told you to sit on the couch then putting on some music I lay across your lap and told you my zipper was stuck. You unzipped me and the dress fell away in two pieces (which I thought would be a neat trick and someone probably makes these somewhere) then you said I was a bad girl and you spanked me.”
As I mentioned, Bill liked domination and more than a little S&M. His one regret in our relationship is that I wouldn’t let him tie me up or spank me, for that matter.
Pain and I are not friends.
The man was loving this, thrusting so hard that if not for that iron control over his libido he would surely have allowed me to leave the story hanging right there.
But no.
“Then,” I said, “I pulled you onto the floor knocking the glasses off the coffee table and you took me right there in front of the windows, my stilettos scraping your back leaving red welts.”
“Yes, yes,” he’s shouting.
And that was where my imagination deserted me. I am usually really good at multi-tasking, just not in bed.
I couldn’t think of how to bring the thing to an orgasmic close so instead I grabbed him around the neck and buried my face in his chest screaming “Baby, I can’t say any more you’re too sexy. Oh go, oh god, oh god, oh god…” Or something to that effect.
It worked.
Bill being Bill he continued to talk much of the next few hours while performing some amazing physical feats. The man had a gift.
Much later I had shed my shoes and stockings and stood in the huge walk-in shower while he leaned against the wall watching.
“Do you ever have the fantasy of two men taking you at the same time?” He said with, I swear, no prompting on my part.
“Yea sure,” I said. “All women have THAT fantasy, even me.”
“I can arrange that for you.”
Oh Christ, I thought, and turned the shower on him.
It was such a classic Bill story and I knew Margot would appreciate it, but Bill stories were too good to waste over the phone, they needed face-to-face and a glass of something. Besides I wanted, I think, to hear more about her and Taki’s whole public sex thing.
James walked in, waving.
Not something to share in mixed company. Shrugging mentally I walked over to give him a kiss on both cheeks saying, “Hey Pasadena.”
