I’m a cocktail waitress at his neighborhood bar.
The first time he comes in, he orders a salad. I roll my eyes and tell him to get the burger.
He studies me, smiling. His teeth are imperfect in a way that intrigues me. His smile feels crooked, too. Mischievous. He gets the burger. Medium rare.
The next time he comes in, I bring his drink over, and when I set it down, he puts his hand on the back of my thigh while he casually finishes his conversation with his friend. I obediently wait. His hand rests just below my ass, longer than it should.
Our first date is dinner. He is sure of himself, smoothly suggests a meal. He’s not conventionally attractive. He is overweight and bald. He has an intense Jewish nose. His charm challenges my elementary feminism.
And yet he is the most handsome man I have ever seen. I’ve never been more attracted to someone in my life.
He orders us the steak for two. I don’t speak to the waiter the entire meal. Everything is done for me.
He wants to know everything about my life. I am flustered by his interest, direct and consuming. I blush often. He knows how to direct a conversation. I find myself divulging my most prized secrets, things typically reserved for later on in dating, once things settle and I need to inject surprise or pity. I think to myself, “I’m going to marry this man.”
We look deeply at each other, hypnotized by the suggestion of the sex we’re going to have. “I would marry you tonight,” he confesses.
The steak is rare and perfectly executed. When we can’t eat anymore, he has the rest wrapped to take home to his dog. Home is around the corner. He insists I go with him.
He unpacks the meat for his spoiled dog. The dog is huge and beautiful and totally impractical for a New York City apartment.
He eats a piece of the cold meat and feeds his dog some as well. He feeds me, too. He moves like a man who owns the world. He has a tiny piece of meat on his face. I don’t brush it away or tell him it’s there.
I go to his bathroom to ready myself. The sink looks like something out of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. It is grand and out of place.
When I return to the dining room, he lifts me to place me on the long, wooden table and we kiss. He is both firm and soft. When he pushes me back to lie on the table, I give in, let my legs dangle off the edge.
He lifts my skirt and observes me in my stockings for what feels like a long time, before peeling them off from under my skirt. I’m suddenly aware of the table, cold and hard under my ass. My legs prick up from the exposure and I clench them together. He soothingly spreads me apart.
His mouth is hot on me but he retreats, again observing the world between my legs, wide open.
“What a pretty pussy,” he croons at my vulva. “What a pretty pussy,” he says, between mouthfuls of me.
I shake and crumble against him, letting out a moan at each of his licks.
“Whose pussy is this?” He demands.
“Mine,” I answer. I’m startled. And it is mine.
“Whose pussy is this?” He asks again, with more quick flicks of his tongue on me. “Mine,” I say, weakening.
Circles of tongue on my clit and then long, slow licks over my slit, his tongue entering me. “Whose pussy is this,” he demands.
“Yours, yours,” I answer. “It’s yours.”
I shake on his face in pleasure.
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