Cafe D

So yesterday... My feelings in the car on the way to Novato - the sneaking suspicion this would be a colossal waste of my time, coupled with nagging memory of all the other fruitless encounters I've had since R. The nebbishy little lawyer in San Francisco I couldn't picture undressing for in a million years. The creative, biracial guy from Rohnert Park who implied that I must be racist to reject him - an accusation that made me feel conflicted for weeks afterwards.

I mean, what were the odds? Honestly. Chances were excellent that the man waiting for me in Novato would be a boy with grand ideas, perhaps, but probably without the necessary presence. Still, there I was shifting uncomfortably in my little car, increasingly aware of the unfamiliar pressure in my ass and the lack of panties to save me from shame if I proved unsuccessful at keeping that slender plug where it belonged.

Though I'm not superstitious, I told myself that if, contrary to all the reviews on Yelp, I found a parking spot it would be a good sign. And low and behold! The last parking slot on the side with the cafe was just waiting for me, slightly tucked away as I imagined he was from his last email. Friendly, place. Empty. That's good.

And there he was - looking older (and darker) than I expected. But what I been expecting - exactly?At that moment, I didn't quite know anymore.

So we talk. About politics - as everyone else does now. About languages. About everything but sex. I vaguely perceive this banter is to put me at ease and it does - except when that very thought occurs to me. If I go and forget what this is all about - what we're actually here for - the trap will snap harder when he springs it. And spring it he will. Of that I am certain. Because he seems perfectly nonchalant. Unhurried. Friendly but not overly so. He seems to neither approve nor disapprove, a fact that somewhat surprises me. After all, I am used to men looking at me with an appraiser's eye, gauging if their interest is misplaced - if I am that sort of woman. Or not. I do not doubt that he knows exactly what sort of woman I am; what I can't tell is if that matters at all to him.

What is there to do? The only way out is through, as Churchill said. It seems a veritable eternity before he says - what did you bring?

And now, ladies and gentlemen, we proceed to today's main entertainment...

I pull out the cosmetic bag with my toys. He looks at them, flicking aside the panties without comment. I cringe inwardly, painfully aware - suddenly - of how wet they must be.

He doesn't say much, picks up the little vibrating cock ring and inspects it. Then he hands the bag to me and says, put it in.

I know instantly he means the vibrating dildo.

He must be kidding?!?

We are in a restaurant, sitting next to a WINDOW. Next to a SIDEWALK. Not to mention, this thing is LARGE.

And I am not.

I ask to be excused. Seems sensible considering...

He says no.

I am not surprised. Not anymore.

Now it all comes down to - am I that kind of woman, or not? Not that I really know what that means beyond - am I brave enough to have what I want? Even if, at that moment, I'm no longer sure what that is.

He's still looking right at me. Awkwardly, I shift forward slightly and open my legs. It is a mercy that I am beyond wet - the dildo slides in, not all the way but enough.

Turn it on, he says.

I do but it's surprising difficult. I managed to put a six inch sex toy up my pussy in broad daylight in an open restaurant because a total stranger told me to but do I have to let it make noise - noise I'm sure will be a 1000 times louder than at home, not in small part due to the fact I feel my jewelry must rattle along with it, as if buzzing weren't bad enough?

Still - Churchill...

There. It's on and I am squirming. Visibly so. He seems totally unperturbed - as if it is the most natural thing in the world that women use sex toys on themselves in public. But, it occurs to me then, if he were any other way - overly excited, nervous, hesitant - I would fail. I would not do this. I would remove my toy, pack it quickly in my giant bag and be out the door.

But he's not so I'm not. I'm just sitting there, buzzing. And feeling the need to confess that I do not use vibes to bring myself off. That I need something inside me and the rhythm of my own hand.

So I tell him. He nods and - a bit later - moves his chair over to my side of the table. I know instinctively he is going to finish the job. He will see me come one way or the other and I am 100% certain that, if he reaches under my skirt, he will make it happen. This realization is both terrifying and weirdly comforting. I will come in front of the window in this Novato cafe no matter what. If anyone sees, they will see and there is nothing to be done about it. But, in that moment, it is good to relax in the sure knowledge of anticipated pleasure. This will happen. I will come and then it will be over. I will be relieved and relaxed and the spin cycle in my brain will come to a complete spot. And that's exactly what happens.

He has no trouble finding the spot or the rhythm and the rest is up to my body, which also knows exactly what is required and who requires it.

What happens after that is a blur, except perhaps for his hand brushing over my ass as I leave - one last assurance that instructions were followed.

In the car, later, everything that felt strange and difficult suddenly seems natural and easy.

Even the skyline is brighter.

My panties are still in my purse.

I don't feel like I need them anymore.