Flirting at Cuchi Cuchi

I had a late meeting in town last night, and (for a lot of reasons) I didn't want to go home, so I decided to have dinner at Cuchi Cuchi.

For those of you that haven't been to Cuchi, it's a fabulous kind of tapas/small plates place here in Cambridge. The food and the cocktails are really excellent. The special vibe, though, is that the servers and bartenders all dress incredibly glamorously (if two adverbs in a row are allowed). The women wear period dresses from the 20's, 30's and 40's. Sometimes low cut in the front. Sometimes low cut in the back. Sometimes with a lot of thigh and garters showing. Sometimes very demur and cotillion.

There is even a fortune teller, if you need your palm or cards read.

It's great people watching, watching the people that come to watch the servers. A voyeur's dream. The customer base is pretty broad and diverse, an old guy doesn't feel too out of place. A lot of young gay boys and lesbians, a fair amount of middle aged folks too.

As is my habit, I was sitting at the bar, drinking bourbon Manhattans up. I was well dressed, jacket and tie, as I had come from my meeting. I had ordered about five small plates and had asked the bartender to really space them out. I was reading the NYTimes and getting caught up on all of the inanity going on in the world.

It was pretty crowded, and at some point the three guys sitting next to me, on my right, get up to leave. They are immediately replaced by three, somewhat inebriated women. I am a guy, so I immediately check them out, not in a creepy way (I don't think), but out of the corner of my eye at first and then taking advantage of having to turn the page of the newspaper and refolding it to kind of look them over. The one next to me is closest to my age (I guessed late 40s, but she turned out to be early 50s). She is well dressed, business attire, with a pencil skirt (slit on the left side). She is wearing a white blouse, not too sheer, but suggestive enough and unbuttoned enough to show her camisole. Her drinking mates are twenty-somethings (they get carded by the bartender). The woman farthest from me is dressed in torn jeans (which I know can be quite expensive, so no judgement there, and a tee shirt with a big scoop neck. The tee shirt keeps falling off of her shoulder. The woman in the middle is gorgeous, wearing a tailored man's suit, really sharply tailored, and some fabulous Oxford Wingtip shoes. She has a short man's haircut, almost a 50s style pompadour. Think James Dean, but a little more of the "high and tight" look. There wasn't anybody in the bar who couldn't take their eyes off of her, including me.

In this kind of situation, I am normally very introverted. I would sit there all night long and never say a word to them. I usually have a pretty good relationship with my bartenders, so sometimes they help me to break the ice, but my regular bartender wasn't working last night, so no help there.

Nevertheless, the way my sex life has been going lately, just sitting next to three women is the highlight of, well ... a longer time than I would care to admit.

Fortunately, the woman sitting next to me, let's call her by an initial "P." (note: not her real initial) is extremely extroverted and quickly takes control of me, the women she is with, the bartender, and everyone within a 30-foot radius. I find out that P. is 53, just five years younger than I am. She works at one of the big insurance agencies (I won't say which one) as a claims adjuster. She's the one that decides how much money you get in response for your insured impaired asset. The two women she is with are her daughter K. (tee shirt jeans) and D. (fabulous suit). D. is K.'s roommate. It is K.'s birthday and the three of them had dinner close to home, Braintree (not their real town) and then decided to take the train to Cambridge, to Cuchi, to see D.'s friend who is a server here. They've already had a bunch of drinks before they got here, but they are going to have more. It took them a half an hour to get here on the train, so P. needs to have another drink.

I get all of ll this in about 60 seconds of a non-stop stream-of-consciousness monologue. I start to get drawn in, despite myself.

In response to about a hundred questions, I gradually reveal that my name is T. (real initial), that I live in Cambridge, the I am drinking a Bourbon Manhattan (she wants a taste, then makes a face when I comply), that I drink Manhattans because it is an old man's drink and I am an old man ("No way", she says you're not that old!" Then she proceeds to guess that I am 68, which bums me out a little, but I tell her, "Wow! You're good!" I then guess she is 48, which kind of bums her out a little, but at least I am on the right side of the problem). She wants to know what I do for a living, and I tell her I am retired. She is flabbergasted, "How can you afford that!" I tell her that I did well in my engineering career, so I have money, which is true. She slips her arm through mine and cheers: "Yes! Just what I want! A man with money!" I admit to being married, which doesn't seem to bother her, as she is also married.

From my point of view this is all going extremely well.

The ladies all order their cocktails, and D.'s friends come to visit, so we are pretty much surrounded by attractive young women. P. confides that she invited her husband to come along, this is her second husband... not K.'s father... but he didn't want to go out. "Fuck him", she declares. "He's an asshole". We drink our drinks. D. is getting a lot of attention, which is very entertaining. My food starts to come, one small course at time, and I start sharing it with my new acquaintances. They are reluctant at first, but I order more food and drinks for everyone and pretty soon it is a party.

If my sex life has been in a dry spell lately, it has been even longer since a woman has come on to me in a bar. It is like being a kid again. I am awkward, just as I have been my whole life, 10 years ago, twenty years ago... Jesus 40 years ago. P. is on the case though, she is terrific. She is flipping her hair, and laughing, and touching her tongue to her lips, and leaning in close to confide secrets (e.g., "I'm worried that K. is sleeping with D.")) Squeezing my leg. I'm very careful not to touch her, I don't want any trouble with misinterpreting her behavior. I do however, put my elbow on the back of her barstool and lean her way a little bit. I don't have my arm around her or anything, but just kind of leaning in toward her. She doesn't back away, and in fact leans in toward me, we are shoulder to shoulder.

The NYTimes is forgotten.

Now, I know that this is basically a sex sit blog, and that most folks here are writing about their fantasies, or the great sex they have had, the threesomes, foursomes and moresomes, and all the rest. Some of the folks even post videos and photos, showing that it is not just a bunch of talk (some of the videos strain credulity, but are still exciting in a porno kind of way). My story here is pretty tame, I guess, compared to some of the stuff I have seen on here, but I think we can all agree that the first time you meet someone, and flirt, and make a connection, and have a really good time... it's, well... it's worth a lot. It is very nice. Very nice indeed.

Anyway, K. and D. go off with their friends, and P and I eat and drink and talk. We talk about everything we can think of, Boston, and the Red Sox, and the upcoming Bruins season. We avoid politics, after I admit to being just slightly to the left of... well...Karl Marx, this being Cambridge after all. She is a little more Republican, but is disappointed with the election so far. We talk movies (both loved "Mad Max: Fury Road", a split decision on "Straight Outta Compton". Neither of us interested in "The Intern"). We talk about everything we can think of with one exception: what happens when we run out of things to talk about?

At this point, I am leaning back on my barstool, leaning toward her with my right elbow on the back of her chair. My chair is turned slightly to the right. She is turned toward me, toward her left. We are shoulder to shoulder. My left hand is in my lap, on my right leg... mid-thigh. She moves toward me, trapping my hand between my right leg and her left thigh. I can surreptitiously (I hope) look down and admire the slit in her skit, which has started to ride up a little. At some point, another button of her blouse has come undone (when did that happen?) and some cleavage is showing at the neckline of her camisole. She tells me what a good time she is having. I reciprocate. I really am having a great time. I rub my nose in her hair and tell her she smells good.

This is like being in high school again. We are just about to kiss...

But K. and D. come back, and K. is aghast. A gasp, "Mom! What are you doing!" They hustle her off to the ladies room, for what looks to be a lecture. I sigh, and decide it is probably time to settle up the bill. I pay my bill and then, after a moment's reflection, their bill. I over tip the bartender, who had been great, it's like a 100% tip. I'm finishing up my cocktail when they return. K is upset, but P is nonplussed. She gives me her card, writing her mobile number on the back. I don't have a card, so I rip a page out of the little Moleskine notebook that I always carry and give her my email and my mobile. K. is distressed that I paid their bill, but I tell her that I have to be going and I wish her a very happy birthday, shaking her hand, and she thaws a little. P. and I exchange a quick hug and a peck on the cheek, saying to stay in touch. We all leave the restaurant and head our separate ways.

I text her almost immediately, saying how glad I was to meet her and what a great night it was. It really really was a great, great night. The best, in fact. In fact, I submit that: it couldn't have been any better in any conceivable way.

She doesn't respond to my text. I know that I will never see her again. Our relationship started, was consummated, and was ended all in one night.

Life is pretty good sometimes.