Pearls

Elaine was late again. I sat, aimlessly twirling the red straw through the dregs of the White Russian I had ordered, feeling wealthier than I was. Subsequently, I now wondered if Elaine would get drunk enough to pick up the tab, and if that was the case, should I order another? Down at the end of the bar, a handsome man sat with whisky or scotch or some other sophisticated dark liquor, staring at something important that no one else could see. I was not fooled. I had seen him give me several once-overs. I had to admit this gave me a little rush of pride. I was wearing clothes from a store that bore my age in its name but catered to teenagers exploring their sexuality. Everyone else's clothes in the bar (do you call it a bar when you aren't disgusted by the peanuts on the counter?) must've cost several hundred dollars more than mine.

Lost in my internal debate over how many drinks it was socially acceptable and economical to order before Elaine arrived, I failed to notice that the silver fox at the end of the bar had stood and walked over to sit next to me. This irritated me. Say hello first, and then move over. Wait for an invitation.

"Hello," he said. His mouth curving into a smile displaying the whitest teeth I had ever seen on a grown man. He was devastatingly attractive, in the way that older men are. The hair around his temples was going grey, giving him an air of wisdom. The wrinkles around his eyes bringing to mind days spent laughing with friends, crying at loss, and squinting into the hot sun of distant lands of adventure. He was easily twice my age. Yet, his smile was intriguing. I decided to give him a chance.

"Hey there," I said, in my best attempt to sound serious and mature. It didn't work. I sounded very strange to my own ears. Like a child attempting to mimic their chain-smoking aunt. I felt my cheeks flush as he smiled again.

"You drinking alone tonight?" He asked, and then leaned over to the bartender and said, "Two more White Russians please." Again, I was irritated. Now, by obligation I was required to sit through at least one drink that I had not asked for nor accepted.

"Waiting for a friend," I replied, "Late as usual."

"Well that is no way to treat a lady like you," his voice laced with a kind of sympathetic camaraderie. "Your time is very valuable."

"It is," I said smiling. "But how could you know that? You only just met me?" I hoped my remark came off as flirtatious teasing, not scolding. I sat up straight and turned attempting to give him a subtle, yet sensual view of my cleavage. My boldness fueled by a combination of the one and a half White Russians I had consumed in less than half an hour and the cigarettes I had smoked on the way over.

***

A week previously, Charles, my boyfriend of nearly two years had found me smoking on the fire escape. He lost it - a vice to me, a deal breaker to him. He had given me too many chances, he said, and not just with this. This is the straw that broke the camel's back, he grumbled, stuffing a suitcase with clothes. He had come by while I was at work to get back the rest of his things. I still felt numb.

***

"You can tell her time is worth something when a woman holds herself the way you do," he replied smoothly, snapping me back to the present. His age and silky voice almost made me believe that he mistook my poor posture for a sexy slope of the shoulders.

"And what do you do," I asked, feeling bold "that makes you confident enough to hit on young girls in bars?" Immediately, I regretted the words, fearing I had gone too far. To my relief, his face split into the widest smile I had seen so far.

"I help rich people get richer. Investments mostly."

"Charming," my tone did not match the word.

Then, out of nowhere, Elaine appeared. "Hello darling," she drawled. Her southern roots showing. The man's eyebrows shot up. But as they floated back down, his smile slid into view again.

"I am so glad your friend has arrived," he said, sliding a business card across the bar to me. "Next time you are looking for a little fun..." He paid the tab and left.

"Who in the world was that?" Elaine asked, unwinding herself from a menagerie of expensive winter layers.

"I have no idea," I replied, and then glancing down at the card. "Byron. Who the fuck names a baby Byron?"

"Byron who, dear?"

"Byron Keats."

"Hmmm. Never heard of him. Well maybe you should give him a call, God knows you deserve a bit of fun." With that she launched into a slanderous depiction of Charles, which quickly evolved into an account of her lovely marriage and adorable anecdotes concerning her one year old.

***

Elaine was six-months older than me, but it felt like 200 years as far as where we were in our lives. We had met in undergrad at the rush party I had felt obligated to attend based on the dramatic social structure of our university. I had not pledged, she had. Yet the friendship forged when I aggressively discouraged the frat boy who had lured her into an unoccupied room had been long lasting. There are some bonds that can't be broken. Hitting a would-be rapist over the head with a pledge paddle is one of those bonds.

She was engaged graduation weekend and had a beautiful blonde baby girl a year after the wedding. I, on the other hand, had tried and failed at the job market for a year as a freelance writer before returning to grad school to get a "practical" degree. I met Charles there and endured a rocky relationship until a week ago. I was alone, broke and professionally lost.

***

After a night being, unintentionally, reminded what was wrong with my life by seeing what was right with Elaine's, I was a wreck. On top of the White Russians, three martinis, paid for by a tactful Elaine, further fueled my post-breakup distress. An additional a quarter-pack of cigarettes and a joint later, I sat on the bed in the apartment I would be vacating at the end of the month, twirling Byron's card (what a fucking old money name) in my hands. Why not text him?

"Hey," I typed and sent. And then quickly realizing my error, "It's the girl," I quickly corrected, "It's the woman from the bar." Sent.

10 minutes. Another cigarette.

"I am so glad you reached out. Are you free tonight?"

I took a deep breath. "He could be a serial killer!" the sober part of my brain screamed. But the toxins in my system brushed that worry away.

"Yes."

"My apartment, 2am."

Who was I pretending to be?

"Ok."

I felt giddy. While presuming my ambition to write, I had prayed that something along these lines would come around - or for a life altering tragedy in my darker moments. Now, just as I was faced with the reality that I would likely spend the rest of my life as a teacher, the opportunity to write about something real came along. I wanted to experience something. Maybe try to feel something that I had been numbing with vodka. Who better than a total stranger?

***

An hour later I stood on the front step of a beautiful brownstone in a neighborhood I couldn't afford to walk through, much less rent. My courage was fading along with my buzz, but I was here. Between the self-destructive urge I had never quite been able to shake and the need for a something to write, I was determined to go through with it. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes like a child, and pressed the buzzer.

"Who is it?" his smooth voice crackled through speaker.

"Me," I said, unsure.

The door buzzed and I pushed it open. The house was beautiful; I could tell that even through my drug induced haze and complete lack of knowledge of architecture and interior design. I was impressed; dark wood, high ceilings, thick carpets, comfortable but sparse furniture. I stood in the center of what must have been a living room and turned slowly in a circle, taking in the luxury and the beauty. I completed my turn. At the bottom of a beautiful, sweeping wooden staircase stood Byron smiling slightly at my slow spin.

"You like it?" he asked, one edge of his smile higher than the other.

"Yea." I was a little embarrassed, and taken aback at how handsome he was. "It is gorgeous."

"Come see upstairs." He extended a hand to me. With a moment's hesitation, I took it.

His hand was big and warm. Big enough that my entirely average sized hand felt small; warm enough to be safe and inviting. While his hand was soft it also had a roughness that suggested manual labor in his youth. I shook myself slightly, I had been so lost in the contemplation of his palm that I hadn't noticed that we were halfway up the staircase. Too much weed, I admonished myself in my head. Then my head snapped up startled and I came to a halt at the top of the stairs.

"Is that a Degas?" I asked, disbelieving and a little accusatory.

"Oh, yes," he smiled that knowing, amused, sexy smile again.

I let go of his hand and walked forward to the painting, taking in every inch of the three dancers preparing to enter the stage. I loved Degas. I had always loved Degas, since I was a little girl. I loved the dancers and their lack of interest in the painter, the vulnerability of the moments off the stage when their images were captured as people rather than fantasy, their strength in playing the men that lurked in the shadows. I frequented the MET, relishing paying a penny to be able to sit for as long as I wanted with these women. I felt comforted by their presence.

Suddenly struck by an idea, I turned back to Byron.

"Can I... touch it?" I whispered the last half of the sentence. I was embarrassed at my forwardness, as though this interaction with the painting were the interaction that awaited us behind whichever of the many dark doors lay his bedroom.

A third time he smiled, "Go ahead."

I reached out three fingers; I was embarrassed to see were shaking a little. Gently I pressed them against the shimmering white flecks of paint Degas had transformed into pearls sewn into the dancers dresses. I smiled with pleasure at the naughtiness of touching something that I absolutely should not, of being one of so few to have had the pleasure to do so. My mouth opened slightly. I noticed I was breathing a little hard, I could feel the pinkness creeping into my cheeks as Byron moved closer behind me. I turned and in one swift movement he slid a hand around my waist and pulled me to him, his lips meeting mine.

He was a good kisser. I felt my right hand slide around the back of his neck as my left grasped the front of his shirt to pull him closer to me.

In a show of strength unanticipated by his age, he picked me up, still kissing me. My hips automatically pressing into his own. He walked, my legs wrapped around his waist, into his bedroom. I broke away from his kiss to look around the room, more beautiful high ceilings and dark wood. This one had a full wall of spotless windows looking out onto a gated park and the city beyond. That was all I had time to take in the view before he threw me onto the bed. I gasped at the rush of briefly flying through the air and then the softness of the bed beneath me. I pushed myself up onto my elbows; knees bent, skirt high. Byron stood at the edge of the bed, watching me, waiting for confirmation. I smiled. He smiled back. Catching sight of myself in the mirror that stood beyond the edge of the bed I could imagine for a moment that I looked bewitching, maybe even a little wicked.

I glanced back up at Byron and bit my lip, tasting his unfamiliar sweat on mine. He reached forward and in one swift motion pulled my black lacy panties off, throwing them onto the floor. Then, after another look upward to confirm I was enjoying myself, he bent down and placed his lips on my clit.

Pleasure erupted through my body. I had no idea what he was doing. I barely knew where I was, who he was, who I was. All I knew was that the pleasure traveling through my body was good. The best I ever felt. Mouth open, breathing hard, I looked down and saw him looking up at me, clearly enjoying my pleasure. I tilted my head back again and laughed slightly thinking of the boy who had dumped me a week before. If I had known pleasure like this existed I wouldn't have wasted so much time.

I felt his tongue circle tighter and tighter around my clit and all thoughts left my head again. I began breathing hard, breasts heaving against my dress, nipples visible through the thin fabric. I felt myself getting closer and closer, to what I didn't know. It felt so good that I was almost scared I wouldn't be able to handle the pleasure of the finale.

And then it came. Or rather, I did. And I was screaming with ecstasy as I felt my toes curl and my back arch. Pleasure shot from where Byron was working hard all the way up through my body. I felt it travel down my legs and up my back, filling my body in a way I had never known before. And then it ended. I lay panting, sweating, and unable to move or talk. I was paralyzed as I tried to absorb the pleasure I had just experienced.

Byron stood above me, licking his lips, enjoying watching me lie there. All of a sudden, I wanted to do the same thing to him, more than I had ever wanted to before. I wanted to control him, make him feel pleasure, make him know it was because of me.

With a burst of energy, I stood up and kissed him full on the mouth. My hands moved down his shirt, unbuttoning seemingly endless buttons, stroking down a shockingly flat stomach. It was soft in a pleasant way; not so much from neglect but as from the comfort of age. Then I began working my way down his body. I kissed and licked his torso as my hands unbuckled his belt and undid his pants, until what I wanted was finally out in the open.

He was not big; but he was not small either, uncircumcised to my surprise. He was hard - very hard. I took him in my hands and looked up at him, feeling that same unfamiliar and wicked smile on my lips. He looked back at me and I could see that he wanted me to take him in that moment. He couldn't have it that easy, so I began teasing him. I slid my hands up and down his hard shaft, taking his balls into my mouth, licking his exposed tip but never taking him all the way in. Then I heard him moan, unconsciously, pure desire. With one swift motion I took him. I took all of him, all the way in my mouth, down my throat. I heard him gasp. I began sliding him in and out of my mouth slowly at first and then faster and faster. The moans and gasps were coming quicker now. I relished them. I relished the control I had over him. The fact that his control diminished with the pleasure I was bringing him. Suddenly, I felt him go harder and I knew he was about to give all of himself to me. He did, deep in the back of my throat. With a final groan, I knew he was done. I released him from my mouth, swallowing and licking my lips.

He collapsed backwards onto the bed and it was my turn to stand over him, triumphant with the pleasure I had given him. Slowly his eyes opened and he smiled.

"You are very good at that you know, much better than I expected. I rarely cum from that the older I get."

"All men say that," I said, smiling back. "Regardless of how old they are."

"Let me see you," he said, "take that dress off."

I felt suddenly shy. Years with a boy who only liked sex in the dark made me feel safer without eyes inspecting my body. Yet, I wouldn't let Byron know that. My hands found their way to the zipper and pulled it down without losing eye contact. Then I slid both thin straps off my shoulders and let my dress simply fall to the floor. I watched it slip off me, and then, steeling myself, looked up again.

He sat up in bed and pulled me close again, eyes on my breasts. He took them in his big hands and ran his thumbs over the nipples. They were hard with one brush. He looked up at me smiling that knowing smile.

"You are fantastic."

I laughed, head back again. Suddenly, I felt free. Free in my body and in my choices. It was intoxicating.

I felt something brush against my thigh and looked down. "Are you ready again, so soon?"

"For you, I think I might just be," he replied.

Lifting me again he spun me on so I lay on my back again, legs spread. I opened my mouth to ask, but he was already pulling open a side-table drawer. He found a condom and he slid it on. A big hand reached between my legs, feeling the wetness there.

"I see you are ready again too."

I laughed and nodded. He climbed onto his beautiful bed and on top of me, kissing me and then biting and making his way down my neck. I felt his tip brush against my clit and a tingling of pleasure shot through my legs and across my chest.

"Ready?" his voice murmured from near my collarbone.

"Yes," I breathed, aching for him in a way I had never known before.

In one motion he moved within me and I felt full. Perfectly full, not aching for more, not wishing for less. Full in a part of me I had never realized was empty. I bent my knees up and shifted my hips to let him enter me deeper. With each smooth stroke he was filling me, muttering sweet nothings in my ear. His hands pulled mine above my head. With one, he pinned mine down, while the other pushed him up enough to bend his head and bite my nipple. I arched my back, gasping in the pleasure. He pushed deeper within me and I came, eyes closed and rolling back, toes curled. I gasped with the knowledge of what true pleasure felt like, lying there, glowing in the aftermath, still pinned by his hands. He remained inside of me, still moving hard.

I squeezed the inside of me tight and felt him gasp. It made me smile. I squeezed again, and again, timing myself with his stokes, getting faster and faster. Feeling him getting harder and harder. Then it was his turn to cum, shuddering and thrusting within me again and again. His sweating body collapsed on top of mine. His hands released mine and I pulled him to me, one on his broad back and the other in his grey-tinged hair.

After a few moments, he rolled off of me, looked up at me, and smiled. I smiled back.

***

A week or so passed. I went through life as usual, but with a difference in my attitude. I felt more confident. I felt full in the knowledge that I could bring so much pleasure to someone. Even more so, that I was capable of feeling so much pleasure.

Elaine noticed the difference. We met the next weekend in a different bar, this one of my choosing. The counter was coated in peanuts that had likely been put out when one of the two Bushes was president.

"What happened to you?" Her sharp eyes flashed over something intangible in my face, in my posture. "You seem...I don't know how to say it, fuller. Like you take up more space." At my insulted glance she corrected herself, "No! Not like that. Like you take up the space you deserve."

"I met someone," I said, smiling into my gin and tonic. She squealed in excitement. "Oh no! Not like that," I said in response. "I think it was just a one time thing... but," I licked my lips "it changed something."

At that exact moment my phone vibrated on the table. I looked down. It was from Byron.

"If you are free tonight, please stop by around 7. I would love to see you again."

"Or," I said laughing, "maybe not a one time thing."

***

He opened the door himself this time. He looked ridiculously handsome as usual in a sharp cut, thin-lapel suit and skinny tie. Simultaneously, it seemed as though he had emerged from another era, and as though everyone would soon being wearing exactly what he was. He smiled, in a reserved way I had not seen before.

"Please come in," he said.

My stilettos clicked on the marble floor. The light of the setting sun filled the apartment in an extraordinary way. The dark wood seemed to glow red from the inside, filling the room. I felt almost as though I had stepped through the door into another world.

I felt his eyes on me and turned slowly, pulling my coat off my shoulders. His eyes took in my exposed back, the deep v cut in front, the full white skirt of the dress, filled out with layers and layers of chiffon. Completing my turn I met his gaze, sober this time.