Good Man Pt. 01

This is not the first time I've come to this bar after a long week's work and not the first time I've seen this woman here.

She seems out of place, a bit older than the regular nouveau professionals, dresses simply, classically, and mostly sits alone in a corner booth drinking something deep amber, no ice. And out of all the flirty young women that litter the tables and flit around searching for a man to take them home and make them rich, she's the one that sticks in my head. Strange.

And yet, logical. I've grown tired of empty-headed affairs and girls that try too hard to say yes only to move on without warning or reason. It's as if we've lost all sense of reality, though we do come here to escape. But somehow, we never land firmly again. All I feel is deflated. Empty.

I face this woman who's got no business here and wonder why she comes so often. Are we so shallow we're just entertainment to her? Tight clothing and lip gloss with no substance.

She doesn't belong to that club. Yet, she is attractive. But it's a different kind of beauty. One that sticks. Refined. Subtle.

I call the bartender over. He's a gruff sort, the owner, I think, and probably more gruff since this is only Friday and it's a long weekend of slinging drinks for an impatient crowd. I order my regular—which he knows—and whatever that woman is drinking to send over. I'm not subtle, I realize, regretting my decision.

The bartender slides the drinks over. "Take it yourself," he says. Hers is whiskey too, neat, but a whole lot more than the single ounce I get.

I give him a puzzled look.

"Listen, you don't want what she's offering. But at least your generosity will impress her enough that she'll leave you be." He stands back. "Don't let the quick rejection go to your head."

I'm not sure what he means by all this, but I carry both drinks over to her booth and set hers down. She looks up at me, stern, and I begin to regret my decision.

"Just enjoy," I say and head off.

"Not so fast."

I stop and she's pointing to the seat across from hers. So I sit. Surprised. Elated?

"What's wrong?" she says. "These girls not pretty enough?"

I don't know what to say to that. They are pretty. And available, often, at least for a night. They know love is not in the cards, just a quick shuffle of the deck to distract from the pressures of trading millions of dollars every day. None of it is our money. We just play with it, try to do well so our bonuses are big enough to pay for the racy cars and sexy electronic gadgets we all want. And a vacation to somewhere warm to beat the winter blahs.

"They burn you out?" she says.

I shrug, shake my head. "I'm just tired."

"Bored?"

"You got me."

"Too bad, a man of your age. You could have your pick."

Does that mean she likes me? I'm still here, not rejected: a good sign. "They don't know what they want," I say. I'm not sure I do either. "So what's the solution?"

She slides her empty glass over to the edge of the table and takes the one I brought, tastes. "Am I that solution?"

"You're different," I say, wondering what to say that doesn't offend her.

"Old?"

Thirty-five, or whatever she really is, isn't exactly old. "Experienced." I shake my head. "Constant. Dependable, maybe. I'm actually not sure. But you feel right, somehow. I guess I'm looking for more than..." I don't know. "Sometimes getting what you want should be rewarding, not just a quick yes and off we go."

She laughs. It's the first time I've seen her laugh. I take it as a plus.

"I don't think you want me hanging around after the glow wears off," she says.

She's looking right at me, through me. She's just dared me to go for it. I think. Then again, maybe she's had a bad experience and rather not relive it for my sake. "I'm sorry I asked."

"Are you asking?"

"I suppose so, in a way."

"To relieve the boredom."

She's already done that. A girl I haven't seen before walks by. She's tall and lithe, a dancer maybe, and knows she's attractive and sexy and turns heads.

"Does she make you hard?" she says.

I shrug. But only to give me time to process the boldness of it. I'm not sure how to follow that. I'm used to direct statements. You get laid if you ask. Or are asked. But this isn't about us.

She leans forward, stares into my eyes. "Don't be shy; does she make you hard?"

Okay, I'll bite. But her tone's a lot harder than my cock. "Yes, she makes me hard."

She smiles. Warmly. Totally changed in an instant. "Good," she says, and leans back. "I thought for a second your equipment wasn't working."

"It works. But sometimes the rush you thought you saw turns out...stagnant."

She nods, slowly, turning her whiskey in her fingers, glancing to me, to the crowd, then back to me and holds. "What if I asked you over to my place?"

My heart races. "Are you promising a different kind of rush?"

"That depends on you."

"I don't know what that means."

"I'm sure you don't."

"But I should accept anyway."

I give her my hand. "Cameron," I say.

She takes it. "Erin."

A waitress comes. She's wearing the short kilt and white blouse uniform they all wear, with knee socks and sneakers. The sneakers don't adhere to the dress code but the rest of her is perfectly put together. She's got two menu folders ready.

Erin puts her hand up to stop her. "Nothing this time. But stay for a second, would you?"

"Sure," says the waitress, tucking the menus into her arm.

"Do you find her attractive?" says Erin to me.

I glance to our waitress, then to this woman who seems to enjoy provoking me. "Yes, I suppose I do."

"Would you like to run your hand under those pleats to see what she's wearing underneath?"

Our waitress blushes but does not move.

Erin says to her, "What's the house regulation regarding work attire under a skirt?"

"I must wear modesty shorts at all times."

Erin takes my hand and places it at the edge of the table. "Don't you want to check for yourself?"

Our waitress freezes, watches Erin intently, seems confused as to what to do. I'm not sure what to do either. Yet, I know what I want to do.

The waitress steps back. "May I go?"

"Yes," says Erin, "but only after you've proved to us you've followed regulations."

"Will I get in trouble if I haven't?"

"I won't embarrass you." She opens her purse and gives the waitress a twenty and points to the just vacated booth across from ours. "Get back to work." She faces me. "I don't care what they wear. I make the rules so they know where to begin. If the details happen to inflate a few men and the till, I'm all for it."

So she's the owner.

The booth across from ours is a shambles of empty bottles, dirty plates and crumpled napkins. The waitress fills a tray with the debris and goes off. In seconds she's back with a white cloth and a squirt bottle of cleaner. She's thorough, wetting every square inch, wiping away the spilt drink and food. Abruptly, she stops. She's frozen again.

"What's going on?" I say to Erin.

"We'll find out, won't we," she says.

The waitress is wiping up again, vigor returned, reaching now to the far back of the table, bending over. Then I see, understand, what she'd done.

"Modesty shorts aren't white, are they?" I say.

"Black," says Erin. "And they're a lot less cheeky."

Done, the waitress, straightens, takes her gear and leaves, not once looking over.

"Well?" says Erin.

"Nice."

"How nice?"

I'm not sure what she wants. But I know the general direction she's taking me. "I reacted."

"How?"

She's pressing me. But a wicked smile slowly creeps up her face. She's either happy I've reacted or she's reveling in the fact she's got me off balance.

"Bored?" she says.

Not a chance.

She takes up her drink. "Still want me?"

"What do you think?"

She nods slowly, turns and waves two fingers at the bartender. He rushes over two drinks—filled nicely this time.

"Finish up," she says. "But take your time. Lust over all the girls. Strip them. Make love to them. Fantasize. Get horny."

I am already. But something in her tone affects me more powerfully than flagrant cleavage and a tight ass in tighter pants.

"I'm sorry I didn't buy you a drink years ago," I say.

"You'll be a lot sorrier when you're an inch from coming and there's nothing you can do to make it happen."

She's staring at me, daring me to tear myself away, daring me to dispute her assertion. I was sorry. Or was I? That interested third party, the one that hangs between my legs, seems very interested. Even though the young girls, and waitress, have a lot to offer, what sits before me is a whole lot more invigorating. Complex. And unyielding. And firmly grounded.

I follow her, by car, to her place. Strange for a woman to invite a man up like that, so soon, so vulnerable. But I need to know what she's offering.

Her condo's on the 34th floor of a mega-project that's still growing. Three more buildings like this one are under construction. I'd like to live here. But the condos they house are far too pricey for my bank account.

Once inside, it's obvious she lives alone. Everything's just so, new, neat, unspoiled. And expensive.

"Are you single?" I say.

"For three years now. I was married to a man who didn't appreciate my needs."

I take off my jacket. The view of the city is spectacular, the harbor below, the twinkling lights, the mountains off to one side. Suddenly, I feel bold. "And what were they?"

She hangs up her coat, mine too, comes so close I can feel her heat. Her nearly black eyes draw me in with no hope of escape. "I demanded complete control over our sex life. Everything. When, how, what kind. But he didn't take me seriously."

"He strayed?"

"And I didn't."

"Have your needs changed?"

"No."

"Do you expect me to submit?" I say before my brain has the decency to shut me up.

"Yes."

"Why do you think I'll agree to that?"

"You wanted a cure for boredom, I'll give you one." She reaches between my legs, cups me. "I like you. And if you like what I do to you, then you and I can play a while. I get bored too. I'm bored now. It's been a long while since I've been with a good man." She laughs. "Any man. I'm hoping we can cure each other."

I nearly ask her what I should expect. But that's a faux pas, isn't it? I should expect nothing and enjoy the surprise. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, open my eyes again, say, "Go ahead, cure me."

"Good man." She moves away, motions to the couch that faces the floor to ceiling windows. "Enjoy the view for a while."

She leaves me alone. The view is beyond compare but my mind is focused behind me. Then the lights dim and I see her wonderful condo reflected in the glass. She's there too.

"Don't turn around."

I don't have to. I can see her, how she's changed into this sexual creature, tapping a crop in her palm, her petite frame squeezed into leather and bone, and so-tight panties over sleek black hose.

"Do you like what you see?" she says.

"Yes."

"Are you willing to play under my rules, to submit?"

Was there a choice? "Yes."

"Yes, 'Mistress.'"

"Yes, Mistress," I say, hardening.

"Your cock and balls are mine."

Not a question. "They are."

The crop prods my shirt collar. "They are, 'Mistress.'"

"They are, Mistress."

"Good man."

That's the third time she's said 'good man.' I understand what that means now. It means obedience. Submission. Surrender.

The crop moves on, leather on my neck, my ear, my cheek. She taps that cheek very gently. "This is your last chance before you commit to a full evening. Leave if you're afraid."

I tip my head so the crop can better connect. "Harder."