Scintillectually Yours

With my son at my parents’ for the weekend, you and I have decided to plan a rare night out. Dinner, perhaps a movie. Just a little something to whet our appetites for later—the promise of a long night together and the chance to sleep in on a Saturday morning. We have reservations at Milner’s for 7 and you are already dressed when I emerge from the steam-clouded bathroom, still wrapped in a towel. I lean against the doorframe to take in your choice of clothing: a white tee and the brocade navy vest I love top a well-worn pair of Polo jeans and your Harley boots. If I knew how to wolf-whistle I would, but I smile appreciatively and you take notice of my approval.

I move past you to peruse my closet, mentally tossing aside different outfits. You come up behind me and run your hand up my thigh, heading under the hem of the towel and I bat you away (no to the vintage Halston). Your hands move up and cup my breasts through the thick weave and I firmly take them off (not the Michael Kors sleeveless). You bend your head and run your tongue the length of my neck and I gasp and swat at your ear (the Vera Wang silk is too dressy). I grab my favorite JJill skirt, an almost ankle-length number in various layers of sheer, olive-brown netting. As I move to the dresser to pull out a well-worn black stretch tee, I pull something else out of the bottom of my drawer and toss it to you. Surprised, you catch the bundle in your hands and sit down hard on the bed.

It is your soft-packer. You look at me quizzically and begin to protest. I turn on my heel and put my finger across your lips. “Wear it,” I command. “As you wish,” you say, with a slight hint of a smirk playing at the corners of your mouth. You know the price of your submission now will be mine to pay later and you comply without another word. Clearly, I’m not expecting to get fucked or I would have had you hard pack, but you don’t stop to question my motives.

The restaurant is crowded tonight and our table is not as secluded as I had hoped. Although one of your favorites, I haven’t been here before and I pause after we order our iced teas to admire the warm antebellum-meets-art deco décor. We have a way of attracting attention and tonight is no different. The atmosphere is free of any feelings of homophobia, however, and I get the feeling that we are being watched as a couple, a couple of women, clearly intimate with each other. I listen to you talk about your latest poetry submission, the deadline having rushed upon you, and idly run one black booted leg up along the inseam of your jeans. You falter slightly, flustered, regain your composure and continue. I smile and take another bite of the mouth-watering filet mignon with burgundy demi-glace.

We debate the various offerings at our local movie theater when I remember that tonight is Burlesque night at Artistika. I have friends who go every month and have been aching to see the show. You readily agree (how could you not?) and head to the car. You open the passenger door for me and I catch you staring as I hike up my skirt to climb in, purposely leaving my left leg exposed, the layers draped across my lap, down my right leg—a fabric puddle on the floor at my feet. When you slide into the driver’s seat your hand moves toward me but I catch it mid-air and place it firmly on the stick shift, leaving you frustrated, wanting, and inches away from the bare flesh of my thigh and a hint of lace panties.

We enter the club just before the show begins and are seated at a tiny table in a far corner of the room. The house lights are down and we quietly place orders of cranberry juice and soda. I tuck into you as we watch these beautiful, curvy women strut their hour upon the stage—all pasties, corsets, and feather boas. The air has an electric, erotic current running through it and as all eyes are facing forward, my hand snakes its way into your lap. You blink, hard, and I whisper in your ear, “watch the show. Watch the show.” I can feel the bulge through your jeans, the soft pack placed firmly in your briefs, the balls pressed up against your clit. I begin to lightly stroke your cock, moving my attention from your crotch to your thigh where I rake my nails hard against the crease where your leg meets your groin. You groan and I shush you. I lean over again and press my hand hard against your cock, running the flat of my palm up and down the front of your jeans pressing the soft pack into you. When I move my hand farther down between your legs I can feel how damp your jeans are and I lean into you, “watch the show,” and breathe my lust into your ear. Your own breathing quickens but you remain riveted on the current performer. She sings of unrequited love and pulls off corset over corset. She has bloodstains on her hands and she rends her clothes as she sways upon her knees. Her piece is drawing to a fevered pitch and so are you. My hand moves faster and firmer against you and the second I take your own hand and slide it under the many layers of my skirt and guide you into my panties so that you can dip your fingers in my wetness…

you come.

The waitress stops by with another round of drinks and I straighten up and thank her while you catch your breath. I clap loudly for the artist on stage and when I turn to you, you reach for me— “my turn” you say. “No,” I shake my head, “watch the show.”

There will be plenty of time for your turn, with me, after the house lights go up.