Made For Sex. Joan Elizabeth Lloyd
“It’s okay with me. Mothers need some fun. Oprah and Dr. Phil say so. I’ll be nice to Gramma and watch Tommy and Mike.”
Her kid was watching talk shows and telling her that mothers needed fun. She playfully swatted his bottom, then stuffed Mike’s PJs into his bag.
On her way into the city, Carla stopped at a local mall on a whim and bought a pair of large pearl-drop earrings that matched her outfit perfectly but differed from anything she owned. With the new jewelry in her purse, she arrived at the brownstone at about five. Since Ronnie was in Dutchess County Carla had the place to herself.
She wandered upstairs, filled the oversized tub, poured in a large scoop of bath salts and, while the water ran, put a Sinatra cassette into the tape player. While the crooner’s familiar voice filled the room, Carla settled into the deep tub and leaned back, letting the light spicy scent relax her. She spent an hour in the water, adding hot whenever it became too cool. She fantasized about the evening and what Bryce would look like. She pictured him undressing her slowly, touching and stroking her. She could imagine him whispering in her ear, telling her how beautiful she was. She almost felt his hot body entering her and slowly loving her.
When she finally emerged from the tub her skin was soft and deep pink all over, and her nipples and pussy tingled. Part of her wanted to stimulate herself to orgasm, just to take the edge off, but she didn’t. The edge fit right in with the fantasy that she and Bryce were creating.
At six-thirty, she put on a white, lacy bra and matching panty, a stylish white garter belt and stockings and a white satin half-slip. Then she slipped into the full-sleeved gold silk blouse and mid-thigh, off-white linen skirt she had brought and slipped her feet into her pumps.
She snapped on the earrings she had bought and looked at herself in Ronnie’s mirror. As she had suspected, the earrings set off the blouse perfectly, but felt so alien to her that she pulled them off. After looking at her reflection for a moment she slowly put them back on. In for a penny, she thought, in for a pound.
She sat at Ronnie’s dressing table and applied makeup, wishing that she knew enough about cosmetics to be able to do something different with her face. She examined her new long fingernails, then drummed them on the dressing table just to hear them clack. She brushed her brown hair until it shone and pulled it back behind one ear with a gold comb. She stood and stepped back so she could see herself in the full-length mirror. Not bad, she thought, not bad.
Ronnie had told her that if and when Carla wanted, she could have a makeover session with an old friend but Ronnie had also assured her that Bryce would prefer the natural Carla. Ronnie had several spray bottles of scent on her dressing table and Carla selected Opium, dabbing it sparingly on her neck and in her cleavage.
Trying to shake off her nervousness, she looked at herself one last time, grabbed her jacket and carried it downstairs, arriving in the living room just as the doorbell rang.
She took a deep relaxing breath, dropped her jacket on the back of the sofa, and opened the front door.
With a lazy gaze, Bryce looked Carla up and down. “You look splendid.”
Carla stared at Bryce and for a moment was unable to move. Carla was dumbstruck. He was gorgeous. Tall and slender, Bryce McAndrews had carefully styled iron gray hair and deep hazel eyes that made Carla shiver as they took in her entire body. His charcoal gray suit was carefully tailored to show off his broad shoulders and flat stomach and his light blue shirt perfectly matched the small design in his Italian silk tie.
Bryce’s full lips slowly curved upward indicating that he appreciated what he saw. “I’ve been looking forward to this evening ever since Ronnie told me about you,” he said, “but now that I’ve seen you…. Well let’s just say this is going to be some evening.”
Carla stepped aside and Bryce walked to the sofa, picked up her jacket, and held it out for her. As she slipped her arms into the sleeves, he leaned down so his lips were beside her ear. “You smell sensational. This was worth waiting for,” he whispered. He placed a feather-light kiss in the hollow below her left ear, then stepped back. “Let’s go.”
His shiny black Porsche occupied a no-parking zone in front of the brownstone. He opened the door for Carla and, as she climbed in, he gazed at her long shapely legs and the shadowy cleavage between her breasts. “Ummm,” he murmured. “Nice all over.”
During the drive to the West Side, Carla learned that her date had four sons, all grown. She and Bryce talked easily about their children. It was so comfortable and Bryce was so charming that occasionally Carla forgot the purpose of the evening and where they were going to end up.
“It’s just like a real first date,” Carla said hesitantly as Bryce drove.
He softened his voice. “It certainly is. And I like it like that. Relax and let me make it good for you.”
“I’ll try,” she said, startled that she had voiced her feelings.
“Are you really nervous?”
“Yes,” Carla admitted, clasping her hands in her lap to stop them from shaking.
“Good. A little scary expectation is just the right spice. Let me tell you about our evening. We’re starting at a little restaurant called the West Side Club. They have great food, a fantastic wine list, and a three-piece combo for dancing. You do dance, don’t you?”
“I used to love it,” Carla answered honestly, “but I haven’t danced in a long time.”
“Like good sex, it’s something you never forget.” Giving her no time for a rejoinder, Bryce deftly pulled the black two-seater into the space in front of a long maroon awning. Immediately a uniformed doorman rushed around to open Carla’s door. “Thank you, Marco,” Bryce said, “but I’ll assist the lady.” Marco stepped aside as Bryce rounded the car.
Carla took Bryce’s extended hand and, as she climbed out of the car, felt Bryce scratch her palm with one fingernail. Shivers skittered up and down her spine and the area between her legs grew warm. She looked over at her escort but he was busy giving his keys to Marco. Hand in hand, they walked into the depths of the darkened restaurant. “Ah, Mr. McAndrews,” the maitre’d said unctuously. “I have your table all ready.”
Without a word, they were led to the side of the room. Because of the expert placement of potted plants and lacy screens, each table seemed to be in its own private alcove. Bryce seated her. Almost immediately the waiter brought a cooler with a bottle of white wine already chilling. Proudly he showed Bryce the label.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Bryce said, “but I made a few arrangements in advance. Of course, if you’d prefer a mixed drink, or red wine, the waiter can bring you whatever you want.”
“White wine will be fine,” Carla said.
“Good. This is a Portuguese Vino Verde that I particularly like.” The waiter poured a sip for Bryce, who tasted it and nodded. “Don’t freeze the poor wine,” he said as the waiter poured for Carla. “Take the cooler away and just leave the bottle on the table.”
“As you wish, sir,” the waiter said.
Carla sipped. “This is excellent,” she said. “I’ve never had a Portuguese wine before. You have great taste.”
Bryce gazed into Carla’s eyes over the rim of his glass. “If you put yourself into my hands for the rest of the evening, you’ll see what good taste I really have.”
Bryce ordered dinner for both of them. Through fresh asparagus and thin slices of Smithfield ham, poached salmon with dill sauce and tiny boiled potatoes, they talked about inconsequential things from the music they enjoyed through books and movies to vacations. Since Bryce had traveled extensively both for pleasure and business, he regaled Carla with tales of the sites he’d seen. With Carla’s agreement Bryce ordered lemon sherbet and Irish coffee for dessert.
As she finished her sherbet and sipped the heady brew, Carla realized that she hadn’t had such an enjoyable evening in many years.