by Robin Roseau
A moment later he was at my side. "Is this seat taken?"
I glanced at him. "Yes."
"Maybe I can keep it warm until he gets here," the guy said, hopping up on the stool anyway.
I turned my back on him, frustrated. What is it with some guys? I work in a male-dominated field, and the attention can get a little old, but most guys were pretty decent people. Yeah, computer geeks can be pretty lonely and short on social skills, and they don't always get the hint, but they were still decent guys.
But the few guys who play it like a numbers game are, well, annoying. The ones who think they are god's gift to humanity churn my stomach.
Unfortunately, I was filled with Minnesota nice. We didn't necessarily speak with the same bluntness you may encounter in places like New York. Or almost anywhere else. So I didn't tell him to get lost. I simply turned away from the counter, angled slightly away from the guy, and watched the people, ignoring him.
"I'm Brad," he said. "What's your name?"
I pretended not to hear him. Four times I'd given him more than enough answer to know I wasn't interested in a conversation with him.
Then he put a hand on my arm.
"Get your paws off me," I said coldly, turning to him. "Now."
"Fucking dyke," he muttered, pulling his hand away.
"Misogynist, over-entitled asshole," I replied. So much for 'Minnesota nice'. "It's guys like you who give all the decent men a bad name."
I hadn't said it loudly, but I'd said it loudly enough for the butch next to me to hear. She swiveled around on her stool, and suddenly I had two sisters standing beside me, both of them bigger and tougher than I was. The butch stood with her arms crossed, not saying anything. But her girlfriend spoke for all of us.
"A gentleman," she said, stressing the word, "doesn't touch a lady without permission. A gentleman doesn't need to be told 'no' more than once. A gentleman doesn't resort to name-calling when a lady says 'no' with increasing conviction. And in this club of all places, everyone takes 'no' at face value. Safe. Sane. Consensual." She said the last word with conviction. "You are a repugnant man, and no woman with an ounce of self-respect would want anything to do with you."
He didn't say another word, but stepped backwards and then disappeared into the crowd. The three of us watched him go.
I took a deep breath, letting it out noisily, then turned to the two women. "I had it, but thanks. I appreciate the support."
They both offered small smiles. "We couldn't let you have all the fun," said the talkative one. She held out her hand. "I'm Jan. This is Deb." We exchanged quick hand clasps. "We'll be right here if you need anything else."
"When it's time to walk to your car," Deb added, "we'll walk you."
"I took a cab," I said. "Thanks again."
They both nodded and returned to their seats. I took a deep breath, chugging heavily from my drink. I didn't see the asshole again, and I'll jump ahead in the story for only a moment to say I didn't have any more trouble from anyone. Have no fears: this isn't that kind of story. Oh sure, there's conflict, but not that kind of conflict.
The waitress wandered past. "Another cosmo, Sugar?" she asked.
"Sugar, is it?" I asked with a smile. She grinned at me and shrugged. "No, I've had enough alcohol. Ice tea, please. No sugar."
"Ice tea, no sugar. You got it, Sugar," she said, sliding her fingers along my arm, then she brushed along me as she stepped away. Little minx.
From beside me, her back still to me, Deb chuckled and said, "Sugar?" loudly enough for me to hear.
"What can I say?" I asked. "She recognizes sweet when she sees it."
Deb chuckled again before returning her attention to her girlfriend. I scanned the room and tried to project an image of "sweet, delectable lesbian".
It was an interesting club, and discounting the occasional jerk, it would be fun to simply sit here and people watch. There was a seemingly endless supply of intriguing sights, and I was enjoying them when the waitress returned. "Sugar?"
I turned to her and looked for a nametag. She wasn't wearing one. She was carrying her tray, and my ice tea was on it along with what I thought was the bill. She handed me the bill first, and I discovered it wasn't a bill at all. It was a note.
"Join me?" it said.
I looked at the waitress. She turned and lifted her eyes.
The club was two stories, after a fashion. There was the main floor that I was on, and above that a balcony ringing the main floor, open in the middle. I followed the waitress's eyes across the club and up, and I saw a woman watching us from the other side of the club. She was seated at a comfortable-appearing sofa overlooking the main floor but was sitting on the edge so that I could see her clearly. If she had been leaning back, she would have been lost in shadows.
It was quite a distance, and still dim. I couldn't judge her age at this distance, but I could see she had a healthy figure and was dressed very provocatively, powerfully. She smiled, and she shifted, letting me see her legs. I stared at the boots for a moment then raised my eyes again to her face. She was watching me carefully.
"The woman in the balcony?" I asked.
"Yes, Sugar," the waitress said.
I nodded up to the woman and held up a single finger. Her smile broadened, and she nodded back.
I turned to Deb, setting my hand on her back. "Thank you again," I said, loudly enough for both her and Jan to hear. "I have an invitation."
"Good luck," Jan said. "It was nice meeting you."
I turned to the waitress who said simply, "If you will follow me, Sugar."
She put sway into her young hips, and I smirked as I followed her. She led me expertly through the club. We arrived at a set of bouncer-manned stairs, and the man pulled a rope out of the way, allowing me to follow the waitress up the steps. We then had to walk halfway around the club until we arrived at the woman's location.
I'd never been upstairs before. It was configured to be far more intimate, with individual booths, sheltered from prying eyes as we walked along behind them, and more, dimly-lit booths around the exterior wall. I heard noises coming from some of them, although the club music drowned out most of what I might otherwise have heard.
We arrived at our destination, and the waitress gestured for me to proceed in front of her. I stepped between two of the booths and turned to the left. The woman was seated at the far side of the booth, casually looking out over the club. When I appeared in her peripheral vision, she turned to me, smiled, and stood up.
We checked each other out.
"Lovely," was her first word to me. I preened under the praise.
She was dressed as, well, a cliché. She was in all black, most of it leather, all of it expensive. She was heavily made up, her hair pulled back tightly, and it gave her a severe appearance.
I liked severe.
I smiled and stepped forward, completing the acceptance of her invitation. She held out a hand, and I took it. She pulled me towards her, leaning forward to brush her cheek against mine. As heavily made up as she was, I was a little surprised by the motion. "I'm Miranda," she said into my ear.
"Cassidy," I replied. "You look stunning. Thank you for inviting me."
"Sit," she ordered, pulling away and gesturing, and I obediently slipped into place, setting my hands in my lap and lowering my eyes submissively. Miranda sat next to me, our knees touching, and then the waitress stepped in and set my ice tea down.
"I should pay-" I started to say, but Miranda already had a twenty out, and she slipped it across the table to the waitress.
"Thank you," she told the girl. "Keep the change."
"Jennifer will be back to check on you," the waitress replied as she collected her rather sizeable tip. "Thank you." She stepped away, both of us watching after her for a moment.
"Well," said Miranda. She slid my iced tea closer to me then picked up her own drink. "Thank you for coming."
I grabbed my tea and used it as an excuse for not knowing if I should say a
nything. I was nervous. But I looked over the rim of the glass and studied her a little further.
Her hair, what I could see of it, was dark, perhaps black or a dark brown. She was older than I was, forty-something or maybe fifty. It was hard to tell in the dim light and with as much makeup as she was sporting. I wasn't too worried about it. She wasn't a child; she wasn't an octogenarian. So her age didn't matter so much to me.
I'd let myself get picked up by an octogenarian once a few years previously. She'd been fun and really sweet, but she didn't have a clue what to do with me once I let her catch me. I was pretty sure she didn't think I'd actually let her and had only been flirting, but neither of us had backed away. We'd gone back to her place then ended up playing cards and talking until late before she called me a cab.
"Well, let's start with this, Cassidy. What do you prefer being called?"
"You may call me whatever you like, Miranda," I replied.
She frowned. "Answer my question," she said firmly.
I lowered my gaze. "I am sorry," I said. "I prefer Cassidy. I answer to Cass. I don't care for Cassie, but some people call me that, anyway."
She lifted a hand to my chin and lifted my face until I was gazing into her eyes. "Am I clear?"
I hadn't originally answered her question, and she hadn't liked it.
"Yes, Miranda. I'm sorry."
She smiled and caressed my cheek with her fingers before releasing me. "I will call you 'Cassidy'," she said. "Unless a pet name becomes more appropriate. I do not care for any of the ways my name can be shortened, and nor do I care for any of the cliché names."
"Yes, Miranda," I replied in understanding.
"Now, I must ask. Are you all right?"
I cocked my head, puzzled. Was she asking if I wanted to be here? "Yes. Why do you ask?"
"I was watching earlier," she said. "It looked like you didn't care for someone's attention."
"Oh," I said. "That. There's one in every crowd, right?" I shrugged. "I'm fine." I smiled to support my words.
I liked looking at her. I'm not sure I would call her attractive, but she was definitely stunning. I wasn't sure if she was my 'type'. She'd been flashy with the oversized tip to the waitress, but then again, the girl had gone through all the work to fetch me. I wondered if I'd been bought for twenty dollars.
"And this," she asked, tapping my glass, now back on the table. "What is it?"
"Iced tea," I said. I was tempted to look down, perhaps embarrassed, but I looked her boldly in the eye.
"You drank something different earlier," Miranda replied.
"A cosmo," I said. "But three or four ounces of alcohol is more than enough." I paused. "Please. Um."
"Say it," she ordered.
"I've had enough alcohol tonight. I like to keep a clear head. Well, mostly clear." I could feel the cosmo, and I wouldn't have had it if I were driving, but I wasn't sloppy, and I felt a little relaxed, but not stupid yet.
Miranda nodded. "Of course. If you change your mind..." She smiled, and we stared at each other for a minute.
I felt awkward. I wasn't very good at initial meetings. I wasn't all that good socially, anyway. There were reasons why I was a computer geek.
"You are very lovely, Cassidy," Miranda said, using her word from earlier. "I noticed you moments after you arrived."
I preened again, smiling. Her words went to my core.
As I said, I was a junkie for praise.
"Thank you," I replied, then picked up my iced tea and drank again. I began kicking myself. Why was this always so hard?
She leaned back, watching me. I had no idea what she was thinking. It didn't feel like she was mentally undressing me, but I did think she was considering her choices. "Tell me about yourself," she ordered.
"Um. There's not much to tell," I said.
"That's a lie," she said. She frowned, and the leftover good feeling from her earlier praise evaporated. "You're nervous."
At that I nodded.
"All right," she said. "I am going to ask some very simple questions, and you are going to honestly answer them."
"Yes, Miranda," I agreed.
"Are you gay?"
"Yes," I said. "Do I look gay?"
"No," she said. "Do I?"
I looked at her carefully. "No, but I have horrible gaydar."
"I dislike that word," she said.
"I'm sorry."
"I prefer 'lesdar'," she said, smirking at me. I wasn't sure if she was serious, but I decided she was teasing, at least a little.
"I'll try to remember," I replied, keeping a straight face.
"See that you do," she replied, still smirking. "Do you want to be here with me?"
"Yes!"
She smiled at the strength of my answer.
"Good," she said. She leaned forward and studied me carefully for a moment then leaned back again. "You're a professional of some sort, but probably one that doesn't involve working too closely with people."
I looked away, embarrassed by my lack of social skills. Miranda leaned forward and captured my chin, pulling me back to look at her. "The world is filled with all kinds," she said. "We come with a variety of skills. Your clothes are not cheap, and you wear them well. You didn't buy them because they were expensive or because they looked good on the manikin. You bought them because they look good on you. Furthermore, you are not plucking at them or acting self-conscious about your appearance. This implies a certain amount of income and self-confidence. But you feel socially awkward."
"I work in I.T.," I admitted. Information technology. "It's a good fit."
She nodded once, unsurprised at my response.
"Do you know what you want tonight?" she asked.
She leaned back, releasing my chin, and I turned away again, not answering right away. She waited perhaps fifteen seconds before she said, "Cassidy, I would like an answer. Do you know what you want?"
"I don't know what my choices are," I replied. I looked back at her. "I don't know you. I don't know what you want, or how you would treat me."
She smiled. "All fair statements. Do you know what I want?" I shook my head. "I would like you to relax a little. If you hadn't said what you said about the alcohol, I would offer a glass of wine. I want us to spend an hour or two getting to know each other. I want to know if it's okay to touch you." She demonstrated, setting a hand on my arm for a moment before she withdrew.
I smiled. "I like being touched," I said. "By you, anyway."
She returned the smile. "And the rest?"
"I'd like that, too," I said.
This wasn't the first time I'd done something like this. I was always pretty awkward about it, painfully awkward sometimes. Sometimes all the woman wants is to get me somewhere dark and semi-private for a few minutes; sometimes I let her. But I liked the more meaningful interactions, where we got to know each other.
I was starting to like Miranda.
"All right," she said. "Lean back and close your eyes."
I shuffled back off the edge of the seat and leaned against the cushions. Doing so caused our legs to separate, but she shifted, and then our legs were touching again. I had wondered if it had been deliberate the first time, and now I was sure it had been. I closed my eyes.
Miranda shifted again, coming a little closer, and speaking quietly. "Keep your eyes closed. I want you to pick three random things about yourself and tell me about them, and then tell me why you picked them. The first three things that come to your mind that you don't mind sharing."
"All right," I agreed. "I own my own home. It's a three-bedroom, two-bath rambler in a first ring suburb." I specifically didn't tell her what city. I was here for a random encounter far from home, after all. If I got to know her better, I would decide if I were going to trust her, but only if she asked. "I've lived there for almost twelve years, and it will be paid off in another three."
"Tell me a little more about the house," Miranda ordered, "and don't forget to tell me why you picked this."
&n
bsp; "I think I picked it because I'm proud of my house," I admitted. "It's not flashy or fancy, but it's good and solid."
"Like you," Miranda said, little more than a whisper. Inside, I sighed at the praise, but I didn't thank her.
"Do you know what a rambler is?" I asked.
"Yes. But imagine I'm standing at the front door. Give me a tour."
"All right," I said. "There's no foyer like you see in newer houses. Mine was built in the 1950s. It used to have a wood exterior, but one of the previous owners replaced it with a low-maintenance exterior."
"Color?"
"Boring beige," I said. "And I don't like to garden, so there isn't a lot of landscaping. I spend my time on the inside." I paused. "So, you step through the front door, and you're near one end of the living room. Directly ahead is an opening into the kitchen with an informal dining area. If you turn right, you're in the living room. Past that is a hallway to the bathroom and bedrooms."
"You can do better than that, Cassidy," she said.
I paused. "What do you want to know?"
"One level deeper," she directed, and I nodded.
"All right. The living room walls are boring," I said. "But I have several pieces of artwork, and in the corner, a sculpture."
"Of what?"
"Aphrodite."
She laughed. "Dressed or naked?"
I laughed with her. "It was expensive," I said. "She's life sized."
"Oh wow."
"Naked."
Miranda laughed again.
"I put clothes on her."
"Toga?"
"It depends on who is coming over," I replied. "I have a toga for her. But I have a variety of other things for her, too, so it depends on my mood."
"Oh that's priceless," Miranda said. "I love it." And her praise filled me. Hey, I couldn't help it, and this part I was happy with anyway. "Is your house done in a Greek style?"
"No. She's a modern Aphrodite," I replied. "Sometimes I dress her as a stylish business woman and imagine she runs a very fashionable company. She's fond of scarves."
"Over her eyes?"
I laughed nervously. "In her hands."