Lessons In Being A Flapper

by Angela Smith

  As he removed my top and slid his masculine hands over my body, I trembled with longing. I needed this. I wanted this. He kissed the corner of my mouth, my neck, my collarbone. He trailed kisses over my stomach and made me moan with pleasure at the lightest touch of his fingers. When we were both fully naked, Bayani lifted himself up and looked at me with pure lust. He tucked a piece of hair behind my ears before saying how much he’s been anticipating this very moment. I knew what he meant; I too had been waiting for the moment when we would become one.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked, so softly that I almost didn’t hear him.

  “Yes, I am,” I whispered back. It was true. I had never been so sure of anything in my entire life.

  After what I can only describe as the most passionate night of my life, I didn’t think anything could compare ever again. Bayani was such a gentle but firm lover. He made me feel things I didn’t know I could feel and made me do things that I had never imagined doing with anyone else. Waking up next to this amazingly sensitive man was something I could definitely get used to. I woke up before him and decided to just stare at him in undisguised awe. He was a sound sleeper so I could get away with it.

  I was taking this time to mark off things I loved about him in my head.

  Oh. My. God. Did I just say loved? Did I? That was completely unintentional, just so you know. I don’t fall in love easy as I feel like I have to protect myself from being hurt. Did I really love him or was I just in love with the idea of being in love?

  I knew I loved the way his long eyelashes hung over his azure eyes like an awning; I loved how his smile made me weak at the knees and his touch sent shivers down my spine; I loved the way his eyes crinkled up when he smiled; I loved how he talked about his parents and treated them with respect; I loved how he was kind and giving and helped Marisol when he could; I loved how he had a compassion for animals and volunteered at local shelters; I loved the woodsy smell of him after he got showered and dressed in the morning. There were so many things that I loved about him that I couldn’t fit them all here. So all in all, I guess I did love him. What a wonderful thought to have after our first night together.

  When Bayani awoke a few minutes later, I worried that he could read my thoughts. Though he had said that he loved me before I left for New York, he hadn’t said it since and I was afraid that if I told him my true feelings I would scare him off.

  “Good morning, my delicious little cupcake,” he said, yawning and showing a patch of tanned skin where the sheets had once been. I melted. I could definitely go for another round of lovemaking but I didn’t want to miss the breakfast buffet.

  I had my priorities, you know.

  “Morning, handsome.”

  “What time is it?”

  “About 7:30. I’m going to head down to the breakfast buffet. Do you want anything?” I asked, picking up my scattered clothing and trying to put it all back in order. Jesus, we must have been like Neanderthals last night. Everything was everywhere and I couldn’t even find my underwear at all.

  “I’ll meet you down there in a few. I was thinking we could explore the city today because unfortunately, I have to leave tomorrow,” he said, giving no explanation as to why he had to leave. I knew it couldn’t be for work since the offices were closed until New Year’s.

  “I want to go visit my brother upstate,” he said, as if reading my mind.

  “Absolutely. We’ll do all kinds of stuff today. Just as soon as I have my coffee and something sweet,” I replied before heading out the door in my clothes – but no underwear. I couldn’t find the damned things!

  The breakfast buffet at The Plaza was legendary and so far I hadn’t missed one day. The creamy cheese Danishes and freshly made crepes were divine and not something you’d get the chance to nibble on every day. I decided to take advantage of it. One day I even pocketed a few pastries in a napkin, stuffing them under my shirt to avoid detection when I left. They were just too good for words.

  Back in the room, Bayani and I got showered and dressed then headed out into the cold and snowy city around 10:30. Though it was still snowing lightly, the city was so alive. People were out walking their dogs and children were making snowmen in Central Park. I loved everything about this glorious Christmas morning.

  “Your chariot awaits, my lady,” Bayani said, motioning to a horse drawn carriage sitting outside the gates of the park. The white horse was excitable and looked ready to run so I jumped on board quickly with Bayani behind me. Once we were sitting down the driver (is that what he’s called? I was going to call him the horseman but then could only picture the headless horseman and didn’t want to picture our driver headless) pulled out into the streets with ease. He must do this a hundred times a day, I thought.

  Bayani wrapped me up in a provided blanket and held my hand underneath as we watched the sights of New York City go by. People on the street waved to us and I waved back cheerfully, hoping that my happiness would spread to them as well.

  “What do you think?” Bayani asked me.

  “I think this is the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me. Well, besides send me an empty Tiffany’s ring box. That was pretty romantic too if you like that kind of thing,” I teased. I had yet to find out where Bayani had gotten the box. I hoped it wasn’t a leftover from a prior relationship in which he proposed and kept the box for a souvenir.

  When our ride was over, we arrived back at Central Park. Bayani told me that he had another surprise for me.

  “C’mon he said. We’re going to be late!” What was it with him and being late? It seemed like we were always rushing somewhere because we were “going to be late”. Couldn’t we just slow down for a minute?

  As Bayani and I whizzed through the streets of New York, past The Plaza, down Fifth Avenue and around a corner, I wondered where we were going. There’s so much to do and see in New York that wherever Bayani was taking me had to be somewhere special.

  When we finally stopped, I was completely perplexed as to where we were and why. We appeared to be in front of one of the most non-descript buildings in the entire city. It was a basic building, not too tall but tall enough that it gave me a fright. There were no signs on it nor were there any indication of what was inside.

  “Where are we?” I asked, still looking around for clues that didn’t seem to exist.

  “You’ll see,” Bayani replied opening a heavy metal door and pulling me up two flights of stairs. Thank heavens we weren’t going all the way to the top!

  “Well, well, well, Chickadee. I have missed you,” Marisol said when she saw me enter the room. I ran to her and hugged her tight, holding her frail and fragile body close to me.

  “What are you doing here? I’ve missed you so very, very much!” I exclaimed. It was true. I couldn’t wait to get back to San Fran to see her but now she was here in what appeared to be a dance studio in Lower Manhattan.

  “You’re probably wondering what we’re all doing here, aren’t you? Well, your lovely fella over there thought it would be a nice surprise for you if I came out for a quick visit. It was originally supposed to happen earlier but he said that he wanted it to be a Christmas present so here we are. Christmas day and we’re in a dance studio! How splendid!” she said, doing a little twirl. Bayani steadied her when she wobbled but overall her twirling abilities were impressive.

  “I overheard the two of you talking about the twenties and I remembered that my brother used to own a dance studio here in the city so I asked him if he could help me rent it for the day,” Bayani said a little sheepishly as if he knew he shouldn’t have been eavesdropping.

  “But what are we going to do here? I don’t think I understand…”

  “Darling girl, we are going to learn the Charleston! Well, you are. I already know it like the palm of my hand. What a fun and flirty dance it is. Of course old age has left me rather stiff, but I’ll do my best to follow along. After seeing you tear the Lindy Hop to shreds, I thought it’d be best if you
learned from a professional before attempting any more dancing.”

  Apparently, Bayani had called in a top Broadway choreographer who specialized in the Charleston to show us the steps – literally. I guess this was how we’d break up. I never thought it was going to end this way…

  Oh. Right. It’s not ending. We’re just dancing.

  Thing is, I’m really, really bad at dancing, as you’ve probably realized. Almost as bad as I am at ice skating. As I mentioned before, I have no coordination. The dance instructor might tell us to put our left foot forward and I’ll almost always put my right. I couldn’t tell which was which, sometimes. Was that bad?

  Anyway, I suppose I should give it a try, no? After all, Bayani did go out of his way to make Christmas extra special for me. He even flew in Marisol for some twenties inspiration. I couldn’t deny him the chance to see me dance like a baby deer who hadn’t yet found out how its legs worked.

  The choreographer was a middle aged man with a full head of thick blonde hair who had a flamboyant flair about him. He snapped his fingers furiously to get out full attention. I thought I even saw him flick his wrist. Yep, I was now entering hell.

  “Places, people!” he said, as if he were instructing a Broadway production. Places? I had no freaking clue where I should stand so I stood in between Marisol, decked out in proper Charleston attire with a string of beads around her neck, and Bayani, in jeans and a t-shirt. Me? Well, I was dressed head-to-toe in Christmas colors. I had on pale green jeans (mint green, really) and a red sparkly sweater. I thought I looked rather cute when we left the hotel but now I just felt ridiculous. I suddenly wondered whether my grandparents were going to watch this little production and asked Marisol as much.

  “Darling, haven’t I told you? You’re grandfather only contacts me when he has pressing information or wants to barber me into doing something silly – like telling you I hear dead people. I don’t hear from him otherwise,” she whispered. “Though you should assume he is watching and will have a critique or some other nonsense to bang on about when we get home.”

  “By the way, have you heard anything from your ghost lately?” Marisol inquired.

  “No, I haven’t and I don’t expect to as I put all of that to rest. The past is the past and I refuse to dwell on it any longer,” I said with determination.

  “You obviously haven’t learned anything from me these past few months. You above all people should know that a spirit never really goes away. It may be silent for a while but until it gets what it wants, it’s never really gone, my dear.” Damn it. Why did she always have to burst my bubble? I was so convinced that the “thing” haunting me could be cast away if I stopped thinking about it but obviously I was wrong. Deep down, I knew that Marisol was right.

  After fifteen rather disastrous attempts at learning to dance the Charleston, the choreographer gave up and said he wasn’t being paid enough to stand there all day while I tried to figure out my left foot from my right. He ended up leaving in a huff and while Bayani and Marisol found it excruciatingly funny, I was left feeling like a loser who couldn’t even learn a simple dance step. What fun this was turning out to be!

  To cheer me up, Bayani took me to a quaint little store called Vintage Tea, where I spent an hour looking through the authentic vintage clothes and accessories. Nothing really caught my eye though, which was good as most things were outlandishly priced ($3,000 for a Butterfly clip, really?)

  We then headed back to the hotel, where we engaged in another round of passionate lovemaking. That’s the thing with sex, isn’t it? Once you start doing it with someone, you don’t stop. We were like teenagers discovering new things for the first time, exploring and generally not getting out of bed for anything. Not even the breakfast buffet the following morning. That had to say something about my devotion to Bayani as I never would miss a good breakfast buffet!

  Around 1 o’clock, Bayani said he had to leave. I was sad to see him go but knew that when I got back to San Francisco I could see him as much as I wanted – and that was a lot. By George, I think I’m addicted to the old chap. Though Bayani wasn’t old (far from it) and I wasn’t really addicted, per se. I just enjoyed his company more than most peoples.

  Parting was like a sweet surrender as promises were made and X-rated things were said. When Baynai eventually closed the door to my room, leaving me with nothing but the music of Frank Sinatra and Rosemary Clooney (I was an old soul) I lay down on my bed and stared blissfully at the ceiling for a few minutes before deciding to go see if Marisol was up for a game of golf on the Wii Fit.

  “Why people want to play these games is beyond me,” Marisol said as she tried to get a hole in one (million) on the Wii. Either she had never played golf in her life or she wasn’t too good with technology. I was leaning towards the latter. We had been playing for a while now and even though I said we could stop at any time, Marisol had decided that she wasn’t going to quit until she won. If that was true, we were looking at a very long night ahead.

  A few games later I came up with a plan to just let Marisol win by doing absolutely nothing to win myself. It worked beautifully and as we sat down at the glass table on the closed-in balcony for a much deserved glass of fizz, I told Marisol about the Tiffany’s ring box.

  “Do you know anything about it?” I asked.

  “Why would I know anything? I can’t read his mind and I definitely do not keep tabs on that palooka when you’re not around.” Well, sorry I asked! Marisol seemed extremely restless tonight like she was itching to do something different instead of sit in this (fabulous) hotel and drink with me.

  “Do you like jazz, chickadee?” she asked out of the blue.

  “It’s OK. Why do you ask?”

  “It’s OK?! A true Flapper loves Jazz. She loves to dance to it, listen to it and be one with it,” she said, getting up and getting her coat. “Let’s go.”

  “Go where? It’s 11 o’clock at night!”

  “And your point is?” Well, my point was that it was 11 o’clock at night. What other point did I have to make?

  “Darling girl, the night is young. I’m sure we can find some fabulous place to listen to music in this God forsaken city at 11 o’clock on a weeknight. The banks closed, your palooka has left the building. What else do you plan on doing with yourself? You’re in New York, lest you forget.”

  The banks closed. That meant making out and other things in her language. Ha. She must have known Bayani and I had slept together. She probably got a message from my grandfather again. I really hoped he hadn’t been watching me have sex. That would just be far too creepy for words.

  “I know. But I don’t exactly have the right clothes to go out clubbing…” Just the thought of going clubbing with a 99-year-old was insane to think about. Although, I had come to realize that Marisol could be the life of the party if given the chance.

  “I suggest we go out and get bent or whatever you call it nowadays. What do you call it, by the way, when someone is off their trolley with giggle juice?”

  “Drunk”, I replied. Though I didn’t think it was a good idea to get drunk at all – for neither of us.

  “Yes, drunk. Now, are you coming or what?” Marisol said standing at the door. I reluctantly got up only to be pushed back down by a rather firm, but bony, hand.

  “Toots, you can’t go out like that. Let’s find you something more appropriate. You look like you need a nap not a party!” Didn’t I just say I didn’t have the right clothes? Was she even listening to me?!

  After much fuss about what I should where and how I should do my makeup, we finally settled on a complete Flapper transformation. I wore strands of pearls that hung down to my waist, a feathered headband, a short skirt with tassels and a black sparkly top. Marisol helped me to do my makeup like a true Flapper too. She taught me this trick where you put concealer over your lips and then paint a heart on with lipstick. It was extremely easy to do and the results were amazing. I thought about doing my lips this way all the time from now
on but decided against it as most women would probably look at me funny. But I didn’t care. I was a true Flapper who didn’t give a flying squirrel about anything tonight.

  By the time we left The Plaza it was almost midnight. Marisol asked the doorman where the nearest club was and after giving her a slightly astonished look he directed us to what he called a “hip joint” about five minutes away. He then flagged us a taxi and off we went.

  “I’m telling you Autumn, we’re going to cast a kitten tonight!” Marisol said gleefully with a shine in her eyes I hadn’t seen before. I was slightly worried about what she had planned and what the hell “cast a kitten” meant. A quick search of Google on my iPhone told me it meant to have a good time.

  The cabbie dropped us off at the Birdland Jazz Club on West 44 Street and we got in line behind all the hipsters waiting to get in while texting their friends to tell them how cool the place was and what a great time they were having. Obviously they were all trying too hard because the real cool kids had just arrived.

  “Woohoo! Baldy! Can a couple of crashers get a door pass or what?” Marisol yelled out to the bald-headed doorman who didn’t look too amused with her antics.

  “I’m really sorry. She’s just very impatient,” I explained trying my best to diffuse the situation as best I could.

  “How old is your grandmother?” the doorman asked.

  “Oh, she’s not…” A swift kick at my ankles warned me to say no more.