Nov. 8, 1999
Monday, September 20
An appointment this afternoon with snowbird Nat,
whom I haven't seen in almost six months. If I don't see him as
often as I can between September and November, it'll be another six
months, because he spends the entire winter in Naples, Fla.
Today, he invited me to his Turtle Bay apartment,
explaining that Mrs. ______ was touring lavender farms in Provence with a
girlfriend.
I never like to see a john at his home if he's married. It's
tempting fate -- men, even married men, underestimate a woman's
sense of her own turf. But Nat has been seeing girls in this
apartment for as long as I've known him -- he's one of the few who
can be trusted to understand his wife's movements.
He greeted me at the door of their super-decorated empty nester's
pad in his half-open bathrobe. I peeked into the robe and
complimented him on his tan: "You got some color, Nathan!"
"Well, I should hope so," he replied. "I've been working on this
tan for 65 years."
"Patience is a virtue," I reminded him, gently removing his too-
eager paw from the hem of my dress. I started ducking into the
guest bathroom, only to be dragged toward the bedroom -- "That's
her bathroom. Use mine," he urged, pointing me toward another door. I freshened up and fluffed my hair while Nat fiddled with his new sound system. I cringed as Billy Joel began to
warble in the many-speakered bedroom.
In the den, I began my ritual of undressing -- off with my coat
dress -- pointing out my non-existent tan by peeling my bra down a
bit. "I'm terrified of the sun," I informed him as I tugged my
panties away to show him my young untanned loins.
"Come sit on my lap," Nat said happily. "I'll show you my new
plaids." Looking quite spry in a pair of navy blue bikini briefs,
Nat was sitting on a comfortable chair next to a table that
displayed his pride and joy -- a pile of cards bearing swatches of
his latest fabrics.
"Now this -- this is for next summer. It's a linen blend.
See? Very light. I'm doing a line of women's
suits in this -- it doesn't wrinkle
but you can't tell it's a blend."
I was charmed by the obvious love Nat still has for his business after
so many years -- the man is obsessed with fabric, with its nuances,
especially those of the blends. If someone can find a way to sneak in
a bit of synthetic without coarsening the entire effect, he takes a
personal pride in the affair.
He took my finger and
rubbed the tip against the pale fabric as I nestled half-naked in
his lap. "Now feel the difference between this," he said, showing
me a plaid wool square, "and this," showing me another. "It's much
softer, isn't it?"
"But this is not," I said playfully, pressing my hip against his
erection.
"With you in town, a guy doesn't need Viagra," he remarked. "Look -- no tan lines!" He pulled his bikini briefs down to demonstrate.
"I hope you're not taking Viagra," I said, frowning. I suddenly
remembered a news report -- apparently, a working girl in Taiwan
shot a Viagra-crazed john just to stop him from fucking her! But
I didn't mention this to Nat, who had put his swatches aside -- to
display his outsized raw material. If there's one guy who should
NOT be pumped up with Viagra, it's Nat. He is so large, he would be
a menace if he lasted for too long.
"So far, so good," he told me. "Knock wood!"
I led him by the hand to his bedroom, where I had placed a small tube of K-Y and a lambskin
condom under his pillow. Lambskin is the only
kind that fits him.
When Nat had reached his hardest, I slid the condom on and placed
his cock between my thighs, up against my pussy lips, where the
slippery material helped considerably. I never can figure out
whether Nat knows he's not inside -- he comes so fast that it's
hard to tell, and this painless accommodation of his oversized
erection has become a local tradition.
When Jasmine first sent me to Nat three years ago, she said: "He's
really big but you don't have to put it in. He just comes between
your thighs." Once, in a retrospective mood, Nat began talking
about his marriage. "I can't understand how I managed to father
three kids," he told me. What exactly did that mean? Not enough
sex? Or did his wife practice the same technique, perhaps?
"Is it supposed to be in?" has become one of the many impolite
questions that never gets asked. At 75, Nat reminds me of a child
who might, for all we know, be pretending to believe in Santa Claus
-- but might not.
Liane has asked me to see Bert again -- that guy from Boston who
thought I was turning my first trick. "Now just remember -- this is
supposed to be your second time," she reminded me. "Don't wear anything obvious
and remember you should still act nervous."
Tuesday, September 21
Last night, after leaving Liane's, I took a short stroll up
Madison. The avenue was a ghost of its daytime self, reminding me
of my first months in Manhattan when I worked mostly at night --
not like now. For the first year, I never saw Central Park in
daylight -- I liked having a reason to taxi through the park late
at night, and I often did ...
It was startling to have these bittersweet thoughts interrupted as I neared the darkened
headquarters of Ralph Lauren. Exiting from the church next door,
Jasmine was talking in a low voice to a tall, fair
man in his 40s -- quite good-looking, in a corduroy jacket. The
sort of guy who makes you look twice, despite yourself. He glanced
at me with a twinkling eye, then turned back to Jasmine, who gently
touched his arm and drew him closer, ignoring me. Could this be ...
it must be! -- a sexaholics meeting? Was that a male sex addict's
compulsive flirtation I had just experienced?
I took note of the bland faces spilling out onto the pavement.
Jasmine and her mystery date were clearly the best-looking ones in
the group. As I passed, Jasmine avoided me -- I was sure she
spotted me, though -- and I couldn't help being struck by her
gentle movements. In her efforts to snag a sex addict from the
right ZIP code she was -- well, not exactly kittenish, but getting
there. In deference to her discreet scam, I picked up my pace and
kept walking.
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