As agreed, we met at a small open-air coffeeshop in the more relaxed area of downtown. It was the sort of commercial neighborhood that was designed to make patrons look professional but hip. I'm sure that if I were looking I'd see a Starbucks or a Bruegger's somewhere nearby. I found her seated at a corner table under a large, and potentially real, potted ficus. Everything said "business casual." Her eyes flitted between the New York Times open to the Living section in front of her and the second cup of coffee set out for her anticipated companion. Me.
I paused at the sandwich-board style specials menu set by the entrance, pretending to idly look it over. This time was used to get a sense of her.
She matched the scenery quite well in her semi-feminine ash-colored business suit with lavender blouse muffling the swell of her breasts. Her shoes were black; half-way between flats and heels. I let my eyes quietly settle on her face, admiring the soft set to her well-formed jaw, the glasses with dark rectangular frames that neatly straddled the line between too professional and too emo. Her dark hair was shoulder-length, one side tucked behind her ear. On the other side hung a lock of hair that she doubtless fiddled with absentmindedly when she wasn't paying attention. This was just such a moment.
I like to call these moments my "Sherlock Holmes" moments. This is when I make a verdict on what sort of person she is, what her state of mind is. What she's looking for here. This is when that psychology degree of mine proves its usefulness. I pegged her as a woman who grew up with the "girl power" image that became popularized in the media in recent decades. A woman who fought to keep that image as she climbed a medium-sized corporate ladder. A woman who probably couldn't decide if she was completely surrounded by assholes and frat boys, or if she made the mistake of intimidating the good ones into silence.
This, my dear reader, is foreplay. If you're patient with me, you'll be enlightened as well as entertained.
My Sherlock moment passed, and I approached the table. About two seconds before I sat down, she took stock of my demeanor and folded up the paper, leaving it on the table between the coffee cups.
"Ms. Marnier, yes?" I arched an eyebrow, pronouncing the name like the liquor.
"I am, yes," she responded cordially. "Which would make you Mr. Mason. But please, call me Lisa." A pleasant smile, accented by just a bit of apprehension, settled into her expression. Her lips were colored a tastefully pale hue of lavender, no doubt to match the blouse. It was, put simply, a very pretty smile.
I urged her to relax. "I suggested we meet like this so we can establish a level of comfort between us. At this point, there's no obligation or agreement; just two people feeling each other out. Like an interview, but with less riding on it. The first step, of course, is to call me James. I've never much liked the formal address."
Our afternoon proceeded in this pleasant enough manner, though I got the sense that she never lost that tickle of apprehension. This is, of course, understandable. She was having a conversation with an escort.
I'd like to take a moment to explain my business philosophy to you. If you just can't take the pressure, then go right ahead and skip this paragraph as well as the next; I'm human, I know how the itch works. Still with me? Excellent. Several years ago I discovered that there were few things I liked better than giving a woman an orgasm. Then, it was several orgasms in a row. After that, my girlfriend at the time helped me understand the difference between a clitoral orgasm and a vaginal orgasm. Then came the extended orgasm. Someone with a psych degree (someone not myself) could probably hypothesize about why I have this particular interest, but why spoil it? I love the female orgasm with every fiber of my being.
After that, my interest adhered to the philosophy of "take pride in your work." I got better with my hands and with my mouth. Luckily, there were a couple of very nice young women who were more than happy to let me practice. For me, it became an art form, halfway between poetry and science. Any schmuck can rub the clit for a few minutes to decent effect, but to be a true connoisseur one must intuitively understand the intricacies of the female orgasm. More to the point, one must love the female orgasm. That's me.
