The Restaurant Refugee

It was just after eleven on a Tuesday night – a sleeping hour for normal people, cocktail hour for restaurant people.  The Porn Star and I had just found a cab and pointed in the direction of my normal watering hole. 

“You really haven’t seen any of my movies? I have made almost 50 adult features” She asked for a second time and loud enough for the cab driver to readjust his rear view mirror.

“Adult films aren’t my thing” I said trying to be as polite as possible in my phrasing.  This was the first of many what-have-I-gotten-myself-into moments.      

“I am in town on a promotional tour for my new movie.  Say, can we go to a strip club?  Because of my work, I usually get everything for free if I dance for one song.”

“The place we’re headed is pretty fun” I non-answered.

Like she was rehearsing for an upcoming scene, she slid closer to me on the seat and pawed my thigh.  “You have very strong legs” she drawled in a southern lilt that reminded me of Madonna affecting her British accent. 

It was hard to determine through the slit of mirror, but I think the cabbie’s eyes registered jealousy… or disapproval.  I was too busy masking the growing shame in my own to make a final determination.  Thankfully we had reached the bar.

Porn Star displayed ballet like grace as she took my hand and alighted from the car.  A fitted mini-skirt, rather high heels, and surgically high center of gravity led me to expect that she would lean on my palm for balance; but her touch was light.  Her grace was fleeting.  As soon as she reached the sidewalk, she said – ostensibly to me, but actually to the trio of frat boys walking by us – “I really like to fuck.”

Satisfied that she had drawn their gaze – overkill as I am certain her breasts were sufficient to get them gawking – she walked towards the bar door.

“Hi.  I’m Porn Star, Adult Film Actress” she said to the bartender and anyone else within 10 yards. 

I was with a woman who would suck the light from the moon if she thought you were paying it too much attention.  What had once seemed like an interesting evening has become painfully embarrassing.  We could not stay here. 

“There’s no one here.  A great DJ is spinning at the joint down the street.” I announced.  It was the kind of place that I normally despise – too loud music, men in too tight pants, too dark, too expensive, and too hip by half – but I wouldn’t know anyone in the room.  It was perfect.

At the hipster hangout, it wasn’t long before Porn Star lost interest in me.  I was bled dry of attention and she needed more to keep life force going.  She kept introducing herself to anyone who passed through her tractor beam.  “Hi. I’m Porn Star, Adult Film Actress.”  I must have heard it a dozen times.

When she started kissing a woman on the dance floor I escaped out the door.

There aren’t many in this city who can begin a story with “the time I went on a date with a Porn Star.”  This particular story wasn’t worth it.

She walked into the bar and would have turned every man’s head except the bar was mostly empty at the time so she would have to manage with the speech altered attention of my bartender.  Dishwater blonde and rather petite save one surgically enhanced area of her body, she began the evening a bit quiet and demure.  She looked over the menu while sipping a Cosmopolitan and asked a couple of thoughtful questions about the cuisine.

I exited the kitchen in desperate need of espresso and had to use every bit of my General Manager nonchalance to look at her just long enough to smile a hello.  My single became a double hit of espresso and then I walked behind the bar to steal a second look fetch a lemon twist.  She was attractive but in the same way that a used BMW with lots of city miles rather than highway miles is attractive – not until you look closely will you see all of the potential problems.

I retuned to work; she finished her drink and slipped out the door with a promise to return for dinner later.  My bartender eventually regained his composure.

It was a slow night, the dinning room mostly empty 10 minutes before the kitchen closed.  This is the time when even a GM whose bonus is based on revenue doesn’t want another guest to emerge from nowhere.  I was having a working meal at the end of the bar when, true to her promise, Porn Star retuned. “May I have a Cosmo and a menu” she cooed to the bartender only slightly more animated than her first visit.

There was much grumbling in the kitchen when I alerted them to the presence of a new guest right before the final shut down was to happen.

“Refugee, are you fucking kidding me?” Nelson, the young Sous Chef who was in charge of the kitchen since the Executive Chef had long since departed said with obvious frustration knowing he had no choice in the matter.  “Nelson, I think you are out of Diet Coke.  Go pour yourself some” I suggestively encouraged.

Thirty seconds later Nelson returns with alacrity and commands the line cooks to get ready for one more order.

I checked on the two tables remaining in the dining room and returned to my now very cold hanger steak waiting for me at the bar. 

Fortunately for the kitchen and the rest of my staff, Porn Star only ordered an entrée.  Which the kitchen produced in world record speed as always happens when a last minute guest orders.

“This is soooooooo good Porn Star” sent in my direction.  “I’m very happy that you’re enjoying it” I replied and went back to the accounting papers before me.  My staff and I continued about the process of putting a restaurant to sleep for the evening.  Forty minutes elapse, all other guests had left and Porn Star is still sipping her second cocktail.  The servers were done and on their way to a bar to spend the nights earnings.  As the last member of the kitchen crew waved good night, my bartender gave me a pleading look.  He wanted to go home more than he wanted to ogle magnificently large breasts.  I closed his register while he did the final cleaning.

The night was done, doors locked lights extinguished in the dining room but Porn Star was still sitting at the bar.  We had engaged in light conversation to this point but I wanted to get out of the restaurant too.  She wanted another drink.  Yes, I wanted to leave, but I am also a man and therefore get distracted by bright lights and shinny things, so I made her another.  

“Take me some place fun” she asked without a hint of possible rejection in her voice.

She was right.

Thank you to all of you who have submitted entries thus far.  Due to slightly piss poor planning on my part unavoidable scheduling conflicts, the final judging will not be held until Labor Day Weekend – the announcement of the winner will be the following Tuesday.  Because of that delay and the fact that we are having a blast reading all of your entries, submissions can be entered until 11:59pm Thursday, 28 August 2008.

Your esteemed judges are:

The Disaffected Scanner Jockey – the inspiration for this contest and a lady who has indicated a willingness to be bribed with Twinkies and foot rubs.

My Favorite Lemon – the Food Goddess

I-66 – A man who has yet to face a situation that cannot be described by a word he invents

LivitLuvit – who most assuredly can be bribed with Manolo Blahnik Gift Certificates

KassyK – a great dame if ever there was one

The Foggy Dew – a danger to preconceived notions everywhere

J of BJsWithouttheMess – who may have wrestled the title of “one of the funniest women I have never met” away from Shannon who is disqualified from that competition since we have met and shared buckets-o-booze together.

The Grand Prize:

When I went to Cashion’s Eat Place to purchase the $100 Gift Certificate that is the top prize in this little contest the ownership volunteered to donate the prize – an exceedingly Stand-Up gesture that is much appreciated.  If you needed another reason to visit their site and hopefully their restaurant, you have it.

The Contestants:

Freckled K

Building a Family

Who Invented Roses

The Agony & The Irony

Infinite Connections

Unbelievably Bad Dates

That’s Why the Lady is a Tramp

Life of Red (in two parts)

Reader Submission from Megan

Reader Submission that I that I Think was Submitted Anonymously

If a porn star invites you to take her for a drink, you go on the date if only to have a story that begins “So this time I went out with a Porn Star.”

If I can still smell your cologne after I have walked away from your table, you are 3.6 times more likely to be a bad tipper than the general population.

Contrary to common belief, the really pretty people don’t get the best tables – the really nice people do.

Couples over the age of 40 who engage in heavy PDA in restaurants are usually cheating on at least one spouse.

If you are meeting an on-line date for the first time, stating your date’s name as a declarative rather than a question is the first sign of success.

Opening with the statement “Refugee, the Mrs.’s had a really bad day so there will be some cursing involved in the evening, can we sit somewhere out of the way?” is certain to place you on my list of most favorite guests.

Food Critics have a psychic Bad Day Barometer and will only appear when the needle is pegged on Shittiest Day Ever.

Health Inspectors, Alcohol Inspectors, and Corporate Mucketymucks have the same Barometer.

Very few problems cannot be solved with a mostly honest answer, sincere apology, and champagne.

The former lesson also applies to dating.

No good comes from Bachelor/ette Parties.  Ever.

Cleaning problems in the Ladies Wash Closet is always more vile than those in the Gentleman’s.

Never get attached to any article of clothing worn in a restaurant.  It will eventually be ruined.

Treating children like small adults is much more likely to produce good behavior.

I would much rather hire smart people with no experience then someone with 15 years of bad habits I will eventually have to break.

Guests who dine later in the evening are almost always more fun.

Always give the dishwasher beer at the end of the night.

Truth is not a good justification for calling a Corporate Mucketymuck a feckless asshat.

The email came as I was having a decompressing cocktail with my favorite bartender and dear friend, K.  I dropped the phone on the bar, rose from my stool and took a step beck before reading it again.  Did I just read that?  Surely I must have stammered seven “wow’s” before real words began to form.

“You OK” the recently non-smoking K asked.

“If you read what I just read, you would relapse and kick a puppy if he stood between you and a pack of Marlboro Lights.”

I exhaled deeply and marveled at the ability of a woman I have never met to erase all logical thoughts from my mind and make a four hour drive seem completely reasonable at the moment.  As K poured beer and mixed sundry cocktails for others, I tried to steady my addled brain to explain.  Short sentences, I reminded myself.

It’s nothing

It’s virtual

We’ve never met

She is an intimidatingly good writer

We don’t know each other

It’s a surreal online flirtation

A manufactured narrative

Of poetry and prose

In octagonal harmony

It started so innocently

And morphed into this

Tales of a perfect Sunday

Of coffee, and newspapers, and amazing sex

Intelligence as aphrodisiac

I’m not making sense

This makes no sense

And yet I want her

Badly

But we’ve never met

But I want that Sunday

I want every Sunday

I want that perfect first date

Long dormant things have stirred

And I have no idea what’s next

“I’m more of a ‘post-feminist’ feminist” the Lightly Bible Thumping Blonde to my left explained as we watched the U.S. Men’s Beach Volleyball team getting all they could handle from the Germans.

She made this quizzical comment in response to her Mostly Conversationally Challenged Companion’s complaint that “If the women play in bikinis, at least the men could play shirtless.” 

Sometimes I go to bars seeking this type of provocative conversation, sometimes I just want to watch the game or read a newspaper or smoke a cigar, and sometimes I wouldn’t mind some company for the rest of the night.  Last night might have been a mélange of all of those desires, but mostly it was about watching the game. SBTB had made it clear, however, that all options were available.

“What does that mean – a ‘post-feminist’ feminist?” I asked, knowing full well that her answer might eliminate the option directly involving her for the evening.

“It means that I am all about equality, but I am not going to care that the women play in bikinis and the men in shorts and shirts.”

(Mouth, this is Central Command.  Steady.  You are not the crusader for all things righteous.  You are instructed to change subject; alter conversational trajectory and return to Ready Mode.) 

“Oh my God, did you catch the angle on that shot?”

“I just don’t understand the big deal.  Sex sells. Those women just need to relax and enjoy it.”

(Mouth, this is Central Command.  You are instructed to Ignore, Ignore, Ignore.  Occupy pie-hole with drink.  Response is not permitted.  Threat Level is Elevated, but Situation still manageable.)

“If feminists want something to be upset about, we should be upset about how Title IX paints women as victims like affirmative action does for minorities.”

(Mouth, this Central Command.  Situation is no longer tenable for eventual landing.  You have a green light for proportional response.  Fire at will)

“If you really believed in equality, you would understand that the objectification of women is patently against the Olympic ideal.  Wearing bikini’s serves no useful athletic purpose.  If skin tight and revealing clothes made you play volleyball better, then the men would be outfitted in Lycra bodysuits if it would help them win.  This is a matter of sexualization, and that ain’t equality.

“And I would be happy to discuss the virtues of Title IX, Victimization, Minorities, and the implied subtext of your “relax and enjoy it” comment, but I have an early morning and must get some sleep.  Ladies, have a good evening.”

p.s. Thanks to all of you who wandered over from DC Blogs.  I would encourage you consider entering the Worst Date Ever Blog Contest we are hosting.  Turn a bad date into free dinner and good booze – clearly a win win.

Yes, the contest is titled Worst Date Ever Blog Contest, however, there are scores of people who have had terrible dates and don’t have a Blog.  If you are one of the countless people that enjoy reading blogs and have a story to tell, you may enter the contest by sending your story to restaurantrefugee@gmail.com as a MS Word attachment. 

I have also received a number of emails from people who have blogs for which a “worst date” story would be inappropriate.  Entries need not be posted on your blog.  An email with the story attached will also suffice in this circumstance.

Deadline for entries has been moved back to 11:59pm Thursday, 21 August 2008.

An unscratched itched wandered through my closet of dreams last night.  A woman, with whom there was a never spoken, never acknowledged, though presumed, mutual attraction reappeared in subconscious form.

It would have been wrong for a litany of reasons not the least of which is that I always thought her a little nuts.  Yet there I was twisting between sleep and the faint sounds of NPR on the radio with thoughts of her.  It was a never ending loop of a bad movie scene.  Clichéd images of two characters engaging in mundane activity for a moment leads to an obvious mental picture for one or both torridly removing clothes and steaming-up some inappropriate location.  Then reality fades back into view.

I never sorted the attraction in my mind.  I do know now as I did then that it was neither crush, nor real interest.  It was not until I typed these words that I contextualized my lust.  She was an apple in my mind and I chose not to bite.

Inspired by this post from the lovely Shannon, I am announcing the Restaurant Refugee First Annual Worst Date Ever Blog Contest.

Prizes:

First Prize – $100 Gift Certificate to Cashion’s Eat Place*, a bottle of wine from my personal wine cellar, and assurance that the winner will have the best table in the house.

Second Prize – a bottle of 1996 Cuvee Doyard Champagne from my cellar.

Eligibility

First prize is a gift certificate to one of my favorite restaurants in DC, however the contest is open to bloggers anywhere.  If the first place winner is not located in the DC region, an alternate prize of comparable value – to be determined by the Judges Committee – will be selected.

To avoid the appearance of impropriety, bloggers with whom I have a personal relationship (I have met you more than once) are not eligible.  Good news for the bloggers I have met is that you will be invited to the Judges Committee and Judging Party at my place.  All other Judges will be as anonymous as they wish to be.

As my blog is anonymous, I may discover the blog of someone I know in real life through the course of this contest.  Should that occur I will recuse myself from judging that person’s entry.

Bloggers who derive a full-time income from their sites are not eligible.

Group Blogs are eligible to enter as a group or once per member of the group.

One entry per person – honor system for those of you who anonymously host multiple blogs.

Evaluation of Entries

All Submissions will be evaluated based on two factors: overall suckitude of the date, and the quality of the post.  Each factor will be scored on a scale of 0 to 20.  The scores of each judge will be averaged to determine the final score for each submission.

The 10 highest scoring submissions will make it to the Semi-Final Round.  All semi-finalists will be further evaluated at the Judging Party and winners announced at its conclusion – or whenever the judges return to sobriety following the Party.

Contest Dates

Contest Entries must be posted on Contestant Blog’s no later than 11:59pm on 19 August 2008.

Semi-finalists will be announced on this site Friday, 22 August 2008.

Winners will be announced on Monday, 25 August 2008

To Enter

To enter this contest either enter a comment in this post, or send me an email at restaurantrefugee@gmail.com.  When the submission entry has been posted, send me an email that contains a link and it will be forwarded to the other members of the Judging Committee.

Older Blog posts may be entered as well – just email the link.

Changes

My blog, my contest, my cash, my wine – rules may change as circumstances dictate.

Contest Progress

I have added a Worst Date Contest Page to keep all contestant submissions in one place.

* Cashion’s allows corkage so combined with the bottle of wine first prize should cover dinner for two (not including the tip.)

I wrote recently of rejecting the affections of a woman who engaged in “lazy flirting” – exaggerated winks, thinly veiled innuendo, and back-handed date invitation.  I was colder than I needed to be, and less polite than I ever want to be.  It was not my best moment.  I am neither proud of my behavior nor willing to offer excuses for it.

But what if we reversed the gender roles?

What if it had been a man making persistent overtures to an obviously uninterested woman?

What if it had been a man who kept winking enough for the world to see?

What if it had been a man who issued the weak date offer of “I win you buy dinner, you win I buy dinner” to a woman that had already rejected his overtures?

What if it had been a woman who delivered another but clearer rejection?

What if it had been a man who when faced with this unmistakable rejection protested “Am I not pretty enough for you?”

What if it had been a woman who in frustration indicated that lame come-on’s are not sufficient to create interest?

I firmly believe in the equality of genders yet I also believe that there are some acceptable conflicting standards of behavior.  Is this one on that list?  I am not telling just yet, I look forward to reading the thoughts of others on this matter.

“What’s your type, Refugee?”  The question fell from the perfectly painted lips of the very blonde architect who was new to our group of friends.  It was the lazy flirt of an extremely attractive woman not accustomed to having to make effort. 

“I don’t have one,” I replied.

“Everyone has a type, Refugee” she insisted and punctuated the declaration with a wink.  VBA craved attention and I had no intention of providing it.

  I had just completed an exhausting day at ABDR and my needs at the moment were simple: beer, time to decompress, and practice time on the pool table before my next league night.

The bartender, an old friend and former colleague, gave me refuge when he said “Refugee, if you still want a pool table 26 is open” as he slid a rack of balls my way.

I gathered the rack, slung my pool case over my shoulder and made my way to the other side of the room. 

“Mind if I join you?” Clearly, she was undeterred.

“Can you play?”

“I guess you’ll have to get me on the table and find out” she said with a slightly exaggerated wink.

I detest the lazy flirt almost as much as sentences that end in prepositions; but no one else wanted to play and I practice better against competition so I waved an invitation.

“Race to three?” she half asked half declared.

“Game?”

“Eight-ball, Nine-ball, your preference.”

“Nine Ball.  What are the stakes?”

“Dinner – winner’s choice of restaurants” she says with another exaggerated wink.

In one of my frequent bouts of extreme candor, I reply “that is a bad bet for me because I have never seen you play pool, but more importantly I don’t see a winning scenario for me.”  It was colder than I would have wanted, but it was very true.

“What the fuck is your problem, Refugee?”  Her angry, frustrated voice could have easily been that of any number of my friends had they witnessed me rejecting the overtures of an attractive and intelligent woman.  She continued “Am I not pretty enough for you?”

“No, you aren’t clever enough, or subtle enough.  You think that some lazy-ass, ham-fisted attempts at flirtation are all the effort you need exude and men should be grateful, but I’m not.”

“How’s the view from your high horse, Refugee?  You know if you spent some time getting to know me, you might realize that I don’t flirt in a manner sufficiently sophisticated for your snobbish tastes because I never learned how.  You might learn that until three years ago no one flirted with me because I weighed a hundred and twenty pounds more than this.  I am sorry I didn’t have a lifetime to learn to be clever enough for you.”

She stood there – her vulnerability laid bare before me – waiting for me to say something.  I had nothing.  After what felt like a commercial break, I finally managed to mutter a “sorry” though I wasn’t quite sure for what I should be apologizing first.

Extending a hand I said “Hello, I am Refugee – normally I am not such a prick.  Would you like to play some pool with me?”  She shook my hand, and smiled a bit.  Then she proceeded to kick my ass up and down the pool table as we had our first meeting for the second time.

The drinking will continue until morale improves.

This is the first part of a series in which I hope to educate some readers, reinforce the knowledge of others, and hopefully make the experience of dining out more pleasant for all parties involved.  I have started with the most common wine mistakes.  This is adapted from a class I have taught for years but is far from an inclusive list.

Never Order A Bottle Of Something That Is Offered By The Glass 

The cost equation for wines by the glass (BTG) is “whatever is paid for the bottle, that is what is charged for the glass.  The glass price is multiplied by four to calculate the bottle price.  Wine that is only offered by the bottle is normally a three times mark-up.   Therefore by comparison, these bottles generally produce better values.

            Random Bottle X sold BTG – wholesale price = $10, BTG price = $10, bottle price = $40

            Random Bottle Y sold only by the bottle – wholesale price = $10, bottle price = $30

Never Use the Phrase “Table Wine”

Guests when consulting with restaurant staff will commonly indicate that they are seeking a bottle of “table wine” using that phrase as a euphemism for inexpensive.  That is a categorically incorrect usage of the word and may brand you an amateur diner.  Table Wine is defined as a wine that is made from a blend of grapes rather than a single varietal and has NO reflection on price.  The bottle of 1982 Petrus on the list for upwards of $15K is a table wine in the same manner that the 2005 Caymus Conundrum on the list for $40 is a table wine.

Stop Sniffing Corks

The purpose of presenting the cork to the guest who ordered the bottle is for the guest to see that the bottle was stored properly – on its side*.  If a bottle is subject to cork taint** the smell will be obvious to anyone at the table.  If the bottle is simply “off***”, the cork will still smell like wine soaked cork and tell you nothing of the condition of the wine in the bottle.  Smelling cork is a affectation of the uninitiated.  The best route is to simply feel the end of the cork with your thumb.  Damp is good, dry may or may not mean anything.

Stop Tasting the Wine When a Taste Is Poured

The purpose of offering a taste is to ensure that the wine is not suffering from cork taint.  As discussed, this can be accomplished with a simple sniff.  Smells like wine – good; smells like wet cardboard left in Tupperware for four weeks – the wine is corked.  By simply swirling and smelling, you have subtly but clearly indicated to the staff that you understand wine better than most.

Taste the Wine When A Taste Is Poured

This seemingly contradictory statement applies when a suggestion has been made by a member of the staff.  In this instance, the restaurant has recommended it presuming you will enjoy it and this makes them responsible for your satisfaction.  So taste it.  If you went through the wine list on your own and selected a bottle and don’t like it, that choice is on you.  Consider this comparison:  you walk into a record store (I know, I know – who does that anymore) and buy a CD that after listening realize you don’t like – you wouldn’t return it.  However, if after talking with a member of the staff about other artists you dig, they recommend something you eventually hate – you would feel entitled to return it.

Talk to the Staff

In an era of heightened appreciation for and sensitivity to the enjoyment of wine, most restaurants have a staff member that is tasked with being the resident provider of wine advice.  High end restaurants will have a Sommelier or Wine Director, in other cases it may be a manager or even a server with great wine experience.  Utilize their services.  I am a wine expert, yet I still consult with Sommeliers when I dine out because no matter how much I know about wine and food in general, I expect them to know their menu and wine more specifically.  I usually ask “is there someone with whom I can discuss the wine list available.”  To indicate my price preference, I will usually refernce a bottle on the list with the phrase “I am looking for something in the same ball park as Random Wine X, that will compliment the meal.”

Ask About a Reserve List

This tactic should only be used in restaurants that have tablecloths.  95% of restaurants do not have a reserve list, those that do, however, place their favorite bottles (usually in a range of prices) on this list.  It is another subtle indication that you are a more experienced diner and sends a clear message to the staff that you are to be taken seriously.

* this is not really important for bottles that are served within four years of vintage, however, restaurants that have a strong wine program will do this nonetheless.  There is a more detailed explanation for this but I am only willing to give away so much information for free.

** Cork Taint is another area that requires more extensive discussion.  It can be caused by a number of factors but the smell is still the same.

*** Wine that is “off” is a catch-all term for any of the numerous things that can affect the taste of a bottle of wine.  Wine is a living organism and like any other some times it just ain’t right.

Normally, the perfect quip floats into my addled brain no sooner than an hour after it could have been helpful.  Witty banter – got it.  Sly flirtations – got those too.  The response to those in need of a substantive verbal smack down without my need to be humble or self-deprecating – delivered with half my brain cells tied in hung-over knots behind my back.  The one-liner that balances snarkasm (the evolutionary cross between snark and sarcasm,) brings the funny, and puts another very gently in his/her place – yeah that one always arrives too late.

I started thinking about this after reading this post from My Other Favorite Lemon where she had the perfect conversation ending response to her soon-to-be Father-In-Law.  This has happened precisely one time in my life.

If you have read this post, or this one, or even this one, it is no surprise that I favor suits (editorial aside: I once got the best costume award at a friend’s Halloween Party by arriving in costume of denim overalls, t-shirt, and red handkerchief flowing from my back pocket.)  At a happy hour hosted by this very cool gent and predominantly populated by casually dressed political progressives and their ilk, I happened to be wearing one of my favorite bespoke duds.

While waiting for a cocktail at the bar, a well packaged casually dressed gentleman that I have met once or twice playfully asked me “Refugee, what does it feel like to always be the only guy in the room in a suit?”  After a pausing for a beat to think, I said with a wink “like the rest of you mutherfuckers are underdressed.”

Showerhead streams painted road maps on her skin to places I have never been, places I hungered to know.  “Hotter”, she whispered.  Amazing how much ten degree turns of small steel can turn on.  She leaned her head to the right and pressed her body backwards into mine.  Her left hand held my left taught against her stomach while her right arched back toward my unshaven cheek.

This moment was superficial perfection – two people conjuring an emotional connection for the sake of enjoying the physical one.  I suppose I didn’t mind.  We were coconspirators in this romantic treachery.

“Kiss me” she whispered as she turned her still made up face, perfect breasts, and roving hands toward me.  I began slowly, teasingly.  Kissing her like two lovers parting in the morning.  1.5 seconds of a kiss with my eyes open pausing for a beat to take the measure of her even as her eyes were closed.  Kiss her again.  I allowed myself this intimate indulgence but resisted the further intimacy of kisses meant for those you kiss deliberately. 

My lips explored her neck as the big of my hands roamed from the small of her back to having handfuls of her hair.  She folded herself even closer to me as if she was trying to press through me to find what she really wanted on the other side.  Making my way from her neck, tracing her collar bone, not rushing to her breasts, I have always been patient.  She wraps a leg around me and leans into the wall for support.  My hand caresses her thigh in concentric circles moving slowly towards the place she wants me to be.

The first digit finds her hotter than the water still pulsing towards us and I kiss her again.  This time it is an urgent kiss and I hear the last barrier to this indulgence fall.   Her moans excite me but in a selfish way feeding my sexual ego rather than finding joy in her pleasure.  Craving more, I kiss my way down her body until I am kneeling with a thigh on my shoulder and my tongue drawing shapes on her clit.