Gloria's Revenge (18 page)

My shoebox-size bedroom, painted in another shade of hot pink, consisted of a queen-size bed that took up most of the space, faux-French mirrored armoire, matching nightstand and a sliver of a closet. Jo-Jo jumped up on the bed and curled up on the garish leopard-print satin sheets left behind by the transvestite. Not wanting the dress near the furry cat, I draped it over my closet door. I glanced at the alarm clock on my nightstand. 7:15 p.m. I had less than an hour to get ready for my date. Quickly, I slipped out of my peasant skirt, letting it fall to the floor. As I pulled my t-shirt over my head, a waft of his cologne drifted into my nose. God, he smelled so divine. Maybe, I should never wash this t-shirt. Hold on to it as a keepsake. A souvenir of losing my virginity.

Wearing my torn pantyhose and my six-inch Jimmy’s, I stood before the armoire and gazed at my reflection in the mirror. My normally long legs seemed to go on for miles. The heels accentuated my calf muscles and toned thighs, both gifts of having been a tomboy my whole life. I ran my palms over my pert champagne-cup breasts, surprised by the soreness of my small nipples. The memory of Trainman nipping and tugging them filled my head. An electric current surged through my body.

Holding onto the armoire, I removed my new shoes and slid down my pantyhose. I had the urge to hold them to my nose, but I let them scrunch on the floor. Maybe, I should put them in a zip lock baggie and hide them in the armoire. The scene from an episode of
Law and Order
popped into my head, as if losing your virginity to a stranger on a train was a crime. Jack McCoy: “Your honor, I present to the court Exhibit A: Defendant’s Cum-Soaked Pantyhose.”

Inwardly chuckling, I headed, naked, to the hole-in-the-wall bathroom located off the small hallway that connected the living room and bedroom. I turned on the water and hopped into the narrow, tiled stall shower and, with misgivings, let the warm water wash away the residue of my Trainman encounter. I lathered my hair with shampoo and rubbed my soapy hand between my legs, shocked that the bud hidden in the folds was so sensitive and engorged.

After conditioning my mid-back length hair, I stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around me—a leopard print one that matched the satin sheets on the bed. I glanced at my reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror. My too-big-for-my-face chocolate eyes were a little bloodshot from my lack of sleep, but my skin was glowing, and I thanked my lucky stars for the zillionth time that I had been blessed with good skin. The genes of my mother. My heart grew heavy again—the image of her once radiant face, now sunken and sallow, filled my mind. I wondered how her treatment went. I so badly wanted to call her, but usually after one of them, she was weak and nauseated and preferred to talk to no one. Not even me, her only daughter. Her best friend and confidant. How I missed my mother!

With a weighty sigh, I threw my soaked chestnut hair into a ponytail and dabbed on some berry-flavored lip-gloss, something I rarely did. The thought of Ari licking it off my lips made me tingle. I hadn’t been kissed by him. Fucked. But not kissed. What would that feel like? At last minute, I spritzed myself with perfume. Sarah Jessica Parker’s Lovely, a birthday present from Lauren.

I headed back to my bedroom and beheld the little black dress, waiting for my body to claim it. Careful not to get my lip-gloss on it, I slipped it over my head, squeezed my arms under the spaghetti straps, and pulled it down. It stopped mid-thigh and fit my body like a glove, giving me little curves I never thought I had. The silky fabric was cool and soothing against my skin. I pulled off the tag and tossed it into the waste can. Jo-Jo gave me the cat’s meow. Marc Jacobs and I were now one.

“Don’t wear pantyhose.”
I could hear his sexy voice saying the words. Okay, so panties it would be. I opened the door to my armoire and pulled out a pair from the narrow drawer where I kept my collection of Fruit of the Looms. Cheap, comfy white panties I bought on sale at the downtown Target. I slipped my feet into the leg openings and slid them up under my dress. I stared at myself in the mirror and frowned. I had panty lines. Ugly panty lines.

“
Remember, no pantyhose.”
Fine. I’d live with the lines, but silently I cursed my Fruit of the Looms, wishing that I had a single pair of those obnoxious butt-floss thongs. I slipped my bare feet back into my black satin Jimmy’s and gave myself a final look in the mirror.

Sarah, plain and tall in her little black dress and grown-up high heels, no longer looked plain but instead borderline elegant. More
West Side Story
lyrics floated in my head— I did feel pretty. But damn, damn, damn, those panty lines. They were ruining everything. Impulsively, I reached my under my dress and yanked the panties down, letting them slide down to my ankles. I kicked them off, almost losing my balance.

The phone in the kitchen rang. My answering machine picked up. I could faintly hear Lauren’s voice, The Black Eyed Peas singing, “I’ve Got a Feeling” in the background. “Sarah, what the fuck is going on? Call me immediately.” CLICK.

I glanced again at my alarm clock. 7:55 p.m. Lauren would have to wait. Pantyless, I, Sarah Greene, was ready for my next encounter with my mysterious Trainman.

8:00 p.m. I stood anxiously on the landing of my apartment. My eyes darted east and west, searching for a tall, golden-haired Adonis that stood out from the crowd. A melting pot of New Yorkers passed me by, several pausing to stare. A silver-haired businessman gave me a wink, and a rapper type gave me a thumbs-up wolf whistle. I wasn’t used to being noticed, let alone winked and whistled at. It was as empowering as it was embarrassing.

My nerves grew edgier by the minute. What if he was going to stand me up? The image of the beautiful redhead flickered once more in my head. I always said,
“The grass can’t
compete with the trees,”
and I was just a blade of grass in a big city filled with beautiful trees.

My heart was sinking, and my inner vibrations were ticking like a countdown clock. And then, as I was about to lose all hope, my eyes caught sight of my long-legged Trainman running down the street in my direction. He loped up the landing, taking two steps at a time. He grinned mischievously.

The sight of him shocked me. He was dressed in jeans—the expensive, premium denim kind—and a black cotton tee—the expensive, yummy kind. I immediately felt overdressed in his LBD and uncomfortable.

“Hi,” I said nervously. I hated myself for my banality.

In my six-inch heels, we were practically the same height. His piercing blue eyes burned into mine and then traveled down my body, lingering on places they had no right to be. “The dress suits you,” he said at last with a glimmer of approval.

He offered me his arm, and my eyes fixed on his biceps. Perfect, not too big as if to shout professional weight lifter, but enough to let me know that he worked out. The rest of his body was equally sculpted to perfection. The outlines of his muscled thighs and calves were visible through the denim, and I could see the ripple of his abs beneath his fine, cotton tee.

I hooked my arm in his, glad to have someone help me down the steps in these mile-high heels.
Please don’t let me trip. Please!
I prayed silently.

I made it to the street. A small victory. I suppose we were walking somewhere—there were lots of good restaurants in the theater district—but truthfully, I was not looking forward to walking more than a block in my Jimmy’s. My feet were already beginning to ache, and I still didn’t trust myself in them.

“My driver will be here any second,” said Ari.

Driver? What was he talking about? In a heartbeat, a sleek black limo slithered up to us. Ari motioned with his finger to it and helped me step off the curb.

A tall uniformed man with rich, ebony skin and the intimidating build of Mr. Clean immediately came around the car and opened the backdoor.

“After you,” said Ari.

I looked at him with hesitancy, and then with as much grace as I could muster in my tight black dress and six-inch high Jimmy’s, I slid into the car. Ari climbed in after me. The passenger door closed, and I was sitting, once again, next to my mysterious stranger on a train.

The posh, spacious interior felt alien to me. Rich, black leather seats, plush carpeting, dark-tinted windows, plus a dark glass partition separating the two of us from the driver. There was also a well-stocked bar. I’d never been in a limo before. Obviously, Trainman was rich.
Very
rich. Again the question: What was he doing with me?

He stretched his long, taut legs out in front of him, and I noticed he was wearing expensive black loafers, with no socks. I impulsively crossed mine—acutely aware that I was not wearing underwear. The thought made me press by legs tighter together. I wondered—was this some kind of defense mechanism?

Ari glanced down at my crotch—holy shit, did he know? —and then subtly down at my feet. A sly smile flickered on his tanned face. Was it the beautiful shoes or the fact that I was not wearing pantyhose that pleased him? I dared not to ask.

The scent of his expensive cologne, mixed with that of the car’s rich leather, wafted up my nose, making me feel light-headed. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach, and the throbbing in my groin kicked up a notch with the movement of the car.
Please don’t let me get carsick.

“I hope you like lobster,” he said, breaking the silence.

Oooh. That was a conversation starter. Me, who lived on ramen noodles and an occasional macrobiotic dinner out, courtesy of BFF Lauren, who was forever going through a raw diet phase, didn’t know the first thing about eating lobster. All I knew was that it was a big red shellfish with big, scary claws that I could never afford.

“Yes,” I lied.

“Good. We’re going to The Palm, my favorite restaurant.”

“Cool.”

This was not going well. Despite my intimate encounter with this gorgeous man only hours ago, I now felt at a loss for words. Remembering one of my favorite sayings, “Speak only when spoken to,” I peered out the tinted window, gazing at the spectacle of cars, cabs, and pedestrians that made New York the city that never sleeps. A thought crossed my mind. I could see them, but they could not see me. Somehow, I thought ’s piercing blue eyes could see right through me yet mine could not penetrate him. He made me feel naked.

Ari’s voice diverted my attention. “Would you like a drink?”

“Um, a coke would be nice.”

Trainman smirked. He reached for a bottle of wine, already uncorked, and poured some into two crystal goblets. He handed me a glass and then clinked his against mine.

“Cheers. To you, and a fine meal.” His eyes stayed fixed on my face.

I put the goblet to my lips and took a sip of the wine. It was chilled and delicious. It didn’t taste like the acidic or oversweet “house wine” I occasionally ordered when I was out with Lauren. No, it tasted perfectly balanced and velvety. I glanced at the label on the bottle; it was in French. So, Trainman liked fine cars, fine wines, fine food… and fine women?

The limo was heading east across Forty-Second Street, the driver expertly weaving in and out of the insane Friday night midtown traffic. I imbibed more of my wine.

“So, Saarah…”

There he was, saying my name with that slow, sexy lilt. My breath caught in my throat.

Holding the glass of wine in one hand, he slowly ran the manicured fingertips of the other down my right leg, all the way down to my ankle. His caress gave me goose bumps.

“…You didn’t wear any pantyhose,” he purred, his hand rubbing up and down my ankle.

I swallowed hard. I was too nervous to say anything.

“I hope you’re as hungry as I am.”

“I’m famished,” I squeaked. Suddenly, I was craving a heaping portion of his cock. My stomach emitted an embarrassing growl.

He responded with that bemused smile.

His hand glided back up my leg and made its way under the silky satin of my little black dress. His middle finger toyed with my button. I was getting hot. Very hot. And very wet.

“You’re salivating. You
must
be starving.”

I bit down on my berry-stained lips to suppress a moan.

“Open your mouth,” he growled.

Hesitantly, I parted my lips. Removing his hand from between my thighs, he slid his middle finger, wet with my sex, across my tongue. “Just a small taste of what’s to come.”

I steadied the wine in my hand. I feared one way or another I was going to end up with a large, wet stain on my new black dress if we didn’t get to the restaurant soon.

The limo turned north on Third Avenue and, after a couple of turns, pulled up behind a cab in front of The Palm. The driver got out and the door opened. Trainman slid out and I followed, aided by his hand. I really was hungry.

Inside, The Palm was a noisy, bustling restaurant with white-clothed tables and a colorful array of caricatures of well-known celebrities lining the walls. At the reception area, a jovial heavyset man, with half-moon glasses, who looked to be in his late sixties, greeted Trainman with a warm handshake.

“Good to see you, Mr. Golden. Your regular table is waiting for you.”