Motorboatin' SOB

           True to his word, Peter called me on Friday afternoon.

            “So this is bad timing,” Peter said. “But something came up this weekend.” He explained that one of his friends from college, a guy named Daniel, was coming to New York because his wife had announced she was divorcing him a few weeks ago. They lived in DC, and he had to vacate their apartment for the weekend so she could move out. “They’ve only been married a year and a half,” Peter sighed. “I know how that goes.”

            “What happened?” I asked, obviously more out of morbid curiosity than concern. I don’t even know the guy and abrupt divorces like this boggle my mind.

            “He said they just weren’t getting along,” Peter said. “They tried counseling but after a few sessions his wife just decided she couldn’t do it anymore.”

            “Is he upset or is it more mutual?”

            “He’s a mess,” Peter said. “He’s crashing with his brother, but he wants to see me when he gets in tonight. I think he wants my advice because I’ve been there, you know? But maybe we can do something tomorrow night?”

            It actually worked out better this way. Ashley had been on Nina and me to meet Tom, her new man and current boss (sorry, can't help myself), and she’d suggested getting a drink on Friday. It was the only day I had free in the next week. It was Fashion Week in New York, and William had arranged for me to attend a few dinners and cocktail parties, on the hunt for the next great fashion blogger/personality who could write a book for us and make us millions of dollars. I also had the Social Media party on Wednesday night. 

          Tom commuted into the city every day from Bronxville, where he was renting an apartment until his divorce was finalized. There must be a divorce bug in the water or something. No one drink the water! We agreed to grab a drink before Ashley headed out to Westchester with him for the weekend, which she had been doing more and more.

            I feel bad saying this, but Tom is not that cute. He’s a ginger, and normally, I have a soft spot for gingers. (Call me, Prince Harry). But he’s just kind of hairy and freckly and paunchy. For this reason, I expected Tom to have a dynamic personality. That had to be what Ashley saw in him, right?

            After five minutes with Tom, it became clear that he did not have a dynamic personality. He wasn’t a jerk, but he was just so bland and uncharismatic. He also seemed completely uninterested in getting to know Nina and me. We asked him a ton of questions about himself, and didn’t ask us a one. Maybe he has a large freckly penis?

            Before we paid the bill, Tom made an odd comment, something to the affect of how he couldn’t wait to get Ashley out of the city and into a soccer mom van. Ashley beamed at him, like it was all she ever wanted in life too. I think I burned off the calories in my drink in the restraint it took not to roll my eyes. Not everyone wants the same things in life that you do, Judgy Josie!

            Tom went to use the rest room before they left to catch their train. He also offered to cover the entire tab, which was really sweet of him. “What do you think?” Ashley asked, when it was just the three of us.

            I’d been down this road with her before. “He’s clearly crazy about you,” I said, choosing my words carefully. That part was true at least, he hadn’t been able to take his eyes off of Ashley the entire time. Methinks it’s because he’s still in shock he bagged a girl that pretty.

            “Totally crazy about you,” Nina agreed.

            Ashley smiled. “We’re talking about getting engaged.”

            Nina and I forced plastic pageant girl smiles on our faces.  “That’s great,” I squeaked.

            Ashley rolled her eyes. “I hope you were a better actress on your show,” she said to me. “Look, I know it’s a lot to take in, but I’m telling you, this is the real deal. I can’t wait for you guys to get to know him better and see it for yourselves.”

            “Me too,” Nina said, and I nodded my head in agreement, obediently.

            The next night, Peter was able to wrangle himself free from his friend, Daniel, to take me out to dinner.

            “I am emotionally drained,” Peter said, shredding a piece of bread and smushing it into a pool of olive oil. “He is a trainwreck.”

            “Think about what Fedora Guy did for you,” I said. Peter had told me that when he was going through his divorce, Fedora Guy checked on him every day and made sure he got up, got dressed, and went to work. Fedora Guy used to annoy me with his braggy, fedora-sporting ways. And let's not forget about the time he asked to wear Ashley's thong! But when Peter had told me what Fedora Guy did for him, I had changed my tune on the guy.

            “I know, I know,” Peter said. “I’m trying to return the karmic favor.”

            “I think if you do, karma will reward you greatly.” I raised my eyebrows at him and ran my hand up his thigh, under the table. Peter stopped chewing.

            “That is so nice of karma to do,” he said. I was relieved of having to come up with another pun-y response because his phone started buzzing. Peter reached into his pocket and silenced the call.

            The waiter arrived with our appetizers, and Peter’s phone buzzed again. “Sorry,” he said. “I just want to see who this is.” Peter emitted a heavy sigh when he read the text on his phone.

            “What?” I asked.

            Peter held his phone out to me so I could read the text. It was from Daniel, “Where are you? My brother is being lame and going to bed and I’m going crazy. Need to get out of the house.”

            “Do you want to meet him after dinner?” I offered.  Even though I was really looking forward to going home with Peter after dinner, I would understand if Peter needed to see his friend.

            “That’s the thing, I don’t want to see him,” Peter said. “I know he just wants to get plastered and I’m exhausted. He had me doing Jameson shots with him until 3 in the morning last night.”

            “Doing Jameson shots until 3 in the morning sounds kind of fun,” I said.

“Yeah, when you’re twenty-five. When you’re on the wrong side of thirty-five it hurts.”

Peter’s phone buzzed with another text, and he showed his phone to me again. “I’m sorry, I know you’re out with your girl but please man? I’m dying over here.”

I stuck my lower lip out. “Poor guy. What if we just meet him for a few drinks?”

“You’ll come with me?” Peter asked, and I nodded. “You’re alright, Josie.”

Forty-five minutes later, I was regretting my decision. Daniel was hammered, blubbering into his drink about his “bitch wife” and how he was a good guy, such a good guy, such a catch! That bitch would be sorry. She’d never find a guy like him again.

“I know, man,” Peter said, squeezing his shoulder. “It’ going to be alright. You’re going to be alright.”

“You know I’d feel a lot better if I had some titties in my face.” He glanced at me. “Sorry.”

I held my hands up. “You don’t have to apologize.” In my eternal quest to be the cool girl, I said, “If you’re serious, Sapphire’s has the best ones.” Not that I knew from personal experience or anything—a guy friend had told me that once.

This seemed to sober Daniel up. “Really?” He looked at Peter. “Let’s go.”

“No, man, I can’t,” Peter said.

Daniel gestured drunkenly at me. “She doesn’t mind. She can come.”

Peter looked at me and I shrugged. Strip clubs don’t bother me. I’d gone to a strip club once with my college ex, and we actually had pretty hot sex afterwards. Remembering this, I said to Peter, “I’m down.”

Which is how I ended up with titties in my face on Saturday night. I didn’t have much to compare to Sapphire’s, but dare I say it was actually kind of an okay place? The thing about it that I liked was that there were other women there—I spotted a group of girls, about my age, there to celebrate a bachelorette party. A mixed group of girls and guys, also about my age, crowded around the bar. Daniel was just paying for lap dance after lap dance, while Peter and I sipped our drinks and watched a Megan Fox lookalike work the pole. I am strictly dickly, but when I watch porn, or even a sex scene in a movie, I always look at the girl, not the guy. I think it’s because I can put myself in her shoes, and imagine what she’s feeling. At that moment, I was imagining what the MF doppleganger was feeling, knowing that everyone’s attention was directed on her and her amazing rack. I placed my hand on Peter’s inner thigh and squeezed.

He leaned in to me. “I can’t fucking wait to take you home.”

Oh, brother. Now I was really hot. I moved my hand a little further up his thigh and grazed my fingers over his package. He was hard. Peter moaned quietly under his breath. He downed his drink, leaned over to Daniel and whispered something in his ear. Daniel waved him off and continued to motorboat the blonde gyrating on his lap.  Peter grabbed my hand. “Let’s go.”

Peter whisked me out of the place, holding my hand over his bulging erection (just kidding, he’d gotten himself under control…somewhat). We had difficulty finding a cab which was like the universe playing a cruel joke on us—we’re horny universe, give us a cab! Thankfully we weren’t far from Peter’s apartment.

Peter gave the driver his address and I had to bite my tongue to keep myself from telling the guy to step on it. There must have been some event in the city, because traffic was bad. I was gazing out the window at the line of cars in front of us when I felt Peter’s hand on my inner thigh. I was suddenly really glad I’d worn a dress.

Silently, so the cab driver wouldn’t notice, Peter slipped his hand under my dress and all the way up my leg. He started touching me—over my underwear at first. I sucked in a sharp breath and let my knees fall open. He stroked me—torturously soft and slow. Leaning in to me, he whispered in my ear, “I want you to reach down and push your underwear aside.”

Humana. I did as I was told. Peter leaned in and whispered again. “Hold it there.”

When I felt his fingers on me, skin to skin, I had to bite down on my lower lip to keep from moaning. Peter circled his fingers over me, all the while casually glancing out the window.

“Why don’t you try 3^rd avenue?” he suggested to the driver, calmly, continuing to touch me, working me into a furor.

“You want me to make a left here?” the driver asked.

“Go up a few more blocks,” Peter said, pressing harder. Tapping. He pulled his hand away and quickly wet the pads of his finger with his mouth. I thought my eyes would roll into the back of my head when I felt his hand on me again.

“This traffic, man,” the driver complained.

“I know, what’s going on?” Peter slipped a finger inside of me, pressing the pad of his thumb against me.

“Something in Central Park,” the driver said.

“And we’re feeling it all the way over here?” Peter put another finger inside of me, and I bit down on my finger. Over the cab driver’s explanation, I came.

When we got to Peter’s apartment building, Peter had to practically lift me out of the cab due to my severe case of gumbi legs. I waved sleepily at his doorman—I really could have just gone right to bed, embraced my orgasm coma, but I knew I had a favor to return when I got the 23rd floor. And return it I did.