Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
“Are you almost ready?” I called upstairs. “The limo is going to be here soon.”
“Just about,” Stacy called back, “just finishing my makeup.”
I went to get our jackets out of the closet and put the things we needed in my pocket: cigarettes, Zippo, credit cards and cash, house key, identification, tickets and two other items. I was traveling light, just black jeans, a short sleeve shirt and a light jacket.
A short, discreet beep sounded outside and I yelled upstairs again.
“OK, I’m coming!”
Footsteps from upstairs and then she appeared at the bottom of the stairway.
“Wait!” I said, and she paused, one foot poised delicately above the last step.
“What?” she asked, “Is my lipstick OK?”
“You’re lipstick is fine. I just wanted to drink in the sight of you for a moment,” I told her and it was true. She looked stunning.
“I thought you were trying to get me to hurry!” she teased. “The limo’s waiting.”
“Yeah, we better get out there. If I look at you another second, the limo driver’s going to have to wait while I make love to you right there on the stairs.”
“Mmm, that sounds nice,” she said, and gave me a look as though she were considering it, “but for $80 an hour, maybe we better not keep the limo waiting. I’ll keep that in mind later, though.”
We donned our coats and walked out to the limo. It was only the second time we’d ridden in one and this time we’d have it all to ourselves. Two kids from the neighborhood were walking by, openly gaping at the long black car.
“Good evening ma’am, sir,” the driver greeted us from his post near the rear door, “How are you tonight?”
“Fine, thanks,” I told him, “We’re ready to go.”
“Very well, sir,” he replied as he opened the door.
Stacy slid in and I followed her, reveling in the feel of the big leather seats. The dim lights inside glittered off of the glasses arranged neatly by the chilled bottle of champagne. The driver closed the door behind us as we settled in and took in the luxurious surroundings. Moments later, the chauffeur opened his own door and eased into the driver’s seat. He glanced back through the open divider.
“The controls for the lights, the divider and the television are on the left side,” he told us, “and the Taittinger champagne you ordered and glasses are in the center. After I close the divider you can talk to me via the phone on the right side. Do you have any special instructions?”
“No,” I told him, “everything is perfect.”
“Thank you, sir,” he replied, and turned away. A minute later, the engine purred to life and we moved slowly out into the street. The divider rose soundlessly until we were alone.
Stacy was already sitting with her legs stretched out along the seat that lined one side of the car. Her skirt had slipped apart where it was slit and part of one perfectly formed leg was showcased in her sheer black nylons. I took in the rest of her outfit again. A sheer black skirt with several layers that seemed opaque until she walked in front of a light. That and the fact that it was slit nearly to her waist would give me tantalizing glimpses of her legs all night. An almost see through black blouse covered what appeared to be a tank top that showed her spectacular cleavage; if someone looked closely enough, they would see that the “tank top” was really the top of a black teddy that was molded to her gorgeous body. Her skirt slid a little more and I glimpsed the coup de grace, garters that held her stockings up. I couldn’t quite see the tiny black G-string she had promised to wear, but a good wind – or almost any dancing – would cause the skirt to slip aside and reveal both garters and panties.
“I can’t believe we’re finally going,” she told me. “The Exotic Erotic Ball. In a limo. It’s so… decadent.”
“Well,” I told her, “we’ve been meaning to go for years, ever since we moved to San Francisco.”
“But I never thought then that we’d be able to afford a limo for an entire night, complete with champagne.”
“Speaking of which,” I said as I reached for the bottle. They had thoughtfully left a towel beside the bottle and I quickly popped the cork out and grabbed two glasses. Settling back beside her, I poured one for each of us and then replaced the bottle in the ice bucket.
“To an interesting night,” she toasted as we touched glasses. The crystal chimed and was still vibrating as I raised the flute to my lips. The cool, silky liquid slid across my tongue and the bubbles and crisp acidity seemed to bring my mouth alive. I swallowed and felt the creamy aftertaste you only get from the best Chardonnay grapes.
“Mmmm,” Stacy sighed, “that’s good. Nothing like real champagne to get ready for a party.”
Half an hour and several glasses of champagne later, we pulled up in front of a decidedly un-luxurious building. It appeared to be nothing more than a warehouse. No fancy lights, no signs, no windows. Just a long line of limos steadily disgorging their passengers and a longer line of people on foot waiting to pick up tickets. İstanbul Escort I reached past my darling and hit the switch to lower the divider.
“Should I just call your cell phone when we’re ready to leave?” I asked the driver.
“That’s fine, sir. Would you like my card? It has the number right on it.”
“Thank you,” I told him as I took the card.
I tried to check out the other limo passengers as they debarked, looking for anyone famous. After all, people as varied as Madonna and Dennis Rodman had been known to show up for this in past years. However, I couldn’t see much, especially as most of the people were wearing long coats. Many also wore masks. I suspected this was more to hide their costumes and identity than to provide protection from the relatively mild weather.
“Before we get out, we better finish getting dressed.” I told Stacy and slid out the final two items I had in my jacket. They were glittering half masks, much like many others were wearing. San Francisco was exceedingly liberal but for a lot of people tonight was a chance to assume a role and act it out in anonymity.
A minute later, we were emerging, carrying our coats since neither of us was dressed too outlandishly. Quite a few men in the line were looking at Stacy with frank admiration, although they were too far away to realize she was essentially just wearing underwear with some gauzy fabric over it. We walked quickly up to the door – it was a little colder than I thought it would be – and presented our tickets to the attendant.
“Good evening,” he told us as he quickly but thoroughly examined the tickets, “You have VIP tickets, so you can go right in. The first stairway to the left after the coat check will take you to the lounge, where your table is reserved. Look for your name on a place card.”
“Thank you,” we both said as we walked past him and through the main door.
Stacy had thoughtfully brought a small purse and we quickly moved the items we needed into it before we checked our coats.
“Where can we smoke?” I asked the coat checker as I tipped her.
“All the way down that hallway to the right,” she replied, pointing in the appropriate direction.
“Let’s smoke before we go to the table,” Stacy suggested.
We walked down the hall and emerged into a large covered patio that had portable heat units spaced along it. It was quite comfortable and was secluded from the street or any other building. There were several other people there. None of them were dressed like what I would have expected at the Exotic Erotic Ball, although others were wearing masks. The women were dressed mostly in cocktail dresses, many with short skirts and plunging necklines, while the men were dressed much like me, although many had their shirts unbuttoned quite far and one was wearing a tight pair of leather pants. Several had drinks in their hands and we spotted a bar at the far end. As we approached it, we saw our first real costume – the man behind the bar was wearing a pair of faded jeans and a hard hat and we could see work boots underneath the table that served as a bar. He had no shirt on and both nipples were pierced with small hoops. He was quite muscular and attractive, I suppose, although to me he just seemed straight out of the Village People. Probably aiming mostly to impress the gay crowd, I thought.
We were already nicely buzzed from the champagne so we both just ordered Cokes when the bartender approached. He returned with them quickly and set them in front of us.
“That’ll be four dollars,” he told us and took the five I held out.
“Been here before?” he asked as he made change.
“No,” we admitted. “We haven’t lived in San Francisco that long.”
“Well, this is definitely an institution. Do you have a table reserved?”
“Yes, but we haven’t been there yet.”
“Oh, you haven’t seen anything, then! The lounge overlooks the main dance floor so you’ll get to see all the action. There’s a chill room in the back where they play ambient music, too. And don’t miss the costume judging at midnight.”
We thanked and tipped him and moved away to allow others access to the bar. We found a small cocktail table that was open and set our drinks down. Stacy dug in her purse and handed me a cigarette and the Zippo, then got out a cigarette for herself.
As I leaned over to light her cigarette, I whispered, “Want to play Guess Who the Drag Queens are?”
She smiled and whispered back, “Definitely the one in the pink number, near the door. The wig almost covers ‘her’ back muscles but not quite.”
We laughed discreetly and looked around the room as we smoked. More people were coming in now and they were in all shapes, sizes, colors and combinations. An older white man, well groomed and dressed in what looked like Armani, came in with two much younger women, both of whom wore gobs of makeup and sported carefully coiffed hairstyles. Oh yeah, I thought, they’re escorts. A male couple came in, one black and one white, both wearing tight mesh shirts and tighter Escort Bayan jeans. Then a middle-aged hetero couple, both of whom were a little overweight, but she was wearing the skimpiest dress I’d seen yet and he was wearing chaps over his jeans and I could see the edge of a leather harness under his shirt.
More people arrived. Two women dressed as traditional geishas. Another woman dressed like a Catholic schoolgirl. A man in what looked like leather armor from a fantasy movie. A punk rock lesbian couple, all ripped clothes and safety pins. They were white, black, Latino and Asian. Young, old and in between. Straight, gay, bi, trans. Some attractive, some definitely not, most in the middle somewhere. This was a fashion show, all right, but it was more about the costumes than who was good looking.
We finished our cigarettes and headed back the way we came. Near the door, we found the stairway and followed it up to the lounge.
The lounge was where the decorating began. A dark mahogany bar with weird light fixtures over it took up one side. Booths with plush seats lined the back and other side, where we had come in. The middle was filled in with various sized tables. Finally, the front had just a railing overlooking the main dance floor, where lights flashed and sparkled in time to the pounding dance music.
We found our table, a small booth at the back where we had to sit side by side and look out across the lounge and the dance floor. The booths were raised even higher so we could see over the other tables.
It wasn’t until we were seated that we really looked out at the dance floor and then I thought, Ah, this is where everyone is. The dance floor was already crowded and the people here were almost all dressed up. Many of them were normal costumes – but almost invariably modified to have more sex appeal. There was a fairy, with a pink leotard, gossamer wings and a magic wand –but the back of the leotard was cut into a thong and she (or, possibly, he) wore nothing beneath it. There was another guy in chaps – this time with nothing but small bikini underwear under them. Quite a few people were wearing elaborate leather and chain contraptions that barely covered genitals and nipples.
There were also people who were obviously paid performers. Several dark men were juggling flaming torches in a corner of the dance floor. A mixed group of men and women were doing what looked like yoga, except that they were twisted around each other as well as themselves. And of course, there were dancers, in cages suspended a few feet off the dance floor. Men and women both, all wearing only the tiniest of bikinis and dancing as provocatively as possible.
As we took in the scene, a waitress approached our table. She too was in costume, a pink and yellow belly dancer outfit consisting of flowing pants, halter top and a half veil across her lower face.
“Hi, how are you two tonight?” she asked, loudly but politely.
“Good, thanks,” Stacy replied.
“Would you like something to eat or drink?” she asked.
“What do you have to eat?” I inquired.
“The most sensuous, delectable foods we can find. Caviar, pate, fine cheeses, oysters, shrimp, sorbet, various fruits….”
“Wow!” I exclaimed, “I didn’t think you’d have so much. Sweetie, do you want anything?”
“Um, some cheese sounds good. Something that would go with champagne, maybe. And I wouldn’t mind a shrimp cocktail.”
“Do you have some softer cheeses?” I asked the waitress.
“We have a mixed plate that has Brie, a soft goat cheese and one harder cheese – Edam, I think.”
“Uh, we’ll have that, some shrimp and half a dozen oysters.”
“OK, and to drink? Champagne?” she guessed.
“Yeah, what do you have?”
“We have Mumm Napa Valley, Gloria Ferrer Rose, Bollinger Brut and Dom Perignon.”
“How about a bottle of the Bollinger?” I asked Stacy.
“Sounds good,” she replied.
“OK, we’ll go with that,” I told the waitress.
“All right. Cheese, shrimp, oysters and bubbly, coming up.”
As the waitress walked away, I turned to Stacy and saw that she was staring out at the dance floor. I followed her gaze and saw the punk rock lesbian couple on the dance floor. It was easy to see why Stacy was watching them – they were dancing close in each other’s arm and were locked together in a passionate kiss. One was very thin – the heroin chic look – and wore fatigue pants, boots and a black tank top. Her head was completely shaved and she sported numerous piercings in her nose, eyebrow and ears. The other seemed to have a more feminine body but she had covered it up with a black sleeveless T-shirt emblazoned with “RANCID” on the back and a pink taffeta skirt. Her hair was blonde, short and spiked out in every direction. As I watched, the thin one moved one of her hands down to the other girl’s breast, which seemed to make the blonde start kissing her even more fervently.
“Like what you’re seeing?” I asked Stacy.
“Mmm-hmm,” she affirmed. “It’s sexy to see lesbians be able to be that Eskort passionate in public without anyone caring.”
“Is that the only reason you’re watching them?” I asked.
“Well, and it’s just plain sexy to watch two women making out. Not like those cheesy lesbian scenes in porno movies.”
“And…” I prompted her.
“And I keep thinking about being down there myself, with one of them kissing me as we danced,” she admitted.
“Which one?” I inquired curiously.
“Umm, the blonde I think. If I’m going to make out with a woman, I want to feel her boobs pressing against mine,” she replied, throwing a quick grin my way. “But they’re both pretty.”
As the song ended, the couple we had been watching walked off the dance floor and out of sight. A faster song came on and more people crowded onto the dance floor. The song was too fast for anyone to be kissing each other, but we saw a few couples start grinding against each other. One guy was hunched down with his lips moving across another guy’s chest while they both moved in perfect time to the music. Damn, I thought, why are gay men so much better at dancing than straight men?
Soon our waitress returned, carrying a tray with a bottle, two glasses and a variety of dishes. She set them down and scanned my ticket, which charged it automatically to my credit card. Then she quickly popped the cork and splashed some champagne in each of our glasses.
“Bon appetit!” she told us as she walked away.
Stacy took a sip and started giggling as she swallowed.
“What?” I asked.
“I can’t tell if this tastes so good because it is good or because I’m already pretty tipsy,” she explained.
“I think it’s a safe bet that it really is good champagne,” I told her. “Here, try some cheese,” as I held out a finger with some Brie on it.
She leaned toward me and put her mouth the whole way over my finger and then slowly tightened her lips and slid them back up until they popped off the end.
“Yum,” she told me and proceeded to lick her lips and give me what I supposed was a smoldering look. She held the look for a second and then we both burst out laughing.
“Well, it was sexy,” I consoled her.
“Oh yeah, I’m a regular Greta Garbo,” she teased.
We both turned our attention to the food for a moment and I picked up an oyster. I added a squirt of lemon juice and then held the shell to my lips. There is something very erotic in eating an oyster; in a way I almost think it’s homoerotic because straight men don’t generally feel smooth flesh sliding back into their mouths and down their throats. I’m not one to balk at pleasures just because they “seem” gay, though – I just enjoyed the smooth coolness slipping through my mouth.
I glanced back at Stacy, who was just swallowing a shrimp and washing it down with champagne.
“Good?” I asked her.
“Yeah, fresh and ice cold,” she told me appreciatively. “I love the seafood you can get in the Bay Area.”
“Me too,” I agreed. “Here, try some of this mango relish.”
As we ate, two people dressed relatively conservatively approached the booth beside us and slid into it. The booths were somewhat separated but as they walked in front of us, I could see that the man had a hand cupping the woman’s ass and his fingers disappeared under her skirt. I threw a glance at Stacy and she responded with a smile that said, Yeah, I saw that too. I glanced down at her skirt and gave her a questioning look.
“Not yet!” she said with a laugh. “I haven’t even had enough champagne to start dancing yet.”
We finished our food and wine leisurely and took in the scene around us. A lot more tables had filled up and it looked like any lively San Francisco restaurant, except for the frequent kissing and cuddling going on. Some women were sitting on their dates’ laps as they ate while other diners obviously had their hands under the table touching each others’ legs.
Finally, after savoring my last oyster, I looked over at Stacy again to see a look of expectation on her face.
“Well,” she asked, “are you ready to dance with me?”
I’m a shitty dancer – I know that. But a quick glance at the dance floor showed me that we would probably go unnoticed amongst the throng of dancers. Plus most of the straight men seemed to dance as poorly as I knew I did.
“OK,” I replied.
We left our drinks and walked through the other tables and down onto the dance floor. The music was electronic edging toward industrial – more our style than some of the pop remixes and hiphop they’d been playing.
Somehow, as we walked onto the dance floor, my tension melted away. I forgot about all the people in the lounge who were probably even now watching us. The music seemed to get even louder as the crowd surrounded us. Soon my awareness had narrowed to Stacy and glimpses of a few of the closest dancers, and the music seemed to fill my body. I was moving before I knew it and watched as she started to dance too.
I’ve always loved to watch her dance. She always looks inviting yet aloof, challenging and friendly, and ultimately alluring. A look of pleasure crossed her face as she started swaying and her eyes sparkled in the storm of lights. Then she closed them as she lost herself in the music and I lost myself in the beauty of watching her.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32