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My name is James. My friends call me Jim. The year is 2006. I’m twenty-six years old, well educated and last year landed a stellar job with a huge, national corporation in New York City. Actually, the company prefers to call it a position rather than a job. After only a year, my hard work and master’s degree in Information Technology, got me promoted to project manager for one of the corporation’s new initiatives. I now manage six other people who do most of the work and that leaves me some freedom in scheduling my time. Since I’m single and unattached, I’m frequently in the office late in the evenings and on weekends but I compensate with long lunches and an occasional day off during the week.
I live in a small, but large for New York, apartment in the East Village where I can take the F train from Washington Square to 57th street and 6th Avenue – a short walk to my office. My rent-controlled apartment costs embarrassingly little and my salary is stupidly large, so, even after maxing out my 401K and saving even more on the side, I have too much disposable income that funds a rich nightlife. I spend a portion of most evenings at one or another singles’ bar prowling for single women.
I’m not very good at pick up conversation so most evenings I go home early and alone. Except on weekends. On weekends I’m determined to get laid so I hang in for the duration. That means on most Friday or Saturday nights I’m one of the two-am’ers. That is, when the bar closes at two am, I’m usually one of the few unpaired, and slightly impaired, customers. That is, me and one or two others, one of which is usually a woman. With few other choices, and the bar serving the last round, some woman, as unsuccessful as I, and I wander off into the night and one of our apartments. These liaisons are not very fulfilling but they take the edge off. One of us usually leaves in the middle of the night to go to our own apartment. If we’re unlucky enough to wake up together as the sun rises, we handle the difficult, and sometimes embarrassing, situation politely and part before breakfast. I have been offered a morning screw, which I accepted, although I don’t think I’ll do it again.
Over time, I’ve been taking long lunches on Wednesdays. Wednesday is the middle of the workweek and a long lunch seems perfect as a halftime activity. On Wednesday, I usually walk over to 7th avenue and one of the semi-famous delis between 52nd and 56th streets. On a clear warm spring day, I walked to the Stage Deli for lunch. They know me there and I got a seat quickly at a table barely large enough for one person, with two chairs, in the front next to the windows. The second chair was filled before I could take my first bite of a dill pickle from the bowl on the table.
The fellow who sat down across from me was about my age and dressed nicely in a tweed sports jacket and dark blue shirt open at the collar. The combination worked well with the jeans and running shoes he was wearing. Since we were destined to share the table for lunch, I thought it proper to introduce myself.
“Hey, I’m Jim,” I said as I offered my hand to shake.
“Michael, you can call me Michael,” he responded as he shook my hand.
The waiter climbed over several chairs and a couple of customers, to get to our table and take our orders. It was a trip I suspected he didn’t want to make again so I ordered pastrami on rye and a Heineken. The sandwich is expensive but large enough that I’d take half home for supper. Michael ordered chicken soup and water.
While we waited for our food, we discussed important world events such as the Yankees potential and yesterday’s rain. Before our food came, we got around to introducing ourselves further. Michael was in advertising and had walked over from Madison Avenue, about a half-mile walk. While eating we confirmed we were the same age and single. Michael lived in Brooklyn, a short ride on the A train to Manhattan. We knew many of the same watering holes but had never seen each other before. We parted amiably.
Two weeks later, I again walked over to the Stage Deli for lunch. As I approached the door, I saw Michael waiting on the line outside. I tapped him on the shoulder and motioned for him to follow me. I led him inside where the manager recognized me and led us to a table in the center of the room very close to a similar table occupied by couple in their fifties and obviously from out of town.
I guess my connection with the management impressed him since Michael was more talkative than on our previous lunch. I ordered the pastrami sandwich again and changed to a Dr. Brown’s cream soda to drink. Michael ordered the chicken soup again and upgraded to unsweetened iced tea. Our conversation moved quickly from sports and weather to our experiences as single men in New York City. We commiserated about the quality and availability of single women and frustration with trying to get laid often enough. Throughout, the elderly man at the next table seemed to be attentive to ankara escort our conversation, occasionally nodding in agreement. His wife, I assumed it was his wife, scowled at him and threw disapproving stares in our direction.
I did my best to ignore the woman’s scorn, as the conversation was compelling. I didn’t know if Michael was any more successful than I, but he exuded a confidence I wished I had. Sometime after the old woman and her escort left, Michael and I agreed to meet at a downtown pub and “meet” market on Friday night where we could compare our techniques and maybe get lucky.
We both struck out on Friday night and I dragged Michael to my apartment where he sacked out on the sofa while I slept it off in the only bedroom. In the morning, I went down to the nearby bodega and picked up some danish and a quart of orange juice. When I returned, Michael looked as if he had washed his face and combed his hair while I was gone. More importantly, he had the coffee maker dripping away.
Over breakfast, we reviewed last night’s activities with a focus on what worked and what didn’t. Nothing worked, so we focused on the negatives. Michael took the lead in the discussion. He was clear about our, especially my, futile attempts. By his count, I got shot down no less than six times while he experienced moderate success with one slender brunette for almost thirty minutes until her boy friend arrived. After that, he just observed.
I was transfixed as Michael analyzed my evening. He suggested that he rarely failed so spectacularly. He offered stories about his successes, many of which stretched my imagination, but his telling of them was so detailed that I believed them all. I can’t do any of them justice so I asked Michael to write one of them down for me. I’m sure he will include more detail than he shared with me.
* * * * *
My name is Michael. You can call me Michael. James and I have spent most of the morning discussing the New York singles scene and his spectacular failures in landing women for an evening’s entertainment. New York is one of the easiest places to meet women. In general, at the extremes, there are two distinct meeting locales with graduations in between. The first is the local pub or sports bar. The women you will find in these establishments are out for a good time and want to meet someone, even for a single evening. They’re single, working women or college coeds. They’re usually overly made up with simple, casual hairdos. For the evening, they’re wearing short, tight skirts or dresses with loose tops from fashion stores at a local mall and comfortable shoes. They’re adorned with costume jewelry, and carry large handbags with their phones, a wallet with id and enough money for a taxi home, a makeup touchup kit, condoms, and a clean pair of panties for the morning after.
The men are dressed in t-shirts or tank tops, jeans and canvas shoes or work boots. They may have shaved after work but not necessarily and many forgot to comb their hair. They pass the time playing pool or darts until they find their target for the evening.
At the other extreme are the clubs. The women in the clubs are professional women, including escorts. They’re also overly made up but their hair is professionally done. They’re also wearing tight clothing but from known designers and shoes with names. Their jewelry is real and their purses are small, barely large enough to hold a phone, id and the necessary makeup touchup kit. They expect the gentlemen they meet to buy the drinks and have his own condoms and they don’t carry spare panties since they don’t wear any.
The men wear casual slacks with a golf shirt and casual shoes. Some wear suits with open collared dress shirts, no tie and wing tips. Some wear sports jackets, jeans and loafers without socks. All have carefully trimmed, three day old, facial hair. Their hair is neat and many of them showered before going out.
In either venue, the usual male approach is as a supplicant. The short form of the conversation is, “Hi, my name is … Can I buy you a drink and take you home with me tonight?” Given this kind of power, even the least attractive woman can afford to be choosy, at least until the bar closes.
That’s the approach James uses and, based on the need of the women he approaches, sometimes it works, but not usually.
The problem, as I see it, is not the approach but the venue and the timing. In every one of these places, the rules of the game are clearly spelled out and known by all. The women are expecting to be approached and propositioned and they’re all on guard, careful not to accept the wrong invitation. The men are forced to into their role if they want to play and not leave alone at closing time.
In my experience, if you change the venue you scrap the game and make your own rules. My preference in New York is Bloomingdale’s, in the afternoon. I’ve also had some success in a supermarket. One of the great advantages of either is the women don’t escort ankara expect to be approached by a man with sex on his mind. Another advantage of either is the size of the candidate pool. Many of the women are married, out of the dating lifestyle, and open to unsolicited complements from a man.
Bloomingdale’s is a female magnet. My preference is the cosmetic or cologne counters. With luck, I can offer an unsolicited complement about a color or fragrance choice and expand it into a conversation and coffee or a drink later. Another possibility is to play the undecided male, lost in the women’s world of fragrances and needing to make the right choice for his girlfriend. Most women want to help and many will offer suggestions. I’ve offered to buy the helpful lady a small token of my thanks, and a natural conversation might lead to the afore mentioned coffee or drink. I return the purchased fragrance the next day.
I’ve also tried one of the women’s clothing sections where I can offer suggestions on the color and fit of the choices the women are trying on. “You look terrific in that outfit.” “Really?” “Your husband will love it.” “Really?” “I don’t know your husband, but I’m a guy and I’d love to slowly unzip that dress in private.” “Really!” With luck, you might lengthen the lady’s shopping trip by an hour or two.
With that introduction, let me relate a recent experience in Bloomingdale’s that went off script but worked out exceptionally well.
I had been working the fragrance counter and had approached four or five attractive women in about twenty minutes without a bite. Someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around to confront the interloper and my throat choked up.
“Wha…? Who?” I managed to eke out.
I was looking at one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen. Her face was angelic. Her black hair was pulled back and up into a ponytail that hung below her shoulders. Her dark skin was flawless, like new silk, without a blemish I could see. My eyes drifted down to drink in a body out of a Greek temple, with large, perfect breasts, a narrow waist and full hips. Her tight white dress only made it harder not to stare. I was transfixed.
“Hello. Hello, anybody home?” she asked. “Were you trying to say something?”
“Yes. Hello. Can I help you?” I managed to stammer without lifting my eyes from her body. My body was reacting and I couldn’t focus on containment and talking to her simultaneously. My pulse was pounding and I was lucky I could speak at all.
“Can I ask you a question?” she asked. “By the way, my eyes are up here.”
“Sure,” I said as I forced myself to look up, a move that did nothing to relieve my distress. Her large, black eyes were deep pools that drew me in and caused my heart to race further.
“Were you trying to pick up those women?”
Things were deteriorating rapidly. I was having trouble breathing. Her beauty had tied me in knots and her voice was perfect for her looks. Now she was on to my game. Under the circumstances, I decided to try honesty.
“Maybe,” I managed to admit.
“Maybe? That’s the best you can do? Let me help. I’ve been watching you for about a quarter hour and it looked to me like you were trying to establish a rapport with those women and can only think of one thing a young man like you would have in mind. Am I right?”
“You got me. Was I that obvious?” Things were settling down now and I had rediscovered my ability to speak in almost complete sentences.
“No, but I’ve seen you here before and seeing you a second time raised my curiosity. Why would a guy be hanging around the perfume counter twice in as many weeks. So I watched you and when I figured it out, I admired your style. You were on the prowl and the women were at an absolute disadvantage. Not one of them suspected your ploy and you had no competition. I had to meet you, so here we are.”
My breathing and heart rate had moderated somewhat while she was speaking. “Nice to meet you. I’m Michael. You can call me anything you like.”
“Iona. Nice to meet you, Michael.”
“Iona. Nice. Can I ask you for a favor?”
“Depends on the favor.”
“Please don’t blow my cover.”
“No problem. Like I said, I admire your style.”
“Thanks. Can I buy you a drink?”
“You are good and you don’t quit. Actually, let me buy you a drink. I know the perfect place.”
Iona led me out of Bloomingdale’s and around the corner on to 59th street. We went down 59th street about half way and turned left into Beacon Court. We entered the lobby of an all glass building with a doorman holding the door, and took an elevator to the forty-fourth floor. Iona took a key from her pocket, opened a door and we were inside one of the finest condominium apartments I’d ever seen.
I had no idea who Iona was, but I was clearly out of my league and I was having trouble breathing again. The rooms were huge. The living room had to be at least thirty feet long with an entrance ankara escort bayan to an even larger outside terrace.
Iona led me into the living room, told me to make myself comfortable and went to the kitchen to get drinks. When she returned, she handed me a beer and told me to relax. I guess I was sitting on the edge of the sofa looking uneasy. I took the beer, slid back on the sofa and got more comfortable. Iona sat across from me on a matching easy chair.
“You still look a little uncomfortable.”
“I guess I’m a little overwhelmed. This is hardly what I expected but consistent with the quality of the woman sitting opposite me.”
“You certainly don’t ever give up, do you? Relax. It’s not everything you assume. I’m just a normal girl, with normal urges, who’s been lucky. This is just as unusual for me, a girl from Queens, as it is for you. I was born with an exceptional set of genes. I have the same effect on men with money as I had on you. All this is done with someone else’s money. I’ve accumulated significant wealth on my own but why should I spend it on this when someone else is willing to spend it for me?”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“I work for a wealthy gentleman. I’ve made him a lot of money and this place is one of the perks of the job. And, yes, it’s all legal. Let me see if I can help you become more comfortable. Maybe even create an environment you’re more familiar with.”
Iona got up from her chair and went to a stereo system at the end of the living room. After a minute or two, the room was filled with quiet, seductive music. She returned to the center of the room, directly in front of me and stood facing me. After a minute, she began to move her hips slowly from side to side.
I took a deep swallow of my beer, placed the glass on the table next to me and sat back, watching.
Iona smiled and I almost lost it. “Anticipating?” she asked.
“More like hoping, wishing,” I responded.
She turned slowly around, her arms held out at her sides. The second time she turned around, she put one arm over her shoulder and the other up her back, and slowly, painfully slowly, slid the zipper of her dress half way down her back.
When she was again facing me, I could see the looseness of the top of her dress. She grinned broadly at my expression, slid her right foot out of her four-inch heel and kicked the shoe into my lap. She repeated the movement with her left shoe.
Everything she did she did slowly. The music was slow and languid, and her movements kept the rhythm. One part me wanted her to hurry up, get on with it, and another part of me wanted her to take all night.
She danced closer to me, turning slowly as she approached me. When she was as close as she could get while standing, she turned her back to me and squatted down slightly. I took a chance that I knew what she wanted, reached up and pulled the zipper the rest of the way down.
She danced away, back to the center of the room. The late afternoon light was coming through the wall of windows as she played with my mind and body. She slid her arms from the top of the dress, one at a time and painfully slowly. Holding the sides of the dress at the top, she slowly slid it down her body. The dress moved as a unit. Every inch she lowered the top, the bottom moved an inch.
When she reached the top of her breasts, she turned around slowly. With her back to me, she lowered the dress another six inches, exposing the broad strap of her bra across her back. When she turned to face me again, the top of the dress was below her breasts. Her bra was sheer white. I could see the faint darkness of her skin through the material.
She toyed with the dress, and me, for a moment and suddenly let it go. It fell all the way to the floor. Her panties matched her bra. I could see the faint hint of a darker triangle against her dark skin through the material. She closed her eyes and writhed in tune with the music wearing only her bra, panties and a pair of high top stockings. She seemed to be alone in her private world but I knew, she knew, I was in the room.
When she opened her eyes, she laughed quietly at me. The sound of her laughter was infectious and I laughed with her. She reached up, undid her hair and let it flow down her back. She moved toward me again. This time she lifted her right leg and placed her foot squarely on my crotch. I looked up at her and she nodded almost imperceptibly. I reached up to the top of her stocking and took it in both hands. The electrical shock of touching her perfect skin for the first time was magical. We smiled at each other as I rolled the stocking slowly, always slowly, down her thigh, over her calf, and off her foot. She moved her now bare leg and replaced it with her left leg. I removed that stocking even more slowly. She laughed again when she realized I was prolonging the feeling.
With her stockings removed, she kissed the tips of fingers of her right hand and rubbed them on my obvious erection. She sashayed back to the center of the room, where she did everything she could to prolong the feeling herself. While there, she slid the straps of her bra off her shoulders and slid each arm, slowly, out.
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