by Daniel James Cabrillo
(7/21/99)

Jimmy's Restaurant. Lunchtime. Bright, elegant, tinkly-noisy. Cathy in the sexiest tasteful dress I've ever seen, a skin-colored thing, skin-tight up top, made proper by black and white net and lace.

The dress does this: it defines the glorious shape of her tits, each individually, and holds them aloft, displays them, presents them. Take a look, wouldn't you love to snuggle up with these for an hour or two? It asks the question, it knows the answer. Yet, as I said, the dress is tasteful. Here we are in Jimmy's at lunch time, and while everybody looks at Cathy (you can't not look at her) nobody says, "Oh that shameless hussy, take her away." Everybody is glad to have her here. Even a tourist couple, sixties, next table, can't take their eyes off her, smile at her, ask her if she's an actress. "I'm working on it," says Cathy, showing her dimples, and the lady assures her she'll do fine, pretty as she is.

Well, Cathy and her husband have split up; this is the news she sits me down with. No surprise. Him in Florida, her here. "But he's being a prick," she says. "I don't even want anything," she says, "not money or anything, but he's claiming he paid for everything, even the little condo, which he didn't, and oh the things he's saying about me..." So her lawyer said, "Be careful, the husband's the private-eye-hiring type, and it is all going down in Florida, a Neanderthal state, so play it cool." So she's playing it cool, she says.

"How long's this been going on?" I ask. She tells me a couple of months. "God," I say, "playing it cool for a couple of months, aren't you getting horny?" She says, "Well, I've got, you know, my two fingers," flashing for a moment the two fingers specifically referred to, the index and middle of her left hand, then putting them down with another shrug and picking up her fork with her right as the salad is placed before her.

Although we continue conversing, I hear nothing else that she or I or anyone says. I cannot believe she said that. We don't know each other all that well, and she said it so casually, offhandedly. But it isn't shock that removes me from attentiveness; it is obsession. I am now obsessed by the fingers she flashed. By thoughts of where they go and what they do and how they do it when she is alone.

Eventually I respond.

"How do you do it?" I ask.

"I'm sorry?" she says, disconcerted.

I glance down at our plates. Since she first displayed her fingers to me, we have moved on to a whole new course, and I assume whole new topics. No wonder she doesn't understand.

"How do you do what you do? With your two fingers."

She gets it, smiles, though surprisingly, at least to me, there's no blush in her smile, no embarrassment. No brazenness, either. Maybe just the slightest hint of coquettishness.

"How?" she asks.

"I mean," I say, "what are the circumstances? Do you plan to do it...or do you find yourself doing it? Do you do it in the bathtub, in bed...?"

"Different every time," she says.

"Well, what do you think about? Do you close your eyes and fantasize? Do you think about hot and steamy sexual adventures in days gone by?"

A moment's thought, then, "Either can get me going. A fantasy or a memory. You know, an old boyfriend, something reminds me of him. Or I meet some nice guy, and think about him later, wondering what it would be like to do it with him. And it gets me hot. But once I start doing it..."

"Wait a minute," I interrupt. "Where are you, usually, when you have the memory? Or do the wondering. Home, or in bed?"

A pause, then Cathy says, "See, the memory or the fantasy is just the thing that gets me started. It can come up anywhere. In the movies, at an audition, in the supermarket. In a restaurant. And it sticks around, not constantly, but the thought is there somehow, lurking, and then when I'm home in the bath, or curled up with a book, or in bed going to sleep, the thought will come back. The memory or the fantasy. But the fantasy or memory only starts me thinking. Once I bring my two fingers into it, I move past the memory."

"Past it to what?"

"To...myself. I think men and women are a little different here. When you do it, what do you think about? Actually doing it with somebody?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"But when I touch myself -- and I think most women are like this -- I think about...my parts. How they're made, what they're connected to, how they feel when they're touched, and what signals they send out to the rest of my body. So when I start touching myself, feeling the shape of me, it's like I'm...waking myself up down there, telling my body to get ready for...me."

"Feel the shape of you now," I say, not without a certain trepidation.

"I am," she says without hesitation.

"Am what?" I ask.

"Feeling the shape of me. Now. I'm already doing it."

My eyes scoot down; her right hand holds her fork but her left hand has slipped into her lap, below the table top, under the tablecloth.

"You are?" I say, trying to sound blasé.

"Well, I'm going to," she says. "It's a little tricky here."

"So...what are you doing?" I ask.

"Now? I'm sliding the dress back across my thighs. Little by little. When I get it up high enough I'll feel the shape of me."

"What's the fantasy?"

"What?"

"The fantasy that gets you started. You said a fantasy gets you started. What is it?"

"That I'm having lunch in an elegant restaurant with a man, touching myself with my two fingers and telling him all about it."

"That gets you going, huh?"

"That, and looking at you looking at me and knowing what I'm doing, and thinking about what that must be doing to you."

"Making me hard..."

"I hope so."

"How high is the dress?"

"High enough. I'm touching the spot now."

"Under the panties?"

"Over. Between my legs."

"How are you going to go in? Down from the top, or in through the leg?"

"Good question. What do you think?"

"Down from the top."

"Is that how you want me to go in?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Slower. So you can travel through the bush."

"Okay."

Then after a beat. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Where are your fingers?"

"There."

"Where? Tell me."

"There. Ask me."

Through all this Cathy's face is almost deadpan, with maybe just the faintest suggestion of a smile. The smile, I think, is not so much an expression of the feelings she's generating in herself as it is an expression of delight in what she knows she's doing to me.

"Are your fingers on your lips?"

"My lips?"

I whisper, but expressively, "Your pussy lips. Are you touching them yet?"

"Yes."

"Have you separated them yet?"

"I have...now."

"Oh, God. Now what? Are you touching your clit?"

"Not yet, not yet."

"Then what are you doing?"

"This minute? I'm slipping my fingers into my pussy."

"You're wet enough to do that?"

"Oh, yes..." And then quick as can be Cathy's hand reappears above the table and she quickly sucks on the tip of her index finger, then middle finger, tasting the sticky nectar on them.

"Try this," she says, picking up a baby onion from her plate and feeding it to me, letting her fingers linger at my mouth so I can breathe the fragrance. I inhale...

Just as the busboy starts to clear our places, Cathy takes a miniature ear of corn from her plate.

"You must be pretty hard by now, huh?" she asks, looking at the tiny corn.

"Yeah."

"Too bad you can't do this, too," she says, sucking the juices off the corn. She doesn't mean suck corn. She means jerk off under the table. Actually, I don't feel like it, even if it were possible, but the fact is, it isn't. Cathy's seated against the wall, well protected by the tablecloth. My chair is out in the open.

"It's okay," I say. "I've got no complaints."

The waiter appears for our dessert order. We order coffee. Cathy orders a crème brûlée.

When I look back at her, her hand has already disappeared into her lap. "I'll go in through the leg this time, okay?" she says.

"Sure," I say.

"I'm touching it," Cathy says.

"With which finger?"

"Both. It's between the tips of my two fingers."

"What are you doing to it with your fingertips?"

"Stroking it, you know, sliding my fingers alongside it very slowly."

"Feel good?"

"Mm. And now...I'm sort of pinching it between my fingertips and making little circular movements. I like that."

"Good."

"Little circles with my fingers," she says, and then, for a time, she says nothing, but looks me straight in the eye, smiling ever-so-slightly.

"And now," she says, ending the silent interlude, "I'm sliding my fingers in a little, in a little more, in a little more, all the way in, and it feels so good."

The waiter arrives with the coffee and Cathy's dessert. Her hand reappears to lift the coffee cup as her right hand picks up the spoon and scoops up the crème brûlée.

"Having a nice time?" she asks me, wiping the spoon clean with her lips as she draws it out of her mouth.

"Yes, I am," I reply. "Are you?"

"Wonderful," she says, eating another spoonful of dessert. "I'll bet you're very hard."

"Yes."

"I bet you've even leaked a little, right?"

"Probably."

"It must be so beautiful." Then another spoonful, and with the crème still in her mouth, she says, "I could come any time now."

"Even without touching yourself?"

"I'm not touching myself, but I'm being taken care of."

"You are?"

Obviously I look quizzical, so Cathy puts down her coffee cup, lowers her left hand into her lap for a moment. When it reappears it's holding the miniature corn.

"Clever," I say.

She extends the corn to me and puts it in my mouth. I chew it, swallow it.

"I think I'll come now," Cathy says.

"Here?" I ask.

"Why not?" she asks.

There is one mouthful of crème brûlée left in her dish. She picks it up with her left hand, which, once more, drops from sight.

"Do you want me to come?"

"Sure."

"Good, because I don't think there's any turning back."

"Oh?"

"I'm very gooey."

"The crème brûlée..."

"The crème brûlée and me."

"What's going on?"

"Three fingers in...in...in my pussy. In my cunt. Deep. Squishing around the crème brûlée. Squishy. My thumb...on my...oh, nice...on my clit. Pressing. Pushing."

If I worried about her being conspicuous when she came, I stopped. It was clear something was going on -- her smile grew sleepier and she seemed to be blinking in slow motion -- but anyone who didn't know couldn't have guessed. And she spoke very softly, below a whisper, her words audible only to me.

"Oo, there's so much goo," she says. "I wish you could see."

"I wish I could, too."

"My pussy is swollen, and I'm wide open," she says. "Wide open. I bet I'm seven shades of pink. And it feels so warm and gooey inside. Cunty. So cunty. So cunty. Oh, boy."

I discern the tiniest tremble as her orgasm begins. Even so, her eyes remain glued to mine.

"Here I come," she says. "Oh, God, what a pussy feel, what a cunt, I love it..."

I can tell by her body motion and the sound -- I can hear a gooey squish and the slap of flesh -- when she brings her thighs together, tightening up... A moment later she lifts her hand from under the table, reaches across the table to take my hands in hers, leans forward toward me, affecting a confidential bearing. I lean in to her; we must look like lovers sharing a secret.

"Oh my God," she says. "Oh sweet Jesus..."

Again, her face, her body language give very little away, but the orgasm is communicated by the way she squeezes my hands, rubs the palms with her fingertips, makes circles on the backs with her thumbs. Then I feel one of my calves clamped between her ankles; her hands squeeze, her ankles squeeze. The squeeze holds until, at last, Cathy shivers and relaxes.

Her smile broadens, she releases my calf and hands, and she sits back in her chair, relaxed.

"How was that?" she asks.

"You tell me," I say.

"I loved it," she says.

"I loved it, too," I say.

The waiter brings the check. I sign it without looking at it.

Cathy looks around the restaurant, noticing the placement of tables, the banquettes, the bar.

"I like it here," she says.

"So do I," I say.

"Next time get us a banquette," she suggests.

"Okay," I say. "Any particular reason?"

"Yes," she says, without elaboration. She smiles. We get up, she takes my arm, and we leave.