Sex in the City

Scene I: New York City, New York - Trump International Hotel & Tower - Friday, September 19, 2003

Well, here I am.

Alone.  

New York City.

Friday night.

And I, once considered one of the top marital prospects in Europe...so I'd like to have thought...sit here, in my condo, alone.

Oh how the mighty have fallen.

But my libido has certainly not.

I peer outside my penthouse suite window and see the city go by beneath me.  What love is being founded and broken, I wondered.

And not just mere affectionate love.  Oh no.

I meant also the dirty, raw, inuninhibited love of the Playboy Channel persuasion.

I had not had that in too long.

TOO BLOODY LONG.

I told myself that once I moved to New York City, it was time to re-open that lost door.  Love and dating wise of course.  I was not one to indulge in one night stands.  Well, not since I was 21 or so.

But so many things get in the way.  Divorce.  Broken and hurt bodies...especially from events such as Last Man Standing...I am still feeling the effects from those bloody matches.  I'll give Constantine this much, even though he is son of a bitch extraordinaire - he's one tough bastard.    But quite.  So many other things.  It does in fact remind me of a certain episode of The Simpsons.

Perhaps one of my guilty pleasures.  The episode where Homer bemoans his procrastination, like the time he wanted to see Mr. T at the mall...and when he finally went, the much ballyhooed Mr. T had already departed.

In the realm of dating I was not going to play Homer to dating and love's Mr. T.

Time to get up and get out.  But to where.  Hm.  I had not really examined the prospects too far in this regard.

The Metropolitan Museum of Art?  Theatre? Opera?  Galleries?  

The women likely at these places would have much to offer...but the last thing I want is another Stephanie Erin Dynasty.  If I wanted a Stephanie Erin Dynasty...I'd be with her.

The opposite end of the spectrum: bars, clubs, prostitutes.  The latter I ruled out immediately; I would not be another Hugh Grant, and I would not DARE risk another meeting with the Queen, to be chastized, no matter how nice the tea was.

Bars.  Perhaps, but not singles' bars.  That would be the ultimate low of lows and desperation.  

I sighed as I continued to look at the traffic go on unabated.

I might hit that low, but for now I have to at least try.

Clubs.  I despise the music, but it might be a potential draw for intelligent, beautiful women who yet enjoy, letting loose.

I decided to just get into the Jag, and head to Manhattan which I could see just outside, and see what may come.

I showered, dressed in something casual yet stylish - I hope - Steph always knew how to dress me emmaculately - and headed outside.

I hadn't mastered the streets of New York City quite yet, and depended quite heavily on the global positioning satellite system I had recently installed.  After a few wrong turns and several episodes of cursing at the computer,  I parked in front of the 53rd Street Cigar Bar and went inside.


Scene II: New York City, New York - 53rd Street Cigar Bar - Friday, September 19, 2003

The atmosphere was obviously elegant, aloof, and unwelcoming to anyone who had short of a platinum Mastercard.  I ventured my way inside and was surrounded by...nothing, that is, no smoke of any kind.  That was a relief, even though I partook in the odd smoke of a cigar or pipe.  There were few women there, and even then even fewer who were alone.  The only thing that kept me there was their rather large and welcoming selection of whiskey and scotch.  I parked myself at the bar next to an exceedingly pleasant looking woman.  She looked about 33 or so, brunette hair, greyish blue eyes, with a very curvacious figure.  I smiled as I sat down and ordered a glass of Johnnie Walker Swing - incredibly hard to find, anywhere.  

I welcomed the glass as I turned my attention to her.  I checked her finger - no wedding band, good.  She finished her glass of wine and I mustered the courage, without choking, to speak-up.

"May I buy you another one?"  I tried to smile confidently.  Only she knew how I would come off though.

She was reaching into her Louis Vuitton handbag and taking out her...Louis Vuitton wallet as she looked up.  Vain.

"That'd be lovely, thank you."

I motioned to the bartender another one for the lady.

"Thank you Mr..."

"Lancaster.  Robert Lancaster."

Oh shit.  Where's Odd Job or Pussy Galore when you need them.

She nodded.  "I'm Marissah.  A pleasure Mr. Lancaster."  She had a definite air of confidence to her as I saw her give me the once over.  She grinned.

"So what are you doing here away from home."

She picked up on my British accent.  At least she wasn't oblivious to the obvious.

"This is my home now actually.  I used to live in England."

The bartender brought her wine.  She shifted in her chair and gave me a sly look.

"Where abouts do you live in town."

"The new Trump Building."

She sipped her wine and licked her lips.  My eyes widened.

"Oh shit...the building is beautiful, I wanted to get in there myself, but my PhD studies took up most of my time."

Intelligent.

"That's a shame.  It is very lovely but I dare say, " here goes nothing, "it does pale slightly to what I find myself next to."

She let out a superb laugh.  Jackpot on my first try?

"Only slightly.  Just look at what you're sitting next to sweetie and consider yourself lucky."

I bit my inner lip and shifted my shoulders in a shrug.  "Perhaps I'll have to find out just how lucky I am, but then again you have to prove it to me before I can allow myself to believe."

She gave me a gaze of utter lust.  Desire coursed through her veins.  "You're quite fabulous," she laughed again as she consumed more wine.  "But let's face it - I get what I want.  But if you're making less than $100 000 a year forget it."

This seemed to good to be true.  "I'm afraid it's not as easy as that...getting me comes at a high price," I jokingy suggested.  "But money really isn't a problem with me."

Marissah looked skeptically.  "And how am I to believe that?"

Shit.  I did not really want a woman whose first concern or query about me was money.  Yet, I could not deny that it was indeed a good question.  

And better yet.  She wanted to show me up, so I decided that I would do the honour of showing her up.  I pulled out my wallet and looked through it for a picture I always kept close to me - a picture of me at my investiture as Duke of Wessex, taken with Her Majesty.  I pulled it out and handed it to her.  Marissah examined it closely, and then looked up to my face.  Her mouth was agape.

"Satisfied," I asked as I mockingly sneered and sipped on my liquor.  I was still nervous as hell though.

She appeared undeterred.  "Money's one thing babe...but still...by the end of the night you'll be the one wanting to pay me for what I can do to you."

Holy shit.  What was this a fucking episode of Sex in the City?  Steph used to watch that rubbish from time to time and it used to drive me mad.  This was getting out of hand, yet a part of me wanted to press on.

"Can I have that in writing."  I sipped, wasting the expense of the liquor's flavours and using it now for its mere alcohol content.

"Oh leave the writing to me, I'll write a thesis: 'Why You'll be Left Grovelling For More at the End of the Night.'"

I chuckled and offered, "I thought I saw that on the 'New York Times' Best Selling Fiction' list recently."

Marissah pursed her lips with a smirk.  "Bastard."

"Aw there there beautiful, fret not my dear lady I'm sure it's an exquisite tale."

She finished her wine and put her glass down, giving me the once over again.  "Well...do you want to find out how the story goes," she leaned forward, put a hand on my chest, and took my lip between hers and gave a tug, and then let go.  "Or not."

Oh fuckkkk...

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a hundred dollar bill and left it on the bar.  I stood, offered my arm, which she gladly took with a wicked smile, and whispered into my ear that she had a room in the hotel where the bar was situated.

We walked hastily over through the lobby and pressed the button for the elevator.  The moments took an eternity before the doors swung open.

Empty.  Oh yes.

No sooner than we were in the elevator, she slapped the "close doors" button and then the floor number, before we collapsed into a fury of lust.  My hands ran all over her very ample chest and down her ass as she grabbed and groped at me with equal force, our tongues intermingling without direction.  It was utter glorious chaos.  I pressed her up against the elevator wall as the quiet whirrr of the elevator moved us up to her room.  The doors swung open again as she fumbled for her hotel swipe card and opened the door that was conveniently located right opposite the elevator.

I felt 21 again.

The rest of that night was indescribable.   And never in all my school days at Cambridge or Oxford or at any other time, was reading a thesis as enjoyable, or true, as that.


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Jacobins

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