As the New York winter turned to Spring, I matched with Boudoir Betty, a photographer specializing in boudoir scenes. Her clients — married women who wanted to spice up their marriage without committing to a threesome — commissioned her to shoot pictures of them in what could be easily described as soft porn. I was having a hard time nailing down a date with her because my text messages kept winding up in her "unassigned folder" — or so she said. But finally it did happen; a home game at Tessa on Amsterdam Avenue.
Boudoir Betty was a tall brunette with big brown eyes who looked even better in person than her photos. We sat at a high top table near the bar sipping El Diablo tequila cocktails while she swiped through her studio portfolio of ladies in Agent Provacateur lingerie. The combination of my tequila drink and her pictures of naughty housewives on all fours posing as tigers really got the testosterone flowing.
During the second round of drinks our stools inched closer and closer together and by the third round we were kissing in the middle of the restaurant. At that point she confessed to lying about her age by 5 years.
It is worth mentioning that one should always assume a woman has lied about her age by 3 years. That seems to be standard practice. However, I did have lots of dates shave 5 years off, and a significant number actually knocked off a full decade — 10 years! Just a digit off! If a 43 year old passed herself off as 40, I suppose you could rationalize it as a rounding error. But 10 years? Oh, that had to be a typo!
The day after our dinner, Boudoir Betty politely texted me to say thank you and said "text me anytime!" I asked if that meant that I made it out of her "unassigned folder" and she responded, "You did!"
Fantastic! Visions of helping her in the boudoir studio danced through my brain. "Let's pose this yogini mom as a gazelle about to be eaten by a lion!"
Well, I did text her. A few times actually. No response.
Finally I reached out via the app: "I've texted you a few times and never heard back. Did I get moved back into the unassigned folder?"
"Yes I think so," she finally replied.
With Boudoir Betty in the rear view mirror, I found myself on the corner of 3rd Avenue and 30th Street at Banc Café; an away game in a neighborhood I never go to. My evening companion was sitting at the bar when I arrived, cell phone face down on the bar, de rigeur. All women leave their phones face down in case a new match alert comes in, or another guy sends a sext message. Not me. As part of my pre-date prep I always turn off notifications for dating apps and set any ladies that might text to Do Not Disturb mode. I settled into my bar stool and left my phone face up. Nothing to hide here!
My first impression was favorable; she was cute, had her own public relations business, and also a creative side which I found attractive. Still, in spite of some obvious common interests, she seemed disinterested.
In very short time — not even half a glass of Viognier in — there was some babble from her about seeing a friend's new born baby. Then magically, she found a few baby photos on her phone that looked like they came straight off a Google image search. And just as my second glass of Viognier arrived, 45 minutes after kick off, she was gone.
While I was processing that event I checked Bumble and saw that a new message had come in. It was Ms. KC, the bicoastal babe I had been texting with but never met. She was in town from Vancouver and wanted to get together. "How about Upland on 27th," I asked.
As soon as I arrived, two seats miraculously opened at the packed bar, the reassuring omen I was waiting for. She glided through the entrance minutes later looking fresh and tasty. Two European kisses, a sprinkle of pleasantries, and she was on to the wine list. "Why order wine by the glass when you can get a bottle?" she asked, pointing to a bottle of Ribera del Duero. I nodded a sign of approval and bounced down to the steak section of the menu, looking for something that could pair with a big, full bodied red.
Our conversation got off to a good start about the brilliant Amazon Prime series Catastrophe when I noticed that she was giving the finger to someone behind me. Not a casual "piss off" gesture, but rather a prolonged, in your face, "FUCK YOU." Apparently, some Wall Street Bros at the bar were doing an iPhone video and pointed the camera at her. I wasn't keen on defending a woman's honor that I only knew for 15 minutes but fortunately the situation simmered down and an altercation was averted.
With that incident behind us, we segued into a smart business conversation. Ms. KC was a management consultant specializing in turning around failing companies. High pressure, big financial reward type of projects. Her interests were broad and varied. When it came to music, she was up to date on new bands such as My Morning Jacket, Cage the Elephant, and Portugal the Man. In the sphere of wine, she spoke of tannins, minerality and acidity like a sommelier. My analysis thus far was that she was wicked smart, very Type A, and with her hand on my knee, totally "game on."
Unlike so many other woman I went out with, Ms KC had a sexual pulse. This was not beginner level dating. In a video game this was the level you got to after you conquered all the dragons, fireballs and snakes. I took a big gulp of wine and gave myself a pep talk.
After a sumptuous dinner of hanger steak and salad we started kissing at the crowded bar. The fashionable Manhattanites who surrounded us either didn't notice or didn't care. "You're making me really wet," she said, which caught me off guard.
"How wet?" I asked.
A hazy moment followed. There was some sexy talk. A giggle. A kiss. A splash of red wine. And then, next thing I knew, my hand was up her skirt and inside of her. She was soaking wet. "I'd like to have my orgasm standing here at the bar," she whispered, putting her arms around my neck and gently rocking back and forth. Within 5 minutes, there was a soft groan and a sigh.
We spilled out onto the streets of Gramercy Park and being the perfect gentleman, I offered to walk her back to her corporate apartment. She agreed, but made it VERY clear that I was not invited up. VERY clear! I promised to drop her off and leave immediately. So there we were, standing in the doorway of her building having the last goodnight kiss of the evening when she proposed that I come upstairs for just a little bit. However, she made it VERY clear that we were not going to have sex. VERY clear! So I swore up and down to honor her request.
We weren't upstairs more than 5 minutes when she decided that she needed another orgasm. She unbuttoned her shirt and lied down on the sofa with her legs spread and gestured me over. Thus started an extended, multi hour session of bathumping where every position and act of intimacy was explored, some of which are banned in the deep south.
The next morning she woke up at 6:00 to go to the gym before work. Oh those Type A women! When I finally revived myself at 9:00 I realized that the room was freezing. She had turned the thermostat down to Siberian winter simulation mode. I sent her a text: "Room was freezing last night. Next time we'll have to cut down on your orgasms so you don't overheat."
We did go out a few times after that and it was always fun although matching the energy of that first night was a tall order. But how I do miss her!
I expected this last episode to end with me walking down the aisle with my new girlfriend. At a Broadway show! Come on you guys! But life rarely plays out the way we want it to. Along the way I got to know some pretty amazing women. One reported directly to Anna at Vogue (demanding but nice I was told). Another woman resided in the rarified air at a major Parisian house of haute couture. There were a few ridiculously wealthy finance types. A TV anchor woman. A famous radio personality. A music executive who worked with Beyoncé. One of the Real Housewives of New York. And the Puerto Rican women from the Bronx who I adored.
At the time of this writing, the Dancing Queen from Report 2 was still with her boyfriend. As for the rest of the women in the mini series, they are still on the loose. Then again, so am I.
In good health, wine, and tequila,
Bonus episode. Kiss of the femme fatale