PickUp

Chapter Two-1

Chapter Two

Pick Up

This was one beautiful woman.

I couldn’t take my eyes off of her as we both stood waiting in a long line for the cashier at the specialty food store. Her light blond hair was cut in a pixie, super short fashion and it clung to her head as if it was painted on. This extreme style alone would usually rule out any further pursuit for me, but in her case, it was just a cap on the top of a long list of other appealingly awesome features that I quickly inventoried each time I turned my head, as if searching for one more thing to add to my shopping basket. In my head, I was actually visualizing what she might look like stripped and chained to a tall whipping post, her head thrown back either in ecstasy, pain or perhaps both sensations, while I slowly administered stroke after stroke of the long black horse whip I kept under the back seat of my truck.

If she noticed me at all, it was well masked, for she seemed to also be thinking about her shopping list and wondering if there might be something else that she needed. Whatever she was shopping for, it couldn’t be food, I decided, because her body appeared to be that of a model, or of someone who constantly cared for and worked hard to maintain the smooth, head to toe perfection that a high fashion model would have. The black stiletto high heels emphasized her long, slim legs with calves that were just barely evident, but lightly muscled, perfect knees and narrow thighs that disappeared up into the closely fitted black skirt. Her waist couldn’t have been more than twenty-two inches, I decided, guessing, of course, but noting that there wasn’t an ounce of overlap between the top of the unbelted skirt and the fitted black body shirt she wore on top. I was certain that she had picked the top because it displayed an incredibly perfect set of breasts, which were, I thought, definitely out of proportion to the rest of her figure, but in the all black outfit, worked perfectly to demand the attention she got from the rest of my dazed, fellow shoppers.

The woman behind me tapped me on the shoulder, grinning and pointing out that it was my turn to put my groceries on the counter. I gave her what was probably one of my dumbest looks and quickly took my four items out of the basket, paid for them and put them back into my folding canvas bag. I walked out of the store, walked quickly to my truck and, instead of leaving the parking area, slowly drove back towards the store entrance only to catch my target woman as she walked out with an easy gait, her magnificent chest bobbing a bit under the tight black top. Did I mention that the collar on her shirt was snug around her neck and matched a small silver collar with a small pendant? No diving V neckline here. No grossly overexposed cleavage for her. The black on black outfit was enough to garner stares and she apparently enjoyed it, looking only once over her shoulder as I brought my van around the corner and turned up the parking lane behind her, following far enough so that I was sure she saw me, but wasn’t sure if I was following her or just heading for the exit. She stopped at a new, gold colored Mercedes 350 sedan and, giving me one more cursory look, got into the car. At one point I was close enough to note that she had neither engagement nor wedding rings on. On her left hand was a ring with some sort of colored stone, but I was too far away to see more than that.

I drove on past and waited at the exit, surprised to see in my rearview mirror, the gold Mercedes come up and stop behind me.

Coincidence? I thought. Let’s test this.

As soon as the light changed to green, I pulled out straight and went thirty yards down the block and pulled into a popular coffee shop. I seldom drink coffee, but decided that this move would either cancel my thoughts about this woman or…or, well, would continue the intrigue.

The Mercedes continued past me, making a right turn at the next corner.

Well, that’s that, I thought. But it was fun. Wonder if I’ll ever see her again.

I got out of the van, locked the doors and went into the coffee shop, getting in line for an overpriced, flavored coffee that I knew I would probably not drink more than half. I ordered, got my hazelnut-flavored, decaffeinated, medium cup of coffee and a two thousand calorie, crème-filled donut and sat down at the counter, facing the street. I sat there thinking about the woman I had seen in the market and for some reason, which I still cannot understand, I had a fantasy image once again, of her in the Joan of Arc situation, chained to a post, her few garments arrayed around her feet, a dirty rag tied in her mouth and her twin n*****s pointed accusingly at me. The image stayed there in my mind and I awoke from the daydream wondering if the coffee had been spiked with something to bring about the vivid and exciting images.

Actually, the coffee wasn’t bad; it just wasn’t what I had in mind at the moment. I was sitting at the counter of the noisy room, facing the one window, watching the shopper traffic hustling along outside, so I barely noticed that someone sat down in the seat next to me. A furtive glance at the weak reflection in the window revealed that it was a woman, I could tell by the faint aroma of some expensive perfume that I knew, but couldn’t, at that moment, identify. Before I could turn around, she said, “Are you hiding from someone?”

“Huh?” I responded, sounding like an i***t. The lovely woman in black sat next to me, sipping a medium-sized cup of something hot. Her brown eyes, looking over the lip of the cup, met mine. She didn’t flinch. The eyes were mostly curious, neither blatant nor shy.

“I said, are you hiding from someone?” she repeated, a smile showing as she lowered the cup and her eyes smiling as well. “You left the market and then stopped here. Don’t you like the market’s coffee?”

“No. I don’t usually drink coffee, but it’s cold and I just needed to get something hot,” I said lamely.

“You sure gave me the twice over,” she said, putting her cup down on the counter and fishing for something in her small purse.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stare. I was just, just...” I slowed down, speaking carefully because I didn’t want to scare her off. “Fascinated,” I added.

“Really?” she asked, not looking up and still digging in her purse.

“Yes. Please excuse me,” I said. “This isn’t my usual manners, but you are quite stunning and I was, well, I was taken to the point where I wanted to see more.”

“Uh huh,” she laughed and took another sip of her coffee. “You are fascinated still?” she enquired.

“Yes.”

“Okay. Let’s cover the preliminary territory quickly then,” she said, glancing around and noting that no one else seemed to be watching or listening in the noisy shop.

“Preliminary territory?” I said, again thinking I sounded stupid.

“You know,” she said, looking me in the eye. “Let’s get to the core of the matter. I am not a hooker or a call girl or a w***e. I do not, as a rule, pick up anyone, but if I did, it would be a woman, not a man. Does that ring any bells for you?”

“Okay, I have no problem at all with that,” I said, certainly surprised by her directness.

“I am,” she said, “as far as most people are concerned, a currently single, certified lesbian florist. I own a rather large bit of property outside town. I love women. But…” Her voice trailed off.

“But?”

“But sometimes I enjoy the company of men. Are you married, engaged, hooked up, suffering from any STD’s, living with someone or gay yourself?”

“None of the above, at the moment.”

“Good. Why don’t we do the usual thing and have dinner tonight, if you’re free. I’ll buy,” she added.

“Sure. And,” I added. “Your gender choice makes no difference to me, other than it probably cuts my chances of scoring with you. But, I have a few lesbian friends and a few more that are, as the politically correct line goes, ‘gender non-specific’. We get along, mostly because the games for most heteros don’t apply.”

“Oh, good. An open mind, I like that. And as far as games, I tend to like somewhat different ones. Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Enjoy esoteric, for lack of a better term, games?”

“Well, that depends on who I’m sharing my thoughts with. At times I can be pretty homophobic.”

“Really? Hummm.” She paused for a long sip of her coffee. “Do you have any other interests other than tagging young women in the market?”

“Tagging?”

“You know what I mean. If you didn’t have that jacket on I would swear you had a hard on in the cashier’s line. Yes?”

“Well, yes, a mental one anyway. A virtual hard-on for sure. You’re right. I consider myself to be pretty observant and someone who looks like you doesn’t usually shop at the Natural Market.”

“I could play coy and ask what, exactly, you mean by ‘someone who looks like me’, but okay. I’ve got to run, but I’ll meet you at The Lakeside Inn at seven-thirty. Go to the bar if you get there before me, which you probably will. You seem like the type to always be early and seldom late, right?”

“Right. I’m Bob,” I said. “Bob Ames.”

“Ellen Hampton.”

“Do you think we’ll get in without a reservation or do you want me to call ahead?” I asked as she gathered her coat, keys and purse, leaving the coffee on the counter.

“I can get us in,” she said. “See you then. Dress appropriately.”

“Sounds like an order,” I said, getting off the high chair and following her out the door.

“Just a request. I assume you have a suit?”

“Yes, I think I can find one in the old sea chest my father left me,” I said with a grin. “And some canvas button-up shoes to go with it.”

“I thought so,” she said.

“What? That I’d have something other than these coveralls and a pair of boots?”

“I was thinking that perhaps a well-fitted pair of black leather jeans and a black silk shirt and jacket.”

“Sounds a bit on the kinky side,” I said.

“I like kinky.”

“Define your terms, please,” I said, hurrying to keep up with her as she headed for the Mercedes which was partly covered by the new snow.

“Perhaps we can save this conversation until later. It has so many nuances and standing outside of a coffee house in this weather isn’t the best venue, I’d say.”

“I agree. But you got my attention. See you later,” I said.

“You know The Inn?” she asked as she pressed the remote key for her car.

“Yes. It’s one of the few places left with a great menu, excellent wine cellar and enforced, strict dress code. They still have the guts to tell people dressed like the homeless that they cannot eat or drink there,” I answered, well aware that my bias might be unwelcome.

“Right,” she answered quickly. “There are damned few places where you can go and not be forced to endure the overtly casual look and atmosphere.”

“Well, I like it,” I said. “But I don’t go very often. I doubt they’ll remember me.”

“They know me. I usually eat there alone, or with another girl, so this will get their interest, I’m sure. The server will send the word back to the chef who will probably consider poisoning you.”

“Seven-thirty,” I said, deciding to ignore the poisoning remark and save it for later. “Do you want to give me your number?”

“My mobile?” she asked, getting into the Mercedes and showing a lot of black stockinged thigh in the process. She wore conventional hose, not panty hose. The suspenders matched her outfit. Black lace and a bit of white skin disappearing up under her skirt. I stared, mesmerized. She switched on the windshield wipers, started the car and reached for the door.

“Whatever you want,” I said, still fixated on the perfect leg, the ultra-high heels and the black garters.

“I have yours,” she said. “It’s on the side of your truck. You don’t need mine. See you.” She closed the door and drove off in a cloud of exhaust vapor and new snow without looking back.

I just stood there, freezing my butt off, wondering what I stumbled onto and wondering when and if I’d ever get a piece of that.