Charlotte's Sexy Web Ch. 01

I decided to be quiet because I sensed she had her own follow-up ready. She did, saying, "In some strange way you are completely sincere."

I thought that just a smile was enough here; I'd didn't have to fake that.

Then she turned back and said, "You might as well finish your drink." Was I going somewhere, somewhere with her? If she was truly tired of me, she'd be the one going somewhere, even if it was only the other end of the bar.

About half my vodka was still in the glass. I didn't want to gulp the rest but neither did I want to linger in there. I took a couple more sips and just said, "Ok."

She said, "Let's go." I wondered if I had really been convincing or if she merely wanted a change of venue. We left our tips on the bar and a moment later I was holding the door for her. I had an unpleasant vision of her throwing a curve-ball at me; maybe she'd get to the sidewalk and say, It's been nice meeting you. Bye!

She turned up the block and I fell in next to her. Even though it was hot and humid on the street I was glad to be outdoors again. We started a fairly unforced and natural-sounding conversation about the neighborhood - the selection of stores, the easy commute to other parts of the city.

In our real lives we would hold hands maybe one-third of the time. Obviously we didn't now. I wondered what passerby going in the opposite direction would think of us. Were we a couple or just two co-workers out socializing? Probably the latter. They might be thinking, he doesn't have a chance with her.

I looked over at her, this Charlotte No. 2, as we walked along Seventh Avenue. Her hat was on, the sunglasses still up on the rim. I thought, what a fine lady that is. When I used the word lady when describing her, it was never in a tongue-in-cheek way. Michelle was a girl perhaps, although she seemed to be rapidly moving out of that stage.

Into her web

We reached her building on a side street, an old walk-up place. The phrase "pre-war" here would mean pre-World War I, a New Law Tenement to use the exact New York term. However it was well-maintained for a Manhattan building of that vintage. When we got into her apartment on the third floor I was struck by the feeling that I had never been there before. What was that called, reverse déjà vu?

There were two sofas in the living room, facing each other, and each had its own coffee table. As I was standing there looking around, she said, "Have a seat. Don't make yourself at home, but you can sit down."

Now I had figured out something else about Charlotte No. 2; she could be sarcastic, she could have a real edge to her. I had heard Michelle use sarcasm too but it was usually in a good-natured and funny way so I was rarely bothered by it.

She said, "You wanted a drink right?"

"Do you have some wine?"

"I've got a bottle of white that I opened."

"That's good; white is best for a hot day." I didn't know if that was actually true but Charlotte was not a wine expert either.

She came back from the kitchen with a glass for herself too although she had lost her hat somewhere in there. She placed my glass on a table in front of my couch and then she placed her drink on the other table but she didn't sit down yet.

She said, "Oh, I forgot to turn on the air-conditioner." It was indeed uncomfortably warm in the apartment. She turned on the window unit, which was to my left, and hit the high button. Her apartment was in the back and her windows faced an interior courtyard.

Then she started to move things along. She unbuttoned her blouse, took it off and dropped it on the floor. She stretched - preened really - in the air coming out the unit, putting her arms behind her back and pushing her breasts forward, then raising her arms and stretching them up and out.

Her bra: I had never seen this one before. Perhaps it was really the top of a bathing suit; it appeared to be basically orange with a floral pattern. Okay, if she intended for me to get an erection while sitting on her couch, she had succeeded. In a few moments she turned to face me; it was time to continue.

"Hey Charlotte, I like that bra."

"You do? I have a matching set of panties that go with it."

"Are you wearing them now?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Yes, I would like to know."

"Well, I'm not sure I really want to show you."

This was going beyond playful into being truly irritating. Was she going to have me sit around here for a while with my boner and then tell me to leave? At least I had gotten a glass of wine out of this. I started to drink it as she flounced over to the other couch; Charlotte No. 2 seemed to have her own distinctive way of moving. She sat there and stared at me.

I said, "I really think you're cute." Maybe that should have been "I think you're really cute." Anyway, a grammatical quibble.

She said, "Well of course you do." She continued. "So what else do you like besides my hair - and hats?"

Vanity; this Charlotte No. 2 seemed to have some of it, maybe a lot. I decided to just stare back at her for a moment.

She was not someone who could ever be in fashion magazines; her face was a bit too wide, her nose a bit too big, a bit too much junk in her backside trunk. However I didn't care what magazines put forth as standards. I had thought for months that she was - awesome, maybe that best captured my view of her.

Yet right now there was of a barrier of sorts between us. I reviewed my memories of what we had done together in this apartment. For one thing, when it came to mild to midlevel kinkiness (not the heavier dungeons and leather stuff) Charlotte was the go-to lady for that. I knew that with a hand spanking or even certain implements, if I got to her ass in the right place and with the right timing, she could come just from that. Even if she didn't she'd be primed and ready to go immediately afterwards.

Now I was having the sensation that none of that had been real; my own memories appeared as the jerk-off fantasies of someone else, namely a Paul No. 2. Like Charlotte No. 2, I was liking Paul No. 2 less with each passing minute. I had no respect for him; he just seemed pathetic.

I owed her an answer; what else did I like about her? I rummaged around for a joke of some sort but settled for a something straight, "I like your face. I find it intriguing." That also had the advantage being true.

She smiled and drank her wine. Her next sentence came at an unexpected angle and completely surprised me.

She said, "Have you ever been laid with your socks off?" I laughed at that, and I think I knew what she was referring to. It was dialogue from a novel, a conversation between two soldiers in which one is ribbing the other. I would have bet it was The Naked and the Dead but about four years had passed since I had read it.

I asked her, "Is that from Norman Mailer or Jack Jones?"

"One or the other, I just don't remember."

This seemed like Charlotte No. 1 territory where I usually felt comfortable. Maybe this woman wasn't so unobtainable after all. I said, "Hey, I'd like to sit over there." She patted a place on her sofa and said, "Come on over."

Once I was there I needed a second or to two to think of something. She got in ahead of me. As she leaned forward she said softly, "What if anything do you have to offer me?"

"How about, youth and enthusiasm?"

"Yes, youth all right. You can do a three-minute mile."

I didn't really get that. She explained further, "I mean three minutes of sex and it's all over."

"Oh, we can fix that."

"No, you can fix it." She pointed across the room. "You can do it over there on your sofa." Thus my ploy for a pre-coital handjob was thwarted.

I had just moved and now I was going back. But the situation didn't appear to have another option now. That's what happened in role playing; alternatives constantly opened and closed based on what the participants said and did

As I went over there Charlotte No. 2 rustled around in the other side of the room. She came over to me with a jar of Vaseline - did every woman in America have one of those? - and part of a broadsheet newspaper. She spread that out on the table - it was part of The New York Times and it was obvious what the purpose of it would be.

She said, "Oh look, the real estate section. You can check apartment listings."

Now I had my most nasty thought yet, something like, Yes, and fuck you too. I could have said that but that would have left her with few options beyond throwing me out of the place. I'd rather stay; I was curious now to know how bad - unpleasant really - she could get.

She sat down and took her regular glasses out of her purse, "The better to see you with my dear. I am going to watch, I'm sure that will inspire you."

"I didn't know you had glasses."

"Maybe you like the hot librarian look?" We had had similar conversations before, at least twice, months ago.

"Sure I do."

"So let's see what you can do."

I was getting into that sludgy mental state that occurred when the role playing dropped into a deeper level. In addition, I was feeling bashful. The memories of when I had actually done this in front of her on several other occasions were not registering as real. I still didn't want to bail. This situation hadn't resolved itself yet; maybe I could still nudge it another direction.

She didn't help matters now, "Just so that this is clear, I'm not guaranteeing anything."

"Guaranteeing what?"

"Let me rephrase that; I'm guaranteeing nothing."

Depending on how it was interpreted, that could mean that nothing was the promised outcome. Her attitude inspired me to try. I got my pants down and got to work with the Vaseline. But I was completely limp now and getting nowhere.

It was a mental thing; I needed more inspiration. I closed my eyes and thought about an event just two weeks earlier. I had been sitting in this same spot and she had been kneeling on the floor, sucking on me - and she was very talented at that. Inadvertently, through bad aim more than anything else, I had managed to ejaculate all over her flapper hairdo. We had both found that very funny.

That didn't work. It was another "unreal" memory, more like something from a porn movie I'd watched. She noticed my lack of progress, "Could you use some motivation about now?"

I couldn't hide my impatience, "Yes, Charlotte, I could use some motivation."

"Ok, look at this."

She got up and went to the side of the room next to the window. There was a zipper at the back of the pants which she undid. She lowered those and there they were: the matching panties. She slowly swayed her hips back and forth. For my twenty-year old self this was more than adequate; I quickly got a rhythm going. I had to give her some credit, "Great panties by the way."

She said, "Would you like to see more?"

Fuck yes. I had to be more subtle than that. "Charlotte, whatever you've got I'm ready for." I understood that she liked hearing her own name.

She took her outer pants all the way off then did the same with her underpants. She faced the wall and braced herself while presenting a rear-end view to me.

This seemed to be the most hopeful sign yet. If I had gone from a barstool to gazing at her bare pussy and I was masturbating while doing that - that alone had to qualify as a success. It seemed plausible to imagine even better things to come within a few minutes.

However she had stopped talking to me, and I had nothing to say either. I saw her glance over her shoulder at me a couple of times. Perhaps her silence didn't matter. I was so charged up, so tense from what had been going on, that a purely physical release suited me. Probably less than three more minutes passed and then I moaned and spattered all over The New York Times.

I was resting against the sofa back when I opened my eyes and realized that I was still in this game. It was like a queasy, confusing dream that had gone on for much too long. Charlotte was ignoring me while putting her underpants back on. I said, "Hey, don't do that!"

She was moving towards the kitchen and then stopped, arms akimbo, next to her sofa. She said, "I'm getting hungry; I've got to put something together for myself.

Well I'd like dinner too, I thought. "I could go and get something takeout." That immediately hit me as a terrible idea. If I went out there alone I could be locked out. I'd end up eating a Chinese dinner for two on her stoop. She'd likely have talked me into picking up the whole tab.

The takeout proposal elicited no response. Expectations of having her coming over and straddling me evaporated. I tried to clean up and get my clothes in order while still conversing with her. Compliments seemed worth another try.

"Charlotte, you're so pretty."

A skeptical look and then, "Shouldn't you check in with your girlfriend by now?"

"I don't know where she is."

"That's not my problem."

Then I was watching her panty-covered ass as she went into the kitchen. For a few moments I heard her moving things around in there. Then she peeked through the doorway.

"Are you still here?"

She hadn't explicitly told me to leave so I felt I was still in bounds by staying on the couch. She came out, Charlotte with her hairband, glasses, bare tits, panties and white sandals. "Look you're sort of a nice guy I guess but I'd like you to leave now. Clear enough?"

"Charlotte, I like you." Obviously a lie. "How about we have dinner or something this weekend?" What something was I referring to? Anal sex seemed like it should be on the schedule. I considered it now only because, as the expression went, I could imagine the look on her face if I did that with her.

She didn't acknowledge my date proposal; she pointed to a spot behind me. "There's the door; I'm showing it to you. Please go through it."

I got up from the sofa. I had to have a parting shot but I wanted to remain calm, in control of myself. It still come out sounding whiny, "What's wrong with you anyway? Do you like watching guys masturbate and then sending them on their way?"

What a shot she'd be if she could shoot at me with those angry eyes, "What I do in my life is absolutely none of your business." Was she acting or was there some reality here?

She had to top herself, "There are those peep shows, guys pay good money to wank off while watching women gyrate in front of them. You just got that for free, plus a complimentary glass of wine."

That was a very low blow; frankly it was appalling. But I was weary of this whole thing. As I turned for the door I heard her say, "Don't forget your books." As I retrieved them I had one last look at her going back to the kitchen.

The apartment door closed behind me. Two flights down, and then the outside door locked itself. I was out in the humid street, I was hot, angry, depressed and still horny. I tried to distract myself by considering the trip home. 14th Street at Eighth was an express stop where I could get an A train. My chances of catching an air-conditioned train on that line were close to zero.

I was heading down Eighth when I felt like hitting my own forehead. Dummy, the game was over. I could go back there if I wanted to. In fact, I should go back. But first I - and she - would need a minimum of fifteen minutes for decompression time.

I walked along a big loop, down to 14th Street and back up Seventh. At her corner I waited another few minutes; I had forgotten to check my watch along the way.

Inside her building I pushed the intercom button. Her voice came through, "Yes?"

"It's me, it's Paul." I was buzzed in; I wanted to kiss the tile floor on the other side of the lobby.

Dancing with Madame Charisse

Fifteen minutes was usually just the start. It could be another day, maybe two, before completely recovering from a role situation if it was intense enough. I would have to explain that to her. Decompression from these things was like a tunnel worker coming out of a caisson. An inevitable amount of time was required if one didn't want a painful case of the bends.

But I was going to get whatever relief I could right now. As I turned on the final landing I saw her at the open apartment door. She had put her clothes back on but her blouse was unbuttoned and hanging open.

"Paul, where have you been?"

Before I could answer she grabbed me and starting kissing me.

She said, "I thought maybe you had gone home."

"I was on the way home until I realized the role had ended."

"Well come on in and sit down."

I was back in the same place on the couch but now I had her arms around me. Of course it felt better. But yet. . .

I wanted to tell her about method acting, the need for an exit strategy, the sandhog/caisson analogy. But I wasn't ready to go into all that right now.

Then I noticed something else; it wasn't quiet in there like with the other Charlotte. She was playing a record, a Steve Winwood/Traffic album. It was in the middle of one of "The Low Spark of High-Heeled Boys" instrumentals.

She said, "So what do you want first, food or sex?"

For a second I thought she was teasing me, but when I looked at her face I knew she was serious.

"The sex first please."

"Any particular way you want it?"

I had developed a scenario earlier before I got thrown out. I told her that I wanted to sit on the footstool by the other couch and have her on top. I also said, "The hat. You've got that somewhere?"

"Yes, ladies' hats. Sure, you've got it."

When I was sitting on the ottoman she stood next to me as I undressed her. When I was done she had her hat, an open blouse and a dangling bra; then she was naked down to her white sandals. Just as I was finishing she said, "The underwear, I stopped at Gimbels on the way down here and bought it."

It was painful to contrast this thoughtfulness with the way Charlotte No. 2 had treated me.

I had her lie back on her couch and I went over to her. My hand was between her legs when she said, "I won't need too much of this. I was already getting turned on in the bar."

That would have been useful to know at the time. I wondered when that had started; when she had crossed her legs a few minutes in? I said, "You don't do bar pickups. Why did you even think of one?"

One of the Charlottes answered me, "I get lonely sometimes; I'm in this apartment by myself a lot."

After all these months there were many aspects of her life that I didn't know about. What had been going with her when she walked into my class last September? Yet I was sure that it was Charlotte No. 1 who had just revealed a bit more about herself.

She said, "I can't believe I acted like such a bitch. But the weird thing is, I enjoyed it. Are you angry with me?"

In fact I had been. I said, "I'm going to take my cock out; if you sit on it and treat it nicely, all will be forgiven."

In a moment she had my pants down and she was straddling me. As I went into her I looked up at her hat with her glasses - the regular glasses this time - stuck on the band. I was moved to say, "A really classy lady, when you get around to fucking them . . ." I didn't have a complete thought after all.

She was having trouble talking too. "I get it, I really do," was sufficient. Then she said, "Hand me my sunglasses." I took them from the table and she put them on. I said, "Hey, baby, you look like a movie star."

"Oh really? Which one?"

Fortunately she was supplying most of the motion so I could think a bit, "I know, Cyd Charisse."

"That's fantastic, I'd love to be her. In fact, I feel like her right now - I could be her. What do you think about your Madame Charisse?"

So she wanted to have this little game within the game. She had her hands on my shoulders and I gripped her hips; I was ready for this.

I said, "I liked that green dress with the green shoes you had on in Singing in the Rain."