Cigar Bar

“So, how ‘bout that ‘happy ending’” Asked Brian. 

He was reclining in one of the big leather chairs at Smokey Joe’s (no relation), a local cigar bar we frequent.  It is paneled in dark wood, with leather chairs and low tables.  A bit more sports memorabilia than I like, but if you come in on a quiet afternoon it has a nice ambiance.  I sat down next to Brian.  We were in a quiet corner of the lounge, by ourselves. I brought a double scotch from the bar.

“You paid more for that scotch than I did for your, ahem, services”

He was trying to make a point, and it was a good one.  I’ve been out looking for an affair, and my friend Brian, the legal master mind, has suggested hiring a professional.  I looked at my scotch.  A double shot of a good single malt – probably $35.  I had to think about this.

“You make a compelling argument.” I paused.  “Seriously, how much?”

“25.” He nodded, “plus tip.  You did tip her right?”

“Yeah, I gave her a C-note, almost gave her 2”

“I knew you’d like her.  So now we can forget all this affair stuff.”  He took a deep drag on a thick cigar. “Although, that was an inappropriately large tip.”

“Naw”, I replied while lighting my own cigar.  “I want an affair.  That was just the thing I needed to push me into acting.”

“You’re crazy,” he raised his glass and gave me a crooked smile, “Let’s hope you don’t get into too much trouble.”

I met his toast.  “To swift bailbondsmen” I said a little bit too loudly.

“I know some” he replied

It is not Sticky!

“You need to get your stick waxed!’ Brian said, way too loud.

“Huh?”

“Come on,”  he had stopped by my office on a Friday afternoon, which I usually keep clear for, well, personal business.  “I checked with Kristen” (my secretary) he said, “and your schedule is clear.”  We went down to his car and drove for about 5 minutes to, um, the place will remain nameless.  Let’s just say it was an Asian massage parlor. “Now, I’m not taking 'no' for an answer. Get in there.”  He said, as I hesitated at the front door.

“It looks,” I paused for the right words, “sticky.”

“It is not sticky!  Get in there.  You’re going to enjoy yourself.”  He assured me.

Once inside I was introduced to “Sumiko”.  She looked to be about 20 years old.  Quite beautiful, with a great body. OK, I was impressed.

I was led back to a room with a massage table in it, and given a hamper for my clothes.

“Do you have hangers?” I asked.  Sumiko was quite obliging and produced a proper suit hangar for my coat.  She left the room and I disrobed and hung my suit on hangars provided and draped myself in towels as I assumed was appropriate (sorry guys, I’ve never had a massage before).  I lay down on the table face down, with a towel over my butt.  Sumiko returned after a minute or two.

She was wearing a white robe that looked a bit like a judo uniform, with a thick sash around the middle.

She spread a warm scented oil on my back and proceeded to massage it.  Aaaaah, that felt good,   She was actually a really good masseuse, although she did occasionally reach under the towel.  Not that I'm complaining.  After about 20 minutes, as I was about to doze off in sheer comfort, she asked me to turn over.

“Your friend has paid for ‘special massage”” she said, and she pulled the belt from her robe.  She pushed the robe off her shoulders.  It dropped to the floor, and then she was clad only in a pair of black bikini briefs.

Oh boy.

I fiddled with the towel and tried to be discrete.  I ended up on my back, but I was seriously tenting the towel.

Standing on my left, she massaged the front of my right shoulder.  To do this she needed to lean over me.  She was dangling her breasts right in front of my face.  I’m guessing this is the “special massage”.  God, I almost creamed the towel.  She was hot. She went over to my right and did my left shoulder.  I don’t know how much more of this I could take.  She moved down my chest.  Then to my stomach.  Then she was drifting her hands under the towel – where I was obviously aroused.  She then reached down and gave a stroke on my cock.  “Oops,” she said, “is that OK?” OK? That was fabulous.

“Fine” I replied, trying to be nonchalant.

“Your friend” she said, with what I assume was a fake oriental accent, “has paid for ‘Happy Ending’”

She slid her hand beneath the towel, and, well, massaged.  She pulled off the towel and teasingly played with me.  Then she climbed up on the table and took me into her mouth.  I came almost instantly.  That was the first time I had an experience with anyone but my wife (or my right hand) in 18 years.

It was wonderful.

I went home that night, and was unable to look my wife in the eye.

Business or Pleasure?

Yeah, it’s been a while since I last posted.  I’ve been off traveling.  I took the family – or better would be the family took me – to Orlando Florida for spring break.  

Take it from me, Disney world sucks.  They have, however, an admirable business model.  They get folks to pay lots of money to wait in line. 

It is amazing how different business and pleasure travel are.

Pleasure travel begins several days before the time of departure.  The wife asks me to get some luggage out of the storage area.  “Which bags?” I always ask. 

“I don’t know” is always the response.

As an experienced husband, I know that it does not matter which bags I bring up.  They will always end up being the wrong bags and I’ll unpack them, go get different ones, and repack.  So I grab several bags at random out the storage area and put them in our walk in closet. 

The wife frets seriously about what to bring, and she always over packs.  She insists on bringing a set of clothes for everyone in the hand carry luggage.  She also insists that the bags be packed in such a way that if a bag gets lost, everyone will still have clothes.  Lately, she has been insisting that not only we have clothes, but they should be properly coordinated.  So a few matching outfits for each person go into each bag that’s packed.  Of course, being a man, I have no clue what “matches”.  This means that the wife will order me to pack, and I will.  Then she will scream at me that I did it wrong, and repack it herself.   Why not have her pack it in the first place?  I tried that once – it didn’t work out very well.  So, on every trip we play this little theater.  And yes, it starts about 72 hours ahead of departure.

Once the bags are packed, which takes several days to get just right, I drag them all down to the garage and load up the car.

Invariably, five minutes after we pull out of the driveway, the wife remembers something she forgot – and we drive back for it.  I always tell her the plane leaves 30 minutes before it actually does so we have a chance of making the flight.  She also will not acknowledge that in Florida there are Safeways and drug stores and all manner of shopping.  Forget something?  Buy a new one once you get there.  No problem.  She cannot grasp this idea.

At the airport, we park in the off-airport economy lot.  We wait in the cold and rain for 15 minutes for a bus (Hey, it’s Seattle).  We drag all our bags on the bus, which drops us off at the terminal. We stand in a long line to check in, then at a long line at security.  We have 6 carry-ons for four people.  All the computers need to be unpacked, all the shoes off, all the liquids out.  The wife insists in hand carrying all her toiletries so she has 4 one quart plastic bags stuffed to bursting.  It is quite a production to get everything through the scanners.  The folks behind us complain loudly as we unpack everything.

The gate is crowded, the boys end up sitting on the floor.   The wife leans on a wall and makes grumpy noises. With all the carry on bags the wife insists on taking, we need to be first in line to get the bin space, so we squeeze in line with everyone else as soon as boarding commences.  I feel like making mooing noises.  So we stand in line a bit before the plane door opens and elbow our way on the plane.

On the plane we sit in the small coach seats, I’m just too tall to get comfortable.

Let’s contrast this with a business trip.  Just after I returned from Orlando, I headed out for Zurich.

Preparation for the trip beings about 48 hours before departure.  My secretary leaves a manila folder on my desk.  In it is a printed version of my travel itinerary and meeting schedule, maps of the locations of my hotels and where I have meetings, and an envelope containing about $200 of cash in the local currency of my destination (in this case, 200 Swiss francs).  I put this in my briefcase – time spent  - 15 seconds.

About 3 hours before the flight I get a text from the airline reminding me of my trip and telling me the exact departure time and gate.  When I get this text, I go down to the storage area and grab my rolling garment bag and take it up to the walk-in closet.  I put in the suits I’ll wear on the trip.  I have my dry cleaners pack shirts in plastic bags, ready to pack.  I grab however many I’ll need and throw them in the suit case.  I pack up my bathroom things.  In 15 minutes I’m packed (this actually pisses off my wife, who usually takes 3 days to pack for a trip).

An hour and a half before departure, the limo rolls up to the house.  The driver comes to the front door and takes my bag and puts it in the trunk.  I follow him down to the car, and step into the back seat, where a bottle of chilled water and copy of the day’s Wall Street Journal await me.  The driver puts on some light jazz and I enjoy the scenery going by, or read the paper.  If I’m really harried, I’ll do e-mail and voice mail on the way to the airport, but usually not.

My driver drops me off in front of the check-in area, where I check in at the short line, with the frequent flyers.  I always check my bag, so I don’t have to worry about bin space.

At the security line, I can use the frequent flyer line (again short).  I only wear loafers, which slip on and off easily.  My bag – a computer case - can be scanned without any unpacking.  I just lay it out on the conveyor belt.  It takes seconds to get my things ready for inspection.

Once through security, I stop at the Red Carpet Club (United’s lounge), to wait for the flight in a hushed library like room, enjoying a cup of freshly brewed Starbuck’s coffee. 

With just a small bag to carry on, I wait for the crowds to clear before I board the plane.  I’m in first class on the domestic legs, and in business class on the international legs.  I stretch out in comfort and relax.

God, I love business travel. 

Thank God it’s Monday!

Ring or Go Naked?

Last week, while at a bar, I ran into a couple of lovely young ladies.  So young that I’m probably not even on their radar.  Anyway, on the drive back to the office afterwards, staring at the ring around my finger, I began to wonder if it would be best if I was ringless when in out in public where I might meet people.

I’m not trying to trick anyone – make them think I’m available for a long term relationship.  But it seems to me that sometimes it’s easier to get to know someone without the ring, well, getting in the way.

I never wear the ring when I work out.  I have a titanium wedding band.  It is a dark silver metal that goes better with my skin tone than gold, and I thought it was unconventional (in a good way) back when we got married.  But there’s a problem with a titanium ring. 

If you injure your ring finger while wearing a wedding band, and the finger begins to swell, the swelling will squeeze the blood vessels going to and from the finger, cutting off the blood supply.  This will eventually kill the finger and gangrene will set in.  To prevent this, your emergency room doctor will remove the ring for you.  If you have a gold or silver ring, the doc will get out some tin snips and off it comes.  Your jeweler solders it back together, good as new.  But if you have a titanium ring, there aren’t any tin snips that can cut it.  You need an acetylene torch for that.  While it can cut the ring, your finger will pretty much be toast –and I mean really toast.  The only solution that exists today is to cut off the finger, remove the ring, and try to reattach the finger.  Ow.  And that re-attachment thingy doesn’t really work all that well. 

Anyway, this is what I was told by my jeweler when I bought it.  Turns out, when I asked my doctor, he said that they can cut off a titanium band, it’s hard, but they can do it.  He told me that this is a story perpetuated by jewelers to sell the more expensive gold and silver bands.

But the wife heard the jeweler say “no working on the car, gardening, or sports with the ring on”.  As a result, I have no tan line where the ring goes.  And I can slide it on and off easily.  It helps that I haven’t gained too much weight since the wedding.