Sultry Saturday night… his or mine?

It’s a sultry, September Saturday, and evening is approaching. I’m… mmm… comment dire…  in a certain mood…

Wouldn’t it be lovely to slide into a steamy bath, linger awhile, then find a satiny underthing or two… How I’d like to take the time to regale in the feel of fine fabric against my skin, then, a slinky little black dress, my favorite strappy stilettos which, under the right circumstances, might be slipped off…

And last – an essential touch – Chanel dotted behind the ears, on the wrists, between my breasts. All the spots that heat and release their heady aromas. Pulse points, and then some.

Mmm…

There’s a little jazz place nearby. I could drive – but that would mean no drinking. And I’d like a full-bodied red, or a real cocktail tonight. Something that burns going down, and spreads its fire through my chest as thoughts drift, and the darkness entertains its own lightness of being. Its possibilities.

No, no need to drive. For a few dollars I could cab it, and spend my evening comfortably, sitting at the bar.

It’s a dark, swanky environment, but not pretentious. The music oozes, especially when they’ve got a certain sexy sax player under the hot spotlight. Perhaps I could sip a dirty martini, close my eyes, listen, and imagine… speak, if spoken to.

And if not, I’d still thrill to the low, spreading vibration of the music, the flood of feeling from the vodka, and the sensation of my own smooth skin beneath my form-fitting dress.

Drifting, and feeling fine, but…

I’ve done it a few times before. There’s been the occasional conversation. The drift of sensual, voluptuous pleasure. A cab ride home, feeling fine and female… filled with it. 

And?

It’s a good plan. The only dilemma… my teenage son seems to think it’s his turn for socializing, for sultry evenings in September, for being out and about. And when he’s out, I’m home and by the phone. Car keys at the ready, and nothing more “burning” than an overheated microwave dinner, as I wait to hear him unlock the front door at midnight, or for a phone call to pick him up.

So whose Saturday night is it, anyway?

Is he too old for a sleepover somewhere? Hmm. Not on such short notice. And certainly not over the next few weekends; he has projects, more projects, a few dates set up, and SATs are on the horizon.

Perhaps late October. It will be Indian summer, and I can hope for another evening like this one, another mood like this one, another opportunity…

A night out, for good behavior. Or better yet, for bad behavior, that’s oh-so-good.

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy