T H E T A S T E… definitely not your ordinary Martini. Those with high-brow attitudes look down at the thought of letting a Dirty Martini touch their lips. The dirty secret behind a Dirty Martini is that the unique taste is achieved from adding olive juice, giving this drink a brine taste. It hides the presence of alcohol and delivers a heathy dose of flavor in an otherwise high-octane drink. What makes Dirty Martinis appealing to most is that it gets you drunk without you having to actually taste the liquor.
TITLE: D I R T Y M A R T I N I
“Good Evening,” the polite hostess said as she greeted me near the front of the restaurant. Her hand reached for the menus tucked discretely beside the welcome desk.
“How many people are in your party tonight?”
I smiled. “Just me.”
She led the way through the packed crowd of waiting patrons there in pairs like they always were on a Friday night. The guys watched my hips sway with my movements and the rise and fall of my ass as I made my way past them. Their girlfriends and wives were watching too.
An audience. Great.
I didn’t mind it at all.
I had nothing to prove to anyone other than myself.
Yes, my outfit didn’t fit the business casual attire of everyone else in attendance. My candy apple red mini dress hugged my curves too tight and my plunging neckline may have been a little distracting. But so what? They didn’t have to approve or wear the damn thing. It was on me and my approval was the only validation I needed.
And yes, I was there with plans to dine alone.
But by choice. And damn happy about it too.
Veda Charles… well, Veda Blain… again, after signing divorce papers a few months ago. I didn’t hesitate to drop my husband’s surname to take my maiden name back.
In fact, I couldn’t do it fast enough. Married for four years. Four whole years of arguing, dissatisfaction, and unhappiness. Sad ass sex with even sadder conversation. We were so in love, my husband and I, until we weren’t.
“Here are our specials tonight.” The hostess placed the menus down in front of me.
She was cute. About 5’2 with hazel green eyes.
“Your waiter will be right with you,” she added before walking away.
My husband’s mistress had hazel green eyes, too. I know this because I met with the harlot six days after learning my husband had been sleeping with her in our bed while I was at work, clocking long hours and caring for the sick as an RN. But we’ll table that conversation for some other time… or never. Because tonight was about me. And that was how I liked it.
I was at a lavish five-star restaurant tucked on the corner of whatever street near an unimportant avenue in the Upper West Side. Entrées went for at least $40 a plate but I enjoyed coming here, alone, once a month to treat myself to the sights.
A lot of them.
Most of them taken, a good majority of them young, black, and paid.
They were new money, so they wore their wealth around their wrists, on their fingers, and in their ears. Ballers as we refer to them. Tall, dark, and bonafide handsome. La cremé de la cremé with enough cash in the bank to get the most modest chick wet.
I didn’t come here to snag them though. I came here to fuck them… in my mind at least. And man, did I do it better than most.
I would describe myself as a visual creature. The ratio of men I fantasized about sleeping with versus the amount I actually slept with was grossly different. An uneven scale of measurements but that was perfect. Mental fucks were safer. Less commitment. And I always walked away satisfied.
“Good evening.” I heard his voice over my shoulder before I even saw his face. He was wearing the same outfit as all the other servers but the way his black button shirt laid against his chest and the perfect fit of his black trousers as they teased a print of his dick made it seem like the person in charge of making their uniforms sewed his shit by hand and tailored the fit just for him.
“I’m Kenyon,” he said, smiling, and now standing in front of me.
His skin was the color of chai latte, no milk. His lips two toned, dark on the top with a brush of pink at the bottom.
“Can I start you off with a drink?” He gestured at my drink menu.
“What do you recommend?” I purred.
He picked up the menu, thumbed through the first laminated page and spoke again, but I couldn’t care less what he had to say. I just needed him there long enough for me to set the scene in my mind. Kenyon looked like the rough type. I spotted the tat beneath his rolled-up sleeve and the two scars on his right knuckle. He had to be a fighter, not professional though. Just the angry type. Probably didn’t take no shit. I licked my lips as I continued my mental narrative.
Kenyon, in my thoughts, liked to pull hair. He was into that deep penetration that made your toes feel like they’d break if they curled any harder.
“How about the Shiraz?” he quizzed.
I smiled politely and shook my head.
He didn’t appear to like to do it in bed. Nah, he looked like the public setting type. The kind of fuck that liked getting caught. So, he’d pin my back to whatever wall he could get me against and pound me out while holding my neck in a gentle grip.
“The cosmopolitan?” he asked next.
“I’ll take the dirty martini,” I finally said. I’d had enough of him and needed someone fresher.
“I’ll be right back to take your food order.”
As he walked away, I glanced at the table of gentleman a few tables ahead of me. They were all donned in designer suits, similar colors, and even similar styles. All of them were handsome, making it difficult for me to decide. So, I settled on the King with close-cropped hair.
I watched him as he removed his blazer to reveal a pair of arms that not even his dress shirt could disguise.
He was gorgeous.
Penetrating eyes and smooth skin.
When he smiled, he showed a mouth full of white teeth.
“Here you are,” my waiter said, placing my martini glass on my table.
“Thank you. I still need to review the menu.” I told him. My eyes were still on my other suitor.
“Not a problem. I’ll give you a few more minutes.”
I wet my lips as I continued staring at my midnight attraction. Everything about him seemed well curated. From the press of his shirt to the trim of his mustache and goatee. He seemed tall, and he clearly was strong.
He had money and class so a seedy motel in another borough wouldn’t do.
“The Ritz-Carlton,” I whispered to myself.
He’d drop half his take home pay for the week just to impress. Pick out a suite that faced an immaculate view. He’d draw the curtains opened just so we could catch glimpses of that view from our peripherals as we put in that good work to make each other come.
The bed looked like his thing, but it wouldn’t be a limitation. That bed would just be a platform for all the freak he would unleash. His lips were thick which meant he savored the self-less pleasures of licking. Enjoyed the feel of rotating a clit with the tip of his tongue. Swirling that thing around a tiny pink ball slow then sucking on it with sense. Most likely into using his hands too. Finger fucking until he made me squirt on his well-trimmed facial hair. With lips and hands like his, there was no way he’d debate with me or even refuse a chance at fine dining on my pussy. He’d probably insist on petting this kitty with that wet muscle in his mouth.
He glanced up at me and did a double take when he caught me staring back. He lifted his glass and nodded his head at me. I gave him a polite smile.
I broke eye contact when I saw him push his chair back and stood up from his seat.
“Fuuuck,” I spat under my breath.
I took a deep inhale of the air when he walked my way slow and I drank him in with my eyes. He didn’t even try to be fine. I couldn’t stand his type… not anymore at least. His sexiness annoyed me because it made me even hotter the closer he got.
“Do you mind if I join you?” he asked when he reached the front of my table. “I’m around too many men right now and I’d prefer to share a drink with a woman as strikingly beautiful as you.”
I glanced around the room. “You have so many other options. I’m sure you can find someone just as striking.”
“I strongly doubt that.”
“Hmph,” I huffed. The stem of my martini glass was in the pinch of my pointer and thumb fingers when I brought the rim to my lips to sip.
He stood there the whole time watching me. Seducing me with his eyes as we held our stares. Making that familiar pulse, caused by our eyes making love, weaken me. We were visually fucking in a room full of people clueless to that fact. What a damn tease.
“The thing is,” I began, lowering the glass from my lips, “I’m not done sexing you yet.”
He jerked his head back and wrinkled his brows. “I’m sorry… did you just say you were sexing me?”
“Well… mentally fucking you actually.”
His mouth hung open the moment the words left my mouth. The man didn’t say a word as he stood there looking perplexed.
“While you were sitting over there,” I said, pointing at the table he stepped away from, “I was preparing to let you fuck me in my mind. You’ve only tasted me, but we haven’t gotten farther than that. And I’d really like to. But now, I can’t resume my mind fuck because you’re ruining it by standing here talking to me.”
“Wooow.” He laughed. “Aren’t you something?”
I lifted the garnishment of four olives out of the glass, brought the tiny stick to my mouth, and slid one of the olives off using my teeth, all the while leaving his question unanswered.
He ran his hand down his mouth, nodded slow, then pushed that same hand into the pocket of his suit pants. He dropped his card on the table, slid it closer to me then said, “do me a favor…. call me when you’re done with that. I’m more than positive I’m better than your thoughts.”
With that he turned on his heels, only glancing over his shoulder once before returning to his table.
I picked up his business card and reviewed the black writing on the tiny cardstock.
Morrison Palmer, MD.
“Yup, definitely the Ritz-Carlton,” I said to myself.
Tomorrow at midnight… T E Q U I L A S U N R I S E.
Previously… S P I K E D P U N C H.