I met a man. He is tall, though not as tall as my husband. Six feet, maybe? His hair is a dark shade of walnut, longer, but carefully groomed, and is newly clean-shaven. I knew all of this in advance, of course…I had seen his pictures. Before meeting him, I imagined he might have a particular smell, perhaps of a cologne I would recognize from a long ago lover, or of Malbec or coffee. I was wrong about that: He smelled and tasted of nothing but the night, and my own skin and tongue. Two hours after seeing his face for the first time, his wandering fingers were between my legs, searching for the lace panties I wasn’t wearing. Ooh, he whispers. What a surprise.
I reply quietly with a slow sigh, and bite my lip. His lip.
Shhh.
Click.
When thinking back about that night in the darkness, these are the sounds I hear in my searching mind.
Shhh. Click.
It is the sound of a childhood toy. A ViewMaster. Before virtual reality helmets, before the internet, the brick-orange magic glasses that transported me to places I only hoped to one day see in person. The Grand Canyon. The Eiffel Tower. Las Vegas. One tiny handheld vision of a blurry future, progressed to the next with a shhh, click.
The Pyramids. Click.
When I try to recall last Saturday, I am forced to see it in glimpses. I can’t get my brain to slow down and watch it play out as I would like, no matter how I try. Only the whirr of Shhh. Click.
A speakeasy bar in the middle of the city, no sign on the door. No name. No reason to be there unless you know to be there. I jump a puddle on the curb, my husband’s hand to balance me. My booties are a soft gray suede that matches my dress. I worry too much about them, the boots, perhaps to distract myself from what I am there to do. I see them avoid the water, inch carefully into the grass. Safe. We walk in behind another couple, our new friends, the walnut man and his wife.. It is they who have led us here, this club that they say is exactly what we all need. We follow, of course, they hadn’t led us astray with their dinner suggestion of Cajun tapas, but to be honest, we would have went along even if the mushroom empanadas had been garbage. It was the plan, after all.
As we walk in, a slow ramp leads us through the blackness to a wraparound bar. The only lights here are the glow of whiskey and bourbon bottles lining the back wall, a menagerie of liquor meant to make us all feel a little less…more. Our friends had already been drinking at dinner, perhaps a bit more nervous than they let on, and immediately order another round from the bartender. I can’t say what. I am between reels on the ViewMaster, I see only a cocktail napkin and a dark skinned hand reach out to mine with a white Russian. I do not drink, and it was the only thing I could think of to order in the moment. I bring it immediately to my lips. It’s cold and creamy, it burns going down. Perfection.
As I get my bearings and sip, Emily, the petite blonde wife, is talking to the men. I feel like it is a whisper, in this thumping bass setting, but is probably more of a shout. Either way, I cannot hear what she has said, just nod in agreement and begin to follow them up the winding staircase at the other end of the bar. An open room, filled with high draped curtains and velour sofas greet us, with what feels like imaginary lights hung sporadically above. Em winds her way to a sectioned off pair of sofas, each facing the other, middled by a coffee table. Our drinks fill it quickly, and we sink deeply into the cushions and coupled conversation. How long did we talk? What did we say? What did I say?
Moments later, Em and I disappeared to the bathroom. On our return we swtiched seats, her next to my husband, and I next to hers. What happened next was, well, [click here](https://medium.com/@hersideofthebed/shhh-click-dc063e140e04) to find out!
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/10nj6dl/shhh_click_i_met_a_man_that_wasnt_my_husband_a