“You need to get laid, Anaïs. It’s as simple as that.” Alie’s words shook me out of deep thought. I was sitting with three friends in the La Raya bar at the Ritz Carlton in Laguna Nigel. Vodka martinis, ice-cold and dirty in front of all of us. “This whole place is filled with men,” she continued. “There has to be at least one that you’d take to bed.”

 It was the seventh year in a row that the four of us were together in this bar. We lived in Portland, Seattle, and San Francisco and never missed the annual conference of the National Association of Certified Marketing Executives. It was a boondoggle, for sure; it was a time to do spa treatments, drink, and pretend to learn something, all while someone else footed the bill. And while there were a few additions of younger, fresher, and impossibly more attractive new members, for the most part, the cast of characters rarely changed.

It was the first time I had attended since my divorce.

“Thank you, Alie,” I said, taking a sip of my drink. “What’s that old truism? Don’t shit where you eat?”

“I am with Alie on this one,” Lisa said. “Who’s talking about taking a shit? We’re talking about you finally getting action.” Lisa was 39, the baby of the group. She worked in PR and Communications for a software firm in Seattle. Lisa was tall and pretty and always impeccably dressed. Right down the Jimmy Choo’s that adorned her narrow feet.

“Come on, Anaïs,” Michelle added. “It’s been what? At least nine months since the divorce. And I can’t imagine that there was a whole lotta banging going on prior to that. So, why not now?” Michelle was a traditional marketer; Her home was San Francisco, and she spent her days managing spreadsheets and avoiding salespeople. She is less overtly and sexually blatant than Alie but infinitely more open to whoever happens to walk through the door.

“I appreciate all the concern, girls,” I continued. “But I think I am just fine. I have you three. What else do I need?”

“A penis might be a nice addition,” Alie threw in, “I mean, for a change of pace. At least for you.” Alie was the wild child of the group: 49 and still drank like a 20-year-old. She worked in advertising at a boutique agency in Portland that primarily handled startups. Hers was a world of constant change and insecurity. Startups came and went with a velocity that I could not begin to comprehend. And it was Alie’s job to seduce each one and secure as much work as their venture-infused budgets allow until they inevitably ran dry and crashed.

She handled it with grace. I couldn’t. I needed security and stability.  I have always been the dependable one. Anaïs the steady. I have the biggest job of us all, get paid the most, but talk the least. I am usually just there, smiling, about one drink behind everyone else.

But we are four beautiful women sitting at a bar, so we always get attention. There is always another free drink.

And mischief.

It’s usually Lisa that gets the attention, Alie that gets the free drink, and Michell that gets the mischief. I usually get a good night’s sleep.

Tonight, however, felt different. It was the first time we had all been together since my divorce. No divorce is clean, and no divorce is amicable. But I had opted for simplicity over hostility and paid the price. At least financially. My ex had always been more of a ‘worker of last resort’ versus an ambitious go-getter. At first, I had thought this was fine. After all, I wrongly reasoned, if we were both alpha, type-A types professionally, it would create conflict. Little did I know that being married to a lazy lump of a man who preferred gaming to intimacy and entertained visions of building the next great app without any of the actual skills would also create marital conflict.

The end had not been fast, but it was inevitable. The divorce, however, was speedy: six weeks from me throwing him out of our little house in Eastmoreland, followed by his clothes and X-Box, to arriving at our lawyer’s office to sign the final documents. I had dressed for the divorce, as well. I knew what my ex liked and what he complained that I never gave him. I remember easing on the tall, black leather boot, the short skirt that ended just below mid-thigh, and, of course, no panties. He always wanted me to go commando, but I am a visual person, and I felt sexy wearing well-appointed and matching panties and bras.

But this day was not about him or even me. It was about freedom. Freedom from him and his serial cheating. Freedom from the endless lies and constant judgment. And disappointment.

Okay, maybe the disappointment was mine, but he had earned it.

I arrived at the mediator’s office early. I wanted the high ground. I enjoyed the placement’s strength. When Kevin walked him, I made sure he got a full-leg view. And when I saw his face, I knew I had won the day.

We signed the papers, and we said goodbye. We had no kids, no future, and really no reason to ever speak again. I could feel him watching me as I walked away. I pulled up my skirt so that he could see my bare ass; I raised my middle finger over my shoulder and walked away.

Freedom. It felt amazing. And then, when I got to the car, I cried.  I am not sure if it was for the promise of him that had been broken or for the loss of the dream of a fairy tale.  I promised myself it would be the last time I cried about Kevin and my marriage.

Still, the look on his face must have been classic. I thought it was probably the best’ fuck you’ that I could imagine. I was smiling about the moment when Lisa broke my revelries.

“Come on, Anaïs. Just let go! No one will judge you. No one even cares.”

“Why on Earth would I want to sleep with someone in marketing?” I answered. “They’d probably make me sit through an hour-long PowerPoint of their greatest hits first and then run an ROI calculation afterward on whether or not I was good enough in bed for a second shot.”

“Let’s not forget the ‘A-B split’ to compare you to their last fuck,” said Michelle.

“True,” said Alie, “you do need a baseline and metrics.”

As we laughed, I looked up, and my heart actually stopped for a quick second. I could make all the jokes in the world about how narcissistic and plan-based marketing people are, but whenever I see Thomas Kincaid, I just get flushed.

 And I tingle. Everywhere.

Thomas was not the ideal male specimen. But I think he is hot. He’s tall and fair, always well-dressed. And in an age when men think khakis are dressy, a man in a well-fitted suit is a rarity. And sexy as hell.

He’s not a loud oaf of a man, either. I never heard his voice above the others, and I never heard him boasting about his conquests, professional or otherwise, which I always liked. He always seemed to have a quiet passion.

And I found it incredibly alluring. And hot.

He was also brilliant and very successful. He ran his own agency focused on life sciences, whatever the hell that means. Something not quite medical or pharmaceutical, but very lucrative.

As the girls went on about my need to get laid, I watched Thomas as he strolled around the room. I surveyed him and did my customary elevator glance; his trademark suit and fabulous shoes still held.

Thank god for small consistencies.

Thomas and I had flirted over the years. Safely and from afar. We were both married, and while that would not stop Alie or Michelle, I never just wanted a one-night stand. And while my ex-husband did not appear to maintain the same ethical code, I didn’t want to cheat on my husband.

 So I looked at Thomas for the first time as a single woman.

Another round magically appeared, and we laughed at the never-ending capacity of horny men to hope. Most likely, at least one man in the bar would get some attention from Alie, and one man would find himself shoved out of Michelle’s room by about 3:15.

As we drank, talked, and laughed, I kept looking up at the bar. Thomas stood overlooking the ocean through the big round window. His eyes and mine never seemed to meet. I would look up, and he would be talking with someone or standing with his back to me.

I found myself looking so often in a desperate, high school hope of catching him looking at me.

As I looked up the last time, as I was finishing what I had stated was my last and final drink, his head turned, and we caught each other’s eyes. He smiled in a way that nearly melted my heart. He turned to his companion and excused himself.

He walked over to the table without even noticing the other girls.

“Anaïs,” he said, opening up his arms and offering a hug. “You look beautiful.” I glanced down at myself and smiled that he was right. I wore a little black sleeveless dress with a plunging neckline that was neither too indiscreet nor too revealing, sensually showing my small but natural gifts. The dress came just above the mid-thigh and just below the top of the black stockings, making my legs feel like heaven.

We embraced, and for the first time, I held on for just a second longer than usual; his suit was soft and slim-fitting, and I enjoyed the feel against my hands. I was amazed that we seemed to hug so well. He was tall and fit nicely against my 5’7″ frame. As he wrapped his arms around me, I could feel his hand brush and then gently tug against my chin-length, chestnut hair.

It was a new exhilaration.

“Thomas, you remember the ladies,” I said, waving my hand to my girlfriends. “Why don’t you come and join us?”

“Absolutely,” said Lisa, “and we are just now in need of another round,” to which Thomas smiled and made a circular motion with his index finger to the server. In a few minutes, another round of four Martinis and a Manhattan arrived at the table. We made idle chit-chat about the industry, about who lost accounts, who fucked to get accounts, and how all the newbies always seemed so young and so entitled.

I sat next to Thomas. My stockinged legs were so close to his. With each passing moment, I dared myself to ease my knee to the right, just to brush his leg and gauge his response. My hesitancy about touching a married man outweighed my insane desire to feel him against me.

He lifted his drink, and I stared at his left hand. No ring. Not even the slightest remnant of a tan line to show it was a recent removal.

So either he had stopped wearing it, or he was no longer married. If it were the former, then maybe it wouldn’t be cheating because he was obviously unhappy? And if it were the latter, well, then it wouldn’t be cheating at all, right? I stared at his hand and then down at my own naked finger. I couldn’t quite explain the emotion. There was no regret in not seeing a ring on his hand or mine; No sorrow for what probably was a similarly painful year for him, as it had been for me.

I was fiercely debating with myself about what I felt when I realized it was anticipation; the naked skin above my stockings warmed, and I could feel a fire in me.

I eased my knee, and I felt his leg stay steady against me. I pushed a little harder and then rubbed, very gently, against him.

No response.

I quickly calculated the possibilities in my head. Was he unaware that it was my knee rubbing against his leg? Was he just being nice and pretending not to notice? Was I offending him?

Christ, my brain screamed, what the hell are you doing, Anaïs?

I could not hear the conversation, but I could see the mouths moving as I ran through every possibility: from ruining a perfectly good, albeit occasional, friendship, to having everyone know that I threw myself at Thomas only to be shut down, to being ridiculed by my peers.

I noticed that I had not yet moved my leg when Thomas put down his glass, then eased his hand under the table and grabbed my thigh. His pinky and ring finger were resting against my skirt, and his middle and index finger made short, deliberate strokes against my stockings. His eyes were still straightforward, and his demeanor had not changed. I came to my senses and heard his voice, and it was still calm and assured.

I was neither.

I also became acutely aware of my underwear; they felt slightly uncomfortable and restricting. And for the life of me, I could not remember what I wore. Where are the white boy shorts? Black thong? I had brought both, but had no memory of which one I had chosen that night.

His fingers, meanwhile, were getting more curious. His ring finger was stroking my leg, and it was getting precariously close to the edge of my stockings. My skin was burning as I placed my hand on his. His hands stopped, almost instinctively, and with such a start that I was afraid that I had startled him or conveyed displeasure. I squeezed my fingers in between his and held them there for a long second. Then I eased my legs apart and guided his hand above my stocking.

A gentleman to the last, he avoided teasing me too much. Other than an occasional and furtive caress of my panties with his lone pinky, he stroked my naked thigh with his fingertips and kept a steady rhythm of conversation at the table.

After a few interminable minutes of sweet torture, I excused myself from the table. I straightened my dress as I stood; my legs felt like jelly encased in soft silk, and I thought for sure that everyone at the table knew that I was dripping wet with desire.

I walked away slowly, hoping he was watching. Actually, at that moment, maybe for the first time in my life, I hoped that everyone was watching.

I stood by the bathroom door and prayed that Thomas had gotten my meaning. I had squeezed his hand twice before I stood up. It was a code. Two quick tugs: ‘Meet me’. But a code only works if the other person understands it.

Thankfully, he did.

He strode quite confidently to me and tried to reach in for a kiss. I brushed his lips away with my cheek but held his arm. As strongly as I could whisper, I told him to meet me at the elevator in 5 minutes.

I walked back to the table and smiled at my companions. “Anaïs out,” I said.

Come on, they said, just as they always said when I would peel out before they had hit their stride. This was my MO, so no one noticed, and truly, no one cared. I glanced back over my shoulder as I walked out of the bar and saw that they were all engaged in laughing conversation.

I stayed at the corner of the bar and watched as Thomas returned to the table. He sat and called for the check. Both Alie and Michelle tried to get Thomas to stay. I was so happy to see him brush them off.

He was good. He concluded the conversation, paid the bill, and moved away from the table with confidence. He came around the corner of the bar. I stepped in front of him and walked briskly towards the elevator.

We arrived at the elevator only a few seconds apart. Still silent. My heart dropped as a group of others arrived at the elevator. I had wanted to steal my first kiss as the elevator made its short trip from floor 3 to 2.

The doors opened. Thomas and I moved to the back, and I called out my floor. As the press of people pushed us back, I smiled and took Thomas’s hand. I could see a smile ease across his face. I took his hand and guided it slowly to the back of my dress. His hand went firmly to my ass and gently caressed it over my dress. I could feel all of his fingers linger and press against me, and my head began to swim. I could feel his hand slowly begin to ease the fabric up, and his finger began to press against me through the slit of the dress. As I felt his hand against my now obviously bared ass, I was reassured that I had worn the black thong that matches my bra.

I was thankful for what must be good planning on my part.

His fingers clasped my ass, and his fingertips eased down the soft fabric of my thong, and I could feel a flutter in my heart, and I wanted more and nearly sighed out loud.

The doors opened, and Thomas pushed my dress back down over my ass. We walked out, and I waited until the doors shut behind us before I turned to him and smiled. I felt like I had said a word to him in hours. It had all been tough. And I grabbed him and pulled him to me and kissed him passionately. Our lips met, and I held them there for a second before I opened my mouth to him. His tongue was sweet and kind as it touched my lips first and then searched out my tongue so that we could truly, sensually connect.

Soft kisses were quickly replaced by an unstrained passion for each other’s taste. His hands were easing down my back and tugging at my dress as we fumbled down the hallway to room 2012.

No sooner than I had opened the door, he pushed me against the wall and kissed me with an intensity that I thought I had lost many years before. My hands were pulling at his buttons, and his hands were pulling up my dress. I could feel how much he wanted me as he pressed against me. I could feel the power of his desire, and I felt the passion of my acceptance.

In my mind, deep within a recess that I closed off in my twenties when I surrendered to Kevin and marriage and a life of mediocrity, I felt power. I felt a rising sense of my own sensual and sexual intensity.

And it raged inside me.

I stopped kissing him and pushed him away. He looked up at me with a combination of desire and concern. Had he gone too fast? Too far? I could see the emotion etched across his eyes, and I enjoyed the power of my presence.

I pushed him down the short hallway and onto the bed. I stood in front of him. I turned on the light. His elbows were back against the bed, his legs dangling over the sides. I stood in front of him with my dress pulled up to my waist. I could see his hard outline pressing against his suit pants. And I saw the absolute desire in his eyes, and I knew in that instant that I could have whatever I wanted; and that whatever I asked for, he would give it to me. Gladly.

“Strip for me,” I told him. I turned from him and walked across the room and sat in the chair.

 He stood and slowly started to undress. He was awkward at first, unsure of how to do this. Uncertain of the power coming from me. I think we both were. But I was alive for the first time in years.

His shirt off, he slowly undid his pants. They fell to the ground, and I could see him through his tight boxers. He wanted to ease down his shorts when I told him to stop. “Take off your socks first,” I said.

He blushed, and I laughed a bit at the spectacle of the colorful, striped socks clinging to his lower legs. He pulled them down and threw them across the room. Then, standing there in just his tight boxers, I stared at him and smiled. I brought my forefinger to my lips and slowly parted them while he watched me ease my legs apart.

“Please me,” I said in a voice that I did not recognize.

He slowly approached me and touched my face with his finger. He got down on his knees in front of me and eased down between my legs. His kisses started on my inner thigh. He softly traced the edge of the top of my panties up, over my hip, and then back down again. I could feel his breath against my wet panties as he eased them to the side. His tongue made circling motions as he moved closer to my waiting body.

He pulled my hips closer to him so that I was reclining with my head tilted to see his work. My panties still on, he traced my wet lips and then pushed his tongue wide so that I parted and he could taste me fully and completely.

As he eased further down, his tongue narrowed until it was just the tip that teased the base of my pussy. As his tongue continued down, my back tensed, but I let it go. He moved below my pussy, and the very strong tip of his tongue touched my ass and flicked it with an expertise that astounded me.

Remaining in control, but only just, he moved back up and tasted me and used his tongue to bring me to the edge of a pleasure that I had long ago forgotten. The tip of his tongue on my clit as he eased a finger into me finally brought me to a roaring orgasm that screamed in ecstasy.

I stood up. He was on his knees, staring up at me. I stroked his face gently, and then I took his hand. I eased him out of his shorts and took his long shaft in my hand. I looked at him deeply in his eyes as my hands glided up and down, grasping and then releasing, teasing, and adoring him.

I pushed him down on the bed and looked at this beautiful, sensual man. This gorgeous man and I were wild with an intense desire for each other.

I eased off my bra, and my b-cupped breasts were released to his view. His smile told me he was pleased. I eased my panties off and moved towards him.

I leaned down over his body. Softly, I took him in my mouth just to feel his passion. I could see in his eyes how much he wanted this. But tonight was about me, and while I wanted his cock, I did not want it in my mouth. I took him out of my mouth and stroked him for a moment before I eased my body onto him.

My body took him eagerly. He eased deeply into me, and we started to rock our bodies together. Almost instantly, we were building a rhythm of mutual passion. His hands were caressing my breasts as he eased my nipple into his mouth. Using his tongue and lip, he tugged and aroused my nipples until I came again, riding him.

His hands moved up to my neck and pulled me down to him. Our lips met again, and as I rocked my body against his, our breath was shared between our open mouths.

He grasped my hair and gently pulled, and another deep desire was unleashed. I pulled against his grasp and felt the power of his hands on me, and I came again.

Pulling me close, he whispered how beautiful I am in a hurried, hushed tone. His breath was so light and paced that I could sense his impending explosion into me. His words touched me, and as he pushed deeper into me in a frantic, final motion.

We came together and then crumpled into the sheets of the bed. And into each other’s arms. Silently we laid next to each other. I was listening to his breath and watching his chest rise and fall with deep breaths. I traced my fingers over his chest, teasing his minimal chest hair as he spoke.

He lowered his hand to my head and gently ran his finger through my hair, and I sighed heavily and contentedly.

God, I said to myself, I hope he is not married.