I can’t wait for our “proper” date tomorrow! I’m really looking forward to it.
Thanks again for everything. I would have called or texted, but I figured (hoped?) you might be asleep by now.
Sweet dreams!
G.
Gracie
I have never been on a date like this before.
When Colin picks me up, he’s wearing a sport jacket over a shirt and tie. His slacks have been pressed and his shoes are shined. He hands me a bouquet of flowers at my door. They are thick and lush, with colors so vibrant they almost look fake.
The only time Scotteverdressed up with me was for his grandma’s funeral. And even at that, he looked all rumpled, like that was his one “funeral outfit” and it hadn’t been washed, or even hung properly, since that last time someone in his family died. There were flowers that day too, but they weren’t from Scott, and they weren’t for me. They were for the shriveled old lady in the open casket whose depressing condition made Scott feel it was necessary to go smoke a joint in the parking lot with his cousins, laughing at a wildly inappropriate decibel while the corpse inside continued to slowly rot away.
May she rest in peace.
By contrast, Colin’s had his car washed and waxed (as if it wasn’t already clean when I rode in it yesterday) and he holds my hand across the center console while we drive through the Battery Tunnel into Manhattan. When the sun gets in my eyes, he offers me the Ray-Ban sunglasses in his glove compartment to keep me from squinting.
We arrive at The Secret Garden Conservatory—one of the hottest restaurants in Midtown—for our reservation at 4:45. It’s breathtaking; it feels like dining in a tropical rainforest minus the humidity. Our table for two is dressed in crisp white linens with fan-shaped cloth napkins and enough cutlery set out for four people to dine comfortably without ever running out of forks.
We order our meals: Chilean sea bass with fingerling potatoes and sauteed asparagus for him and bacon-wrapped filet mignon in bordelaise sauce for me. The steak melts on my tongue like butter; I have never tasted bacon so perfectly smoked. We get drinks: a whiskey sour and a seven and seven. We make funny small talk over a fresh bread basket and our shared crab cake appetizer. He compliments my outfit, my hair, and my sense of humor, holds doors for me, and wraps his sport coat around my shoulders when I get cold in the theater later on. We sit in the second row, close enough to see the sheen of sweat forming on the actors’ foreheads. The singing gives me chills that rival the tingling sensation that runs up my arm when Colin squeezes my hand. He laughs at all the right times, at just the right volume, and other girls look at me with jealousy when he comes back from a trip to the bathroom at intermission with a drink for me in a keepsake glass.No one mourns the wicked, it reads, with a picture of Elphaba’s pointy witch hat etched into the crystal. “It’s perfect,” I say, and I mean it. It subtly references Scott and Elle and celebrates new beginnings. I will keep it always as a souvenir of the first “proper date” I’ve ever been on in my whole life.
He drives me home, and I invite him upstairs. This time, he says yes.
I make him say yes over and over again that night.
Colin
It is the best sex I have ever had in my entire life.
She’s sensual and generous, and she looks at me as if she reallyseesme, right through the skin and into my soul.
The first time is electric, magnetizing. I cannot have her fast enough. I will myself to slow down, but Gracie pulls me into her with a heat that is irresistible. I’ve been wanted by girls before, but something about her touch lights me up in a way that I’ve never felt before. She grips my back with her fingers, she whispers my name into the darkness. Sheneedsme, and it is my undoing.
Her body is unbelievable, with skin as soft as falling snow and curves that seem endless. My hands ache to memorize every inch of her. She is not tiny or weak. I am not afraid to crush her under my weight. She is like a perfect painting, a piece of art. She is a woman in every sense of the word.
When it ends, we lie in bed together, panting and sweaty, and her face is so beautiful it almost pains me to look at it. She doesn’t make any jokes. She runs her fingers through my hair and rests her head on my chest. My heart pounds into her eardrum.
Gracie waits silently, and I watch her chest rise and fall with each breath she takes. Neither one of us can speak. Finally, she rolls onto her side and wordlessly begins to have her way with me again.
Three times.
Gracie
The smoky scent of pan-fried Canadian bacon mixes with thearoma of hot coffee to coax my eyes open. I roll onto my side and survey the scene: the sheets are wrinkled, the pillow is unfluffed, and on the nightstand, there’s a note.
Breakfast will be ready shortly,it reads.Stay put and I will bring it to you.There is a heart drawn next to the wordyou.
I stretch my arms up over my head and close my eyes, calling to mind images from last night. Those lips, baby soft and sweet but firm and assertive when necessary. Those eyes, warm and inviting, appreciative yet seeking affirmation. Those strong, talented hands. Mmm.
Colin Yarmouth is here in my house, cooking me breakfast after making love to me four times last night.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” he says quietly, padding into the room holding a mug of steamy coffee. “Light and sweet, right?” he asks, handing it to me.
I smile and open my eyes. “Mm hmm,” I say. “Good morning.” I gratefully accept the mug from him and take a sip.
“Figured you might need this after that workout last night,” he says, smirking.
