One More Year: The Romantic Path of Ana Lee (The Path Less Taken Series Book 1)

by SJ Cavaletti

  So going away with Carlos was going to cost me cash. Some may think I was irresponsible with my money. This, I would have to admit, was potentially true. Before having a group of friends, I would actually go to the poshest restaurants on my own and of course I needed something nice to wear there. Like many young women I used retail therapy. But I also still owed Columbia a bit of money. What? You didn’t think I could actually finish a math degree at an Ivy League and earn tuition, housing and food in one of the world’s most expensive cities, did you? No, I still had about ten grand left on that bill. I had hardly paid any off in my first year of San Francisco after all.

  Although life had taken a turn since dancing again, my first years in San Francisco were meager. They were a glimpse into a life I had never before led. Having come from a well to do family, apart from my year in New York City where I hardly took a breath between dancing and school work, I never wanted for anything physical. My Dad was a tyrant, sure, but he was also about image and so from about fourteen years old I had a credit card with a $500 limit that I was allowed to spend on (approved) items. It was very daunting to suddenly be on my own when I dumped my Dad; I realized how spoiled I was not having to worry about money. After my turbulent last year at Columbia, having decided to move to San Francisco, I packed away a tiny nest egg from dancing which after graduation allowed me to move everything from my studio apartment in NYC to a room in a flat I shared in the Mission. There wasn’t much left over from that egg when I arrived. While at Merrill Lynch, I crept into credit card debt because even that dark, dank room cost me $1000 a month. And although Sean Connery was a generous man, most of his employees didn’t actually live in the city. It took me a while to crawl out of that year’s debt, continue to pay minimums on my student loan and pay for something resembling a life in San Francisco.

  A few years later I was back on track but had developed a complex: I feared running out of cash like most of my fellow dancers did not. They seemed comfortable living on the edge but for me, jumping off of that cliff meant landing back in the arms of my father. And to be honest, I now believed that he would no longer catch me. The thought of that made my body melt with sadness. It wasn’t not having a financial safety net but rather the fact that it meant the only demonstration of love my father ever gave me was now gone as well. I never wanted to fall into that abyss.

  The mind of a mathematician usually ends up calculating to ensure logical decision-making. 5 o’ clock AM was not really a great time to be doing any logic based thinking but this formula was simple.

  -I usually worked 3 days per week.

  -I made no less than $600 per night (most often more but my budgets were based on the worst case scenario)

  -My expenses and partying allowed me to put away $200 per week

  I currently had only $200 in savings… I hadn’t been on vacation but had lent Jamie some money. And I couldn’t ask for it back. Ever.

  So Carlos wanted to sweep me off my feet. Common sense told me I wouldn’t pay for plane tickets and peanuts but I would also lose at least $1800 in income. Rent was due in only a couple weeks time. That was a big decision. I would have to make more than my minimum to pay it. Or not go out at all for a couple weeks. After years of being alone and not wanting to go back, that idea actually filled me with “fear of missing out” dread.

  I took some Bachs Calms Forte and finally drifted off to sleep. I’d solve the problem of how to explain this to the people around me tomorrow. There was no saying “no” to Carlos.

  Vincent

  It was the weekend when I woke up. Most strippers took off on Mondays or Tuesdays when the Club was drier but when I had first set my shifts in San Francisco, I was still hopeful to meet some ‘normal’ people with whom I could be friends. I figured these nine to fivers who walked the streets and not the gutters might rather be the types to go out on the weekends and therefore, it would be good to have Fridays and Saturdays off. I never really met any of these ‘normal’ people in the end. In San Francisco, everyone is a bit weird. One of the many reasons I loved it. It made me feel so much better about my fucked up life. In any case, I left the weekends free.

  Fortunately for me, some of my friends also had their reasons for having the same days off. Angelo helped his Mom on weekends. She was a beautiful, raven-haired Mexican woman in her 70s whose eyesight had begun to fail her due to MS. Angelo was a firm believer in all things natural. He truly trusted that the earth had answers for all ailments and he was still searching for the magic powder that would cure his mother. Every weekend he would try something new or old, some so called Superfood that would ease the pace of his beloved Mamacita’s disease. Mostly, I saw his endless doting and precise instructions for her weekday carers as a beautiful gesture of devotion. But sometimes, she just really wanted albondigas soup.

  Jamie didn’t work weekends because she couldn’t handle it. Her anxiety would have eaten her alive. She couldn’t be around big crowds of people without a load of whiffy or some mind-altering drug so her weekdays at work were what she called ‘detox days.’ That was a delusion. Sure, she didn’t usually snort but she still drank like a fish. It wasn’t for me to question seeing as I was in a similar boat and definitely used alcohol to ease my own anxieties every work night. Jamie functioned, and was happy, apart from that fact that she was looking for love. She wanted out of the business and figured the nice guys wouldn’t go out on weeknights.. She was playing Dorothy waiting for the tornado to stop and some wizard to send her off in a utopian hot air balloon.

  Angelica had a boyfriend named Jake, so she left weekends open for him. He was a web designer and kept to a strict 9-5 schedule, which was actually quite unusual for the self-employed techie. I guess SF was one of those places you could do that. So Angelica spent her weekends with this “boyfriend, or shall I say her friend that was a boy? Somewhere in the future Luke would come out of the closet; I was convinced. Apart from some mannerisms and my own intuition there was one other thing that made me feel he wasn’t interested in her ‘that way.’ He had never once asked her to stop dancing. For now, they lived together in Sonoma but more often than not they would come to the city to party with the gang and sometimes they would host wine tasting weekends in the Valley. Before you get an idea that she was part of some conventional relationship, I will also add that they were in an open relationship. The only one that I knew of being ‘open’ was Angelica though. She had made her fair share of moves on me and was always up for rumpy pumpy- another sign that she may not have been getting any at home.

  So it was Saturday. There were so many great places to drink and make merry in San Francisco. Swanky places, dirty places, tranny places, preppy places… On this particular night we ended up in the Marina. Our group generally avoided the bars there because there were too many white collared, hot to trot entitled men about. It felt a little bit like work. But on this night, we all agreed we would follow Jamie to Matrix as she had met a dude she liked and we were eager to see what he was all about.

  Jamie was one of those gals that thought opposites attract. She always went for men that were dark haired, dark eyed and non-Caucasian. She once professed to me that when she masturbated she thought about black gang bangs. But in real life, she never descended south of the Red Sea; the Middle East being as exotic and dark as her family down South could cope with.

  We were a relatively large group that night: Angelo, Jamie, Angelica, Jake and another girl from the club named Jessie. The guy Jamie liked turned up with several of his mates and all of them were of Iranian descent, very well heeled and fun natured. They bought a few bottles to start the party (and to flash cash, of course) and we were all well on our way.

  I stuck by Angelo after we downed a few shots with the group. Angelo had become my pseudo-boyfriend when out and about. Especially in places like Matrix. I wasn’t a fan of talking to men in bars and he wasn’t a fan of being labelled gay. Angelo was out and proud, don’t get me wrong. He just hated labels. Firstly, he was bi-sexual accor
ding to him. And truthfully, unlike most gay men I knew, where being bisexual seemed like a stepping stone, I know he had been with women a lot… though mostly in threesomes that also included men. A year before I met him he was in an actual three-way relationship with a guy and a girl. It only takes an open mind and living in San Francisco to know that LGBTQ etc. hardly begins to express the thriving rainbow of sexual orientations and preferences.

  A familiar tune belted out of the speakers.

  “Oh this is the SONG…” Angelo said and he pulled me to the edge of the dance floor. He knew I couldn’t go any farther than that and to be fair, he didn’t like being the center of attention any more than I.

  He loved a bit of pop music, which was something we had in common. I didn’t care if it was mainstream (something that in San Francisco was uncool to admit to liking), and neither did Angelo. We gyrated our bodies to Justin Timberlake like it was our last song of the night. I wrapped my arm around his neck and slithered like a snake over his chest. Angelo grabbed me at the nape and puffed out his lips as though he would kiss me. It always felt good for me to have physical contact with Angelo. We often touched each other with carnal instincts when dancing. It was a unique joy very few people experience: an opportunity to be sexual in an innocent way. There were no expectations of nudity, sucking or fucking. Just infinite foreplay. Yes, please gimme some more. The confidence that Angelo brought out in people was addictive.

  Slide, slink, glide… A tap on my shoulder made the record scratch. Interruption.

  I saw a smile come on Angelo’s face looking at the person behind me and when I turned around I saw Vincent. Crap.

  Normally, I’d be happy to see Vin, too. But not tonight. It added a layer of complication to things that I wasn’t keen to attack. You see, Vincent was my fuck buddy.

  Vin was the manager at my last club where I had also met Angelo for the first time. I hadn’t liked Vincent back then. He seemed a bit pompous and power trippy. Unlike other managers who sat back unless needed, he was omnipresent and always watching the floor like a hawk. Vincent also had brought in customers from time to time and then cherry picked girls to sit with them. They were men he thought could give him business in his other professional endeavor which seemed to be some sort of penny stock trading.

  But, he was mega hot. Tall and muscular with smooth, Puerto Rican skin and jet black hair, it was all illuminated by light grey eyes. He reminded me of a wolf. His lips were puffy and juicy. His smile, which he rarely used, was slightly gap toothed, offering his otherwise fierce face an approachable warmth. He was tall, broad chested and physically he was my cup of tea. I couldn’t help but look at him when he paced the perimeter of the club. As I had watched him from the sidelines, I came to a slow realization that he was probably the perfect friend with benefits. He had recently broken up with one girl in that club and another one was fighting to win him back (by the way he was the ONLY manager I ever had that actually dated dancers from his club). He had had girl troubles up to his ears but was to all intents and purposes single. The fact that he dated girls from the club demonstrated his lack of control; he’d be happy to have a tryst and keep it quiet.

  I found myself fantasizing about coming on to him. Those illusions got stronger and stronger. The next thing I knew I was masturbating over the guy so one day I decided I had nothing to lose. We sat at his desk, in his office, filling out a Request for Leave form. I just went for it in a way I had never done before. He watched me fill in the form. I was in my uniform- a bikini and sheer little skirt. My stomach tanned from brown lotions and my makeup fresh and flirty. I finished signing the form and looked at him coyly. His right eyebrow flinched, alert and sensing something was up.

  I handed him the form, “You know, Vincent, I never noticed your eyes out on the dark floor before. They’re nice.” Lie. Total lie. I wanted the man.

  The line came out like the bait of a fly fisherman. If the fish took it, great. If not I could elegantly pull back. I gauged his reaction to see if I should go further. He responded well, lifted both eyebrows and widened his eyes. Then he smiled, a gentle closed mouth smile. He pursed his lips. We both stood up and he came around the desk to my side.

  “Thanks,” he said, “It takes one to know one. I’m a sucker for blue eyes like yours.”

  “But it’s your lips that really do it,” I replied, “Any girl would die for those.”

  “Would they?” he asked, this time moving closer and knowing full well what I was up to.

  “They would…” in my seven inch heels I was just the right height to lean in and pin him.

  This interaction was only the first time I had ever made the first move with a man outside of a professional experience. I was very impressed with the way it was going but then again, the double shot of Patron I had had before would have given anyone the courage. It was a surprisingly tender kiss considering I had nothing but lust for the man. It lasted for longer than I would have expected, a whole minute or so, which is actually a very long time to share a kiss if you’ve ever timed it. We broke it up mutually, seeming to sense the potential for danger in unison.

  I backed up and looked at him with doe eyes. He smiled softly and flared his nostril ever so slightly. It was something he did often and involuntarily. I loved it. Like a bull.

  “Why don’t I pick you up tomorrow night at 9pm,” he asked, “I know where you live. All you have to do is say yes.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  Then I turned to leave but he grabbed my arm and spun me back around. He smoothed my hair and gently drew lines with his thumbs around my lips, fixing my smudged lips. This guy was an expert.

  The next night I did three shots of vodka and waited on the curb with my favourite jeans and a skimpy but unassuming tank top. I didn’t have to try too hard but I was still really nervous. After having a bit more time to think, I had realized that I hadn’t chosen too wisely with Vincent. Mixing in the club could lead to complications but I concluded that he couldn’t cope with any more than the love triangle he was already in. This secrecy was exactly what I needed and the alcohol etched a bit of trust into me.

  Vincent pulled up with the roar of his motorcycle. He took off his helmet and handed it to me. The rebel gentleman. The wind on my face woke me up and the dewy air moistened my cheeks. I closed my eyes behind him, and in my blind lust his body felt rock hard. I held back a giggle as I began to understand what might drive a nymphomaniac. Knowing a one night stand would transpire before the point of insertion was a real thrill.

  He took me to a dive bar in SoMA that his friend managed. It was extremely dark inside, possibly to cover how tatty and bare it was. It was small with about five red vinyl booths and a jukebox and seemed to have been decorated to please the rockabillies when they were at their height of fame in SF. The booths surrounded an oblong bar that had bar stools all around it. We joined three other customers in front of the bartender.

  We were already drunk on sexual desire (and me, vodka) so when the tequila slid down it stripped us. I already felt naked and ready to touch him. Vincent was manly, oozing testosterone but also had this warmth and emotion to him that I hadn’t expected. That night, and every night to follow, Vincent never skimped on foreplay. It was he who made me realize that if lust was a fire, foreplay was like fanning air. It made the flames rise higher. Vincent went to the jukebox and put on “Let’s Play House” an Elvis Presley song. He pulled me close and we moved together only momentarily before he picked me up swiftly and strongly and somehow threw me up on the bar with my feet planted on the polished wooden surface. He looked up at me and shouted, loudly enough for everyone to look at me, “Dance for me!”

  I went for it but wondered if people were staring. Vincent’s face implored me with such wild innocence that I started to let go. I felt the music, allowing the alcohol to move my hips and shoulders and simply everything. Vincent was going wild, imitating a fanatic Presley fan and in his mania, grabbed a bottle of spirits from behind the bar, poured it along
the edge and before I knew it, his friend lit a fire at my feet. I felt so reckless. And it felt euphoric. It was a moment of drunken freedom that I’ll remember forever.

  My moment didn’t last long though. My chivalrous and slightly more sober play pal snatched me from the side of the fire fence, placed me on the ground and hugged me tight. He kissed my forehead affectionately.

  “Let’s get something to drink and go back to mine,” he said.

  “Of course, you read my mind,” I replied.

  We hopped on his bike and I couldn’t keep my hands off him. I ran my hands up and down his thighs with the occasional bite of his huge dick. It wasn’t even hard really and it felt like it belonged to a giant. I grabbed his pecs and his rock hard body the whole way there. Sucking in his Dolce and Gabbana scent like it was oxygen on Mars. We pulled into the parking lot of a stop and shop and by the time the automatic doors opened we were kissing riotously, thankfully few people shopped at 11pm. It felt impossible to make it to the spirits aisle and in a moment of extreme horny haste, we nipped behind the empty deli counter. Kissing riotously, his hands tickled up my shirt and he grabbed my breast, then ran his hand inside my skin tight bra. I thought it would rip off. The next thing I knew, my jeans were down, too, and he slipped it in. I was right, he was huge.

  It didn’t take long before we realized there were probably security cameras. I quickly pulled up my jeans, he stuffed it back in and we burst out in laughter, giggling all the way to the checkout counter with our bottle of Jim Beam.

  We stayed up all night fucking, recovering with a chat and fucking again. The cycle could have been endless if the sun hadn’t come up.