Pearls for Jimmy
An Adult Short Story
By
Maureen Gill
Copyright © 2013 by Maureen Gill
Published by Schiller Publishing and Moon Sister Press
Cover design by DigitalDonna.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are strictly the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, or any restaurants, businesses, business owners, or specific locales are purely coincidental.
Digital book(s) (epub and mobi) produced by Booknook.biz.
Contents
An Adult Short Story
I know you: You’re a middle-aged woman and terrified.
You’re terrified your beauty and sex appeal are fading fast, even though you know you’re really better in every way than you were decades ago – but at your age that story is hard to sell, both to yourself and others.
Yes, I completely understand: No one believes women our age feel like we feel or, more specifically, desire sex like we desire sex. Our society has everyone convinced sex is for people under thirty; we’re told it’s definitely completely over for women over forty.
Most of all, no one believes in romantic love anymore, not even you. Yeah, I know: it’s hard to believe love is possible when you’re a middle-aged woman whose heart has been torn from her chest and trampled to death.
What? Oh, no: you misunderstand. I don’t give advice. I commiserate… No, really, I can’t do that; I don’t give advice.
As I already said, I just commiserate.
Alright, alright… maybe just this once, just for you.
Hmmm… where to start? Well, first of all, I’d like to suggest that you always believe in magic.
Yes: I said magic. No, don’t practice it; just believe in it – be open to it.
Secondly, always believe in lightning.
No, not lighting… I said lightning. Don’t take it for granted, OK? And don’t ever believe it doesn’t strike twice.
Finally, you might want to seriously think about wearing pearls.
Yes: I said pearls.
You’re looking very confused. Magic, lightning, pearls?
OK, look: let’s do this… it’ll probably be a helluva lot easier for both of us if I just told you about what happened to me…
~ ~ ~
I was one of five middle-aged women meeting at one of the many great restaurants in Chicago’s Greektown. We arrived pumped and ready for fun. It had been a long time since we’d gotten together and we told Jimmy, the owner, we were old high school friends, it was a Special Girl’s Night Out, and we didn’t want to be rushed.
“Is that possible?” we asked in unison, each doing our own version of the “Madonna-whore we could be your little sister but we’re sure as hell not so it’s OK for you to think about fucking us” look that only an experienced – shall we say mature? – woman can effectively lay on a man and which always knocks the poor bastard dead.
Doreen leaned over the dais-pulpit-like-thing that usually stands sentinel at the front door of places like Jimmy’s and placed a beautifully manicured hand over his much larger man-hand. Sue, Therese, Gail and I watched in amusement as Doreen let her generous breasts brush against his arm while talking him up with the chummy familiarity she does so well.
Doreen is truly beautiful and she is also stacked so it was no surprise when Jimmy happily bent down sideways to offer her his ear – as if to say whatever she was babbling about was the most damn fascinating thing he had ever heard.
Doreen moved in even closer, purring so close to his ear she could have easily slipped her tongue inside and given it a whirl. “Honey,” she cooed with just the right amount of breath sounds, “my friends and I haven’t seen each other for years and we want to have a special night out and not be rushed. Would you please put us somewhere special, sort of where we could be out of the way and by ourselves…please, honey…”
Jimmy had the air of a well experienced man who loves women and was obviously getting a major kick out of Doreen’s brazen attention but he wasn’t going to slobber over her. I knew you could flirt with this guy but couldn’t play him and my guess was he’d graciously accommodate us even if Doreen didn’t vamp him. But what would be the fun in that, right?
Jimmy moved slightly away from Doreen and scanned us as a group. Then he did something I’ve never seen any man do before or since – the guy took a really deep breath and actually sniffed the air.
That’s right: Jimmy sniffed the air.
It wasn’t like an animal on a scent; it wasn’t predatory or feral.
It was appreciative.
I watched, fascinated, as he inhaled the commingled scent of our perfumes, lotions, and shampoos. He sampled us as a connoisseur would sample fine wines. He inhaled our singular and collective bouquets through his nostrils and mouth and our aromas played across his palate and danced across his tongue. He separated us individually, determining who was woodsy, who had smoke, who was the chocolate, the apple, or the floral.
Suddenly his eyes locked on me and I knew it was my bouquet he found most intoxicating.
Jimmy wanted a full glass of me.
In a flash I read his mind and knew he was imagining me naked, wet and begging for more… and in that telepathic, pheromone-driven moment I realized I’d given that man a hard on so large and powerful it could lift me up like a crane. It sent a jolt of electricity down my spine.
Who was this man?
I studied him carefully. He wasn’t young, but he wasn’t old. He was in his prime and for a man like Jimmy “prime” endures for decades. He was ruggedly handsome. His salt and pepper hair was thick and gorgeous. His eyes were intelligent and kind; his jaw was chiseled from stone, his lips inviting and his smile generous.
He wore black slacks and a white dress shirt, no tie; his shirt was open at the neck. He had the sexiest goddamn Adam’s apple I’d ever seen, made all the sexier by several wisps of chest hair peeking out of his shirt. He was lean but not too slender; and appeared to be angular and well muscled without being over done. He had the build of a swimmer or a runner; he moved with poise and grace.
I thought he was absolutely one of the most virile, good looking men I’d ever seen.
Maintaining a beautiful cool, as if nothing had happened, but of course we both knew it had, Jimmy stepped from behind that dais-pulpit-thing and motioned gallantly for us to follow.
I knew what I’d find if I looked down at my chest: at fifty-two, I still have firm breasts and teasing nipples that refuse to cooperate. Sure enough, I was right: my nipples were outrageously obvious. When I was younger, my breasts and nipples mortified me. They always seemed to stand at attention even when I wasn’t horny, but if I was horny they were unbearable – highly sensitive and excitable, they communicated a desire to be sucked, just as they did at that very moment.
Now that I’m older this doesn’t mortify me; I find it delightful. Perhaps at long last, I rejoice in my sexuality. I pictured Jimmy sucking each breast and felt myself go soft and damp.
It was an early summer evening and I wore a lovely blue linen dress that enhanced the color of my eyes and a double strand of creamy pearls that fell over my breasts and drew attention to their well rounded presence. As I walked toward the back of the restaurant, the pearls sensually caressed me and I felt incredibly alive. I passed a table where two guys were talking to a waiter and all three pair of eyes followed me admiringly as my pearls moved in synchronized rhythm to the subtle sway of my hips.
I imagined Jimmy making love to me; I envisioned him picking up each strand of pearls with his strong white teeth and playfully tossing them over my shoulder before he sucked my pink hot flesh.
It’s a wonder I was able to walk to the back of the restaurant; I actually felt a bit woozy.
Jimmy led us to a quieter section of the restaurant and placed us at a table removed from the beaten path. It was exactly what Doreen requested.
He snapped his fingers and gave orders in Greek and a SWAT team of waiters descended upon us. They quickly pulled out chairs and began seating my friends with efficiency and flirtatious small talk. Jimmy managed to position himself directly behind me so that he was the man who seated me.
He rested his hands on the back of my chair so that his fingers brushed against my back. When he leaned into the chair to help me move it closer to the table I could feel his heat and smell his cologne. His mint-scented breath brushed across my hair like a warm gentle breeze.
After we coaxed my chair into position, Jimmy floated a surprisingly gentle hand across my right shoulder. It was as much a kiss as a caress and it conveyed a presumptive sense of ownership that quite surprisingly I didn’t mind. My experience with men had been that giving a man a sense of ownership was never a good thing and yet at that moment I believed being owned by this man could be marvelous.
It was all I could do to not lean backward and bury my face into the palm of his hand. I wanted his hand to cradle my face, massage my neck and, of course, eventually explore every inch of me.
I was surprised my friends weren’t staring at me in astonishment because I couldn’t imagine how anyone could not have noticed what had just happened, but they were chatting away with one another and the waiters – totally oblivious to me, totally oblivious to Jimmy.
Jimmy moved to the other side of the table, directly across from me, and issued more orders in Greek. Almost instantly our table was laden with carafes of ice water and fresh lemon, bottles of Retsina wine, baskets of crusty bread, colorful bowls of briny Greek olives, feta cheese, creamy tzatziki, bottles of olive oil and several tall stacks of little white plates to hold these treats. He nodded approvingly as waiters filled water glasses and poured wine.
We sampled the olives and feta and dipped bread in the tzatziki and olive oil and generously praised the house wine. Before we could put a dent in what was already before us, waiters brought us bowls of smoky melitzanosalata, a classic eggplant dip, and skordalia, a creamy puree of potatoes, bread, oil, lemon and the ubiquitous mainstay of Greek cuisine, garlic. The dips were followed by a huge platter of dolmades, delicious treats made with lamb, rice, pine nuts and seasonings, and carefully wrapped in tender grape leaves.
We were being treated to a true mini feast and hadn’t ordered any of it. Jimmy explained in perfect English, with a very sexy accent, that it was his pleasure to have us dine in his restaurant. When he announced the appetizers and wine were on the house, Doreen mistakenly believed she was the reason for his largesse and jumped from her seat and gave Jimmy an enthusiastic hug and kiss, which he accepted graciously without taking his eyes off me.
I acknowledged his generosity with a smile and a nod and he smiled and nodded back. I understood he was pleased that I knew he was honoring me and no one else.
Suddenly, overwhelmed by the richness of the foods before me and maybe also the wine I was drinking way too fast, I had a moment of clarity about myself. I saw the history of my own insatiable hungers, my own needs for love and passion, and realized what I hungered for was not contained in any bright bowls or on any platters, and certainly not in the arms of any man I’d ever known. What I hungered for was a man like Jimmy, a man equal to my passion. I saw most clearly that Jimmy had a passion for life; he lived large and loved huge. It was his briny salt, not the olives I wanted; it was his sweetness and his spice I craved. I wanted to drink wine from his lips, nibble at his muscles and suck the juices from his body. I had no doubt that he could be as generous with his physical love as he was with his food.
Several diners drew Jimmy away from our table and I took the opportunity to study his restaurant with the eye of a jealous lover. I wanted to understand my competition. I wanted to understand what Jimmy loved, what made Jimmy tick.
I listened to Greek music play in the background and the happy shouts of “Opaah!” that announced a skillet of sizzling saganaki had just been ignited at a table of delighted diners. I savored all of the rich smells that went past our table; spit roasted lamb, pork, kabobs, gyros, squid, and whole fish. I inhaled garlic, oregano, basil, fennel, and dill, as well as cinnamon, cardamom, anise, lemon and honey. I wrapped both new and ancient Greek culture around me like a shawl and basked in the restaurant’s Mediterranean sexiness, suggestive of warm azure oceans, whitewashed buildings, and hot healing sun.
It was then, in the middle of the vivid and sensual sights, sounds and smells of Jimmy’s restaurant I realized I wanted more than a one-night stand: I wanted a whole life with Jimmy.
Since I am not a complete fool and wasn’t stupidly drunk, I also realized I’d known this man for less than thirty minutes and what I had just imagined was insane, incomprehensible, and wildly impossible. Sure, I often thought about getting laid but I didn’t think about getting a life; I already had a life and I liked it just fine. Really: my life was pretty good.
Jimmy returned to our table with menus. He described the nightly specials and answered questions about lamb and fish but I was somewhere else. I found it difficult to concentrate.
There had been a shift in my universe and I was feeling deranged.
A familiar voice brought me back to reality. Doreen studied me with a puzzled look. “Hey girlfriend, I’m talking to you… Where are you?”
I ignored Doreen and reached for the menu in Jimmy’s outstretched hand. Jimmy held the menu a few seconds longer than necessary and in those few seconds the menu became a conduit for an exchange of our mutual energy. A rosy flush rose from my chest to my throat; it matched the blush that simultaneously shot across my face. And let me just tell you: I don’t blush easily.
Was it possible that he was looking at me and thinking he wanted a life? A life with me?
What were the odds both of us could be that goddamn crazy?
Jimmy’s gaze was steady; he studied the pearls resting between my breasts. His eyes took their sweet time walking slowly up to my throat and then to my flushed face. He studied my face carefully and smiled.
He saw I was blushing and whispered a barely audible “it is nice” which really sounded more like “eet ees nize.”
Doreen, a woman who misses nothing, heard it too. When Jimmy turned to speak to a waiter she bent over, stared at my chest, and whispered wickedly, “Hey sweetie, I see your nips are getting you in trouble again.”
She gave me a little nudge, adding for good measure “eet ees nize,” which made me laugh and say “Yeah, well you know I can never control the damn nips.”
Jimmy moved away from us; he walked around the restaurant and stopped at all the tables. He greeted regulars as dear friends and welcomed newcomers with warmth and class. My eyes followed him everywhere. He could work a crowd better than any politician, but what was most striking was how he was so genuine, so sincerely happy to meet people.
The restaurant became more crowded, the bouzouki music more frenzied, and the ubiquitous squeals of “Opaah!” more frequent – but nothing could drown out the sweet music that now played on continuous loop in my head, its lyrics clear and pleasing.
“Eet ees nize” had become the most beautiful song in the world.
~ ~ ~
I honestly can’t recall much about my dinner other than it was delicious and when we were done we all reeked of garlic and wine, aromas which were incorporated into our individual bouquets. We marveled at how much we’d eaten; we consumed more food than we normally ate in an entire week.
Therese complained her husband was going to make her sleep on the couch. “He hates it when I stink of garlic,” she groaned. Sue said something similar about her husband and Doreen and Gail bitched they hadn’t slept with anyone, garlic lover or not, in way too damn long.
Me? I just smiled. I knew
the way I smelled was going to be just fine… just fine. Eet would be nize.
We were wild that night. We acted like teenagers; our laughter was punctuated with girlish squeals that belied our age and mature, respectable status in our families and communities. We were a lawyer, a nurse, an architect, and two successful business owners. We had collected nine husbands between us, two of whom were still around, one was deceased and six were filed away somewhere in the wreckage of our scarred hearts and the nation’s divorce statistics.
Collectively, we had eleven kids, six grandkids, an assortment of animals, three scares with breast cancer and one total hysterectomy. Over the years we’d laughed and cried together; been each other’s bridesmaids, bounced each other’s babies, and helped pick up the pieces after a death or a visit to Divorce Court. We moved from sharing our angst over troubled teenagers to being worried sick about aging parents.
Despite lives not always lived gently or sane, we were aging remarkably well. We were two real blondes, a redhead and two brunettes, and only one of us had given up the battle with gray hair, choosing to go au natural. We told her she was strikingly beautiful in silver hair and it was true; she looked fantastic.
We watched our weight, exercised moderately, and three of us were devotees of yoga. No one smoked, we all drank moderately, and one of us wanted to be a vegetarian but kept failing miserably; we assured her we admired her for her struggle anyway and it was true.
For the most part we had different complaints except for the one that we all shared – each of us griped about being sexually unsatisfied. This was especially true of my married friends, one of whom complained her second husband was “just as dead as the first” – and that jerk had been in the ground nine years.
When the guy who’s alive is just as cold as the guy who’s dead, well, you know you have problems. I understood her pain. My marriage was the loneliest, most emotionally barren, frustratingly sexless place I’d ever been; just thinking about it made me cold and depressed which made me return to my shocking idea that I wanted a life with a man I’d just met and certainly didn’t know.
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