Blindfolded Innocence Read online

  He beamed and reached across, pushing my plate closer to me and waving the bib-carrying waiter forward. "I--err - no really..." I said feebly, as the waiter affixed the ridiculous bib around my neck.

  Brad pushed a ceramic bowl with a candle that heated melted butter towards me. "Dunk the pieces into the butter, and then eat," he urged, his heads already covered with dripping butter. “You’ll love it.” I hesitantly pulled a piece of the soft meat out of the pre-cut lobster shells and dipped it in the butter. His eyes never leaving me, he followed the meat to my mouth to be sure that I ate it. I tentatively put the meat on my tongue and gently chewed. The feathery consistency didn't sit well with me, and all I tasted was butter and bland meat. I swallowed, the blob of buttery meat slipping down my throat with a thick glug. Ewww. I fought a grimace and smiled in my best ladylike manner. "Hmmmm…" I said.

  "That's the best lobster in town," Brad beamed, beside himself with glee. "Go on! Try the crab!" His dug into his pile with reckless abandonment, and the waiter came and refilled our champagne glasses. I took a generous sip of champagne and faced the plate again. Looking past the ridiculous plate, I looked with despair at the tower - made for four and towering on the table in between Brad and I. I practically had to look around it to see him. The bottom rung of the silver tower was empty when they had delivered it, but was now being filled with the empty lobster and crab claw shells.

  Light bulb.

  Fifteen minutes later, Brad sat back with a satisfied groan. "I have been dreaming of those claws for weeks." He met my eyes with a Cheshire grin. "Well? Was I right or what?" I smiled at him over my champagne and empty plate.

  "It was very good Brad. Thank you."

  "I don't know how you look so put together. I always feel like I need a bath after eating this stuff." He wiped his face with his napkin and pulled at his bib, breaking the plastic tie. "Should we get another or do you want to go ahead and order dinner?"

  "Dinner please," I said quickly. Brad's eyes looked at me for a moment, then he shrugged. "Sounds good to me."

  The waiter appeared, and began pulling the silver trays off of the tower, starting with the top tray. Uh-oh. I had anticipated them taking the entire tower at one time, as they had brought it to us. My mind raced with something to distract Brad with. Shrimp platter gone.

  "I was thinking Brad…"

  Clams and oysters level gone.

  "maybe tonight, after the show…"

  Lobster level taken.

  "we could, ahhh." Don't look down!!

  The large silver platter that had housed the tangled pile of Snow and King Crab legs was lifted, exposing the plate of empty shells. Empty shells and expensive meat. The big hunks of crab and lobster meat I had carefully hidden, under the guise of placing my shells in the plate. The meat, which had been strategically hidden from the side view, was now in full exposed glory; crab and lobster stretched out like bathing beauties on South Beach. Brad completely ignored my sentence - not that it was going anywhere - and stared at the shell plate in bewilderment. The waiter leaned over and examined it, puzzled.

  The light bulb clicked in both of their heads at the same time and they turned in unison to stare at me. Eyes wide, frozen in my seat, my hands twisted in my lap as I tried to think of something to say. Brad broke the silence before my head found a solution.

  "You hid that?" he asked, his head tilted to the side, his eyes unreadable.

  "I didn't really like it," I lamely responded. "You seemed so excited and my plate was so full…" I trailed off.

  "Jesus woman!" he quietly and happily thundered. Happily? I was confused. He grabbed his bread plate and quietly scooped up the offensive pieces, plopping them onto his plate. He grabbed the still-lit butter stand and moved it back in front of him. A second waiter appeared with a replacement bib and Brad sat up so that he could tie it on. Once the trash plate had been rummaged through, by both Brad and the server, who shot me a look of sophisticated disdain, it was carried away and Brad and I were left alone. Just us, my leftover seafood, and the glow of drawn butter. Brad was beside himself with amusement.

  "Why didn't you just say you didn't like it? I would have been more than happy to eat it all myself Julia."

  "I did say I didn't like it. You were so pushy about me eating it, and so enthusiastic about it. I didn't want to disappoint you." I sounded like a freakin' child, but it had come out of my mouth, no point in trying to put it back in.

  "I'm not your father, Julia." His grin faded slightly but he kept his tone light. "You don't have to do as I tell you."

  I set my chin and stared at him. "I know Brad. I don't do everything you say." But I doubted my own words. I had let him talk me into a lot.

  "Does our age difference bother you?" His face serious, I tried to keep the grin off my face but his intent face, peering at me over his plastic bib, with butter dripping off his fingers - my grin broke through.

  "What?"

  "Nothing. No, our age range doesn't bother me. It did, before I met you. I envisioned you old, wrinkly, with grey pubic hair…" I grinned wickedly at him.

  "How do you know I don't have grey hair down there? I could have a whole forest."

  I wrinkled my nose and tossed a piece of bread at him. "Gross! Besides, I sneaked a peek last night, while you were drooling in your sleep." He laughed and grabbed my hand, bringing it to his mouth for a quick kiss.

  "I can't keep my mouth off of you," he murmured. A stream of deliciousness shot through my body. I took another sip of champagne and met his sexy eyes across the table. God, this man is tempting.

  "Another bottle of Dom, Mr. De Luca?"

  Another? What happened to the first? I looked at my now empty glass.

  "Yes. Are you ready to order Julia?"

  "You go ahead. I'll know in just a moment." I quickly scanned the menu. The prices made my eyes widen. The seafood tower Brad had just demolished was three hundred and fifty dollars! I tried to find something relatively inexpensive, but gave up on that mission. I finally settled on a filet, which was something I at least knew I liked. Most of the items on the menu I didn't even recognize. I heard Brad order a prime rib and about four side items, then the critical waiter's eyes were on me.

  "Filet please, medium rare." I smiled sweetly and handed him my menu. He nodded primly and left. I leaned forward and whispered. "This place is ridiculously expensive! Do you know how much that lobster I was throwing away costs?" His eyebrows rose at my indignation and he smiled.

  "Julia, it's all comped. All this," he gestured around, "is on the casino. Their focus is on gambling, and I pay them royally for it. This is your first time in Vegas, and I want you to have a good time." He smiled good-naturedly at me. "But I appreciate your concern about my wallet." He raised his glass for a toast. "To bigger and better, may you enjoy this weekend." I raised my glass and clinked it to him.

  My eyes floated through the room. We were tucked in a beautiful little corner, and had a nice view of the other tables. My eyes froze on a couple by the window. "Brad - that's George Clooney!"

  Brad glanced over his shoulder and shrugged. "You'll see a lot of celebrities this week. Vegas is their playground, especially the Bellagio." I saw George Clooney reach across the table and rub his date’s hand, a platinum blond with a blue dress. I tried not to bounce in my seat with excitement and forced my eyes away from the actor. Becca would never believe this. I wondered if I could sneak a photo with my iPhone, but dismissed the thought. Brad was watching me, a smirk on his handsome features.

  Our food came, sizzling steaks on white china with melting butter on them. Brad had ordered creamed corn, mashed potatoes, and mushrooms, and a group of waiters brought out the plated dishes. Brad's eyes lit up and we both dug in. Other than occasional moans, there was silence for the next few minutes. I finally took a break, and sat back with my champagne. I blissfully closed my eyes and let the food settle a bit in my stomach.

  "Enjoying yourself?"

  I nodded without opening my eyes.
"Immensely."

  I felt his hand underneath the narrow table, caressing my knee. My eyes opened and I moved my knee out of his reach. His eyes turned playfully mournful.

  "I haven't decided whether I'm going to let you have that. I'm trying to be a good girl."

  "Good girl?" he swallowed a swig of champagne. "I haven't seen that side yet."

  I harumped and leaned forward on my elbows, staring at him. "I'll have you know I am a VERY good girl, even if I have had weak resolve lately around you. I plan to go back to my prudish ways, starting tonight." Maybe.

  He leaned back in his chair, his hand on his chin, rubbing appraisingly. "Is it for religious reasons, this attempt to abstain?"

  I shrugged. "Not really. I have a healthy relationship with God, and I don't particularly think he cares if I choose to express my love in a sexual manner. But that's what I feel I am doing with sex, expressing my love. What you do is fuck. And I'm not used to that, or don't know if I feel okay about that - not for religious reasons, just for my own. I hear about women who feel used or guilty after sex, and I’ve never felt that, and don't want to start."

  "I feel like most of the women who feel that way are having sex in order to accomplish something - win a man's affection, impress him, gain financial security…" he waved a hand generically. "The man they are sleeping with is "fucking" them for one reason - pleasure. Not because he loves them, or wants to love them, or wants to pay their light bill, but because he wants to get off, and they are conveniently around. After sex, his feelings haven't changed at all, and they all of a sudden have a boatload of expectations, and get their feelings hurt when nothing has changed. Women think sex is this magic act, when in fact it isn't. There are too many women ready to hand it over too easily."

  I glared at him. "You make us out to be so… pathetic. Is that how you view women, as disposable receptacles to stick your dick into?"

  He rubbed his head exasperatedly. "Julia, I am being honest about sex. Your college boys probably don't know enough about sex or how they are feeling yet. I am a mature man trying to explain to you how we, as men, work. It's a point of view that most women never know."

  "So that is why you sleep with your clients? To get a sexual release? Don't you think that you risk too much for something you can get from all of the wanton women laying around waiting for you to fuck them!?" My voice had risen a little too high, and Brad glanced around before answering.

  "Julia, the clients I do fuck are adult women, most of them mature, who realize what we are doing, and what our roles are in it."

  "What are your roles?" I asked, my tone sharp.

  "Julia, I don't need you to attack me just because you don't believe in my lifestyle choices. I have absolute confidence in my sexual relationships and don't need to explain them to anyone. I am choosing to explain them to you because I hope to fuck you in the future (he placed careful emphasis on the word "fuck") and I don't want to do it with any misplaced expectations on your part."

  I ate a mushroom and chewed slowly, putting off a response. Damn man.

  His voice, taking on a gentler tone, continued. "Our roles, when I am with a client, are pretty defined and simple. We don't screw at the office. I come to her house, she is never in mine. When I take my clients on business dinners it is for just that, business. If she is interested in sex, and I am sexual attracted to her, then we meet later, have sex, and I go home."

  "It sounds awfully cold and heartless to me. Don't they feel used?"

  "Most men fuck in a way that uses women. They spend the majority of the time getting oral sex, or taking what they want in the position that they want it. As I mentioned earlier - the reason for their sex is to get off, not for any other purpose. I don't fuck that way. I am more about the women's pleasure. Did you feel used this morning?"

  His sudden question caught me off guard. Mid-chew, I quietly swallowed the hunk of tender filet I had been savoring and wiped my mouth. I sipped the glass of ice water and looked up at the gold leaf ceiling, thinking. Had I felt used? "Used" hadn't even crossed my mind. I had felt elated, relaxed, sleepy, but hadn't thought about my feelings or felt guilt. Then again, a guy going down on you was a lot different than sex, right?

  "No, I didn't feel used. But I think what we did, and sex, is two different things. Sex is giving me a part of myself."

  He snorted. "Says who? Every women-lit book out there? Your parents? The church? Society has this hang up with the idea that women are losing a part of themselves every time they fuck, and it is bullshit. So a man can be with 20 different women and have a normal, healthy self-esteem but a woman sleeps around and she is emotionally destroyed? Women attach feelings to sex because society tells them to. They think that they should feel for a guy before sleeping with them so they manufacture a relationship or emotions and that only screws them up later on. It provides justification that later bites them in the ass when they try to look in the mirror and come to grips with "what they've done." When, "what they've done" is nothing to be ashamed of! The act of sex is healthy, normal, God-given. It's the emotions and entitlement that everyone attaches to it that is harmful."

  I looked at him, listening to his words, and tried to remind myself that he was an attorney, born and breed to convince juries, lonely housewives, and me that what came out of his mouth was fact. I felt like I was in a twister game and could no longer tell whether I was upside down, or lefty, or completely right side up. Part of what he was saying seemed completely logical. But it went against everything I had ever been taught or told. But, who was I to blindly follow what I was taught or told? It made sense that the church or that my parents would tell me to wait for sex, that I should only sleep with my husband, the person that I loved. I'm sure I would tell my future 12-year old daughter the same thing.

  "If sex is only for procreation, then "yes" - only have sex with your husband, it would be wrong to create young with total strangers. That mindset thinks of sex only as a tool for reproduction. It ignores the essence of sex - the passion and enjoyment." Brad said, pouring more champagne.

  "I don't think sex should be saved for marriage - that's not what I am saying. I just think that I should love the person I have sex with."

  "What is love?"

  "What?"

  "What do you consider love to be? Not love for your family, but the love you're talking about, towards a partner. What do you consider it to be? How do you know when you're in love?"

  "I don't know. I just know.”

  "And have you been in love? I assume, since you've been with - what? Two people? That you were in love with both of them?"

  I faltered slightly. "Well, I thought I was in love with them. In retrospect… they were wrong for me. I was probably too young to really know what love was."

  "And you know now?" His voice was calm, the voice of a psychiatrist. I felt like he was reeling me in for a dramatic finish.

  "I know that I need to be more careful, not put a label like love on a relationship before I know. Before, I felt like if I loved someone, then I was obligated to have sex with them. I wasn't manufacturing feelings of love to justify sex, as you seem to think women everywhere are doing. I thought I was in love, and felt like that was expected of me. Plus, I didn't want to enter into marriage without knowing if I was sexually compatible with the person."

  "Who were you thinking of marrying?"

  I toyed with a hunk of soft, white bread before deciding to butter it. I wanted something to keep my hands and eyes occupied, anything to avoid looking in his intense brown eyes and strong face. 100% of his attention was on me, and I felt like I was under a microscope. He was asking me things and making me look at ideas and feelings that I hadn't had a chance to examine yet, and I didn't know what or how I felt yet.

  "I was engaged, to a guy named Luke. We dated for six months, I thought I was in love, and I probably was. It was just - he was just the wrong guy for me. I wanted too many things from him and he didn't have the skill set or work ethic to provide them."
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br />   "Material things?" his voice seemed a little dark.

  "Eventually. I want to live my life a certain way. One that doesn't involve unpaid bills and rundown apartments. Luke was older than me, 27, and couldn't keep a job and had no aspirations to. I was looking at a future of me working constantly and nagging him all the time. I didn't like the person I was turning into, and couldn't accept the person he was. I had deep feelings for him, but I feel like if he was my true love, I wouldn't have been trying so hard to change him."

  "And the other?"

  "Other what?"

  "The other love you had - your first."

  "Oh. That guy was a jackass. He was the first guy I wanted more than he wanted me. He promised me the world and then dumped me two weeks after he took my virginity. We had been together 6 months, and had sex on my 19th birthday. I hate thinking about him. There wasn't even anything "great" about him. He was a weak, pathetic silver spoon asshole." I grinned suddenly and looked up at Brad. "Do I sound a little bitter?"