Hey There, Delilah... (9 page)

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Delilah

What the hell is his problem?  He has done nothing but bitch and moan at me all day - he doesn’t like the way I answer the intercom when he buzzes me, my handwriting is too “girly,” and apparently I just can’t do anything right today. If I wasn’t the consummate professional, I would walk out on his ass right now. But alas, I am, and so I will stay here and suck it up. Thank God, it’s Friday.

I make it to lunch without throwing my stapler at his head, and decide to text Charlie. She always knows how to make me laugh.

Delilah:  Hey, Charlie! U around?

Charlie:  Hey, LaLa!  Yep, just out to lunch with my boss.
Wanna join us?

Delilah
: Thanks, but u know I don’t leave my office for lunch anymore. Remember what happened last time I met you?

Charlie:  Yeah, sorry.  J
ust figure u have nothing to lose anymore

Delilah
:  True & he is being such a dick today.  Maybe next time, ok?

Charlie:  Of course! You are welcome anytime. Hey…
u ready to hit a club tonight?  Sounds like u need to let off some steam

Delilah:  Not tonight.  I am exhausted from holding in my tongue all
morning & I still have another 5 hrs to go!

Charlie: No problem, I get it. 
u r not ready

Delilah: I think I am!  How a
bout tomorrow?

Charlie:  Seriously?  Hell yeah!

Delilah :  Ok! One of Nick’s friends owns a club downtown & gave me a pass to get in & told me to bring a friend.  He just said I have to call in advance cause apparently it is exclusive & they limit the # of people

Charlie:  Sounds awesome. Sign us up! Btw, what’s the name of the club?

Delilah:  Hang on let me look at the card…Club Masquerade

Charlie:  As in Club M?

Delilah:  I guess? Have you heard of it?

Charlie:  O
ooooooh yeah!

Charlie is coming over two hours earlier than we originally planned. Apparently, I need a total make over.  After the debacle of picking out my clothes for the interview, Charlie is convinced nothing in my closet is Club M worthy. Every time she says the club’s name, she giggles.  I keep asking her what she is not telling me, but she just responds that she will tell me on the way to the club. I have a sneaking suspicion that I am not going to like what she has to tell me.

I decide to take a long soak in my t
ub to try to relax.  Nick was such a jerk to me yesterday and it is still bothering me. Between our pizza dinner and his birthday surprises, I thought we got past all of the BS.  I guess not. He still sees me simply as his secretary, and nothing more. My mind wanders to the last time I was soaking in this tub, and once again, I have to remind myself that there will never be anything personal between us. 

I really have no interest
in going to the club with Charlie tonight, but now, more than ever, I need a distraction - a hot, sweaty, Italian, piece of man meat.  No, not Italian, definitely not Italian - but absolutely hot, ready, and willing to please me.  At least just for tonight.

I get out of the tub
and dry off.  I take a few minutes to pop in my contacts. I haven’t worn them in a few weeks, and I want to give my eyes time to adjust to them.  Next, I moisturize with lotion from head to toe, Japanese Cherry Blossoms, of course – Nick’s favorite.  I like to put my lotion on right as I get out of the bath or shower because my skin is still warm and my pores are open.  I think it helps retain the scent longer. Who knows? I slip into a pair of white cotton granny panties and a full cup white cotton bra.  Not the sexiest of lingerie, but they are practical, comfortable, and actually hold up my huge bazungas. Then I put on my robe. There is no point in getting dressed since Charlie should be here shortly, and I’m sure that she is going to make me try on everything in my closet again. Lord, give me strength!  I throw my hair up into a loose bun and wait impatiently for her to come over.  I distract myself by straightening up my bedroom, cleaning the kitchen, and watching a few of my guilty pleasure reality shows on the television.

I love my apartment. What do I love most about it?  That it’s all mine! I went from living with my parents, to the college dorms, to living off campus with Charlie, to moving in with Ryan.  I didn’t initially like this apartment; Ryan actually chose it because it was close to his work. I had to take the subway forty-five minutes each way, but I sucked it up because I loved him and that’s what you do in a relationship. Well, at least, that’s what most people do.  Ryan didn’t get that memo. I can’t believe I didn’t see what an ass he was sooner.   Funny thing is, now my apartment is a hop, skip, and a jump away from my job with Nick.  On a nice day, I can even walk there.

Anyway, the apartment itself is nothing to write home about. It is a one bedroom, five hundred square foot box, with a full kitchen, bathroom, and cute little living room. It doesn’t sound like much, but by Manhattan standards, it is a palace.  And it is all mine - decorated how I want, I can leave my clothes on the floor, and dishes in the sink – and there is nobody here to bitch and moan about it!  I don’t have much outdoor space, but that doesn’t bother me much. I am not really an outdoorsy kind of gal.

I am not sure how Ryan
negotiated such a fair price, but for that, I am grateful.  I saved a lot of money when I was working in the corporate world, but so far, my salary from Nick has paid the bills and kept me afloat.

Finally, at 7:00 pm, I hear Charlie’s distinct knock at my front door.  It is the same knock she used to use in high school on my bedroom door so I always knew it was her.
She comes barreling past me, arms full of shopping bags, and an overnight bag.

“What did you do, rob Macy’s? I ask sarcastically, pointing at all
of the crap she is lugging.

“Ha
ha, very funny!  A little help here,” she responds dryly, holding up her aching arms.

“
What is all of this?” I ask as I grab some bags and set them on the living room floor.

“In the overnight I have my clothes for tonight. You didn’t think I would
wear it over here and risk getting all gross and sweaty?”

“
Okay, gotcha. But what is all this?  You don’t need three shopping bags and this box. What the heck is this box?”

“Um…well… I may have stopped at Macy’s on my way over here. There is no way in hell I am g
oing to let you wear any of those crap clothes in your closet. Don’t think I forgot for one minute what we went through to get you dressed for your interview,” she looks at me pointedly, raising her eyebrow.

“Point taken. But three bags full?”

“Clothes, shoes, lingerie, make-up.  All of the essentials that you are lacking. We are going to glam you up and get you laid tonight!

“Charlie!” is all I can say.  She is right, and I know it.  I really have let myself
go as far as a beauty regiment goes.

“LaLa! What?
Come on, I am just looking out for my girl.  Tell me, did you do your homework assignment?” she asks, wiggling her eyebrows.

I let out a loud sigh, making sure she knows I am becoming exasperated with her. “Yes, mom.  I went this afternoon. I am waxed, plucked,
scrubbed, buffed, highlighted, mani’ed, and pedi’ed. Did I miss anything because I am pretty sure every inch of my body has been abused?” 

“Sounds like you did a good job. Did you go for the Brazilian?
” she asks, clearly amused at my discomfort.

I send Charlie a death glare and she starts laughing hysterically. I
, however, am not smiling.

“
Not intentionally,” I answer, getting really annoyed at her flippancy toward my discomfort.

She stops laughing and
looks at me, cocking her head to the side. “What do you mean, ‘not intentionally’? How do you
unintentionally
get a Brazilian?”

I take a deep breath, embarrassed by what happened.  I blow out and say it as succinctly
as possible, knowing she is going to roll over in hysterics.  “The esthetician asked me what I was there for and I clearly said, ‘a bikini wax.’  There is no need for anything else because even though I don’t do my hair or make-up daily, I properly groom the rest of myself…down there.  I lay on the table and she told me to remove my underwear. I thought that was a little strange, but I figured that’s just how they did it at that spa, so I didn’t question her.  She asked me a question, but I really didn’t understand her through her thick accent. I was so embarrassed with my coochie all hangin’ out, I didn’t want to ask her what she said, so I just smiled and nodded. How the hell was I supposed to know she was asking me if I wanted her to rip all of the hair out of my vagina? Oh, but it didn’t stop there…I then spent the next twenty minutes on all fours!” The Brazilian had to be invented by a man because there is no way a woman would come up with the most barbaric form of torture to inflict on another woman.  Maybe on a man, but definitely not on one of her own!

Charlie spends
the next ten minutes rolling on the floor, arms wrapped around her stomach, tears running from her eyes, laughing like a freaking hyena.  Although slightly humiliated from the events I just poured out to her, hoping for some empathy, I couldn’t help but find the hilarity of what happened to me - only me!

Once she gathers
herself from the floor, still hiccupping from gasping for air while laughing, we head to my bathroom. Time for hair and make-up. I guess I should be thankful that conversation was over.

“Hmm, Charlie?  You never did tell me… what’s in the box?”

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This weekend feels like it will never end.  I decide to go into work for a few hours this morning to try to distract myself from my unsuccessful evening last night. I won’t call Delilah in for help because she is precisely the reason I need the distraction. It doesn’t seem to work, though. Every time I look out my glass wall toward Delilah’s desk, I imagine her luscious lips wrapping around my cock, her big hazel eyes looking up at me, filled with lust.  After a few hours of getting absolutely nothing accomplished, I change strategies and head to the gym. A few rounds with a punching bag should relieve some of this pent up frustration.  

I don’t go to my usual gym today. Generally, I like the one close to my home because th
at one is geared toward men and serious lifters; but today, I go to the one close to my office, knowing that is where women go to socialize – a total meat market.  I mean come on, who goes to work out with a face full of make-up and barely any clothes?  If I can pick up some tail here, I won’t have to go to Club M tonight.  After last night, I’m not hopeful that I will find anyone, and I’m seriously tired of greasing my own pole.  Then again, Calvin did say there would be some fresh meat there tonight, and he seemed pretty confident my dick will wake the fuck up and tap one.

I can’t believe two hours at the gym and not only am I more sexually frustrated than before I went there, but I could n
ot pick out one chick. Several approached me, but no go. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. In the past, I could do anything with a pulse. All she had to do was look at me and I would take her in the closest room – bathroom, closet, office.  I didn’t give a fuck.  Now, since blowing off Julianna, who didn’t take it too well I might add, and since that crazy fantasy of Delilah in my office, my dick doesn’t really even stir much.  Well it does, in fact, I get hard instantly, when I see or even think about
her.
But there is no way in hell I am going there. She is my employee - off limits, a definite no no, inaccessible, unavailable, and out of bounds – and she most certainly is not my type, which is precisely why I hired her in the first place.  
Keep telling yourself that. 

I am giving the club one more chance tonight.  If my dick can’t pick out
a pussy to party with, I just don’t know what I am going to do.  After my shower, I slip on my tight, black Calvin Klein boxer briefs, but stay in my bathroom to brush my hair and teeth.  I decide not to shave, the ladies seem to like the five o’clock shadow; I’m sure they like how it feels rubbing up against their thighs.  I head to my closet to get dressed.  I went with all black last night and it was a bust, so I change it up – my worn Dolce & Gabbana jeans, a black Salvatore Ferragamo cotton zip polo, and on my feet, my Prada drivers.  I skip the Rolex, and opt for a more casual look, my Ulysse Nardin Freak – how apropos. To the average eye, it looks like an ordinary timepiece, but a watch aficionado would know right away that it cost me over a hundred grand. I opt for a different mask tonight, also black, but covering three-quarters of my face, only exposing my lips and chin.  I slide it into place and head to Club Masquerade. Wish me luck.

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Charlotte Fisher is an evil, evil woman!  Remind me to never, ever let her near my hair or face again. Pure torture, I tell you. If I ever hear someone say, “It takes pain to be beautiful,” one more time, I will whack them upside the head.

We start with my make-up first.  She pull
s a plastic bag out of one of the shopping bags and it was full of all different kinds of cosmetics – foundation, powder, eye shadow, eyeliner, mascara, lip liner, lipstick, gloss, bronzer, blush, and perfume.  And lions, and tigers, and bears – oh my!  No seriously, I think that was all, but who knows; I have no idea what half the stuff is for anyway. I let her have her way with my face, but I put my foot down at the bronzer. Why, you ask? Simply put, I don’t want anyone mistaking me for Snookie from
The Jersey Shore
.   I mean, come on, we are both petite, with a little extra junk in the trunk, and have the same long brown hair, but we look
nothing
alike. The last thing I need is to fake bake or add too much bronzer, and some jerk to mistake me for her. No, thank you!  Oh, and speaking of Italians… I eighty-sixed the perfume, too.  My lotion is all I have ever worn, and I love the way it smells.  And so does Nick. Not that I am going to see him tonight, but if he likes it, then hopefully it will attract another stud for the taking.

Long story short, she did an amazing job!  I didn’t even recognize myself when she was done.  She lined my eyes in green. With hazel eyes, that is the best way to bring out the color. Then she smoked them out.
But instead of using a black kohl, she smoked them with the purple shadow.  She used mascara that must have been heaven sent, because it opened my eyes up tenfold.  You could only get these kinds of results with fake lashes. “It’s all about the eyes. You should always wear your contacts,” Charlie said.

Now she is lining my lips
in a light red. I am wary because my mom always told me that only hookers wear red lipstick, but when she fills in my lips, holy shit! I would kiss myself if it were possible.  The lipstick itself is a matte red, but then she slicks on a gloss that sparkles.  My already juicy lips transform into Angelina Jolie’s million dollar pout. “I take it back,” she says, “usually, it’s all about the eyes, but with you, it’s all about the lips.  Every man in the room is going to want to kiss these luscious puppies.”

We t
ake a break before starting on my hair. I go to the kitchen to grab us a couple of bottles of water, and out of the corner of my eye, I see that weird box again. “Are you ever going to tell me what’s in the box?” I ask again, my curiosity getting the best of me.

“I think it is best to wait for the cab ride to explain what’s inside. It has something to do with
Club M,” she replies evasively.  Now I know I am not going to like what she has to tell me. The fact that she is going out of her way for me not to know what is in store for me tonight is grating on my nerves.

“I think it’
s time for you to spill,” I state firmly. I don’t want to sound bitchy, but I don’t like feeling lied to or betrayed, and she knows why.

“Whatever you are thinking, stop.  It’s not that bad. It’s just that Club M has some very, er, strict rules. But I think we should finish your hair, get you dressed, and then I will tell you everything once we are in the cab. I
promise,” she says calmly, clearly catching on to my mood change.

She obviously senses my concerns, and I know she is just placating me. But at the same
time, I know Charlie would never do anything or take me anywhere she knows would make me uncomfortable. We head back to the bathroom and she gets started on my hair.

Since she did such a kick ass job on my make-up, I don’t even question her when I see her heating up the
flat iron.  She pulls my hair out of the messy bun on top of my head and starts to comb it out.  I always wear my hair up or pulled back somehow because it is very thick, naturally wavy, and quite often, very unruly. But during my hell day at the spa, I had some caramel highlights put in to “soften it around my face,” according the hairdresser.  So, hopefully, however she styles it, I will have the desired effect.

A few minutes later, she has my hair separated into little sections and clipped up in every direction. I hope she has a plan, and knows what she is doing.  Little by little, she takes down each section, and flat irons it.  I flinch a few times when she gets close to m
y ear, but she never burns me. That sucker is hot, though!  Over an hour and a half later, she is done. My hair is straight as an arrow, shiny as all get out, silky smooth, and the highlights are exquisite.  I need to remember to give the hairdresser a bigger tip next time I am there.

Next is the big dress reveal, and I am most nervous about this, and we all know why; I haven’t worn anything sexy, revealing, or even fitted, since I
was a teen.  And if I know Charlie, she is not going to let me go anywhere near this club wearing anything less than sexy and fabulous.

“Why don’t we start with the lingerie,” Char
lie suggests, sensing my anxiousness over the dress situation.

“Lingerie? What’s wrong with the underwear I have on?” I ask
argumentatively, knowing full well that I am not going to win.

“Because it is just that – underwear. That’s the stuff you wear on a first date
to guarantee yourself that you won’t sleep with the man. We are trying to get you laid, not remind the guy of his eighty year old grandmother.”

Charlie grabs a small pink and white striped bag and I roll my eyes, knowing fair and well what store she shopped at.  “Girl, you know that there is no way in
God’s green earth that these knockers are going to fit into anything you have hiding in that little bag,” I say, grabbing my boobs with both hands, shaking them at her.

She lets out a chuckle. “Oh, ye of little faith. 
Just trust your bestie, okay?”

I let out a loud sigh and nod my head, pretending to be exasperated. I thrust out my right hand to receive the lacy goodies and send Charlie a half smile.  “Fine, gimme them. I will go put them on in the bathroom. But i
f I look like a cow with her udders hanging all loosey goosey, my cotton delights are coming right back on.”

“Deal, Elsie.”  Charlie shakes her head at me and continues to laugh.  She hands me the most gorgeous
red and black lace panty and bra set, and I bite my tongue as I head to my bathroom to change, praying that they fit.

I walk out of the bathroom twirling around like a toddler trying on her first tutu. 
Not only does it all fit perfectly, but it really is absolutely stunning.  “I have to hand it to you, Charlie. You nailed it! My girls are snug as a bug and you managed to make my shrimpy legs look so long and lean.  Kudos, my friend,” I say, giving Charlie all the credit she deserves. “Maybe you missed your calling as a personal shopper,” I throw out with a wink.

“Thank you, but don’t thank me completely, yet.  There is still this little teensy matter of the dress,” she announces cautiously.  She scrunches her face, squeezes her eyes tight,
and then peeks at me through one open eye. I can’t help but laugh at her.

“I’m that much of a hard sell, huh?”

“Um, yeah!  You do remember what’s in that closet of yours, don’t you?”

“Yea
h, yeah, yeah. Cause you won’t let me forget. Bring it on, sister!”  I am eager to see what she picked out for the main course. I think I am ready, but nothing could have prepared me for what she unzipped from the wardrobe bag.  I had to steady myself before I was able to step toward it.

Remember
that scene in
Pulp Fiction
when Samuel L. Jackson opens the briefcase in the restaurant and all we see are bright lights shining out?  Of course, we all just assumed it was filled with bars of gold. Anyway, that’s exactly how I feel staring at the dress.  Like the clouds parted, and the sun is shining through for the first time in years.  And the gospel choir in the background is rejoicing.

It is the most spectacular, sexy, provocative, yet timeless
, red lace dress I have ever seen! It has a tan silk slip underneath to blend in with my skin. Then the bodice is a red lace overlay, which by mere definition is sexy, but it is not hooker-ish in the least.  It has a plunging neckline, but with my chest, it is going to be perfect, and looks as though it will hit just above my knee.  I can’t wait to put it on.

As I am already standing here in my underwear, I don’t bother going to the bathroom again.  In silence, I just slip it on in front of Charlie, and it fits as if it was tailor made for me. I look up at Charlie, both of us with tears in our eyes.

“Stop crying or you are going to ruin your make-up,” she yells at me, trying to lighten the mood in the room.

“I just…
it’s just…the dress is so beautiful, Charlie. I can’t believe you picked this out for me. Do you really think I can pull it off?” I ask, feeling sexy and self conscious at the same time.”

“Shut up,” is all she says. Because, really, what more is there to say?
The proud mama-hen expression on her face says it all.

I slide into a pair of four-inch tan heals. The pointed toe is squishing my big toe, but I suck it up in the name of fashion, remembering, “It takes pain to be beautiful,” and all that other bullshit society feeds us.
Three long, grueling hours later, we are finally in a cab, heading to Club Masquerade.

“Are you ever going to tell me what is in that weird box you have been hiding from me? And why is it going with us to the club?” I ask, shrugging like the anticipation is not killing me.

“Okay, okay. I guess I can’t put this off any longer.  But promise me that you will keep an open mind and not freak out.” She groans.

I shake my head and take a deep breath.  I know she is up to something that I am not going to like, but I am already here, dressed and made up like her own personal Barbie.  What more can there be?  “Fine. Just get on with it already,” I mutter, exasperated by her added drama.

Charlie opens the box, which is shaped like a hatbox, and for the second time today, I am speechless.  I am not exactly sure what I’m looking at, but it looks like the most exquisite, intricately detailed, beaded masquerade mask. And there are two of them.  I tentatively move my right hand forward to touch one, and Charlie snaps the box closed, like what Richard Gere did to Julia Roberts in
Pretty Woman,
when she tried to touch the ruby necklace.  I start to laugh the same way, too.  Then she reopens the box so I can get a second look, and this time I pull one out of the box.   Just like my dress, lips, nails, and toes, it is a beautiful harlot red. Okay, maybe not harlot…candy apple… yeah, that is a better description.  It is candy apple red, adorned with gold and red beads, sequins, and stones. It looks as though it will cover my eyes and nose, and ties in the back with a red silk ribbon.

“This is gorgeous, Charlie, but I don’t understand. What do we need masks for?”

She took a deep breath and started to explain everything – the masks, the no talking, the messaging system, the sex - all of the rules at Club M.  And I sit in stunned silence for the rest of the cab ride there.

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