ON OR OFF
From the instant we met, it was a hard yes from me (read all about it in the first installment – 50 Shades of South African: He Had Me at Massage). He was the hottest guy I’d dated in New York, and everything I’d learned about him so far fascinated me. I wanted more, yet had no idea if he felt the same.
Usually I find it pretty obvious when a guy wants to see me again. They either allude to a second date, tell me flat out, or get those love-struck puppy dog eyes. Based on the vibes of our Bryant Park first date, I was 60% sure the South African hunk would want to see me again. However, I was unusually besotted with him, so there was a chance that this was biased, wishful thinking.
A beauty like him, with a foreign accent to boot, could no doubt have his pick of New York women. I was attractive enough for a 5’4 Jewish chick… but no Heidi Klum. I didn’t know his type, and wasn’t sure which way it would go.
CREME DE LA CREME
I desperately wanted to text him the next morning, but refrained. I’d aggressively pushed for the first date to happen, so decided he could come to me for the second.
The afternoon rolled around at work, and I was daydreaming at my desk (no prize for guessing who about), when a photograph popped up on my phone – from him. It was of two, cream-filled mason jars on a wooden dresser.
Apparently, while I’d been making small talk with my friend at dinner the previous night, he’d been making massage lotion (two kinds): pomegranate tangerine and mango coconut. For real.
He wanted to know when I was free to meet again. I air punched like my team had won the league (then nervously checked to see if anyone saw). We both had packed weeks, and I was going to Shelter Island that weekend, so our only choice was to squeeze in another Bryant Park rendez-vous – over lunch this time.
It was summery and bright in the park the next day. I was wearing a light, sleeveless, navy dress from Aritzia, and mid healed sandals. He wore jeans and a green and white shirt that made his eyes look other-worldly. We found two chairs in the dappled shade to the side of the main lawn.
Upon finishing colorful Chopt salads, our conversation turned to massage. I asked if he enticed all women with pics of homemade lotion. I teased him further, by questioning whether he could even give decent massages, or if it was all a ploy. His reaction (as I’d hoped) was to show me – then and there.
I turned sideways on my chair so he had a good angle. His huge, firm hands expertly and slowly maneuvered their way around by shoulders, down my back, and over my hips. Through my paper-thin dress, it felt so all-consumingly good that I could barely breathe. He used hard, purposeful pressure, and found my knots and tight spots instinctively. It was better than any professional chair massage I’d ever had. I had no words.
He erotically brushed my hair away from my neck, gathering it in his hand to the side so it was out the way. Thank fuck I was sitting down, or else my knees would have buckled. It was the hottest thing I’d ever done with my clothes on.
When I stood up, I was dizzy with horniness and barely able to stabilize, or form sentences. As he walked me back to the office, I noticed my knickers were drenched. I must have said goodbye to him… but I don’t remember it.
And we hadn’t even kissed yet.