Page 97 of Naughty Nelle

God, she was being difficult.

“Mrs. Blumberg, I’d love to spend time with you but—”

“I know. I know. It’s okay to hurt an old lady’s feelings. You got a hot date.”

Her voice trailed off as she turned on her heel. Closing the door behind her, she got in her last two cents.

“Make sure you wear clean underwear. And don’t let him touch you there.”

I sighed; if she only knew. “There” tingled at the thought of being touched by “him” again. Wasting no time, I reached into the shopping bag and tore the package open. Two words on the lid of the shiny white box blazed in my eyes: JIMMY CHOO. I lifted it off to find another note, the scrolly handwriting identical to that of the note that accompanied the black dress. I was convinced it wasn’t his, but rather that of a Bergdorf’s employee.

Wear these tonight. Remember, no pantyhose.~A

Holy cow! He also bought me shoes. The kind Sarah Jessica Parker wore in Sex in the City. A creamy white duster bag encased them. My heart thudding, I slipped out the shoes. I gasped. A pair of six-inch high black satin peep-toe stilettos. Size 9.5AA. How the hell did he know my crazy shoe size? Did he remove my two-sizes-too-wide combat boots stuffed with inner sole pads to make them fit while I was dozing on the train?

A frightening thought crossed my mind. I was born wearing combat boots. How was I going to manage to walk in these sexy beasts? I took off my boots and placed the high heels side by side on the floor. Placing one hand flat against the wall, I stepped into them, right foot, then left. Sarah, plain and tall, was suddenly taller. Six inches taller. A six-foot-three pillar.

I let go of the wall. Okay, I could balance in them. But could I walk in them? I was going to do my trial runway walk down the hall to my bedroom. Still carrying the little black dress, I took my first step, then my next. My ankles wobbled, and the intense throbbing inside me wasn’t helping my balance. Focus, Sarah. Focus. Pausing for a deep breath, I took another step and then another; I was getting it down. My bedroom was just an arm’s length away. Victoriously, I stumbled inside it. Jo-Jo, whom I’d honestly forgotten about, followed right behind me.

My shoebox-size bedroom, painted in another shade of bright pink, consisted of a queen-size bed that took up most of the space, a faux-French mirrored armoire with a matching nightstand, and a sliver of a closet. Jo-Jo jumped up on the bed and curled up on the garish zebra print satin sheets left behind by the transvestite. Not wanting the dress anywhere near the furry cat, I draped it over my closet door. I glanced at the alarm clock on my nightstand. 7:15 p.m. I had less than an hour to get ready for my date. Quickly, I slipped out of my skirt, letting it fall to the floor. As I pulled my T-shirt over my head, a waft of his intoxicating cologne drifted into my nose. God, he smelled so divine. Maybe, I should never wash this tee. Hold on to it as a keepsake. A souvenir of losing my virginity.

Wearing my torn pantyhose and my six-inch Choos, I stood before the armoire and gazed at my reflection in the mirror. My normally long legs seemed to go on for miles. The heels accentuated my calf muscles and toned thighs, both gifts of having been a tomboy my whole life. I ran my palms over my pert breasts, surprised by the soreness of my small nipples. The memory of Ari tweaking and tugging them filled my head. A bolt of electricity ripped through my body.

Holding onto the armoire, I took off my new shoes and slid down my pantyhose. I had the urge to hold the latter to my nose, but I let them scrunch on the floor. Maybe, I should put them in a zip lock baggie and hide them in the armoire. The scene from an episode of Law and Order popped into my head, as if losing your virginity to a stranger on a train was a crime.

Jack McCoy: “Your honor, I present to the court Exhibit A: Defendant’s Fucked-Up Pantyhose.”

Inwardly chuckling, I headed, naked, to the hole-in-the-wall bathroom located off the small hallway that connected the living room and the bedroom. I turned on the water and hopped into the narrow stall shower and, with misgivings, let the warm water wash away the scent of my encounter. I loosened my ponytail, letting my thick hair fall to the middle of my back, and then lathered it up with my cheap drugstore shampoo. Impulsively, I rubbed my soapy hand between my legs, shocked that my bud was still so sensitive and swollen. A buzz of excitement shot through me.

After conditioning my hair, I stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around my torso—a zebra print one that matched the satin sheets on the bed. I glanced at my reflection in the mirrored medicine cabinet. My too-big-for-my-face chocolate eyes were a little bloodshot from my lack of sleep, but my complexion was glowing, and I thanked my lucky stars for the zillionth time that I had been blessed with good skin. The genes of my mother. My heart grew heavy again—the image of her once radiant face, now sunken and sallow, filled my mind. I wondered how her treatment went. I so badly wanted to call her, but usually after one of them, she was weak and nauseated and preferred to talk to no one. Not even me, her only daughter. Her best friend and confidant. How I missed my mother!

With a weighty sigh, I threw my soaked chestnut hair back into a ponytail, with no time to blow dry it, and dabbed on some berry-flavored lip gloss, something I rarely did. The thought of Ari licking it off my lips made me tingle. I hadn’t been kissed by him. Fucked. But not kissed. What would that feel like? At the last minute, I spritzed myself with perfume. Sarah Jessica Parker’s Lovely, a recent birthday present from Lauren, who thought it might help me get some sex in the city. She couldn’t have been more right.

I headed back to my bedroom and beheld the little black dress, waiting for my body to claim it. Careful not to get my lip gloss on it, I slipped it over my head, squeezed my arms under the spaghetti straps and shimmied it down. It stopped mid-thigh and fit my body like a glove, giving me little curves I never thought I had. The silky fabric was cool and soothing against my skin. I pulled off the tag and tossed it into the waste can. Jo-Jo gave me the cat’s meow. Marc Jacobs and I were now one.

Don’t wear pantyhose.I could hear his sexy voice saying the words. Okay, so panties it would be. I opened the door to my armoire and pulled out a pair from the drawer where I kept my collection of Fruit of the Looms. Cheap, comfy white panties I bought on sale at the downtown Target. I slipped my feet into the leg openings and slid them up under my dress. I stared at myself in the mirror. Damn! I had panty lines. Ugly panty lines.

Remember, no pantyhose.Fine. I’d live with the lines, but silently I cursed my Fruit of the Loomers, wishing that I had a single pair of those obnoxious butt-floss thongs. I slipped my bare feet back into my black satin Choos and gave a final look at myself in the mirror.

Sarah, plain and tall, in her little black dress and grown-up high heels, no longer looked plain but instead borderline elegant. Pretty, and witty, and wise. But, damn, damn, damn, those panty lines. They were ruining everything. Impulsively, I reached under my dress and yanked the panties down, letting them slide down to my ankles. I kicked them off, almost losing my balance, as my landline started ringing.

Shit. Wearing my heels, I teetered to the kitchen but not in time for the call to go my voicemail. I played back the message and could faintly hear Lauren’s voice, the Black Eyed Peas singing, “I’ve Got a Feeling” in the background.

“Sarah, what the fuck is going on? Call me immediately.” CLICK.

I glanced at the wall clock. 7:55 p.m. Lauren would have to wait. Pantyless, I, Sarah Greene, was ready for my next encounter with my mysterious Trainman.

8:00 p.m. I stood anxiously on the landing of my apartment. My eyes darted east and west, searching for a tall, golden-haired Adonis that stood out from the crowd. A melting pot of New Yorkers passed by me, several pausing to stare. A silver-haired businessman gave me a wink, and a rapper type gave me a thumbs-up wolf whistle. I wasn’t used to being noticed, let alone winked and whistled at. It was as empowering as it was embarrassing.

My nerves grew edgier by the minute. What if he was going to stand me up? The image of the beautiful redhead flickered once more in my head. I always said: The grass can’t compete with the trees and I was just a tall blade of grass in a big city filled with beautiful trees.

My heart was sinking, and my nerves were ticking like a countdown clock. And then, as I was about to lose all hope, my eyes caught sight of my long-legged Trainman running down the street in my direction. He loped up the landing, taking two steps at a time. A devilish grin flashed across his swoon-worthy face.

My heart skipped a beat at the sight of him. He was casually dressed in jeans—the premium denim kind—and a black cotton T-shirt—the expensive, yummy kind. I immediately felt overdressed in his little black dress and uncomfortable.

“Hi,” I said nervously, hating myself for my banality.

In my spiky heels, we were practically the same height, making him about six three. His piercing blue eyes burned into mine and then traveled down my body, lingering on places he had no right to be.

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