The Date

When I was 16, my lawyer dad asked me for a favor. One of his clients had a pair of tickets to the Nutcracker Fantasy ballet for the following night, and his wife of five years had just moved out as they were separating. Most of the women he knew were also friends with his wife and turned him down as a replacement, not wanting to get in the middle of anything. He could have gone to the ballet with one of his bros or given the tickets away, but out of spite for his wife for whom he’d bought the tickets he wanted to see the show with a female companion.

I reminded Dad I had a boyfriend I planned to see that night. He told me to take a night off from my relationship and cheer up his client who needed cheering up. The guy had seen my picture on Dad’s desk and said I was pretty.

I playfully asked what sort of cheering up he needed, and Dad gave me his stern look and said not to get carried away—just dress up nice and be friendly for a few hours. I told Dad I’d do it and make up an excuse to tell my boyfriend. I loved the Nutcracker. I’d taken ballet classes since I was five. I looked the guy up on the Internet—he was a good-looking corporate type. Thirty years old.

For our date, I wore a short red wrap dress that had a low neckline that tended to gape wide open showing my prize-winning boobs (I’d been voted Best-Biggest Boobs by my classmates in a poll posted on an unauthorized school website). A lace pushup bra made sure they’d get noticed.

Hi picked me up in a BMW, looking great. At the theatre, we checked our coats and he saw me in my dress for the first time and got a big grin on his face. He was a gentleman during the first act, but his hand found my bare, slender thigh during the second act and stayed there, and I leaned closer to him remembering to be friendly.

The ballet ended a little before ten. Getting up to go, he asked what time I needed to be home and I said midnight. He asked if I wanted to go to his place for a little while and I said okay.

He lived in a nice house. He offered me a glass of wine and started a fire in the fireplace. I wasn’t planning on doing anything with him but, after the wine, he started kissing me and I didn’t stop him. He got me out of my dress and bra and sucked on my boobs, then undressed himself and started fucking me on a big fluffy rug by the fireplace, pounding me hard like he was taking out all his anger and frustration with his wife on me. I asked him to slow down. Go more gently. Kiss me as though he liked me. He responded to my wishes, fucking me with more affection and less aggression while kissing me deeply. It felt intimate and he drove me to orgasm. He then carried me to his bed and fucked me for a long time until we both came together—something I’d always hoped to do with my boyfriend but it never worked out that way. I forgot to ask him to pull out, so he came inside me.

I was still catching my breath when he checked the alarm clock. Shit—it’s one-thirty!

We got dressed and he drove me home. Kissed me in the car. Thanked me for being such a great date.

Inside, I was glad to find Dad in bed, asleep, so I wasn’t in any trouble.

The next morning, he asked how my date had gone. I said it was fun. Great show and everything. We got along fine.

About a week later—just before Christmas—Dad told me his client had reconciled with his wife and they were getting back together. I wondered what the guy told his wife about what happened to his Nutcracker tickets. I’m guessing whatever he said, I wasn’t mentioned.