I freely admit that I was on the prowl. New to town, fully immersed in my new job and needing a release from the pent-up pressures making good at it from the start brought on.

Sexual release, that is. Accordingly, my attire that night blended with that need. I wore a light cotton sundress that ended about mid-thigh, blue with abstract white patterns, the usual sundries underneath; a bra that pushed my tits up enough to attract the attention of any man within a half-mile radius. But I'm already ahead of myself.

With a certain amount of deliberation, I avoided the seedier bars populating the Downtown scene where guys seemed to think buying a lady a beer entitled them to one night's ownership. My economic degree from Princeton assured me that I was somewhat - although not that much – deserving of better.

Found myself in a little French café, more wine bar than eatery, overlooking the Cape Fear River. His name was Johnny. He was at least ten years older than me, but that didn't bother me in the least. The place was packed, with at least two dozen people spilled out onto the boardwalk just off the back entrance to the café itself.

We stood hip to hip sipping a decent wine.

"Nice dress," he said. It was a safe gambit on his part, innocuous I thought, until he named the store in Manhattan where I'd purchased it.

That put him in a slightly different category. Now he had my undivided attention.

"That's very perceptive of you, unless of course, you're a male who prefers running around in women's clothing."

He laughed, and I liked the sound of it.

"No, I assure you that I'm 100 percent male and all my parts work."

I thought that an odd thing to say, but after considering what I'd just said to him, reconsidered. I had deserved his remark, and it wasn't at all offensive.

His hip applied a discreet pressure to mine. I let it go without comment. He told me his name was Johnny, and I told him mine. I also provided him an opportunity to peek down my dress, but he ignored it and leaned into me, hip on hip so that I was suddenly thrown off balance. Of course he caught me and restored my equilibrium. I had no choice but to thank him.

"You're welcome, he said. "I'm more than delighted to assist a lady in distress."

"But I'm not in distress," I answered somewhat haughtily.

"Oh, but you are," he insisted.

"Oh, how so?" I asked, both amused and intrigued by his actions.

"I can see that you are in need of a good cum," he said, shattering any façade I had put up between us.

"What?" I lashed out.

"Come on, you heard me," he said.

"I'm not sure I did. Would you mind repeating it?"

"I said, it seems to me you need a good cum. Here. Now. In public."

I had to fight to keep my knees from buckling.

He wanted to make me come in public! I hadn't realized it, but that was precisely what I wanted.

After taking a large gulp of wine, I managed to say you're either completely insane, or the most perceptive man I've ever met."

"I'm not crazy," he said with a grin. Then with his hand round my waist, he steered us over to a just vacated candlelit booth against the wall on the far side of the café. We ordered a bottle of red, (after finishing off two glasses of a wonderful Riesling) from a passing waiter, and the wine flowed generously as the conversation advanced, well, actually we moved much slower, beginning with the more mundane topics – how I liked Wilmington having just moved in the week before; had I seen the current play at Thalian Hall, (I hadn't); and a brief discussion on which beach was the best in the area. (I had yet to venture out to any, and I filed Johnny's information upstairs under things to do and soon.)

It occurred to me that I was in love with his voice, a strong, vibrant baritone. I learned that he had sung in the church choir as a young man, and played Curly, in a high school rendition of Oklahoma. I was suitably impressed enough to ask that he sing something for me.

He stunned me by doing just that. Leaning in close, as he didn't want to cause a scene in the crowded café, he thrilled me with the first few bars of Some Enchanted Evening from South Pacific. I had grown up listening to my father's LP of that soundtrack. He had loved it, and never stopped telling me what a distinct voice Ezio Pinza had. While Johnny wasn't Ezio Pinza, and who is? He sent a shiver up and down my spine, and a tingling sensation to my clit. The guy could really sing!

I kicked off my strappy pair of shoes within a minute of sitting down in the booth. Instinctively, I snuck my toes under the bottoms of his trousers and pressed the pads of my feet against the muscles of his leg. I liked the soft cushion of hair that tickled my feet. Once I had initiated contact, he kicked off his own shoes. Sock covered feet stepped along the insides of my calves and my shins, sometimes turning at the knees to touch the shadows of my thigh.

I made my eyes sparkle as they looked into his big brown eyes, and the conversation, turned to sex.

He asked me for stories about what I had done in public spaces. I had had enough wine to admit to having given my boyfriend head under the table at a Thai restaurant. After further encouragement, I told him about using the toilet at a Manhattan art Gallery for a quickie. What can I say? Impressionistic art turns me on.

He asked if I had ever visited a sex club, and was surprised when I answered yes.

"I don't mean a strip club," he said, "I mean a real sex club."

I told him I knew the difference between a strip club and a sex club.

"And you've been to one?"

"Manhattan is full of them. I went to one in a cinema on 44^th St one wintery night during a snow storm. I sat in the audience watching women from various points in the theatre strip naked and pick on strange men, exposing their cocks and fellating them. Later I learned that it was all pre-determined. But I was too worked up to notice and selected a promising looking partner and fucked him by straddling him as he sat in his seat. I believe we were in the fourth row. I recall we received a rousing hand of applause after we finished, since our performance had been ad-libbed."

"Jesus Christ! I had no idea." Johnny said.

But I wasn't finished impressing him. I told him about the drive-in movie theatre in Vermont when I was in my Senior Year high school. Not a sex club, per se, but there were five of us in one car, three guys, two girls, and in the adjoining SUV, there were three couples. What we did was jump back and forth from one vehicle to the other, coupling with someone, of either sex and then hopping back to the other car and doing it with a different partner.

All in all, I partnered with six different people: four guys and two girls. One of them gave me a flaring case of the clap, which took me a month to get rid of.

"You've made me very horny," he said in as husky a voice as I've ever heard in person.

I tested him by lifting my foot higher and after locating his erection, rubbed my toes over his erection.

"I'm kind of moist myself, Johnny," I said breathing rapidly. "Now, if you'll excuse me for a minute, I'll see about drying off a bit."

He gave me a quizzical look and I replied, "I'm wearing this light sundress. Anyone will be able to see how wet I am if I don't take precautions."

I gave him a quick kiss on the lips and hurried off,

Between Johnny and my stories, my crotch was dripping. When I returned, I set my purse on the table and reached for his hand. I had come back with my underwear wadded in my fist. I let go. We sat there, holding hands, my small ones atop his larger ones, our right hands cupping a scrap of cloth, slight and black, which minutes before had covered my pussy from view. I was breathing regularly now, and leaned across the table to kiss him lightly on the lips. The candle radiated heat below me.