J

Having declared her boredom, I tell J it is time for me to go.

She asks if I'm free in the morning and if so, would I come by her place early for coffee?

We arrange to meet at 9:00 but only after she gives me driving instructions four times. She is precise in her directions and it is only on the four attempt that I receive the land marks I've requested repeatedly.

I head out into the frigid air and cross the street to the parking lot. The diesel is slow to turnover and starts after 60 seconds of cranking. It runs rough and as I wait for the engine to smooth out and the heat to rise, I view J and her partner leave the bar. Both are dressed for the weather and are wearing long black wool capes. Arm and arm they start down the street and I'm curious about the wool capes. I have not seen seen capes in years and wonder where you purchase such clothes. I laugh to myself at the thought of some underground lesbians only clothing store known only to dykes.

I wake early the next day. It is clear-the sky cloudless but the temperature remains in the single numbers. I select jeans, black boots, a navy blue wool turtleneck, black watch scarf and a well worn leather bomber jacket.

J's directions are clear and unlike most of Boston, there is ample on street parking. Her condo is on the second floor of a large, what once was a three story single family home. She buzzs me up. Her place is deceiving from the outside. It is much larger than expected despite the size of the house. It has two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a large up to date kitchen and a huge living room crammed with comfortable furniture and plants with an unobscured view toward western MA.

She tells me she's lived here less than two years. I ask if if she'd mind telling me how much it cost her? She throws a number out and I astounded by the high price of Boston real estate. My mortgage payment must be half of hers.

J is dressed in sweat pants, a baggy sweat shirt and worn running shoes. Her hair is luminous and she smells faintly of musk and cunt.

She pours coffee, fresh ground. The taste is wonderful, not bitter and rich, unlike the ubiquitous Dunking Donuts brew. As I sip the coffee, I chuckle nervously.

"Whatcha laughing at?"

I don't want to admit I'm nervous. We're alone. The condo is silent and there is an overwhelming hesitancy on my part. I'm always hesitant to make the first move-whether it is sex or topping-I almost always need a written invitation to make the first gesture and prefer my partner initiate any activity at a first meeting. I tell J: "Did you ever notice how you can't really get much in the way of donuts at Dunking Donuts?" Coffee, bagels, cookies but they really have a limited selection of donuts."

J pours my coffee into a travel mug, grabs one for herself and grabs her wool cape.

"C'mon, we're going for a drive."

Back in the Benz, she supplies a continual stream of turn here, right at the light, left until I am hopelessly lost. Finally I see a sign, entering the town of L and I know now we're we're going.

There is a store in L that is actually three store in one. Shaped like the capital letter E, the store has one area for sex toys on the left, a second area that carries the largest collection of womens clothes for cross dressers along with dressing rooms facing a bank of cash registers in the middle area and a third area with BDSM gear on the far right. We head to the BDSM room.

The stock is high quality and there is an extensive collection. J's focus is on the corpral toys, whips, straps, floggers, canes-she handles each one judging the weight, the price and trying to estimate the feel if there were used on her body. I'm concentrating on the body harnesses, nipple and clit clamps and some other delightfully insidious items.

"We'll need to try these on to insure they fit properly," I say to her. She swallows, her shoulder's sag and with a look of resignation, she consents with a single word.

I gather a body harness, some adjustable thumb screw nipple clamps and some other items. I take her by the hand and head to the dressing rooms, situated across from the busy and crowded service area. As we head to the third of five dressing rooms, she wilts. The doors to the dressing rooms are half doors that run from knees to shoulder height. There is privacy for the torso, but little in the way of real privacy on a busy crowded saturday morning.