I don't know what to expect. I don't know what he looks like or for that matter if he will be here. The music is nice, not something that really gets your attention. Like the lighting, it's obviously chosen to accentuate the interactions between and among patrons rather than making the bar the focus. I can feel the pulse in my clit and I want to sit down so I'm not so obviously uncomfortable but as I'm looking around I realize that somehow the tables are all arranged so that they seem secluded. Booths with high backs and tables rounded alcoves with built-in seats. If I sit at one of them he might never find me. It's so damn frustrating to have such specific instructions about getting here and then nothing about what to do now. I'm all hot and riled up and now I just have to wait and see who comes out of the woodwork.

I head for the bar. It's tasteful but not garish, like everything else. This place is almost too perfect. There are two men sitting a few spots down from the end in a conversation. One of them is obviously older, maybe 45, and has the attractive look that comes with age and experience. As I walk by he looks up. I feel my cunt clench and a little shock of pleasure shoots through me as he glances down my body. He's not leering like younger men do but it's obvious that he has looked me over and approves. He smiles slightly and turns back to the younger man and when it's obvious that he was distracted for a moment the younger man looks up too. It's a good thing that I can only see him out of the corner of my eye and that I've almost reached the stool I decided on: four down from the older man. The younger man is attractive. Slightly taller than his friend, his broad shoulders are accentuated by the crisp button down he is wearing. Is that him? Oh god. Maybe I'm not good enough. Breathe. He turns back to the older man and says something I can't hear. His tone though sounds irritated. I slide into a stool and order a gin and tonic.

As I walk I realize that I'm nervous. I know the neighborhood but still all my senses are on alert and it feels as if I notice every detail: the texture of the concrete under my heels, the sound of the diesel engine in the pick up on the corner, the dark stubble on the driver's chin. This is not the normal nervous where you feel faintly sick to your stomach or anything. More like the butterflies in the stomach and the faint buzzing in your cunt kind of nervous. Finally I see the brass numbers. Walking up the block there was no big sign or neon letters announcing the club, just three inch block numerals worked into the wrought iron framing around the doors.

As I approach I do a mental check to make sure I've got everything right. Thigh highs hooked held in place by the black lace garter belt. Black skirt above the knees but not slutty. Tight white vee neck. (Tonight I'm wearing a thin strapped tank but he didn't specify the style of the top). Small black purse with only three items: cab fare home, an emergency contact phone number and the small silver key. I am still checking things off in my head as I reach for the handle and it's only after I've gotten a grip on it thatI realize the owner's sense of humor: from the street the handle looks like a part of the vine pattern in the iron work but from the back it is the perfect silhouette of a cock. As I pull the door open my hand slides up and I gasp as my fingers feel the ridge of the cockhead. I let go and try to focus on what is going on inside the club.