Blind Date

“I am going to set you up with a date with Lah” My friend announced picking up the mobile phone that had remained silent on the table between us.

We had been talking about my disastrous blind date the night before. The latest in a long string of mismatched potential partners the computer dating agency had set me up with. Finding men who would accept that me being a naturist didn’t mean I was up for sex between the main course and dessert. Last night’s date had been a total moron, “I’ll get us another drink, by the way, when will you be taking your clothes off?”

He hadn’t been happy with my answer and I never did get that second drink.

“Tell me about this Lars first,” I placed my hand over my friend’s phone to prevent her from making the call immediately.

“Lah, like in ‘Doe, Rae, Mi,’ the song, never Larz.” The strong emphasis on the last syllable made my error clear.

“Sorry, what is Lah like?” I pitched the name artificially high as if I was singing it five tones up from my normal pitch. 

“Lah is incredible. Good looking, an elegant dresser, always immaculate and fashionable.” My friend’s eyes rolled, “and the sexiest body ever!”

“Sounds an absolute dish. Why aren’t you with Lah?” I had to ask.

“I was, but as you know I’m not the sharpest knife in the draw nor the best read.” I smiled in recognition, not the sharpest but great self-awareness. “We kept running out of things to say, Lah would mention a book or a play and I had to admit I had never heard of it let alone read the book!”

“A culture vulture?”

“Just like you, yes.”

“A naturist?”

“How else would I know about his body, seeing as we never got physical?”

“Money?”

“I thought today was your treat!” We both laughed. I produced my credit card and put it on the table.

The call was placed. They exchanged a few pleasantries, then my friend introduced me and handed over the phone.

*****

The Magic Flute, at the Metropolitan Opera! What first date!

I was ready, just glancing in the mirror to make that final check when the door buzzer sounded. The voice was smooth strong and cultured.

“I’ll be right down!” I hurried down to the street level. Wow! My friend had not exaggerated. Lah was … well stunning.

“Let’s get into the car quickly, the aircon is running!” It was a stultifingly warm, sultry late June night, even by the standard of  New York. My eyes swept in the direction Lah had gestured along.

A Bentley and if I wasn’t mistaken a Continental. I had briefly flirted with the idea of having one before settling on the Mercedes. A uniformed chauffeur stood next to the rear door, opening it as Lah and I arrived.

“Slide over, so we don’t have to open the other door and let the traffic fumes in!” Lah urged. I slid.

The chauffeur let himself in from the wrong side. No, he didn’t, it was a British model, steering on the wrong side. The chauffeur put the car into drive and we were on our way. If we had been in an American car, we would still be waiting for a gap in the traffic, so that the driver was able to open his door. Coincidence or smarts? I wondered.

*****

I can’t tell you much about the Magic Flute. I bet the people who were sat in the adjacent boxes were pleased when didn’t return for the second part. We had talked although the programme up to the interval. We had talked throughout the interval and missed the bell informing us it was time to resume our seats.

Half an hour later, when we realised what had happened. We left the Opera House and headed for the restaurant early. “To get the best table before anyone else arrived,” Lah joked.

*****

Restaurant 32, it was a new establishment, rapidly becoming the place to be seen. A rooftop restaurant, thirty-two floors above Mid-Town. High above the sweating masses and racing traffic, you could see the Empire State and, from the balcony, down into Time Square.

The service was unobtrusive and very discreet. By which I mean I never noticed happening and appeared unconcerned that we were both naked. The food was without noticeable flavour. The wine, Domaine de la Romanée-Conti, was burgundy red I remember, the colour matched Lah’s lips.

To be honest, all I was interested in were Lah’s lips. I was transfixed listening to the words that streamed from them, broken by numerous pauses, where I was offered space to voice my thoughts. Thoughts that were jumbled and broken by my imaginings of Lah’s lips against mine.

Late, we left the table to allow the staff to clear away the remains of our dessert and took our wine out onto the balcony.

We embraced, our lips met, hands on each other’s buttocks pressing our bodies together hard. Lah nibbled at my ear lobe, I sighed. The sensation of lips brushing down the side of my neck followed. Tantalising my senses. I moaned softly “Don’t stop!”  

Our groins ground against each other as Lah’s face burrowed into the soft skin of my collar. I felt my skin being nipped and gently sucked. A glowing sensation developed, radiating out from deep within my core. An enormous shuddering orgasm followed.

I staggered backwards, still locked in Lah’s embrace We toppled over the railing. Thirty-two floors above New York’s busy Mid-Town streets.

We were falling, together, I looked into Lah’s face and was reassured by the smile I saw there. I knew at that instant I would never need clothes again. I would be undead before we reached the street below.

My lover, my Count, Count, call me lah, Dracula spread his wings and guided us back to where the car was waiting to take me to eternal paradise.