Bombshell

And then there’s my other wardrobe—my secret wardrobe. Most of the clothes in that side of the closet I inherited from my nana. She pretty much raised me. Mom got pregnant with me when she was sixteen, and she was totally unprepared for a kid. Dad was never in the picture. So Nana brought me up, and though she was hardly a conventional parent, she did her best. She was a nightclub singer in her youth, a feisty vixen who didn’t get married until late in life—thirty-four, which was “last call” for her generation. She always had a cigarette burning in one hand and a story about the good old days spilling from her lips—some yarn about a gangster she used to date, or a movie star who sent her flowers back in 1958. I loved her. She was colorful, eccentric and just a bit crazy. In the end she became a wheezing ghost of her former self, but I try not to remember her that way. I prefer to imagine her in her youth sporting sequins, red lipstick and Chanel No. 5.

Looking at the clothes crammed into the left side of my closet, I sigh with pleasure. There are emerald-green wiggle dresses, red satin cocktail shifts, blue velvet swing coats and luxurious fur stoles. Elaborate hats made of beaver and trimmed with ostrich feathers sit inside pink striped hatboxes. Dainty kitten heels and patent leather spectator pumps sit side by side on the floor. This is who I am inside. These are the colors and the fabrics that spin through my dreams. I’m built just like nana, and in her day she was the bomb.

I open my underwear drawer and pull out the lingerie I wore for Wanda’s photo shoot. On a whim, I decide to put it on. Nero watches with a dubious expression as I shuck off my frumpy pj’s and don the sleek black Bettie Page gear. It’s funny how 1950s’ style underwear, high-waisted and granny-ish, can be so much sexier than a thong or bikini in the right context. This pair is made of amazing black figure-slimming fabric, satiny to the touch but steely in its ability to firm up flab. The second I pull them on I feel tingly, alive. Slowly, I do up the corset, sucking in my breath as I cinch it tight. Lastly, I pull on a pair of sheer black thigh-high stockings, hook them to the garters and slip into Nana’s patent leather spectator pumps.

I survey myself in the mirror, pushing my dark hair forward, finger-combing my bangs. My reflection stares back with mischievous eyes. I admire the exaggerated hourglass lines of my figure, the fullness of my breasts hoisted up by the gravity-defying corset.

“Va-va-voom,” I whisper.

In the mirror, I catch a glimpse of someone behind me and spin around, startled. There’s a man standing on the balcony across the street. He’s draped in shadows. I can just make out his silhouette and the burning orange tip of his cigarette.

He’s smoking, the lucky bastard.

I go to close my curtains, but hesitate. As I stand there before the window, my breath fogging the glass, something happens. I know he can see me, know he’s taking in my bad-ass curves, my stockings, my creamy cleavage. For a moment I’m reminded of the red-light district in Amsterdam, where the whores display themselves in the windows, tempting potential customers with provocative poses and smoldering looks. I’m surprised at how much the thought of being that whore turns me on.

Before I can stop myself, I reach a hand up and run my fingers through my hair. The luxurious feel of silky strands between my fingers sends a shiver of pleasure through me. I glance back at the shadowy figure on the balcony. He’s leaning forward, elbows resting on the railing, watching my every move.

Shocked at my own audacity, I lift one foot and prop my spiked heel on the windowsill. Slowly, my fingers trembling, I reach down and unhook the garter. My heart races as I roll my silk stocking down, revealing the milky white of my bare thigh.

Is it my imagination, or did the silhouette just adjust himself?

Okay, this is insane. What am I doing? I can feel my panties growing wet, though, heat gathering low in my belly, and I know I’m not going to stop. An exhilarating rush of power courses through me. I’m tantalizing a stranger, a man whose face I can’t even see, whose name I’ll never know. My body, the same one that feels so wrong and ungainly as I march through my workday trying hard to be invisible, suddenly feels deliciously visible. I’m a force to be reckoned with. The man on the balcony wants to touch me. He’s imagining what he’d do to me if only we weren’t separated by all this concrete and glass.

It’s been too long since someone touched me. Ravished me. Suddenly my whole body aches. When was the last time someone seared me with a kiss, cupped my breasts with desperate need, fucked me so hard I couldn’t breathe?

Way too long.

I lean against the glass. The cold melts through the fabric of my panties and feels delicious against my hot clit. I long to reach down and finger myself, but I hold back. Not yet. I want to make this last.

Another movement on the balcony catches my eye. A woman swings open the French doors and steps out onto the terrace, a couple of highball glasses in her hands. I can see her in some detail as she steps into the spill of gold light; she’s wearing a blue dress and sparkly jewelry, a going-out ensemble. Maybe they just got back from a nightclub. Maybe they’ve been dancing, hips pressed together, sweat glazing their limbs. They look young, yuppie-ish, respectable.

I recoil, hiding behind my curtains, blushing furiously. The craziness of what I’m doing strikes me with fresh intensity. I’m Ruby Sugars—I don’t strip for strangers, expose myself in the dead of night! Still I linger, too turned on to sleep, too curious to walk away.

The man tosses his cigarette, takes both glasses from the woman and sets them down. I expect him to lead her inside, but instead he moves behind her and pins her hips against the wrought iron railing. He looks like he’s whispering something in her ear. They’ve stepped out of the shadows, and I can see them clearly—so clearly that I know the exact moment when her gaze turns to my window. Her dark red hair gleams in the light shining from their windows as he runs his fingers through it. Then his hands reach around and cup her breasts. I watch in mute fascination as she arches her back against him, eyes closing in pleasure. I can see his hands encircling her small waist, pulling her to him. His lips wander over the pale curve of her neck, planting a trail of kisses. One hand nudges the bodice of her dress to the side, frees her breast, exposing her body to the cool night air. I can imagine the fog-kissed breeze caressing her bare skin, the shivery pleasure of it. The contrast between his hot mouth on the sensitive skin behind her ear and the cold night air whispering over her flesh.

All the while, she stares right at my window.

Carefully, my breathing ragged, I pull the curtain open again. They’re both staring at me as I slowly undo the top of my corset, letting my full breasts spill out. My nipples pull into tight, hard peaks. I tilt forward until they’re touching the glass; the cold ripples through me, an electric thrill.

The redhead shakes back her hair and arches her back, leaning over, pressing her ass against him. He lifts up her dress and in a moment he’s inside her, making no attempt to hide his thrusting hips as he grips her even tighter. She opens her mouth. I can just make out her moan of pleasure. Without thinking, my hand snakes down into my panties. I’m so wet. My fingers slide easily in and out of my pussy. When I finally touch my clit it’s so swollen and ready, just a few strokes makes me come. I call out, surprised at the sound I make; it starts as a low animal growl and quickly turns into a keening yelp of surprise.

The woman on the balcony throws back her head with a grimace of pleasure. The man yanks at her hair and thrusts deep into her one last time.

Behind me, Nero meows, pulling me from my trance. The man takes his date by the hand and leads her back inside. They close the French doors behind them. Just like that, it’s over. I let out a breathy sigh, my emotions pinging between pleasure and mortification.

I yank the curtains closed and turn to face my cat, who is once again ensconced in the middle of my bed, gnawing on my silk throw pillow. He gives me a superior, all-knowing look that actually makes me blush. My legs feel a little shaky; I slip off my pumps before stumbling across the room toward bed.

“Shut up,” I warn Nero as I peel off the vampy lingerie and pull my pj’s back on. “And don’t look at me like that. There’s nothing wrong with getting to know your neighbors.”

Chapter Four

Fantasy Man

Sunday morning I walk the seven blocks from my North Beach apartment to my favorite café. Brunch at Café Bovolo is a weekly ritual Wanda and I started over four years ago when I moved to San Francisco. She’s lived in the city longer than me. She dropped out of UC Santa Cruz spring semester our freshman year and never went back. Her parents bought her this awesome place in the Marina District, the lucky wench. I came here fresh out of college and moved in with Wanda for a couple months before we both realized we couldn’t stand living together. She’s a slob and I’m an unrepentant neat freak; even her excellent cleaning lady couldn’t bridge the gap between us.

When I arrive, Wanda’s already there at our favorite table. She looks gorgeous as usual. She’s thrown a turquoise cashmere wrap over a sea green silk camisole; endless strands of brightly colored beads sparkle at her throat. A jaunty suede hat completes the look. I’m surprised she’s here before me. Usually she sweeps in ten minutes late, after I’ve ordered for both of us and sucked down most of my latte.

“You’re not going to believe this,” she says the second I sit down, “but I found your dream man.”

“Not before coffee,” I warn her, signaling the waiter.

She lets out a little squeal. “I’m serious! He’s so perfect you’re going to wet yourself!”

A sour-faced woman with two little kids seated at the next table flashes us a look of distaste, but Wanda doesn’t notice.

“Tell me this isn’t the ‘project’ you mentioned for your—?”

“Fantasy matchmaking! Yes! And this guy has the biggest hard-on for dark-haired voluptuous sex kittens, Ruby. He’s the man for you! At least for one night.”

I clutch my forehead. “Okay, that’s way too much perkiness this early in the morning. Can we bring it down a couple notches until I catch up on the coffee?”

The waiter mercifully comes over to take my order, and soon we’re surrounded by delicious breakfast foods as well as fortifying caffeine. Wanda can’t stop talking about this guy. In the midst of her excited babble I piece together the following:

1. He’s from out of town, visiting for a couple weeks.

2. She met him at a party in Sausalito (i.e., super swanky).

3. He’s obsessed with 1950s pinup girls.

“You know I hate blind dates,” I remind her.

She holds up one finger. “No, no, no, this isn’t a blind date.”

“It sure sounds like one.”

“It’s a fantasy date.” When my expression doesn’t change, she presses on. “See, on a blind date you’re looking for something permanent. It’s like an audition for domestic life. You spend the first ten minutes obsessing over how his initials will look on the monogrammed towels, or how his nose will look on your baby’s face. This is totally different.”

“Because it’s just a hookup?” I ask, spearing a home fry.

“Because you already know the most important thing about each other: you share the same fantasy.” She takes a sip of cappuccino and licks the foam from her lips. “It’s the ideal setup for one night of no-strings-attached, totally uninhibited, completely fucking mind-blowing anonymous sex.”

The woman cutting up her toddler’s pancakes at the next table pauses to shoot us another scowl.

“That lady said a bad word, Mommy.” One of her rug rats, the one with jam smeared across his forehead, stares at us with wide-eyed awe.

“Yes, she did,” his mother agrees, her jaw tight.

Wanda smiles sweetly, then turns her attention back to me.

I lean toward her, lowering my voice self-consciously. “The whole thing sounds kind of sketchy. How much do even you know about him? I could end up dismembered.”

“I can’t reveal my sources,” she says. “I’m not even going to tell you his name—hence the anonymous part. But I will tell you this: he’s a perfect gentleman, well-bred with impeccable manners. Plus, he’s unspeakably hot.”

“If he’s so awesome, why would he be willing to go along with this?”

She gapes at me, indignant. “Men completely get this whole setup. It’s only women who struggle with it. Guys understand the power of isolating an encounter for maximum eroticism. Just because he’s open to a new, exciting experience doesn’t make him a sleaze.”

“Yeah. Okay. I see that.”

She stabs a strawberry with her fork and waves it at me. “Besides, you seriously need to get laid.”

“Hey!” I glance around, none too eager for the entire room to know I’m sexually deprived. “I’m fine being alone for now.”

“You are so far from fine, it’s not even funny. That little prick Derek messed with your head.”

She’s talking about Derek Ensler, this outdoor enthusiast I dated last year. Rock climbing was his religion. His idea of a romantic weekend away involved freeze-dried meals, backpacks and bouldering. Totally not me. When we broke up I burned every polar fleece item I owned. He ditched me for his personal trainer. Not the happiest chapter of my dating history.

“I’m over him,” I grumble, reluctant to rehash that mess.

“I know, but he left tangible scars. He’s almost as guilty as The Stick when it comes to damaging your self-esteem.” She chews the strawberry thoughtfully, then adds, “I think one night with a stranger who gets just how sexy you are would jump-start your confidence and kick you into high gear.”

I sigh. “Will you accept ‘I’ll think about it’?”

“No.” She laughs when she sees my pouty expression. “Okay! For now! But you’re going to say yes. I can feel it.”

I don’t have the heart to tell her right now, but there’s no way I’ll ever agree to her scheme. A blind date’s bad enough, but a blind date with a guy who expects me to fulfill his every fantasy? After outdoorsy Derek and the ego-deflating setbacks at work, I’m barely ready to inch my way into the shallow end of the dating pool. Yet here’s Wanda, urging me to do a backflip off the high dive. As much as I’d like to support her new venture, I can’t be her lab rat this time. I’ll let her cool down a little, and if it comes up again I’ll give her a firm no. For now, let her think she’s worked her magic.

Chapter Five

Gioioso

“We’ve been courting Gioioso for way too long. We’re tired of dating, it’s time to commit.” Felicity looks unusually severe in her dark tailored suit. She paces around the conference room like a panther sizing up her prey. “This meeting is our big shot, and I don’t intend to blow it.”

It’s Wednesday morning, and Felicity’s gathered three creative teams around the table to brainstorm: Dylan and Luke, Carrie and Matt, Simon and me. Felicity is unusually tense, which in turn makes all of us twitchy. Also, she happens to be right about Gioioso. If we don’t land this account at the big pitch in two weeks, we’ve wasted months courting a client we’ll never work with, and that represents dollars we’ll never get back.

“So, what do we really know about Gioioso?” Felicity looks around expectantly, eyes wide.

Dylan, always confident in that jovial, frat boy way that makes me cringe, pipes up first. “Plus-size clothing for women, very upmarket.”

“And very Italian.” Carrie swings her blond bob flirtatiously. “Gioioso means ‘joyous.’”

“Also sometimes translates as ‘buxom.’” Luke’s eyes flit to me with a crooked smile.

Yes. Buxom. I got that from the Google Translate page, too. Cheerful fat girls. Just my thing. I notice Carrie shooting a furtive glance my way. She and Matt exchange a quick smile. Looks like I’m the elephant in the room. I sometimes wonder how I got hired here at all. Maybe it was a diversity mandate; they had to fill their fat-girl quota.

Carrie, always eager to get in on a private joke, adds slyly, “They have an extensive line of plus-size undergarments.”

Just in case anyone wasn’t already thinking about that fucking picture, now they are. Thanks, Carrie.

Felicity turns to Simon and me, eyebrows arched in expectation. “Thoughts?”

“Well, I’ve been thinking...” My throat seizes up the way it always does when I try to speak in front of a group. I clear it and start again. “The plus-size market needs a fresh approach. Most of the comparable clothing lines in the U.S. have a distinctly dowdy look. Totally unsexy.”

“It’s hard to make a size sixteen look remotely appealing, let alone sexy.” Felicity looks around at everyone, as if challenging us to disagree.

“Exactly.” Dylan, who backs up everything Felicity has ever uttered, nods solemnly.

Simon’s dark eyes dart to me quickly before focusing on Felicity. “What I think Ruby meant to say is that one possible concept here could be ‘big is beautiful.’”

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