The Coffee Shop

I’m not getting it at home. At least not how I want it right now. I’m trying. Scott is sexually timid, vanilla despite his paprika-colored hair. Suck me. Lick me. Kiss me. And now I will enter you. There are times I could play Scrabble on my Blackberry while he’s going for it and not miss a thing.

I act, and pretend I’m satisfied. That was the mistake, because I’m not.

I want Don Draper to bang me. I mean, show me a woman who doesn’t. I want him to knock on my apartment door, bust in, rip open my shirt, wrap my legs around his waist and pin me against the wall. Then I want the cad to pack up his alcoholic chain-smoking emotional baggage when he’s had his way with me and go home.

I have to meet Don first, of course. So I suggested to Scott -- why don’t we play a game. Let’s play pick-up at a bar; someplace old-fashioned and elegant in Manhattan. I’ll dress up. I’ll sit at the end of the bar. I’ll order an old-fashioned. I’ll wear that gigantic opal and ruby cocktail ring you bought for me. You’ll come in wearing a suit – something both Scott and Don do incredibly well. You must have a starched handkerchief square in your jacket pocket. The fedora is optional.

You’ll send a drink to the lady at the other end of the bar. I’ll smile. You’ll sit next to me. We’ll play getting to know you. You’ll take me home and throw me on the floor and fuck me until I cry.

I thought I’d gotten him to like the idea. He told me, I’m warming up to it.

I surfed the net at the office when I was alleged to be working, looking for a new dress. Something subtle but sexy. I planned to buy a garter belt and fishnet stockings. I planned my makeup and hair.

This morning he told me no. His therapist encouraged him to say he’s not ready and he doesn’t like the idea and it makes him nervous and --

Don would say to hell with your shrink. I want this. I want to feel you up in a cab. I want to feel those stockings end no other fabric begin. I want to hear the snap as I unhook your bra and hold you down and smell the Chanel No. 5 on your throat and whisper what I want to do into your ear and feel the cold metal of your earrings on my lips. Don would trace his five o’clock shadow across my breasts and on the inside my thighs until I screamed.

I’m astonished at my anger. I wanted this. I envisioned it. It made me sweat on the subway.

I left the apartment when he told me no. I never do that – I am the one who comforts, who holds his hand, and tells him I’m not angry. Well, to hell with that. I’m angry.

I came here, to the small-but-not-pretentious coffee shop on 77^th Street in Queens. I cried in the bathroom here, with it’s dark blue walls stenciled with sea creatures. I’ve ordered a latte and I’m drinking it alone because my husband won’t have an old-fashioned with me.