Porsche. He shrugs out of his light
jacket and hands it to me. “Wear this in case anyone else might be in the
elevator.” I nod and slip on the jacket. It smells like the restaurant we
just left, and a bit like a spicy musk that gives me a flash of familiarity,
but it’s quickly gone. He leads me over to the elevator and presses the button
to go up, and then inside he presses another button to go to the eighteenth
floor. No one else is in there, but Drake doesn’t touch me, and we don’t say
anything to each other, and I wonder if he is upset about something or what he
might be thinking. The doors open on eighteen. I step out and let him pass
me, and then follow him down a long hallway to a door that says 1806 in brass
numbers. He lets me in to his place.
The view is beautiful. I can see
the Chicago River through one set of floor to ceiling glass windows and Navy
Pier through the other set. Drake turns the lights on and the city lights
become less prominent, but I can see that his color scheme of his apartment is
the complete opposite of his car. Everything is completely white and
immaculate. While my walls are white, my constant chain smoking has probably
tinged them a dingy yellow over time. His are glowing, and the word “pristine”
comes to mind. Various pieces of abstract artwork covered his walls which tied
in the red shag rug and plush red sofas. His kitchen was an open area with
shiny white cabinets and light granite countertops, all gleaming from lack of
use, no doubt. Christ, what the hell was I doing with this guy? I spot a
glass sliding door and I step onto a balcony and light up before I
hyperventilate. Drake follows me outside. I am still wearing his jacket but
it’s so warm outside, I start to shrug it off. Drake looks amused.
“Do you realize that people have
telescopes and binoculars around here and are probably enjoying the show you’re
giving them?” he asks me, looking pointedly at my bare chest. I shrug. My
level of caring went on permanent hiatus years ago.
“So cover me,” I tell him and pull
him over and put his hands over my breasts. I finish smoking and pitch the
cigarette butt over the balcony. I lazily drape my arms over his shoulders and
link my fingers behind his neck and push myself against him and find his lips
with my own. He tastes of bourbon and I notice he’s poured himself a drink. I
realize that he’s a non-smoker kissing a smoker. I’ve heard that kissing a
smoker is like kissing an ashtray, which is a disgusting thought. I decide to
help the cause and take a swig of his bourbon. I note that it’s definitely
good quality stuff. I could get used to this lifestyle.
“Follow me,” Drake says. He leads
me off the balcony and slides the door closed behind me. I follow him down a
short hallway to a large bedroom. Again, I am comparing my shoddy mattress and
sheets on the floor to his lavish masculine black wood sleigh bed. His room is
simple in décor (like mine!) with a bed, two nightstands and a bureau in the
corner where I assume a television is concealed. The curtains are closed
otherwise Drake would have a view of Navy Pier, I judge based on the layout I
recall of his living room. It occurred to me that Drake is classy enough to
have a “living room”, while the rest of Chicago has “front rooms” or
“fronchrooms” as we tend to say. “Sit in the middle of the bed and strip,” he
tells me flatly. Now I see there is a chair off to the side and he sits on it,
fully clothed and calm with his drink, sipping casually.
I go along and sit down on his soft
duvet, feeling myself sink in. I now notice it’s not completely white like
everything else but rather a very light silvery grey. Since stripping doesn’t
really involve much at this point, it doesn’t take much effort to hook my
thumbs inside of the bikini straps across my hips and pull my panties down and
toss them off
jacket and hands it to me. “Wear this in case anyone else might be in the
elevator.” I nod and slip on the jacket. It smells like the restaurant we
just left, and a bit like a spicy musk that gives me a flash of familiarity,
but it’s quickly gone. He leads me over to the elevator and presses the button
to go up, and then inside he presses another button to go to the eighteenth
floor. No one else is in there, but Drake doesn’t touch me, and we don’t say
anything to each other, and I wonder if he is upset about something or what he
might be thinking. The doors open on eighteen. I step out and let him pass
me, and then follow him down a long hallway to a door that says 1806 in brass
numbers. He lets me in to his place.
The view is beautiful. I can see
the Chicago River through one set of floor to ceiling glass windows and Navy
Pier through the other set. Drake turns the lights on and the city lights
become less prominent, but I can see that his color scheme of his apartment is
the complete opposite of his car. Everything is completely white and
immaculate. While my walls are white, my constant chain smoking has probably
tinged them a dingy yellow over time. His are glowing, and the word “pristine”
comes to mind. Various pieces of abstract artwork covered his walls which tied
in the red shag rug and plush red sofas. His kitchen was an open area with
shiny white cabinets and light granite countertops, all gleaming from lack of
use, no doubt. Christ, what the hell was I doing with this guy? I spot a
glass sliding door and I step onto a balcony and light up before I
hyperventilate. Drake follows me outside. I am still wearing his jacket but
it’s so warm outside, I start to shrug it off. Drake looks amused.
“Do you realize that people have
telescopes and binoculars around here and are probably enjoying the show you’re
giving them?” he asks me, looking pointedly at my bare chest. I shrug. My
level of caring went on permanent hiatus years ago.
“So cover me,” I tell him and pull
him over and put his hands over my breasts. I finish smoking and pitch the
cigarette butt over the balcony. I lazily drape my arms over his shoulders and
link my fingers behind his neck and push myself against him and find his lips
with my own. He tastes of bourbon and I notice he’s poured himself a drink. I
realize that he’s a non-smoker kissing a smoker. I’ve heard that kissing a
smoker is like kissing an ashtray, which is a disgusting thought. I decide to
help the cause and take a swig of his bourbon. I note that it’s definitely
good quality stuff. I could get used to this lifestyle.
“Follow me,” Drake says. He leads
me off the balcony and slides the door closed behind me. I follow him down a
short hallway to a large bedroom. Again, I am comparing my shoddy mattress and
sheets on the floor to his lavish masculine black wood sleigh bed. His room is
simple in décor (like mine!) with a bed, two nightstands and a bureau in the
corner where I assume a television is concealed. The curtains are closed
otherwise Drake would have a view of Navy Pier, I judge based on the layout I
recall of his living room. It occurred to me that Drake is classy enough to
have a “living room”, while the rest of Chicago has “front rooms” or
“fronchrooms” as we tend to say. “Sit in the middle of the bed and strip,” he
tells me flatly. Now I see there is a chair off to the side and he sits on it,
fully clothed and calm with his drink, sipping casually.
I go along and sit down on his soft
duvet, feeling myself sink in. I now notice it’s not completely white like
everything else but rather a very light silvery grey. Since stripping doesn’t
really involve much at this point, it doesn’t take much effort to hook my
thumbs inside of the bikini straps across my hips and pull my panties down and
toss them off
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