Ana didn’t judge her stop well. She was still moving fast when I caught her amidships. She pressed lithely against me, affectionate and not quite securely based. “Jaime! Jaime! I never thought you’d be here! I knew you were cool. You’re so cool. Oh.”
I let that pass. “Ana! Hey, it’s wonderful to see you. How you -” But though holding Ana was a pleasure, and I was intently aware of every place and every moment at which her body touched mine, I had to keep holding because her balance was off.
She said, “Jaime, Jaime, you’re such a lovely guy. I love you, man, ohahh love ya.” And she rubbed the top of her head into the crook of my arm until I made room for her.
I said, “you’re completely lovely too, Ana. Eccy?”
She giggled comfortably, complacently. “Couple. ”
“You’re not mad at me at me, are you?”
“Oh hell no. Nah. ” And I truly didn’t care. I was off duty, but even if I wasn’t, eccy prohibition was far too stupid and hypocritical to worry about. I’d dropped eccy a couple of times and found that it didn’t add much to my evening, but I felt that decision was up to me and not the government. Ana had the same rights as me. “Nah, you’re fine. Here, though, you could use a beer.”
I’d taken two beers from the kitchen. They were low alcohol and Ana would need to replace some body fluid. I cracked one and passed it to her. (I had to do it that way, so that I didn’t have to write, “I gave her one.”)
She said, “Hey!” and gave me her most brilliant smile, which would have made a lot of things worthwhile. So she poured beer down her throat and swallowed in a continuous flow, jogging her body against mine, more or less in time with the block-rocking, period-establishing, beats I mentioned back in the previous post. It was a noisy backyard.
I was beginning another Ana erection incident. She was still a client, and I still had legal powers over her. And though I think people have the right to have sex a bit indiscriminately when they’re on eccy, Ana was my client on eccy.
In “The Philadelphia Story” Jimmy Stewart carries Katherine Hepburn back to the house after a night in the swimming shed. They’re in robes. He tells her and other interested parties that they spent the night chastely: swam, talked, fell asleep. Hepburn had had champagne and doesn’t remember the night clearly. She’s a little offended to hear that he didn’t fuck her: “Was I so cold, so forbidding?”
Jimmy Stewart replies, “You weren’t cold, and as for forbidding, quite the reverse. But you were a little the worse, or better, for drink, and there are rules about about that sort of thing.”
We all approve of Stewart, but his rules are a bit simplistic. A lot of people will make a sexual advance or accept one after an eccy or three, or some big glasses of wine, that they wouldn’t make or accept if they were straight and sober. But that’s no reason why people should keep their hands off each other when they’re pixified.
The real rule is that people should ask themselves, seriously, if they think the other person is likely to wake up pleased to see them there, or if the other person is going to think, “what the hell have I done, and never again.”
We all have that duty of care, and though it’s true that assholes will abuse the rule, that’s true of any rule. But you do need a rule that allows a man or a woman to go out, get a little out of the world and their heads for a while, and do silly things they wouldn’t usually do.
Ana had that right. She was going to get laid that night, and whoever benefitted from that ambition was a very very lucky man. But it shouldn’t be me. It wasn’t the eccy. She was still my damn client.
I kissed her, though, and grinned back. “You have a fantastic night, Ana. I gotta, you know.”
“Dance with me!”
“I will. A bit later. But I left a girl, in the kitchen, you know.”
“Careless Jaime.” She came in a little closer, mouth to my ear. “Dance.”
I closed my eyes.