Gentle Joe

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Gentle Joe

The sweetest man I have ever known.

It was a Wednesday evening, and the restaurant was crowded as usual. If you had reservations, you could get your table without much delay, but for those unlucky walk-ins, it was almost an hour’s wait. So, my bar was pretty well slammed with those waiting for a table.

I did have a few empty stools at the bar, and I was pleased to see a familiar face approach and take a seat. “Gil,” I said as I wiped the bar in front of him and his apparent companion. “It’s good to see you.”

“Lauren,” he said as he and his friend made themselves as comfortable as one could on a barstool in a crowded bar. “I’d like you to meet Joe, an old and dear friend of mine.” Normally, when I see Gil in the bar, he is wearing a sports coat, slacks, and a dress shirt with an open collar–no tie. But tonight, both gentlemen were wearing tailored business suits with ties. I like a well-dressed man, and both Gil and his friend looked very sharp.

Reaching across the bar, I extended my hand to shake his. And as he reciprocated, his warm and dry hand clasped the cold, wet hand of a working bartender. “It’s nice to meet you, Joe,” I said with a friendly smile. “I would say I’ve heard so much about you–but I don’t think Gil has ever mentioned you before.”

It was a joke, of course. But as our hands released and retreated back to our respective sides of the bar, he didn’t crack a smile. I know you only get one chance to make a first impression, and I hoped that I hadn’t accidentally made a poor one. “Gil, I think I know what you would like. But Joe, what can I get for you?”

“Sure, Lauren,” Gil quickly responded. “I’ll have the usual.” The usual for Gil was an Old Fashion, and I knew how he liked them. Made with rye, not bourbon, on the dry side with a double shot of bitters. Then, an orange slice on the rim and two maraschino cherries on a skewer. Only he wanted the cherries blotted dry. I wouldn’t normally do this for the typical bar patron, but Gil was a very good customer and one of my little black book regulars.

I nodded my understanding and then turning quickly to his companion, asked, “And Joe, what about you?”

He hesitated briefly before softly replying, “I’ll have a Dewer’s on the rocks.”

As Joe’s was quicker to prepare, and he was Gil’s guest, I prepared his first. “Would you like a splash with that?” I asked as I set two highball glasses on the bar.

“No–just the rocks,” he responded. Dewars is a mid-shelf Scotch. It used to be very popular. But its popularity has slowly been surpassed by Johnny Walker. I’m not a Scotch drinker, so I don’t really have an opinion. However, I appreciate a drinker who drinks out of loyalty instead of following trends. Placing a bar napkin in front of Joe, I set his drink on it and quickly went to preparing Gil’s. I always mix it in front of him so he can observe me making it to his specifications, and he can watch me blot his cherries.

The two men clinked glasses and took a sip. But just then, I caught the glance of an impatient restaurant waitress standing at the server’s station. I looked over to the POS printer, and there was an order waiting for me. Talking to Gil and Joe, I guess I hadn’t heard it ding. Snapping the ticket from the printer, it was for two Chardonnays, which I quickly filled and placed on her tray. Without even a smile or a thank you, she slid the tray off the bar onto her hand, turned and was gone as unobtrusively as she had appeared.

Good riddance, I thought, and returned to Gil and Joe, who were friendlier and chatting with them would make the evening go by quicker. Plus, I had a sneaking suspicion that there was something they wanted to tell me.

“So, tell me, how do you two know each other?” I enquired.

Gil spoke first, as if he was waiting for the question. “Well, Joe, here is my attorney.”

“Gil. Are you in trouble with the law again?” I joked.

“No–no. Joe’s a business attorney. You know, contracts, business transactions, that sort of thing.”

I knew that, like I said, I was joking, and Gil at least got the joke. Poor Joe, however, just looked up briefly and gave an abbreviated smile. Clearly, he had something on his mind, and now I was curious as to why Gil brought him in to meet me.

The restaurant, as well as the bar, were busy, and I couldn’t stand and converse with them as I would have liked. I did have a bar back helping me, and he could handle beer orders. And there was a cocktail waitress working the tables in the bar, and she was competent to pour wine, as long as she didn’t have to open a new bottle. But the majority of the bartending duties were my responsibility, so on busy nights, Sahabet it kept me moving.

So, I was busy that night. But I was still able to get in a few brief conversations with Gil and Joe before their table was called. “Lauren,” Gil said during one of these respites. “Joe’s wife died several years ago….”

“Oh, Joe,” I’m so sorry,” I said as I looked him in the eye and laid my hand over his.

Joe didn’t say anything but nodded his acceptance of my expression of sympathy and mouthed a silent, ‘Thank you.’

I had to dash off to fill another order. Then, returning several minutes later, Gil said, “Lauren, Joe isn’t looking to start dating, and he’ll likely never remarry. But he still has needs.” Gil paused as he waited for my reaction. I knew what he meant. There wasn’t much to decode there. And when I didn’t say anything, Gil continued, “Lauren, I have told Joe what you do for me, and he’s interested in seeing if you could help him out as well. You know, like on a monthly or bi-monthly basis.”

I started to act all innocent–you know, tease them a bit. But looking over at Joe’s face and into his eyes, I realized it wasn’t time to joke. Joe was holding his drink with one hand, but taking the other in both of my hands, I quickly said, “Yes, Joe. Of course, I can help you.”

Gil had been an excellent black book client for over a year. And this was his first referral. So, if Joe was anywhere as sweet and generous as Gil, I knew he could become just as good for my bank account. And though Joe looked to be in his mid-sixties to Gil’s mid-forties, I still felt that any relationship could quickly become mutually beneficial.

Fearing I would be called away, back to my bartending duties at any moment, I quickly asked Joe, “Give me your phone.”

He paused for a second, but as I held my open hand out in front of him and wiggled my fingers, he soon reached into his jacket pocket to retrieve his cell phone. Quickly taking it from him, I searched for the contact button. His phone wasn’t an iPhone but an Android, so it took me a few seconds to find it. But once open, I hastily typed in my name and number. “There,” I said as I handed it back to him. “Lauren at Rocco’s and my cell number. Text me when you feel the need.” He took the phone, and staring at what I had just typed, I added, “No pressure, Joe, I don’t work at the bar on Mondays and Tuesdays, but text me whenever you feel that I might be able to help you.”

Joe nodded his understanding and slipped the phone back into his jacket pocket. Just then, I was called away to prepare another order. But when I returned, they were both standing with half-finished drinks in hand. “Lauren, our table is ready,” Gil said. “Give me the check so I can close our tab.”

“Gil, I can transfer it to your table.”

“No,” he insisted, “I want to close it out so I can tip you.” He already had his credit card out and was pushing it toward my hand.

I understood that, and turning to the POS terminal, I quickly closed his tab and ran his card. Then, returning the printed check to him, he promptly signed it and added a twenty-dollar gratuity, almost a 100% tip. Like I have said, Gil has always been very generous with me.

I didn’t include my last name when I entered my name and phone number in Joe’s phone. A girl still needs some privacy. But I also didn’t get Joe’s business card with his name and employer. And as Gil paid the bar tab, I wasn’t able to get a record of Joe’s credit card information. Both of these are standard precautions I take before agreeing to meet any gentleman for sex. However, I know and trust Gil, so I’ll just have to take other measures of due diligence, I told myself.

I hadn’t heard from Joe for at least ten days, and I had just about forgotten him when I received the following text. ‘Lauren, this is Joe. Gil introduced us ten days ago at your bar. I have been thinking about you, and I think I could use your help.’

‘Joe, it is nice to hear from you, and yes, I would love to help you any way I can,’ I immediately texted back.

I didn’t receive his reply for about twenty minutes. I felt that maybe he was getting cold feet again. But then he finally responded with, ‘Great Lauren. How about noon at my house on Monday? I think you said you had Monday’s off.’

Humm, there were two things here that had never occurred to me. First, though I generally don’t work during the day, I had never actually met a black book client during the daylight hours. Now that I think about it, I don’t know why. It had just never come up. The second thing was, and I agree this sounds weird also, I had never met a client at his home. Now, I assume that has to do with many (if Sahabet Giriş not all) of my clients are married. So, that would create a problem. Or, maybe they didn’t want to show me their home any more than I’m willing to invite a paying client into my home either. I guess it is just a matter of personal protection and privacy. But here it was; he wanted me to join him at his home and in broad daylight, no less.

Well, I had already been told he was a widower. So, there was no expectation of bumping into his wife or significant other. And to be honest, I was curious to see his house. Based on his suit, his age, and the fact that he was a lawyer, it was probably very nice. ‘Of course, Joe,’ I texted back. ‘Monday at noon works for me. What is your address?’

He quickly texted back his address, and I confirmed that we were all set. I should mention that neither one of us ever mentioned what services were being requested or fees he might expect, but that was common in this business. A wise provider would never discuss such matters in any recorded format–not in e-mails, texts, or phone calls that could be recorded. Things of this nature are only discussed one on one. So, this didn’t bother me. Besides, he was a friend of Gil’s, and that certainly gave me comfort.

Further, I now had his address. First, I Googled it, and it was very nice. It wasn’t Beverly Hills or Westwood, but it wasn’t far off. Then I switched to street view. Again, not bad. You couldn’t see the entire front of the house due to the landscaping, but you could see enough. It looked like your typical California Mid-century Contemporary, probably built in the sixties, which would make it about sixty years old. But it had been beautifully maintained and in a great neighborhood. So, I felt very relieved.

And as I had his street address, I could now look up the property owner on the Los Angeles County property tax website. Joseph P. I just don’t very often have an opportunity to do it. So, that really did intrigue me.

After my shift, while lying in bed, I finally couldn’t resist the temptation any longer. I flipped open my laptop and Googled Cecilia A. Howard. There was her obituary from the Los Angeles Times. Yes, she had died a little over two years ago–probably from cancer. It didn’t say that outright, but in lieu of flowers, it listed the American Cancer Society as the family’s preferred charity. And was she ever stunning. I can see why Joe still misses her. The photo was probably thirty years old, but she was strikingly beautiful. And they had four kids together. All are grown, married, and have professional careers of their own.

So, with my due diligence complete and feeling much better about meeting him, I added our date to my calendar and fell asleep.

Monday morning, I was up early and had coffee with a couple of my housemates. As soon as they all left for work, I ran for the shower, washed my hair and diligently cleaned all my pits and holes. I slipped on a thong. Then what to wear? Considering that Joe was at least three decades older than me, and some of his kids were probably older than me as well, I decided to go conservative. Other than a thong underneath, I put on a business casual outfit–like you might wear to work at a law firm. A white blouse, a tan cropped jacket, and a dark green knee-length skirt. Light jewelry, light makeup, and of course, sensible shoes. In the event there was anyone at his house besides Joe, I would look like a paralegal from his office or any other young professional woman.

I left our rent house around nine that morning. Driving over to Brentwood, I stopped at a Starbucks about a mile from his house and nursed a frozen latte while I waited for our scheduled date. It would only take about ten minutes to drive the final mile, and I wanted to appear at his door at noon on the dot. Not a moment early or late. Be sweet, be flexible, and be on time. Even though I only did this part-time and only for men I already knew, I was fully aware of the Escort’s Mantra.

Ringing the doorbell to the house, I stepped back and took a deep breath. Like any first-time client, you never knew what to expect until after it was all done. And I’ll be honest, I was worried about Joe being an older man, as much as I was curious. What did he really want to do, and what was he capable of doing? I’d never even been with a man past his late forties, and I was about to get naked with a man likely on Medicare.

“Lauren,” Joe said with a big smile as the door swung open. “You didn’t have any trouble finding the house, did you?”

“Oh, no. Mr. Google knew exactly where you lived,” I joked as I stepped inside.

“Yes, of course. I forget Sahabet Güncel Giriş about Mr. Google,” Joe laughed. “There’s no telling what he knows.”

I wanted to say so badly, ‘Oh, you have no idea.’ But I kept that little secret to myself. Just then, I heard the mantel clock chime twelve noon. I was right on time, and everything seemed to be going fine.

“Can I get you a glass of wine or anything, Lauren?” Joe asked as I followed him toward the kitchen and family room area of the house.

“Sure,” I said. “As long as you are having one, too.”

“Well, it’s a little early in the day, but this is a special occasion. So sure, I’ll have one also.”

As we reached the kitchen, I realized that he had set out snacks, fresh fruit, and of course, two wine glasses. “Red or white?” he asked. There was a wine refrigerator to his left and an impressive wall of built-in wine racks behind him. The wine rack likely held his collection of reds, and the whites were safely chilling in the cooler. “I’ll take the white,” I said. “And you’re right, it is a special occasion, so let’s celebrate.”

With that, he pulled out a very nice Pinot Grigio, effortlessly removed the cork, and served us both a nice, healthy pour. We clinked glasses as he motioned for me to take one of the nearby bar-height chairs at the kitchen island, and then he took the chair beside me. After a sip of wine, Joe cut a piece of cheese from the snack tray and folded it over a cracker. He then nervously took a bite of his cheese-n-cracker appetizer, followed by a sip of wine. I dropped a green grape into my mouth and with a sip of cool wine, gently popped it with my teeth. The wine-grape combination was very sensual, and keeping my eyes locked to his, I fantasized about what else I could pop into my mouth and gently massage with my tongue until it exploded.

Interrupting my daydreaming, with a solemn look on his face, Joe said, “Lauren, as Gil told you, my wife died several years ago, and I have been at a loss ever since. I do not want to remarry or even date another woman. Because in my current state of mind, no one would ever be able to replace her.”

I nodded my understanding and placing my wine glass on the bar, I took his hand in mine. “I understand, Joe,” I said tenderly. “And if there is anything I can do, just let me know.”

“Well,” he began before taking another long sip of wine. “I still have needs. I need to feel the tenderness of a woman, the touch, the scent, the feel. I need the intimacy of another woman to help me get over my grief. But, at least for now, I’m not looking for another long-term partner.”

“Joe, I can help you with that,” I said as I squeezed his hand. I then took another long sip of wine myself before standing and saying, “Why don’t you show me the rest of your house?”

Of course, it was the bedroom I wanted to see, and I’m sure he understood that. For he took my hand and led me down toward the back of the house, he merely pointed out this and that, until we reached his bedroom. It was very nice. Probably twice the size of any bedroom I had ever seen, with sliding glass doors going out to the pool and a massive California King bed. Again, I was impressed, but I wasn’t here for the Homes & Gardens tour. I was here to see if I could help Joe with his problem.

Standing at the foot of his bed, I’m pretty sure he didn’t know what to do. And I was also on a little bit of shaky ground myself. I was not some whore he picked up on the street. I saw myself more in the light of a sex therapist. I was there to help Joe get over the grief of losing his wife and then back to being intimate with another woman. Joe may have been in his mid-sixties, but he was nowhere near the end of his life.

To break the ice, I suggested, “Joe… how about a shower?”

To which he agreed. Not so much in words, but with a genuine smile that slowly spread across his face and a gentle nod of his head. “Great,” I said, and with that, I started unbuttoning his shirt. He soon got the message that within a matter of minutes, we would both be naked, and he quickly took over his own undressing.

Realizing that he was on the right track, I stepped back and turned toward the bathroom. I dropped my jacket on a nearby chair, and once in his bathroom, I reached to turn on the shower and adjust the temperature. Wow, once again. The Master Bath was beautiful. There was a Jacuzzi tub big enough for two and a shower big enough for a basketball team. Honestly, I bet you could get five adults in there at the same time and still have room for the coach.

While the water was getting comfy, I began my own undressing by removing my shirt, bra, and skirt. All of which I carried back out into the bedroom to add to my jacket on the chair. That left me wearing nothing but my black thong and a smile. And to my pleasant surprise, Joe was in the same state of undress. He was down to his boxers and looking relaxed as well.

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