VEE. The person within me who wished to toss her hands in the air at the end of the work day and be in charge of absolutely nothing walked through the door of the bar and scanned the booths for Mr. Ripton. After determining he had not shown up yet, she picked a seat close to the door and sat down to wait.

Something about an alpha male made me feel weak in the knees. Contrary to what most of my girlfriends believed, an alpha male did not need to be big, muscular, or a bad boy. For me it helped, and it helped a lot. I knew I was attracted to a man who not only desired to take charge, but one who was intimidating to me and anyone else he may come in contact with. Further, I knew I could and would submit to the right man, regardless of size, muscular structure, and/or attitude.

If Ripp was who I hoped he might be, he would certainly fill every sexual and relationship void within me.

“What can I get you,” the waiter asked.

“Ultra, bottle,” I responded.

“Be right back,” he smiled.

I smiled and leaned into the cushion of the booth. A quick check of my watch confirmed the dead battery was still just that, dead. Permanently stuck on 5:50, it often fooled me into thinking it was time to go home, even when it wasn’t. I had vowed to replace the battery for the last six months, and never quite found the time.

“Ultra,” the waiter said as he slid the beer to the center of the table, “want to start a tab?”

“Sure,” I smiled as I nodded my head.

“Someone joining you?” he asked.

“Yeah, he’s a big bald guy. Like really big. He’s got a little bit of a don’t fuck with me look about him,” I chuckled.

“Shorts, tee-shirt, tattoos, and a big white watch?” he asked.

Tattoo’s? Wouldn’t that be nice.

I raised my eyebrows and smiled, “You know him?”

He stepped away from the booth and pointed toward the entrance. I leaned into the aisle and peered toward the door. Mr. Ripton’s quick paced walk was as difficult to disguise as was his size and smile. As self-conscious as he was the day we met, he must have smiled a dozen times - revealing his gold tooth each time he did so.

I stood as he approached the booth and extended my hand, “Mr. Ripton.”

“Vee. How are ya?” he asked as he shook my hand.

“I’m great. Glad the day’s over,” I grinned.

“What can I get ya,” the waiter asked.

“Ultra. Bottle,” he responded as he inched his way into the booth and sat down.

Dressed in shorts, canvas sneakers and a tee shirt, he looked like a professional athlete - probably a professional football player. As I admired his physique and began to study his tattoos, he pressed his hand against the table and repositioned himself in the seat. As he gripped the table, his forearms flexed. They were comparable in size to my thighs. I looked up at his face to find him staring at my boobs.

This might work out perfectly.

I held my bottle in the air for him to see that we had similar interests in beer. As he noticed my choice of drink he smiled, revealing his gold tooth. Looking across the booth, I found it increasingly difficult not to stare at his tattoos. For being massive, muscular, and covered in tattoos, there was something about him which was just, well, attractive. Uncertain if it was his boyish smile, or the attitude that arrived five minutes before he did, I sat on my side of the booth and stared. Ripp seemed to bring out the little girl in me. I grazed my mouth with the back of my hand to check for drool as I attempted to start a conversation.

“So, tough day at the office?” I chuckled.

“A jet-wash got into the right engine as I lowered her to eight thousand feet,” he raised his hand over his head, palm flat, and steadied it.

“I had concerns if I could still land it without passing the runway and making a second go at it,” he slowly lowered his hand toward the table in a sweeping motion, focusing his gaze on it as he did.

“Luckily I pulled it out. Landed with three minutes to spare, and all the passengers were safe and sound. Another great day at Continental Airlines,” he touched his hand to the table lightly and sighed as if relieved.

He looked up as the waiter handed him a bottle of beer. He smiled, raised his beer in the air, and took a slow sip.

“Pilot?” I asked, surprised and somewhat disappointed.

“No. I’m not a pilot. I’m a professional boxer,” he grinned, “how about you?”

“So, you’re a pilot or a boxer?” I asked as I tipped my bottle to my lips.

In an absolutely impossible to follow blur, his hands threw a dozen or so punches in the air. As he lowered them to rest on the table, he grinned.

He’s a boxer. He beats on other men in a small confined space. And he’s so good at it they pay him to do it.

My entire body went numb. I crossed my legs.

Squish.

Five years. My husband and I had been apart for five years, and the best I could recall, short of a date or two immediately after the divorce, I hadn’t been with a single man since. I told myself I wouldn’t settle, at least initially. After that, I never quite found the time to date. Too many disappointments followed with each successive date. To be brutally honest, I saw very little value in continuing.

I lowered my chin between the thumb and index finger of my right hand as I rested my elbow on the table. After what was probably several minutes of silent staring, Ripp broke the silence.

“So, you gonna answer?” he chuckled.

“Excuse me?” his question caused me to realize I was floating mindlessly in the booth.

“I asked you what you do. It’s kind of customary. You ask me, I ask you,” he rested his forearms on the table and clasped his hands together.

“Oh. Well, I’ll tell you my life story, how’s that?” I blinked my eyes and admired his strong jaw.

“I’ll make mental notes,” he leaned closer to the center of the table and studied my face.

“Well, let’s see,” I looked up as if I were extracting facts from the air.

I looked down from the ceiling, focused on his Adam’s apple, and began.

“Born and raised in Austin, Texas. After high school, I attended college - two years pre-law, and two years criminal justice. I obtained my Juris Doctor in three and my Masters of Law in two. During my JD, I got married to a man I felt I was or at least could be in love with. But, I was in love with the concept of love,” I took a breath as he stared blankly at my face.

“I went to work for my overworked father, who my mother divorced for just that reason. I, not unlike my father, worked my respective fingers to the bone in hopes of finding some sort of answer or answers to my lack of satisfaction at home. My civil law practicing pushover of a husband never felt a desire or need to take charge of me or anything else for that matter, leaving me no other alternative but to leave him, which I did five or so years ago. I have, for all practical purposes, been single since. I now practice at my dying father’s law office, Simon, Simon, And Simone. I’m the second Simon; Vivian to be more specific. I never took my former husband’s name,” I paused and blinked as my unfocused eyes looked over his shoulder at nothingness.

“Oh, and it was a little bit of blind luck we happened onto each other in here the other day. I came in with Tonia to celebrate her divorce being final. I haven’t been out in years. I work and I work out. That’s it,” I exhaled, interlocked my fingers, and smiled as I focused on his face.

“You’re an attorney? So you put people in prison?” he asked without an ounce of expression.

“No, actually I keep them out. I am a Federal Defense Attorney. I primarily practice Federal Law. And I defend clients, I don’t prosecute them,” I raised my eyebrows and rocked my head from side to side.

In my mind, comparing a defense attorney to a prosecuting attorney was comparing black to white. To me, and I am not certain everyone shared my views, prosecuting attorneys were more often than not, utter garbage. I sat nervously and waited for him to speak.

“So, in a nutshell, you’re overworked. You don’t get out much, and you’re interested in me because you think I’m a take charge type of individual. Oh, and listening to you talk is…” he paused, looked down at the table and narrowed his gaze.

“Interesting. It’s like you had the entire speech prepared and read it off of a chalkboard in your head or something. And you talk too damned fast,” he looked up and smiled.

“We have time limits on speaking. Opening. Closing. Anyway. So, your thoughts?” I took a delicate girlish sip of my beer.

“So far, I like you. I want to know five things,” he waved his right index finger in my direction as he spoke.

“Anything,” I responded without hesitation.

“Age, percentage of body fat, height barefoot, your go-to meat, and what you hope to get from me,” he rubbed his hands together as he finished speaking.

I looked up toward the ceiling and scanned the perimeter of the bar as I thought. He asked an interesting list of question, no doubt. I looked down at the table as he rubbed his massive hands together.

I bet he has a big cock.

“Thirty-three on September 26^th. Ten percent. Five foot two, but I’ll claim three. You’ll have to expand on the meat question, I have no idea what it means. And let’s see, I’m a no nonsense lady. I have no time or patience for bullshit. I don’t play games, I don’t sleep around, and I don’t want someone to fuck me over or lead me down some strange time consuming path,” I inhaled and waited for his response.

“Meat, Vee. If you had to pick a perfect meat, what would it be? If you had to choose one? Your go-to meat. And you didn’t answer my question. You dodged it. What do you hope to get from me? Don’t tell me what you hope not to get. What do you want this meeting lead to?” he finished speaking and calmly raised his beer bottle to his lips.

“Oh, sorry. Chicken,” I laughed.

I hesitated and thought of how to respond to the last question. There was no value for either of us in wasting any time or effort if we did not have similar interests. He was an extremely attractive man and it appeared he possessed a great personality. Additionally, something about him intrigued me. Looks and personality alone, however, wouldn’t satisfy me and I knew this. I could look at pictures on the internet, and my ex-husband was proof a personality, in itself, wasn’t sufficient. I decided to tell him exactly what I was hoping for; I just needed to make it sound attractive to him.

“I am a loving, caring, and fairly compassionate woman. I am a competitor. I work hard, and I make a fabulous living doing so. In a relationship, for almost everyone, it gets down to sex. A couple either has sex or they don’t. Inevitably, if there’s no sex, one or both parties end up straying, finding sex, and the relationship dissolves. If there is sex, the sex needs to be satisfying to both parties. If the sex is not satisfying, one or both parties end up straying, finding sex, and the relationship dissolves. The bottom line is this: If one or both parties in a relationship desire and enjoy sex, the sex must be satisfying to both parties. It must be,” I raised my beer bottle to my mouth, drank the remaining portion, and waved the bottle toward the passing waiter.

“Keep going,” he nodded and waved his finger in the air as the waiter passed.

“We can get into the details later if need be. The bottom line, as I say, is this. Sexually, I am submissive. I am not a weak woman and I am not a pushover. I am not, by my own diagnosis, codependent. But sexually I need a man to take charge and I do mean take charge. I desire, and more importantly, I need to be put in my respective sexual place. In the absence of having a dominant male partner, I will have nothing,” I waited as the waiter slid two beers across the table, and continued.

“Bottom line? First, you must be that person. You must be dominant, and be willing to take control of me. Moreover, you must desire it as much as I. I want to live under a man’s thumb which is firmly placed on top of me, smashing me into the submissive sexual being he so desires. If you’re potentially that person, I want to get to know you. If you’re not that person, if you can be satisfied by mundane, ho-hum vanilla sex, we should finish our beers, shake hands and go our separate ways. Are you Dominant, Mr. Ripton?” I crossed my legs and waited anxiously for his reply.

“I am a dominant male, and I prefer to be in a relationship where I am a Dom to a submissive female. Actually, I require it,” he said flatly, his beer bottle dangling loosely from his fingers as he spoke.

Thank. Fucking. God.

“So,” he rubbed his fingers across the scruff of hair on his chin, “you don’t fuck around sexually? You’re not sexually promiscuous?”

I shook my head, “No, not at all.”

“And you’re not after a quick fuck?” he asked.

“No. If that’s what I thought you wanted, I’d leave now.”

“You think you’re submissive?” he tipped his beer bottle to his lips and held it as he waited for my response.

“I know I am,” I smiled.

“Let’s jump ahead and say everything between us works out, Vee. For the sake of this conversation, make that assumption,” he slid his beer bottle to the side and leaned forward to the center of the booth, resting his forearms on the edge of the table.

Naturally, I leaned forward and waited for him to speak. I felt his warm breath on my face as he studied my eyes. Nervously, I crossed my legs again. Something about him made me nervous; the good nervous. I wanted him to touch me, desperately. He moved his hands to his chin and inhaled a slow breath through his nose as his eyes scanned every inch of me which was above the surface of the table. His gaze met mine and stopped as he softly exhaled.

“Listen carefully, alright Vee?” he breathed.

All I could do was nod my head and stare as I waited for him to speak. I crossed my legs.

Again.

He curled his index finger toward his palm, motioning for me to come closer. He was, without a doubt, toying with me. I was so close I could already feel his breath against my lips. I moved two inches closer, leaving no more than a few inches between our lips. As soon as I settled into place, I attempted to swallow the lump which had formed in my throat. As if he knew it would make me uneasy, he began to whisper.

I love it when a man whispers.

“I fight bare knuckles matches in Rundberg. Yeah, in Rundberg. Those fights. I box professionally, but not as frequently as I’d like. I make ten grand a year boxing if I’m lucky, and most of that comes from training other boxers. I make twenty five or thirty grand fighting bare knuckles. I’ve never been to prison, but I should have a few dozen times. I’m of the opinion, short of maybe one person on this earth, that there isn’t a man alive who can whip my ass. Not a god damned one. I’ve been stabbed, beaten with a club, shot at, and just two or three nights ago, knocked a man out who tried to rob me at gunpoint. Everyone these days thinks that they want a bad boy. Well, they don’t get any badder than this,” he raised his head and pointed his two index fingers at his chest.

“The problem Vee, if there is one, is this. I’m one wild motherfucker. It’s extremely difficult to keep my focus on one thing, person or event. If we reach a point we start fucking, and I’m pretty sure we will, you better fuck me as if your life depends on it. Because when it comes to sex, I’m not easily amused or entertained,” he reached over, placed his finger under my chin, and tilted my head back as he studied my eyes.

I squeezed my thighs together.

Squish.

“And if you don’t entertain me the first time we fuck, this will end quick, real quick. If you do, and if you have the ability to keep my attention sexually, I’ll fuck you in a manner and in ways you have no ability of even comprehending. You just don’t. Because if you haven’t had my ten inches of pierced cock shoved in you and these hands all over your body, you haven’t even been fucked yet. You’ve just been fucked with,” he pulled his hand away from my face and slowly leaned into the booth.

Did he say ten inches?

Of pierced cock?

I swallowed hard and opened my mouth, hoping I would be able to form a legible sentence. “Where do I sign up, Mr. Ripton?” I sighed.

“Call me Ripp, Vee. And I ain’t Christian Grey; I don’t have a contract for you to sign. You’re a woman of character. All I need is for you to shake on it. Make a fist,” he said as he leaned forward and held his clenched hand over the center of the table.

“A handshake? With a fist?” I scrunched my brow in confusion as I reached toward his hand.

“Make a fist and we’ll shake on it,” he said sternly as he shook his fist over the table.

I formed my hand into a fist and held it over the center of the table.

And with that, Mike Ripton pounded his knuckles into mine, and he smiled. And at that exact moment, I knew two things without a doubt.

He was dead serious.

And I was in over my head.

Way over my head.