Many years ago, I was a 28-year-old court reporter who had never been to New York.  Heck, I’d hardly been anywhere. 

            My client (and, um, squeeze), Mr. Handsome Lawyer, needed to take the depositions of some big shots in Manhattan the week after Thanksgiving.  He wanted me to do the court reporting and make the travel arrangements for us both. 

            I asked him which hotel we should stay at.  He said, “The Waldorf.”  Who knew it was the only hotel in NYC he knew the name of?  This guy I thought was so worldly (turned out he was just a lot older than me and had learned to fake it) thought Holiday Inns were pretty snazzy.  The hotels I knew came from reading books and magazines: the Waldorf, the Pierre, the Plaza.  (Didn’t Madeline stay there?)

            So I called the Waldorf and asked for a room for three nights.  They only had one for Sunday and it was a suite.  I figured he said Waldorf, so we're staying at the Waldorf.  I booked it.  Then called the Pierre and got Monday and Tuesday night covered there.  Done (dusting hands off).  Went shopping.

            I had suits for the work part but wanted something dishy for a night out, so I went to my favorite little shop that sold very cool European stuff.  And there was a pair of black velvet jeans-cut pants that made my ass look like one of those luscious asses in the lingerie ads.  Don't tell me great clothing designers aren't magicians.  You shoulda seen my ass; you'd be a believer.  Some blouse or top or something went in the shopping bag, too, but it was an afterthought.  It was all about those pants.

            My friend Linda lived up in Rye, so I flew in before Thanksgiving and spent three days with her.  We went to auntie’s house in Connecticut for turkey on Thursday and it snowed.  Whoa. This trip could not have been cooler.  Linda drove me to the Waldorf Sunday afternoon and I checked in.  Hel-lo, Big City.

            The suite had three – or four? – rooms: a foyer from the hall, a sitting room, then a hall with a bath in the same direction as the foyer and the bedroom.  There was lots of oldish furniture, kinda gloomy and wallpaper-y but nice enough.  I unpacked my velvet pants and some snazzy ankle boots, put my blond hair in a kinda twirly up-do and waited.

            Handsome blew into the room later, pitched his stuff and fixed us a Scotch and soda from the minibar, started snuggling my neck.  Wasting my chance to wear those pants wasn’t on my to-do list, so I hustled him downstairs where the doorman (with his eyes on my bum and a smile on his face) swooshed us into a cab.

            We headed for an Italian restaurant in the Village I’d made a reservation at.  What did I know from the Village?  Someone had recommended the place; I don’t even remember who.  The bar was sardines.  I swear I could feel some guy’s actual stuff pressing on my left leg.  Actually, I think I was pinned from all four sides.  I began to worry about what might be getting on my pants.

            The maitre d’ called us, and we were taken to a table out in the middle of the room, a little toward the back.  I noticed that there were only men at the tables and booths.  All Italian.  With bulges under their clothes. (Guns, not penises.  Well, maybe penises, too.)  No women, no blondes, no other hottest black velvet pants east of the Mississippi.  All the Mafia thugs stopped talking as we came through; by the time we got to the table you could have heard a pin drop.  Handsome was all puffed up, cocky rooster man, but trying not to be too obvious.  I was pretty sure I wasn't getting out of there alive.

            We proceed to drink more scotches, some wine, eat dinner.  Then, because we hadn't had enough to drink to totally feel like crap in the morning, we slurped up a few cognacs.  Guaranteed.  I’m swaying precipitously on my high-heeled boots as we make our way to the door.  As woozy as I was, I could feel sixty Italian eyes  burning like lasers on my ass.

            Did anyone tell me there would be absolutely zero cabs in that block on a Sunday night?  Don’t even ask how many blocks we walked to find one with a working streetlight on a street that looked like maybe live people ever went there.  Hundreds of hours later, we’re flying back to the Waldorf in a Checker.

            We start making out in the cab.  There wasn’t a lot of traffic at that time of night, so there wasn’t enough time to steam up the windows or anything.  Plus, the cab driver kept talking, so I answered him, polite girl that I was, while Handsome’s hands were swooping around inside my shirt.

            At the hotel, things really heated up in the elevator, which was slow, let me tell you.  I remember the sound of a zipper, but I’m pretty sure I didn’t actually take my pants off in the elevator, and I’m positive I didn’t leave them in there.

            Handsome set a new personal best 50-yard dash getting to the bedroom.  I just remember shedding clothes along the way while kissing nonstop at the same time.  Multitalented multitaskers, way before our time.

            You know how you lose track of time?  Well, sometime later – hours, probably – I am sound asleep after being heroically pummeled and prodded, dead asleep, mind you, when the sound of knocking – rap rap rap – opens my baby blues.  Pat pat pat the mattress.  Not there.  Where is Handsome?  I peer (no glasses, severe myopia, can’t see a freakin’ thing) in the dark – Handsome? – get up and walk down the hall.  The bathroom door on my left is – stick your hand out, swish it around – open, dark in there, no Handsome.  Rap rap rap, louder.

            Down the hall farther, right turn into the sitting room.  Light coming from outside reveal no Handsome lounging on the settee.  Still knocking, rap rap rap.  Where the hell IS he?

     Back into the hall toward the bedroom, rap rap much more faint now.  This is like a game of  Marco Polo in the pool back home, for Pete's sake. Turn around, go back.  Knocking louder in the foyer?  He didn’t go outside, did he??

            Let’s remember I’m naked.  I don’t open the door.  I say, “Handsome?” into the crack between the door and the jamb from inside.  There comes a furious but furtive rap rap rap rap rap rap rap staccato answer from the hallway and a hissed "Open the door.”

            I do.  And peer around the jamb.  It’s insanely bright out there.  My eyes are squinted half-closed, and I’m pretty blind anyhow, but even I can see completely naked Handsome, who has plastered his whole body from ribcage to ankles up against the wall.  It looks like he’s trying to, well, love the wall.

            “How did you get out here?”

            “I thought it was the door to the bathroom.”

            “Didn’t you think it was weird that it was so light in the bathroom and you couldn't see a sink?”

            “Yeah, but by that time the door had closed.”

            “Whoa.  Your reaction time is way off.”

            “Let me in.” 

            “Did anyone see you?” 

            He says, “Not yet,” and leaps into the open door.  A naked guy, with Handsome's, um, stuff leaping is a sight you don’t soon forget.  The elevator bell, across the hall, was dinging as I closed the door, and we hoofed it, giggling, back to bed.  More hilarity and pummeling followed. 

            After probably 90 minutes of actual sleep, the wake-up call rang us awake.  Holy crap.  Look at this mess!!  There were clothes and bed linens and god-only-knows-what-else all over the bedroom.  It looked like a laundry cart and a couple suitcases had exploded in there. 

            And I’ve got to get showered, dry my hair, put on makeup and my power suit and pack everything into our suitcases because we have to check out before we go to the deposition.  There will not be enough time at noon to come back here, get our stuff, check out, eat something – god, I’m so hungry now and there isn’t time for breakfast – and get back to the office for the afternoon session.  Gotta do it now.

            I’m hopping around on one 4-inch heel, trying to find my other shoe, slamming stuff into bags, wondering how I’m ever going to get through the day with this horrific hangover while my studly friend reads his notes to prep for Big Dog’s interrogation.

            We plowed through the day and in the evening strolled into the Pierre (which was far groovier than the Waldorf, lemme tell ya), handed off our bags and slid into the bar to start the rotation all over again.  Another night of boom-boom followed, but I was careful not to fling clothes around and throw bedspreads on the floor, so I’m pretty sure it wasn’t at the Pierre that I left those gorgeous black velvet pants.  I think it was in the chaos we left behind in the bedroom of the Waldorf. 

            And some nice Puerto Rican lady, who worked for crap money cleaning rooms at the Waldorf, probably got to wear my pants to a Christmas party a month later.  As much as I loved those pants – and really missed them when I didn’t find them wadded up in my suitcase when I got home – when I think about that, it kinda makes me smile.

This was originally posted on OS back in 2009 in response to an open call from trig about romances at work. My old saved copy shows three comments from people who still post here, so it's probably new to nearly everyone. I love the story and loved telling it, both times.