She woke face down in a tumble of sateen sheets and eider down duvet.  There were pillows all around, and her feet were tangled as she had rolled over a few times in her stupor.  Lifting her head suddenly, she felt a moment of dizziness and tried to recall how much she had had to drink the night before.  Winebar...  Stefan.... kissing.... oh, yeah, yeah!  She found The Sultan pressed into her right hip.  The cap of the Liquid Lady was still flipped up.  Sunlight slipped through the vertical blinds, caressing this tableaux of erotic hangover.  The dizzy rolled away and made room for the memories of kisses to pour back in.  

Slowly she unwound herself from her sateen sheets, and put the vibrator and lube back in the drawer.  She double checked the charge, just in case it would be needed sometime soon.  Her toe hooked onto the panties she had shed, and she pulled herself out of bed to face her day.  Come for me tomorrow, she had told him.  That would make that today.  Lots to do, when did I say? Darn, I hope he calls.  

Ruby slipped into the light silk kimono she had on the dressing chair by her bed.  It was turquoise, with a handpainted peacock on the back, and a soft trim of plum silk velvet tracing the edges and cuffs.  She had treated herself to this on a trip to the mountains of Santa Fe, after visiting the 10,000 Waves spa.  It had been her first trip alone since the divorce, and a tribute to her newfound liberty.  What is the purpose of self denial with so little in return?  Why inflict so much suffering upon herself?  After years of sexless marriage, and some years before of joyless sex, she was celebrating her sensuality and indulging her finer whims.  Georg had wakened things in her she had not remembered for so long.  

Georg.   She had met him on the plaza, at the Spanish Market.  Among dozens of vendors of fine arts and crafts, she was reaching across some pins to pick up a necklace of freshwater pearls when she knocked over an earring rack.  He sprang to his feet from the back of the tent and helped sort the mess, his hand stroking hers half a dozen times.  She looked up from under her widebrim straw hat, and he looked up from his focused gaze of an artist sorting his wares.  He was maybe 42, 43, tan with a light grey and white stubble.  Still curly hair gathered in the back, streaks of silver and grey sprouting and carousing around his head.  She didn't recall how it progressed, only that she left the booth with the necklace around her neck, and his cell phone number written on the back of his card.  

"Dinner tonight?  We'll go to El Méson for flamenco and ceviche.  I'll come get you at the hotel."  She had told him where she was staying?  He probably said this to all the ladies.  She saw a thin band of gold on his finger, and he pulled it away, and then put it out with his fingers spread.  "I am not unmarried," he had said.  "But I am alone."  She left debating whether or not to call.  He had clasped the necklace around her and pulled it to the front, draping it over her breasts, tied together with a rose colored cloisonne bead.  Hours later, when the thoughts of dinner came around, she texted.  He arrived 20 minutes later.  They left the room two hours after he arrived.  

The weekend was a whirl of arts and flamenco and tapas and Georg's hands tracing every contour of her body, circling her nipples with his fingers  like they were fine pearls,  stroking her legs like they were burnished ivory.  "What is your name?" he asked, after they had torn the clothes from each other two steps backwards from the door, and he was pushing her towards the bed.  "Ruby," she whispered.  This had never happened to her.  "Of course, of course, a rare gem suitable for a queen."  And then he dove into her body and showed her the exquisite hand skills of a jeweler. 

They had a last night together at the spa, his and hers ayurvedic oil massages in a private suite, with a patio and wooden hottub surrounded by fragrant ponderosa.  Japanese wood carpentry built the walls and floors, and framed erotic art decorated the suite.  There was one picture she would always remember, from that weekend.  It burned into her soul, and it took her years to find it in an old Japanese art store.  The Dream of the Fisherman's Wife.  Now it hung above her bed.   

Ruby let the kimono fall open as she stood in the kitchen brewing espresso over the stove, and she played with her nipples remembering this weekend.  Georg had opened her mind, her body, her spirit to so much.  She would never forget his gift of orgasms, of erotic play, and soulful sex.  He was travelling in Australia now, following the season of Autumn craft shows there, while it was spring here and almost summer.  Every few months she received a card.

Deep kisses, cherie.  Deep wet kisses. Xoxo.  

(Image courtesy of Google Images: Dream of the Fisherman's Wife)