I went to a men’s networking meeting one night and reconnected with Tom, whom I’d met a few weekends before. He was a nice, jovial guy going through a bad divorce from a lawyer, a classic horror story. We decided to stop off for a drink on the way home to commiserate.

I remembered that he liked wine, so I took us down to Telluride in Stamford, which was a bit overpriced, but the bartender poured a good glass. I thought, “What the hell, we’re only going to have one or two.”

The place had pretty much emptied out, save for us and a trio of drunken twenty-somethings. I noticed the bartender pouring them shots of something dark and vile looking – probably Jägermeister – and I wondered if he was chasing them himself. 

He was a talkative type and came over to chat with us, ostensibly about the wine. After a discourse on vintages and a couple of random tastings we ordered some of their “good stuff” at $15 a glass. He then suggested that we go over to chat up the young ladies. He must have made the same suggestion to them because as soon as he retired momentarily to the back room, a spontaneous conversation erupted across the bar.

Before long, Tom got up to chat with a tall brunette on the far side of the group, the best-looking of the bunch – and also the drunkest. Since they were in their twenties and we were fify-ish, I figured this was likely just to be a conversation, so it might as well be as coherent as possible. I picked the lady nearest us who seemed the least drunk. Her name was Dawn. She was blonde and fairly attractive, with some hardware around her lower lip and nose, which I found a bit distracting but tried not to stare at as we spoke. And she seemed pretty lively.

As if on cue, the bartender appeared and offered us shots of what else – Jägermeister. I quickly passed, and she protested, wanting me to join her. A gigantic double-plus shot arrived in front of her.  I looked at it and said, “I’ll just finish what you leave.” She laughed and took it as a challenge, downing it in two gulps. I tried not to gag on my wine, remembering the two-day hangover that resulted from the first and last time I’d ever done shots of the putrid stuff. But she seemed to enjoy it, and it kicked up the action a notch.

Shortly after wiping her lips from the shot, she leaned over and gave the middle girl of the trio a soulful kiss, with ample tongue. The quizzical look on my face begged the question for me, and she declared herself bi-sexual. And so, for the next twenty minutes of our conversation she intermittently kissed and flirted with the other girl. 

Eventually she said, “You ought to give my friend a shot – she’s got much bigger boobs than I do.” 
I looked over at them and they were indeed large, almost over-inflated. But the girl was nowhere near as pretty as Dawn. I said, “No, I’m not into surgical enhancements.” 

She laughed and pleaded the case that they were real, and it led us to one of my favorite intimate conversations with such open-minded women – boob jobs.

I told her how amazed I was at the number of women getting their breasts enhanced these days, and what a tragedy it was. I was married to a woman with the most beautifully petite breasts I have ever seen, so I'm not a stickler on size. I’d also had ample experience in this second dating life with ridiculously augmented ones - over-large, hard, and unnaturally impervious to gravity. Worse yet, they were often not responsive to touch or kiss the way the originals had been. Unless a woman was tragically flat-chested, it seemed a terrible thing for her to do to herself. But the result does get a man’s attention.

Apparently Dawn had been thinking about such a procedure herself. She pulled her shirt collar down to show me her bra-free cleavage, which was more substantial than I would have thought. It certainly didn’t seem to require enhancing, I told her. 

By this time my friend Tom had struck out with the very drunk brunette. When he noticed our attention to Dawn’s chest, he scurried over to join us.

He said, “Hey, I missed the cleavage, can I see too?” Whereupon Dawn repeated the pull-down, a bit further this time. Tom was bolder than I and followed up the display by saying, “Can I see your whole breast?”

Amazingly she said, “Sure,” and pulled the shirt way down to reveal her entire breast, which was very nice indeed. It was clearly in no need of surgery, in my professional opinion.

But Tom was a salesman on a roll, so when she started to cover up he asked, “Can I feel it?”

 

I retreated a step to avoid her back-handed response, but she just said, “Sure, go ahead.” 

So, he gave her left breast a nice, lingering grope, and pronounced it wonderful. Feeling left out I asked for a feel as well, which she granted. It was a very nice breast, with a stiffening little nipple. It seemed that she was getting off on all the manual attention. Unsurprisingly, I got a little rise out of it myself.

At that point the other two ladies decided to go outside for a cigarette break and Tom chose to join them, leaving generous Dawn to me. And so we got deeper into boob jobs. I scolded her for even considering ruining her nice breasts, which I estimated correctly at 34B. I told her the story about another woman I’d dated briefly, who had a nice slim figure with lovely, modest breasts but was planning to get an augmentation from "the best guy in New York." I had tried to talk her out of it, praising her real ones while admiring them as closely as possible. But she didn’t listen, and so a few months later when I saw her again she said, “How do you like them?” And all it looked like to me was that she had gained ten pounds – which I suppose was close to true, just in silicone.

Shortly Tom returned and asked if I’d like another round, which was number four or five. I said, "No, I’ve had enough tonight," and Dawn laughed.

 

“You’re so honest” she says, “I like that.”

 

So, she reciprocated with a confession. “You know what my favorite kind of sex is?” she asked. I couldn’t begin to guess and didn’t want to spoil the answer, so I pleaded ignorance.

She said, “In the ass, I love it in the ass.”

Well, this was a very eerie parallel with the lady whom I had mentioned in the no-boob-enhancement parable a few minutes before. The poor woman had also confided in me sometime after our brief liaison that her boyfriend strongly preferred anal sex, to the almost complete exclusion of the regular kind. I remembered her comment about it leaving her feeling “kind of droopy.”

I recoiled from that mental image, but just had to explore Dawn’s preference for back-door sex. I asked her, “Can you get off that way? I mean, it kind of leaves out a couple links in the chain of events of female arousal, doesn’t it?” 

“No,” she said, “Because when you’re getting it in the ass you can play with yourself at the same time, inside and out, and it’s twice as good! Or you can have a friend help out with her tongue.” And she gave a glance back at her make-out partner. 

“Plus, it’s automatic birth control. How could it be any better?”

As I pondered the permutations of this most explicit sharing, the bartender came over and suggested to the trio that he call them a cab. He was clearly sensing the legal ramifications of having fed them shots all night. I looked over and the brunette seemed incapable of speech. Dawn was still in pretty good shape, but her kissing partner’s eyes were crossing. So Dawn said, “No, I’ll drive them home.”

“Hey, wait a minute,” I protested, “We’re just getting going here.”

Naturally, part of what I was imagining was that I actually had a shot at this girl who was born sometime in my own thirtieth year. Nope, her role in the trio – other than romantic – was least-intoxicated driver, and it was time to go. Nothing would dissuade her.

She saw the disappointment on my face and said, “Meet me back here Saturday night at nine, okay?” It was a good line and I hoped that it was true. 

They departed into the night, leaving Tom and I to marvel at the spectacle of recent college graduates. I didn't recall such candor or physical generosity in my days, three decades earlier, and started feeling a bit like Lolita's older friend Humbert...

When I arrived back at the bar the following Saturday at nine-thirty (couldn’t seem too eager by being right on time) Dawn was nowhere to be found. The bartender (a different one) testified that no one of her description had been there earlier.

 

I wasn’t really surprised, but I would have liked to discover more intimately if the sexual attitude I heard so much about earlier in the week was really representative of the day’s college graduates. I’d heard about a lot of hooking up and had stumbled onto websites that featured photos that coeds had taken of each other peeing. But I didn’t think we were back in Berlin in the 1920s…