We could have stopped it there but the kissin' was so good

Dear Jane,

The following week your husband showed up at my office early one morning, before I had even had my coffee. He looked so cute standing there in his suburban-dad uniform of pleated tan Dockers and company-logo shirt, with his hands in his pockets, asking me to lunch. Clearly, something had come over me, because there's nothing I hate more than a man in pleated Dockers. In fact, usually Dockers are a form of birth control for me (as well as for any New York woman with one iota of style).

"Are you busy today? If you're not, I'd like to take you to Peter Luger for lunch."

Now, as a girl who LIVED 6 short blocks from Luger's but had never crossed the holy threshhold to worship at the Altar of the Carnivore, who was I to say no?

It was a beautiful, warm, sunny October day. I even recall there was a touch of summer humidity in the air...

Your husband pulled up in front of my office in his convertible, shades on, top down, and I climbed in, and we sailed over the Williamsburg Bridge as if neither of us had businesses to run.

At Luger's your husband ordered for both of us, steak for two it was, and a bottle of fine red wine. I noticed that he liked to be the Man and do the ordering. As long as he liked to be the Man and do the paying, too, I would keep my brazen feminist mouth shut.

We emerged from lunch, slightly tipsy from wine and beef, and sat in the parking lot at Luger's making out again like teenagers. This was fun!

It was such a beautiful day, so summery, that neither of us wanted to go back to work. I suggested (tipsily) that we go to Coney Island and ride the Cyclone. Well, it seemed like a good idea, until I thought about the sling on my arm and my still-not-healed broken collarbone. I pictured the rough ride of that rollercoaster, and had a sudden vision of a visit to the emergency room of a Brooklyn Hospital...how would we explain THAT?

Alas, it was back to Manhattan for the two delinquents.

He dropped me in front of my building and I watched him drive off with a wave.

Two hours later my phone rang. "I need more of that kissing," he said, and I hung up the phone, bade my assistant adieu on the pretense of a client call, and went to your husband's office.

There commenced hours more kissing. I told him I didn't want to sleep with him, but the kissing was so much fun. Could we just do that for a while?

He told me that he couldn't remember the last time you had really kissed him passionately, just flat out making out, mashing, snogging, whatever. I found that to be really sad, so I kissed him a lot more. What made it interesting was the sling and the broken collarbone... you have to get pretty creative with positions when you've got a broken wing. Your husband is not a small man, so we couldn't really lay down on the sofa in his office without causing me serious pain.

There was a lot of giggling while we tried things out.

Imagine this: Does this work? OW! No, guess not. How 'bout this? OW! Okay, that seems to work...mmmmmmmmmmm.... ow! ow! broken bone! broken bone!.... tee hee... hee hee... mmmmmmm...

We finally worked it out that I fit perfectly onto your husband's lap, so we could make full-body contact, look into each other's eyes, he could twine his hands in my hair, and I could wrap my (good) arm around his neck. And, yes, Jane, in case you were wondering, those nether regions, with me straddling your husband's lap, through our clothes, were titillated and frictionated like bears rubbing on trees. Gives me a little thrill even now to think about it.

I even let him get to 2nd base. That's boobs over shirt, in case you had forgotten. I had, until your husband said gleefully, "I'm getting to 2nd base with _____!"

I just love kissing and laughing, and laughing and kissing. Isn't that what making out is supposed to be? Too many people take themselves so damn seriously when they're fooling around that they forget they're supposed to be having fun.

And your husband and I were having serious fun.