HIGH TEA

Transcript

High Tea Sev was a sophisticated producer I'd met at a party for John's, with Dewey. He'd also done The House of Yes, a personal favourite, and Coming Soon, Slap Her, She's French. Back then I was easily seduced by the idea of a role I could play, pretentious heirs or future heirs, but really it was the accent that lured me in.

Meet me at the Beverley Wilshire. Have you been to a high tea? We can discuss your future." I wasn't a fool, but ever game for new experiences, I agreed to meet him the following day.

The morning of, my boyfriend of two and a half years, Henry. "'I'll be home late,' threw the bathroom door. "'K.' He didn't even wait for my reply.

The late nights at the tattoo shop were beginning to add up, but there was no time for tears. I had an audition for Toyota Japan and high tea to think about. So I painted on my cupid's bow and unpinned my curls, freshly quaffed, donning my favourite floral chiffon Bonnie Parker-inspired dress, the nude lace trim of my slip, my bare breast peeking out under the petals of a daisy, those dreamy Wolford stockings and my new art-deco garter belt.

I gave myself another once-over on the way out. "'Not too bad, kid.' In the waiting area, I could feel their eyes on me, the stockings I'd spent too much on. I was nervous, and in the fiddling popped one of my garters.

It was in the fixing that I felt the air shift, eyes fixating on my pale skin. Awash with confidence and pheromones, I booked the job. Pulling up to the hotel that made Julia famous in my old Dodge Coronet, primer grey, no headliner, the valet startled me and thought, "'I booked it!' Play it cool, dammit.

Handing him my keys. Take it easy on her. She's a 383.' Feeling my fire, I enter the hotel.

Its opulence, the scent of greed, Chanel No. 5, bentley-leathered asses, faces that don't smile anymore or can't. The floor's mirror shine reflected the me under the dress.

Well done. Making myself blush, ripe for the offering. Following the subtle arrows along the wall, I arrive.

The tea room was vast, a gold-trimmed austere version of Versailles. How splendid. In my twenties-drop waist dress, I feel like I'm gliding, despite my repainted Mary Janes and their peeling edges.

I try to breeze past the maitre d' lest I lose my nerve, but he taps me on the shoulder. This way, please. My escort in tow, my gaze shifts to the one-percent, tippling, twenty-dollar Earl Grey nibbling on crustless fare, their eyes in awe of my audaciousness and lack of diamonds.

When was the last time any of them had sex they didn't have to pay for? I'll have to be twenty-three again. There he was, with his arrogant nose, curly lips, that one eyebrow that sits a little higher in judgment.

His Zegna pink custom button-down shirt so crisp and open one button too far. A little chubby, for his pristine broken-in jeans and Gucci belt, but he'll do. The waiter comes by.

Tea for two, please. He looks into my eyes with a cunning confidence. How charming you are.

That's rich-speak for pretty fuckable popper. We banter over cucumber sandwiches and jammy cookies. I linger over the clotted cream a little too long.

He touches my thigh under the table, tracing the edge of my garters. Let's go for a walk. But my car is here.

It's not far. What's not far? He grabs my hand.

Henry's late nights slide by my conscience. It's only fair, right? Finding myself adrift in the pristine alleyways of Beverly Hills, I realize there's no friend's place.

He kisses me suddenly, deeply. Not bad for a snob. His eyes locking into mine.

No, no, I shouldn't. But I don't resist. We're up against a pink wall by a dumpster.

Am I into this? As he bites my neck, his breath warm with the faint scent of bergamot. I have a boyfriend.

And I'm married. Wait, what? But I'm wet.

Fuck. He slides my dress up over my ass. The cold chiffon gives me goosebumps, and I spy my thighs tensing, stretching the belt straps across my muscles.

The stockings strain as my legs widen, and my foot finds the edge of the dumpster. My calves curved up around his waist, high on my own design. My eyes drift inward, but my ears—a distinct sound of unbuckling—catching him tripping over the buttons of his trousers, giving me the look—you know the one—just before they find the top of your head.

I giggle, stroking his cheeks gently, before guiding his head. I give him a kiss. How charming you are.

And down he went, for a closer look at my new garter belt.