by Rick Marlowe
It would never have happened today, in 2018. My stories would have been stored safely on my computer, shared via the internet. But it was not 2018. Far from it. It was 1993.
Several times a week I would have lunch at the Troy Hills Diner. It always seemed to be a convenient stop-off point as I shuttled back and forth from one client's facility to another. Eating anyplace else meant having to read the menu, to consider options, when all I really wanted was Troy Hills Diner chicken salad on Monday, pork roll on Tuesday, BLT on Wednesday. Trudy knew my preferences and was tipped well, 22% down to the penny, to ensure that I was served my selections promptly.
I must have had tuna salad, though, because it was a Friday. Yes, it had to be Friday, as I had a munch to go to that evening. That was the only reason the stories were in my briefcase in the first place.
Finding like-minded people was not easy in 1993, back in the pre-internet era. Actually, the internet did exist, but there was very little of interest for spankophiles like myself other than the alt.sex.spanking newsgroup. And that wasn't accessible to me as I didn't have an internet connection back then.
I had learned of the New Jersey BDSM group's monthly munch through a notice posted on the bulletin board in a Montclair fetish store. Though that establishment was safely out-of-town for me whenever I shopped there, I still took care to see who might be watching before surreptitiously ducking in the front door.
Was I into BDSM? Heavens no. Even then, spanking was my only real kinky interest. But where else was someone with a spanking fantasy going to find anything to inspire, to titillate? In my case, my first venue was at that fetish store - with its paddles, straps, and schoolgirl costumes. Some of the other merchandise I found to be rather curious, to say the least, but offered no real attraction to me. Although I initially had no one to share with, I'd make some purchase or other every time I visited, simply because I didn't want to be that creepy guy hanging out at the establishment just to get my jollies.
I was leaving the store with what is still my favorite wooden paddle, wrapped carefully in a brown paper bag, when I saw the notice there on the bulletin board. You know the kind, the handwritten sheet of paper with multiple iterations of a phone number on little tear-off tabs. I had never before heard of a 'munch' but the invitation to meet other kink-interested people beckoned to me. It seemed so innocent, getting together over dinner just to talk, given how I regarded my deep dark secret. One of the tear-off tabs went into my wallet. Low-tech, but effective.
I didn't call right away. It took courage to take that first step. The yearning for a connection eventually got the better of me though. I dialed the number - using, of course, what we now call a land-line. 'Rosie' quickly put me at ease, giving me the particulars for the next get-together.
The New Jersey Power Exchange, or NJPE, wasn't primarily a spanking group. Most of the members were more into rope bondage, and various dominance/submission activities, assembling for quarterly play parties to indulge. I would eventually attend a number of these too, initially as an observer only. But the people in the group were wonderful... wonderful for me, simply because they were normal, in every way but their kinky interests. And they showed an interest in my stories.
Yes, my stories. Several years before, while yet in my isolation period, with no other outlet, I began to explore my interest by writing fiction; tales that at the time seemed so very wrong, but which nonetheless excited me - a college student spanked by her college professor for turning in a late paper; a woman spanked by a cop for speeding, in lieu of a parking ticket; a teen spanked by her aunt; and long before the movie Secretary, an employee paddled by her boss.
Having virtually nothing else on topic to share with the group, I mentioned my writing during the second munch I attended. Even without having read them, everyone thought my literary endeavors were fantastic, insisting that I bring samples the following month. And so it became yet another routine for me... taking two stories to each munch, to be passed around among my new friends.
Since both of my afternoon appointments on that particular Friday were away down to the south, it made no sense for me to be driving the Parkway twice during rush hour when I could avoid that traffic altogether. So it was that I had a pair of stories tucked neatly into a pocket within my briefcase, ready for the 6 o'clock munch, when I stopped at the Troy Hills Diner.
Arriving early, as usual, to beat the noon-hour rush, I took my seat in my accustomed booth, before quickly straightening the napkin and flatware that sat askew on the table. How unlike Trudy, I thought.
I waited. Something was wrong. I glanced over to the counter where several waitresses stood yakking. Trudy would never be so inattentive as that. But where was she? At last one of the waitresses pulled free of the others to amble over slowly to my table.
"Where's Trudy?" I demanded, as politely as I could.
"Trudy?" The young woman looked puzzled momentarily before it seemed to dawn on her. "Oh, she had to go up to Massachusetts or someplace to take care of her mother. She's sick."
"Trudy's sick?"
"No, silly, her mother. If Trudy was sick, why would she go take care of her mother?"
Of course Trudy would go take care of her sick mother. That's the kind of person Trudy is - one who takes care of people. I just hoped it wouldn't be for too long. I spotted the girl's name tag.
"So you're Lindsey?"
"Gosh. How'd you know?"
"And you're going to take my order?"
"Well, yeah. That's what I'm here for."
I supposed she couldn't help herself being so rude, so I ignored it.
"Can I get you a menu?"
I sighed. Why did lunch have to be a problem? I had to spell everything out - tuna salad on whole wheat toast, with lettuce and tomato, no disgusting coleslaw, and a dill pickle rather a gherkin. And iced tea.
As my server headed back to the kitchen with my order, I couldn't help but notice her cute round bottom, which more than adequately filled out her tight black jeans. That was one quality that Trudy would never match. Although it wouldn't help get my meal on the table, the view was still one I could enjoy.
As usual, while awaiting my food, I got myself organized for my afternoon appointments - putting the inspection forms on my clipboard, along with prior inspection reports for reference. The perpetual threat that a New Jersey traffic jam might throw off my carefully-planned schedule made preparation essential. Having to shuffle papers at the last minute was a problem I wished to avoid. Clients certainly did not want their insurance company to send a disorganized safety inspector.
Surprisingly, my meal arrived as ordered. Except for my iced tea. Why was there sugar in it? I never drank sweetened iced tea. It took forever to get Lindsey's attention to correct that blunder, delaying my meal still further. I don't doubt that the Troy Hills Diner tuna salad was the same as usual, but the clumsy delivery somehow made it less palatable. Lindsey would not be getting a 22% tip, not even close. When the check finally came, I calculated it out to exactly 14%. That would send a clear message. Being behind schedule, I then had to rush out the door.
The inspections that afternoon went reasonably well. Of course I found a few violations of best practices and even of a couple of regulations. I always did. I had yet to find one client who had the attention to detail necessary to maintain a 100% safe workplace. Why was that so hard? These two, however, at least seemed to be trying. I rated both as 'average'. My employer depends on my careful scrutiny to make sure the businesses are properly rated when they quote premiums.
It wasn't until later that evening when I reached the Denny's down in Edison, that I discovered my briefcase was missing. Although I always place it on the back seat of the car, directly behind me, it wasn't there. I checked the other side, and the front passenger seat just to be sure. I could have placed it anywhere given my state upon finishing my lunch, but it was nowhere in the car. This was most disconcerting. Could I have left it at one of my appointments? With it now being almost 6pm on a Friday, I wouldn't even be able to check until Monday morning.
I felt almost naked upon joining the group at the munch, without having so much as one story to share. I sat quietly at the end of the end of the pulled-together line of tables, ignoring attempts at chit chat. Without my stories, I really had nothing to say.
The missing briefcase occupied my mind the whole long drive home. How could I be so absentminded? And just where was it now?
The latter question was answered upon my return to my apartment. There was a message on my answering machine - yes, we did have that level of technology - from George, the owner of the Troy Hills, saying that my waitress had found a briefcase in my accustomed booth, identifying me as the owner from my business card inside. Fortunately, due to working primarily from home, I had both my home and office numbers on the card. I could pick up my briefcase at any time.
I contemplated whether to head over to the diner right then, but that would mean missing the X-Files. I never missed the X-Files. So I went in the morning.
Now and again I would have a Saturday breakfast at the Troy Hills - coffee, orange juice, two scrambled eggs, bacon (extra crisp) and whole wheat toast. With Trudy out of town, however, today would not be one of those occasions. Instead I would be stopping by merely to collect what was mine. I was properly appreciative to George upon recovering my briefcase, after first ascertaining that all was in order, nothing amiss.
"You'll have to thank Lindsey in person, Richard, the next time you're in for lunch. She's the one who found it and determined who it belonged to."
Oh, right - Lindsey. I sighed. I had seriously considered absenting myself from the Troy Hills until Trudy made her return. Perhaps frequenting another establishment altogether would be less disconcerting than enduring mishandled service of my usual food orders. Failing to provide the obligatory expression of gratitude to the young waitress, though, would be an unacceptable breach of social etiquette. To her credit, Jane had repeatedly stressed the importance of such things in our years together. I really had no choice.
I arrived promptly at 11:15 to the Troy Hills Diner the following Tuesday. Pork roll, I reasoned, would be the most difficult order for Lindsey to screw up. The view of a familiar black-jeans-clad rear end greeted me as I entered, there next to the door into the kitchen. Her service might be questionable, but she certainly afforded some delightful scenery. Having taken my seat in my usual booth, I was mildly surprised when almost immediately she separated from the gaggle of other waitresses to approach my table.
"Well, well, well - if it isn't Mr. Marsten. Would you like the tuna salad again today?"
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