We've started the day like all others with a mega mug of French Roast and conversation. Meg is one of my dearest friends. Our lives get busy and we seem to sometimes go for years without talking. When we meet up, though, it's easy to resume where we left off. She knows me as well as Bea and more than most of my other friends. That is the beauty of friendships from high school. They see you through your worst and then some.
After coffee we leave the comfy confines of her Sherman Oaks home to grab sushi in Century City. From there it's a drive down Santa Monica Blvd. where the perfection of climate is unmet. It is a most beautiful day tooling around in the Mercedes and at the end we're back in Sherman Oaks enjoying seafood enchiladas with top-shelf margaritas. Back home, Meg downloads a movie when my Blackberry buzzes with a text notification. It's Paul.
After an exchange of pleasantries comes a loaded question: "what are you looking for in a man?"
Hmm... loaded question. "I want a man that makes me feel like a woman."
"Deep," he replies. He says he's "looking for a woman with stability." Interesting. The implication being that his ex-wife is unstable I suppose.
I turn the tables on him in regards to the whole picture thing. I can sense him squirming through the digital 1's and 0's. Too bad, now he know's what it feels like. After a few moments he responds with a photo of himself at the IronMan last spring. There's another of him with buddies on a Hawaiian pub crawl after the race. Then finally, there is a photo he takes of himself in his bedroom (thankfully clothed) while his kids catch the latest Harry Potter installment downstairs.
The discomfort is painfully obvious but it's nice to see him vulnerable like this. It makes me feel less paranoid that he's after only one thing. Meanwhile, behind him I catch something similar in the design of his headboard. Upon zooming in I realize it's the exact same headboard as mine. Wholly crap! Did we seriously pick the same bedroom furniture? Now that is bizarre to say the least. I comment on it and forward a picture of mine.
"No way!" he says. Way. We add it to the list of similar likes and tastes and decide to catch up the next day when I return to Austin. Meg has successfully downloaded our film and our time together comes to wonderful, warm close.
~~~~~~~~
Back in Austin, a lovely week unfolds with Paul. Coffee Monday and Tuesday morning and lunch on Wednesday. A quick trip to Amarillo and as I return Thursday afternoon he shoots a text: "if you have a few minutes for kisses, stop by before picking up the kids." Do I have a few minutes? Holler! Of course I do.
I pull up in front of his town home and saunter up in my Uggs, Lucky skinny jeans and snowflake sweater from H & M. I feel like and -- according to Meg the weekend before at the H & M store on Sunset Blvd -- look like a Swedish H&M model.
"I'm anticipating the cold front," I say as I approach him at the threshold.
"I see that," he responds. Inside his home I drop my bag on the floor. A heavy, oak desk occupies the dining room with deer heads watching from above. In the living room sits the quintessential bachelor media set: Large, flat-screen TV and multi-media recliner couch.
"I like your place," I say, turning to take him up on those few minutes of kisses.
"Thanks," he offers leaning in, mouth slightly open, lips connecting with mine. Lips, tongues, arms entwined. We segue to the couch. Not quite able to lie down in the media-recliner position he takes a seat and I straddle him from on top. "God you're hot," he whispers and I devour him with my mouth.
Twenty glorious minutes pass with the incredibly intense hot businessman from Dell. A shame to have to stop, but duty calls on both ends for us to pick up our kids.
Twenty glorious minutes pass with the incredibly intense hot businessman from Dell. A shame to have to stop, but duty calls on both ends for us to pick up our kids.
A repeat the following afternoon, this time at my house and somewhere between the 20-minute disheveling breakout sessions a decision is made for a second date on Saturday.
Saturday arrives full of possibility and excitement and my date picks me up promptly at 6 in his 330 BMW carriage, tunes from Hits 1 blasting through the speakers. What do you know, we even like the same music.
It's silly to make so many shared interests mean something, but this is what I do... what a lot of us do: we make things mean something to justify our emotional attachment. Right? Or maybe it just feels good to be in the company of someone successful, someone who knows what it's like to be separating from a 14-plus year relationship with children, someone who is turned on by me, just me. Someone who so confidently takes charge, grabbing my hand and dancing me backwards until I fall onto the couch to be collected in a pool of deep, wet kisses.
The night ends and after paying the sitter he returns for more kissing. I expressed sentiment the day before that if things progressed in the direction of sex that I want to spend the night together. I have no plans for this to be "the night" as my kids are sleeping upstairs. I'd hate for them to find me wrapped in bed with a strange man and I don't want to mute my passion button (no pun intended) because kids are in the room across the hall.
So how is it that I find myself going against my wishes, going against my best laid out plans to actually not get laid? I know why. It's because I am excited, turned on and hungry. There is no way those senses can be overrun with logic. Damn prehistoric brain. Despite yesterday's declaration I find myself peeling down shorts and underwear to reveal a most fabulous cock. Who says short men have small penises? Not this guy.
It starts simple with a blow job but he wants more, "I want to feel you naked on top of me." Hmmm.... kay. That sounds like a line but whatever, I'm going with it because I really want to focus on the positive. But the positive outcome of this is fucking and not really good fucking. That 6-month Accutane prescription for rosacea has dried out my face AND my v-jay-jay and 10 minutes of fucking a glorious penis might as well be 20 seconds with a Campbell's soup can.
Christ my bottom is sore! And don't you know he has to go (not that I wanted him to stay) and it feels like everything I feared has come to fruition. I walk him to the door and return to the living room. Sitting on the coffee table and staring into the dark, unlit fireplace I turn it over and over again. Why did I let it come to this? I feel like I've been used and treated like a piece of ass. DAMNIT!
I try talking myself out of the despair starting to swirl around me, having heard from Meg the week before the importance of getting re-calibrated with a proper fuck. Was that a re-calibration? No, while I won't admit for months to come I know in that very moment that was nothing. Absolutely void and empty nothingness. Do I feel "like a woman?" No, I feel like a fool who's been played.
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