The Last Place She'd Look (2 page)

Astonished by his animated pushiness, this awkward ballet of adolescent-style seduction didn’t captivate me, but I did feel a bit captive. I kept thinking —a man was finally touching me! — so I stayed put. Maybe this would get better. If nothing else, our desperation was compatible. I wanted to give him a chance.

Meanwhile, Ack’s erection was moving, slithering up my body like a denim-armored snake—now wriggling between my breasts. He twisted to the side and let out a guttural sigh as he softly maneuvered his hardness into a comfortable spot—for him.

I winced as his belt buckle jammed into my armpit. Ack twisted again, lifting up, whipping the entire belt out of its loops with one yank and whoosh. Then, no surprise, he unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans. With that same hand, he released his penis from his pants, head bobbing through the zipper, and pressed it against me like a puppy in a pet shop window, eager for attention with the hope of being taken home and cuddled. This same hand five seconds later found my hand and placed it on the aforementioned member. He then moved my hand to show me the way he liked to be stroked. He was, after all, a teacher by profession. Had students been in this same position, as part of their course of study — or maybe for extra credit? If his conquests were a steady diet of post-adolescents, it would explain his seduction style, or lack thereof.

My behind was now slowly sliding into the space between the couch cushions, sort of a tush-and-sofa sandwich. As I lay there, I heard,
“Helplessly hoping his harlequin hovers nearby …”
a soft, gentle Crosby, Stills and Nash tune on the CD player. No doubt Ack had been using the same musical selection for seductions since his youth, when the album was a record on his turntable. I recalled a slogan of the Woodstock generation, also on this same album:
“Love the one you’re with.”

Ack writhed and twisted again, until his erection now bobbed near my chin. I knew where he wanted it to go. I turned my head in the opposite direction, non-compliant. This wasn’t desire for me, nor was it any pleasure. It was just a cocksman using my body to get himself off. Half of me wanted to bolt up and run out...but the other half was woozy and conflicted.

Ack twisted my neck, forcing my mouth to face and greet his cock. This move of his was neither boyish nor pleasant. As the tip of his penis grazed my lips, my inner voice prompted,
“Bite it. That’ll teach him.”
Unfortunately, the only lesson learned was by me—Chianti and pasta form a lethal, lethargic combination.

My neck wrenched with a loud and audible crack, like a nut being shelled.

“Are you all right? You’re not comfortable here, are you?”

I couldn’t speak with his erect penis in my mouth, so I mumbled, like a mute. He jumped up and off of me, almost looking me in the eye. “Let’s get more comfortable. Let’s go upstairs.” He grabbed my arm and with one yank, pulled me out of the wedge between the couch cushions, up on my feet, half-floating, half-standing.

Stymied by his speed, too foggy and dazed to think quickly of an excuse not to go up the stairs, the next thing I knew, I was at the doorway of his bedroom. He turned on a small reading light on the shabby night table. The full-size bed had worn, almost-white bed sheets—not crisp, not clean, like a college boy’s dorm room. There were sweat socks lurking near the windowsill.

Ack smirked, pleased he’d dragged his prey into his lair. He touched my chin with his fingertips, grazing my mouth with his lips. Seconds later, his awkwardly orchestrated dance of seduction continued. He removed his T-shirt, revealing perfectly sculpted and tan biceps, triceps, and a taut mid-section. The only giveaway that he wasn’t 25 was the colony of white hair populating his chest. More pleased with himself by the minute, Ack displayed the coy style of a stripper, slyly slithering his jeans to the floor, revealing the well-defined calves, thighs, and buns of a daily mountain biker.

Ack in his naked glory was confident he had the hottest, hardest body of any 55-year-old in town. In better shape than even most movie stars, he stood proud, as if I should fall at his feet and fawn at his perfection.

“This is me,” he said, proudly, lifting his arms into a pose like a circus artist after he’s performed on the high wire, ready to take a bow. I was annoyed by his arrogance, which was escalating to bitch-slapping proportions. I swayed, fully clothed, alien to his self-admiration. His naked reveal had a “ta-da” at the end of it that sickened me; his appreciation for his own physical beauty was pungently distasteful.

I focused on the moment. Even though he was an arrogant jerk, he did have an Adonis physique. The promise of something good still existed for my sex-starved self. He’d taken me into his home, his bedroom, wined and dined me (sort of). I was primed.

“Now you,” he said, eager for a provocative performance. He gestured for me to remove my clothes. First my shirt, then pants, bra, finally panties. I was quick and unromantic. The moment felt like a fire drill of nakedness.

Nude and imperfect, I anxiously wished my dimply, cellulite-ridden thighs were not on display. As he scrutinized my body, his smile faded, replaced with a polite frown. I sensed he’d hoped my form would rival his in youthful tone and beauty. No such luck for either of us.

Ack ushered me to the bed. He climbed in, too, and covered me with the white sheet. At first, I thought this cozy gesture was for my comfort. He reclined, putting his head on the pillow, hands behind his head, in charge, in his own bed, taking a deep breath, then another. My head had just hit the pillow next to his. I heard him sigh.

“You know, I really should walk my dog right now,” he suddenly uttered matter-of-factly. He climbed over me and got out of bed. He walked to the corner of the room, where just moments before he’d shed his jeans and shirt. Ever the minute man, he was dressed again. “Relax. I’ll be right back,” he said, exiting like a talk show host encouraging you to watch the commercials.

I lay in this almost-stranger’s bed—alone. Now he had to walk his dog? This guy’s a nut. Let’s hope he fucks like a 25-year-old—and doesn’t just think he does. He acts like he’s an award-winner for stud puppet theater. What if I’m not turned on? He won’t know or care. He’ll dive into me like I was just another lap pool.

I turned on my side. The mattress and pillows were uncomfortable; the worn sheets were rough on my skin. I heard the sound of his dog scampering back into the house, the click as the leash was removed, a chain clattering on the wooden floors. Ack’s footsteps creaked up the uncarpeted stairs. Entering the room without looking at me, he said robotically, “I can’t do this … tonight. I have to get up early in the morning. I forgot I promised to help someone from work move. You’ll have to go.”

Suddenly, cold sober, I said to myself, “What you really mean is, 'I lost my appetite to fuck you because your body wasn’t as trophy-worthy as mine.'” But instead, what came out was, “You don’t even want me to sleep here? To cuddle?” I couldn’t believe what I’d said. Was I testing the waters for future encounters? With this schmuck? Was I that desperate?

He turned, gathered my clothes in a ball, and dropped them on the bed, then, spinning on his heel, he left the room, speeding into the bathroom, and closed the door. When I was his daughter’s age, I modeled in local fashion shows. Now, I just lay there, my self-esteem as crumpled as my clothes.

The air was icy with dysfunctional disappointment as I dressed. Just as I put my shoes on, I heard the toilet flush. I wondered if he’d jerked off.

He walked me to my car with all the courtesy of a recruiter ending the interview where you both know you didn’t get the job. His lips grazed my forehead with a parental, dismissive kiss.

My car door closed. I drove away. By the first traffic light, my heart was racing, blood boiling. Was I rejected the moment he saw me naked? Was he too repulsed by my body to even have a one-night stand? Ack was humping on the couch like his life depended on getting laid. Then he deemed me unworthy to worship at the Ack-altar of testosterone.

This was more of a violation than an attempted rape. He chewed and spit out his desire for me like a stale piece of bubble gum now relegated to a life on pavement until it snuck onto someone’s shoe. He didn’t think my body was worthy of his, Spartacus warrior asshole. Judgmental, cruel bastard.

Chapter 2

Will Having a Relationship Make Me OK? OR Will Being OK Get Me a Relationship?

How repulsed does a man have to be to throw a naked woman out of his bed without fucking her? The next morning, feeling every sense of self-worth slipping away, I replayed that thought in my mind a dozen times. I didn’t want to believe Ack could be so cruel or that I could feel so rejected.

I’d sliced and diced my self-esteem by subjecting myself to too many blind dates, about a third of which turned into second dates, and few of which ever led to third dates, much less lasting relationships. None led to sex. This bewildered me. I approached each date with peppy optimism, freshly washed hair, glossed lips, and as much hope as I could muster. Yet I kept getting things wrong over and over…over 340 times, to be exact. I bit my nails and stewed with regret, disappointment, and defeat —wondering why I hadn’t found anybody.

Why did I put myself into such unsatisfying situations? I should know better. I hoped for the best, anticipated the worst, wore sexy panties, and prayed that each date I was with THE right person.

These feelings were compounded by the fact that my 50th birthday was looming, lurking with foreboding like the soundtrack from the film
Jaws
. Was I the shark trying to envelop my prey? Or was I the one-piece bathing-suited swimmer praying that some Speedo-clad Adonis would find, flirt, and invite me to his beach house? In reality I saw myself as a single, middle-life, peri-menopausal woman. (I said “middle-life” because if I called myself middle-aged, it felt so much older, closer to elderly. At 50, how many people did I know who were 100? Who were their partners, and how old were they?) Pushing 50, eager for a date, searching for a mate is difficult—and depressing—a lot like shopping for a gift on Christmas Eve; everything I saw was either picked over or highly irregular. That’s how I felt about the supply of men who would even look at me.

Once upon a time, I was married. It was in the Jurassic era, or so it seemed. Bringing up my married years was as relevant to any conversation as my SAT scores. It wasn’t a good marriage or a long marriage—yet it was a life-defining moment. So I still dragged it around like a heavy suitcase with a broken handle. Divorced before 30, I’d spent most of my life since then feeling overlooked and alone, in spite of the winning qualities my friends told me I had.

Sure, I’d had a six-month relationship probably every three to five years over the past two decades. No, make that one blip of a person every five to seven years. But for the most part, I was alone.

Sometimes I’d regale friends with my dating mishaps, mainly if my experiences were so absurd that I didn’t feel chipped at or eaten away. For example, many people have told me about first dates where the person they’d met was really someone 20 years older or 100 pounds heavier than their photo. One date I had was both. His reason for meeting me was that he was hoping that dating a writer would be easier and cheaper than taking a writing class. If he found me attractive, as he said, “Maybe I’ll give you a crack at writing my memoir. I was a tennis pro (Yeah, I thought, about 18 years and 85 pounds ago).Ya know, I’ve dated women prettier and sexier than you. But with you I might actually learn something. So I’d give you a tumble. Whaddya say?”

There was another guy who spoke with me on the phone, three separate occasions for two hours each time, captivated by my witty patter. He told me he couldn’t wait to meet me. I was eager about this one, too. I thought we had rapport. I met him outside a restaurant on a Tuesday night. He took one look at me, then horrified, looked down and away, as if the sight of me was so repulsive, he was checking to see if he’d puked on his own shoes. What did he think a mid-life woman looked like? Surely he’d seen my photos. No first date ever made me feel more rejected or uglier in an instant. Is it any wonder I can’t remember his name?

My sado-masochism continued when we entered the dimly lit restaurant. He told the maître d' we’d sit at the bar, not staying for dinner, just drinks and appetizers. He was still with me, doing me a favor, but didn’t think I rated a table. He balked at a nine dollar bowl of soup, ordered it anyway, and proceeded to slurp it like my grandpa when he didn’t have his dentures in. During the slurping my date never looked at me.

Finally, as he spooned the last slurp, my self-esteem surfaced, explaining, “I just developed this really bad headache. Maybe we should try this another time.”

“Yeah, me too,” he said. Quickly eyeing our waiter, he requested the check and asked me to pay for my wine. I saw it as a small price to pay to end the agony.

Finally, back in my car, I felt comforted by the familiar clicking sound of my seat belt and the car engine revving. The next thing I heard were my own sobs as I cried, tears blurring my view as I drove all the way home to my momentarily tidy (but empty of another breathing soul) apartment.

I could make these dates sound funny, but the bigger question was, why did I subject myself to these humiliating encounters? Could I have behaved any differently and created another, more positive outcome? Was my stink of desperation perfume that repellent? Did I want too much? Did I not give enough of myself?

Sick of being the token single at coupled dinner parties, or the sympathy guest at Thanksgiving dinner, I dreaded every heartbreaking holiday season, thinking, “Who will invite me to spend the holidays with them? How will I hide my empty-hearted sadness when I get there?” I’d probably die of a broken heart, or be ignored and wither away like an abandoned house plant. I felt as lost as a cow without a cowbell...only cows had thinner thighs. Cows knew how to graze in the grass on a sunny day and appreciate the moment. I could take lessons…move to a farm. Maybe a fat farm.