A Little Bit of Me

Jottings and Writing, miscellanous misgivings

Archive for dating

Connections

Connections

Standing on the corner with a red rose in his lapel had seemed a good idea when they had discussed it over the email. Now it just seemed – well – faintly pathetic. The last time I had done this it had been very civilised. But maybe my memory was coloured by the lady who turned up. She had advertised herself as ‘Model 40S, built more like a Chevy than a Mini. WLTM some guy to crank my motor. Looking for a rev up in life. Must have GSOH.’

She had turned out to be more like a beat up old Land Rover. Her clothes hung off her ample frame like a tarpaulin on a building site. Her upper lip sported a better moustache than his own. And her language. And she had the audacity to laugh at him.

“I thought your ad said you were tall, good looking, and slim.”

She was right, of course. I wasn’t the best looking man in the world and at 5′ 7″ and at 200lbs I was not slim. But who would turn up to see a vertically and horizontally challenged, bald, desperate guy, which is all I could humorously come up with.

This whole dating game was a nightmare. You lied, she lied, the agencies lied and got paid for it.

The waiter glided over with sartorial elegance. He was new and his generous nose was held aloof with the arrogance of youth. A thin strand of gorgeous hair dropped forward and brushed his elegant, sunken cheek. The fine, white-spotted, blue neckerchief covered the thick matt of dark hairs around his throat, missed by this morning’s razor. The elegant shirt, top two buttons fashionably undone, contrasted with the rustic linen jacket.

“Your order sir?”

“I’m waiting on someone but I’ll have a martini. Heavy on the gin, no olive.”

The waiter did something unfathomable with his eye and wandered off. I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Then she walked in.

Any thoughts of bad agencies and flirtatious waiter disappeared. She was gorgeous. I couldn’t believe she was the ‘tall, elegant, 40 something, ready for a fling with the ‘ serious gent ‘ of the ad, and she was wearing the pink carnation and carrying the velvet purse. She glanced in my direction just as the waiter arrived with my martini. He placed it on the table and gave me that look again. She came over.

“Good evening. Would you be, by any chance, the gent who answered my ad?”

I blustered through an introduction and had the good sense and timing to get the chair out from the table for her as she sat down. Up close she was even more spectacular. Her magnificent shoulders contained a neck that was Egyptian. She had set it off with a single string of pearls. Her breasts swelled from the vague material of her dress. She smelt divine. When she crossed her legs I could hear the rustle of nylon on muscled thigh. I stiffened.

“I’ll be honest with you and come to the point quickly. I want to have a baby. I am forty-one years old and, I believe, an attractive woman. Through quirks of fate I have been married and divorced twice and have never had a child. I want to have sex, – often -, as often as I need to, until I conceive. Does that offend you?”

I gulped back my sense of incredulity and stammered a reply.

The waiter came back and had the audacity to push her chair in as he stepped by. To make it easier for him to get past, I guessed.

“Ready to order yet? – I’ll get a menu”

My anger was barely contained but I indicated with a sweep of my hand to bring some menus. I looked deep into her eyes as I asked what sort of food she enjoyed.

“Oh! I’m eclectic. One night Greek, then French, maybe Mexican mid week, then Italian. I tend to avoid Asian, but every once in a while I really enjoy it.” The perfect answer. This woman and I were destined. It was ordained.

The waiter returned with the menus. The selection was fantastic. The evening was really going to be a success. I asked if she smoked. As I did I felt a pressure on my already hardened groin. I pulled back the tablecloth. It was her foot. I hurriedly pushed the cloth back. Her foot sensuously caressed my sex.

“No! But you go ahead if you want”. A perfect answer, although I didn’t smoke. The waiter returned.

“Ready now”, and that funny eye thing again. The foot retreated.

“Yes I’ll have the Italian rosemary bread to start and the devilled kidneys for an entrée. Bring them both at once. The poached salmon for the main with the shellfish salad. The lady will share the bread, and she is having the French onion soup, then the steak encrout– with the potato sidedish and vegetables. Could I ask for the carrots to have extra basil? Thank you.” I handed the menu’s back.

“The salmon with the kidneys and steak? Hmm! Good choice. And a wine sir?” I stared into her eyes and knew that she would love the Shiraz.

‘Shiraz, and could we have the Montana dessert wine cooled for afters?”

I was glad that she didn’t like small-talk. We felt so comfortable in each others company that we merely observed the other patrons until our meals arrived. I proposed a toast.

“To us. And a possible future. I feel as though I have known you all my life.”

“To us.” She looked deeply into my eyes.

As they left the restaurant the waiter with the elegant nose leaned over to the maitre’de.

“That guy. He comes in here, orders a meal for two then sits there all night talking to himself. What a nutter.”

The maitre’de smiled back

“Happens every week.”

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