Chasing The O

by LaBelle, Lorelai

“But that’s how you come across,” she said, “and I think men can sense that. Sense your prudeness, if that’s a word.”

  “It’s prudery—and again with calling me a prude. When are you going to lay off?”

  “Well, I’m still waiting for you to say ‘cock.’”

  “Then you’re going to be waiting a long time, because I’m not going to say it,” I said. “Only because you want me to so badly.”

  “A stubborn prude,” Danielle laughed, her words muffled by bits of pizza.

  “As stubborn as they come,” I joked, with a tinge of truth.

  “I’m serious though, you need to expand your sexual scope,” she said. “Give yourself the opportunity to understand what I’m talking about. You need to get back out there and forget about yesterday and one silly date.”

  “I already took your advice and look what it got me—a date with a bald forty-five-year-old.”

  “No one ever said Mr. Right was going to just drop into your lap, Maci,” she said. “That’s your own romantic fairy tale that you’ve held onto for too long. Finding the right guy takes time and effort. All you need to do is commit to the hunt like you’ve committed to work.”

  Laughing, I choked on a piece of pizza. “The hunt? You make it sound like I’m going out to kill my own food.”

  “Well, you never know, you might slaughter a few men along the way to happiness.”

  I got up and retreated into the kitchen to get a napkin. “You’re so weird sometimes.” Wiping off the stream of grease that trickled down my fingers, I found my laptop and placed it next to the pizza box. Her rather clumsy argument for me to persevere did, for some dumb reason, motivate me not to give up so easily. It was probably more my obstinacy and drive to succeed that persuaded me. Regardless of the reason, I navigated to my NorthwestMingle profile and the bookmarked options. “Take a look at these.”

  “Bleak,” she said, after scanning my choices.

  “No good?” I asked, taking back the computer. She shook her head, scarfing down another slice. I sifted through the profiles again. “What about this guy?”

  “SlakinPlayer85?” She gave me the are-you-crazy look. “I know you’re screwing with me. Everything about him sounds fake, and his username—what the hell does that mean anyway? What’s a ‘slakin player’?”

  “I told you, you’re too into usernames. They don’t mean anything.”

  She was about to respond when someone knocked on the door. A horrible creak told us the door was opening. “Hello?” came Ashley’s voice. Danielle had given her a key when they got engaged, but she still knocked before she entered. I guess she thought I could possibly be with someone and wanted to give a warning that she was coming in. She appeared behind us, a draft chilling the small room.

  “You’re just in time,” Danielle said, bouncing off the couch and hugging her fiancée.

  “Oh?”

  “Not only do we have pizza, we also have the fine opportunity to help Maci select her next bachelor.”

  “Do we give him a red rose?” Ashley asked, excited, closing the door and throwing her purse next to the recliner. Though taller than me, Ashley Fuller fell short of Danielle’s height by three inches. Pear-shaped, her butt stuck out, a quality Danielle often praised, and she did so loudly. Her breasts were no bigger than mine, but she was so thin around her ribs that they appeared huge, another physical attribute Danielle loved to comment on. She had the same brown sugar hair as Danielle, which dangled above her chest, and the same sparkling brown eyes, but her skin was a shade paler.

  “I don’t know,” Danielle said, turning to me. “Maci?”

  “Har, har, very funny, guys.” I got up and hugged my soon-to-be bestie-in-law. “We missed you around last weekend.”

  “The snow was a drag, for sure,” Ashley said. “I didn’t go anywhere. But I did hear about your little adventure, rear-ending a Mustang.” She scowled at Danielle. “Now I know we’re never getting one of those.” The two were perfect for each other. They had the same sense of humor, the same interests, the same speak-your-mind attitude, and they both made a handsome salary. I could never remember where Ashley worked, but she was a junior executive for a big company in Portland. “So show me the lucky fellas.”

  We all sat, and Danielle snagged the laptop and displayed the profiles I’d bookmarked. Granted, these ladies weren’t the most knowledgeable when it came to dating men, but they were enthusiastic. They were opinionated and wanted to help. After hours poring over hundreds of profile details, we had a new top ten list.

  “So what should I say?” I asked, opening up the private message box.

  “You sure you want to try BlazersFan88 first?” Danielle asked. “I think you should go for HereForYou.”

  I hung my head. “Because of the username?”

  “Hey, it means he’s willing to stand by you,” she said.

  “Personally, I like that he’s a Blazers fan,” Ashley said. “I could use another person around here battling to watch sports.” Ryan was a sports enthusiast, but he had never wanted to hang out with Danielle and Ashley, wanting only to spend time with me.

  “I told you I’d watch the games with you,” Danielle snapped. That was one area of contention between them: watching sports. “I even said we should get season tickets this year, but you laughed at the idea.”

  “I know you, Danielle. We’d go to one game and you’d grumble the entire time,” Ashley asserted. “Now if we had someone else, then you and Maci could talk about other things while we watched the game.”

  “All right, that’s two to one,” I said. “Now what should I say?”

  “Well, you should forget coffee,” Ashley suggested. “Go with dinner. Dinner raises the stakes and he’s more likely to bring his A game. Plus you get a meal out of it—unless he’s a d-bag.”

  “Haven’t you heard? Maci is done with dating pricks, finally. She’s going for the Gold now.”

  “About time. Men like Ryan can only drag you down.”

  “Right. The last thing she needs is an anchor pulling her to the bottom of the sea. No, what she needs is a pair of wings to soar into the sun.”

  “She means orgasm,” Ashley said playfully.

  I shook my head at their silliness. “Thanks for the interpretation.” With their bickering counsel, I typed up a message and sent it. I scanned the clock. “It’s nine,” I sighed. “I gotta get to bed.”

  “’Night,” Ashley said.

  “Come Saturday, this girl will be thanking us for all our efforts,” Danielle said, smiling.

  “Goodnight, Ashley,” I emphasized while staring at Danielle. “See you tomorrow night.” I tottered down the hall and collapsed into my bed, zapped. After a half hour of tossing and turning, I stared up at the projection. The minutes ticked away at a devastating pace. Each minute felt like it took twenty.

  By ten, my mind had wandered onto Danielle’s advice about me opening up sexually. Over the years she had lectured me a dozen times on the subject, but lately she was really sticking me with the “prude” gibe. One concept that I returned to again and again was Danielle’s assertion that to know what you liked, you should experiment on your own. Masturbation never appealed to me, though. The mood was never right, the intensity level never there, the desire missing from the equation.

  During my teen years I’d given the subject of titillation—what got my motor going, as Danielle would say—a fair amount of thought. Fantasies steamed my nights, dozens of them, and I even made a mental list of all the things I wanted to try someday. But then as the years went by and I never got up the courage to actually do any of those fantasies off the list, all of that pent-up sexual energy deflated, evaporated into a steady dose of the same: the same closed-mouth kissing, the same position under the sheets, the same everything. By my early twenties, all that youthful eagerness started to reverse, to the point that I clenched up at the very idea of trying something new.

  Closing my eyes, I tried to think of what would turn me on, slidi
ng my hand over my nipples and down my stomach to my v-spot, visualizing BlazersFan88’s profile picture. Over my clothes, I began to rub myself in circles, and blood started rushing between my legs, but my mind wandered. The picture changed to the driver and suddenly my body flooded with lust, blood surging in my head as it had during my last daydream of him.

  A second later, Colby-Jack jumped on the bed and scared me so badly that I kicked him off. As I scanned the room, I noticed I was huffing air, and I tried slowing my frantic heart rate. The cat returned a minute later, unshaken by my attack, curling up by my stomach, his favorite sleeping spot. I crashed not long after that.

  JOSH, OR BLAZERSFAN88 AS he was also known by, had replied by noon the next day, agreeing to meet me for dinner on Saturday. I had proposed Henry’s on 12th and he seemed pretty stoked that I’d even suggest such a place. I liked it because of the huge beer selection, all labeled by styles. Why he liked the idea so much I’d soon find out.

  The day slogged by, with very few high notes, cursed by a computer system that wouldn’t cooperate. It seemed the harder I tried to solve the computer problem, the more the answer eluded me. The driver occasionally intruded into my thoughts, but I shrugged them off, focusing on the upcoming date. By the time Bridgett asked me if I wanted to go out, I was grouchy and ready to punch something, anything. After I told her I’d think about it, I ended up passing, opting for a night spent in front of the TV with Colby-Jack.

  I DIDN’T SLEEP MUCH that night, anticipation gnawing at me, condemning me to an early morning fraught with expectations and different visions of how the date could go.

  Butterflies came and went throughout the day, and I tried to work them out of my system when Danielle and I went to the gym. That plan failed. Back at work, I tried distracting myself with the manual for installing the network correctly at the bakery, but that only made me frustrated. By the time it came to dressing, I was a nervous wreck. Luckily, Danielle and Ashley were home preparing for a fancy night out, and they agreed to put together an ensemble they assured me would “knock him dead.” They did not disappoint, dressing me in a jean skirt with leggings, a red V-neck sweater that showed enough cleavage with my best push-up, and tall boots that added a few inches.

  “Wish me luck,” I said, on my way out the door.

  “You’re too gorgeous to need luck,” Ashley said, slapping my butt as if to say good job.

  “Hey,” Danielle called out. “Cut that out. Mine’s over here.”

  I waved goodbye, laughing. The drive from the Sellwood area to downtown was about as simple as it got, but I hated the competition for street parking, so I designed a strategy a few years back, beginning at the parking spaces across from Irving Street Kitchen on NW Thirteenth. They were normal, head-first spaces. Parallel parking had given me trouble since I was fifteen in Driver’s Ed. The night started off on a good note, with a free space for Eddie.

  Eight blocks away, Henry’s sat on the corner of Twelfth and Burnside, only a block away from Powell’s City of Books, my favorite store in the city. I loved the unique crosswords they sold. The eight blocks in the brisk air leveled my overwhelming jitters. I walked through the entrance six minutes late. Josh had texted twice about my ETA. Maybe he had a thing for punctuality.

  The date was a total joke.

  Our conversation ebbed and flowed until the food came, mostly small talk and first-date, get-to-know-you questions, then it fell into a lull. He had taken out his phone, more interested in texting than conversing. The vibrations on the table were grinding away my patience, but it was a date and I didn’t wish to be as rude as him since I hoped he was paying, otherwise, I would have gotten up and left the moment the last bite of mac and cheese slid down my throat. I managed to eat half of it before my stomach insisted I cease.

  We both got boxes to go. The check came and we stared at it in awkward silence. He made no attempt to reach for it whatsoever and again retreated into his texts. Then I noticed that he was swiping left and right a lot. Oh my God, he’s looking for his next date! I should throw this mac right in his stupid schmuck face. What a goddamn prick! Minutes passed, and after he’d ignored me for more than half the night, he said, “Dutch?” My jaw dropped in astonishment. I’d suffered his company for nothing.

  I made a give-me-a-break gesture that also acquiesced to his proposal. We both had cash, but he didn’t have enough for a tip, so that landed solely on me. He was a real gentleman.

  He tried to hug me outside the entrance, but I pulled back and gave him a stiff-arm. His hands in his pockets, he said he would like to do it again sometime, then crossed the street, vanishing into the city. I laughed to myself. Not a chance, douchebag. I looked east toward Powell’s. They were open late and I had to walk off a little bit of the alcohol. A new crossword book or historical romance sounded like exactly what I needed to turn this night around.

  Five seconds later my phone beeped. I unlocked it and saw the new text, sent by BlazersFan88. Man you’ve got a sweet ass. I wanted to squeeze it all night. Can’t wait til next time. I burst out laughing, so hard, in fact, that tears formed, ready to spill.

  I was so absorbed in laughing at the text that I didn’t notice the person barreling straight for me. It felt like I was hit by a car, the speed-walker built like a brick wall. My mac and cheese leftovers flew straight into the street as I chose to save my phone with a death grip.

  My butt crashed on the sidewalk, flattened, and all my breath fled my body. I lay there staring up at a silhouette, gasping.

  5

  WHEN MACI MET ANDRE

  “I’m so sorry,” came a voice, sweet and smooth—a clear tenor. It sent a jolt to my heart and made my blood buzz with lust.

  My eyes focused on the offered hand. I grabbed it and allowed the silhouette to pull me up. My vision cleared up under the new lighting and I saw whom I’d collided with. It was the driver. I let out an audible gasp.

  “Oh my God, it’s you,” he said, recognizing me under the streetlamp. “From the accident and the gym. You ran away so fast the other day.”

  I was speechless, caught in the headlights of his penetrating gaze. His smooth skin was the kind I craved, without a trace of facial hair. It was the kind of face I wanted to kiss all night.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, putting his other hand on top of our interlocked fingers.

  At the realization of his touch, my body flushed, my heart thrashing inside, excited. The unknown current returned, turning on a mysterious urge deep down within me, an unexplored cavern of libido protected by inhibition. My wits came back in a startling snap. “Uh—yeah, yeah I’m fine. I must’ve hit my head.” My tongue got in the way of my words, jumbling them.

  “Do you need to sit down for a moment?” he asked, again genuine concern in his voice.

  I shook my head, releasing his hand. “No, I’m fine. Just shaken up for a moment, that’s all.” I glanced at the road and my smashed box of mac and cheese. My mouth hung open, stunned, but no words followed, too nervous. Danielle was right: I was too shy.

  He scanned the road. “What is it?”

  “My mac and cheese,” I muttered, disheartened. I pocketed my phone. “My leftovers.”

  “Ah,” he said, noticing the box on the blacktop as traffic continued to run it over. “I’m really sorry. I was absorbed in a book description.” He bent down and picked up a book with a cloaked man on a fiery red background. A Dance of Mirrors was printed in yellow across the cover. “Sometimes I get so lost in something that I completely block out my surroundings. If you want, I can buy you a takeout order.” He smiled, showing off all his teeth, which seemed too perfect, all aligned and model-white. “Wouldn’t want you to miss out on your leftovers.”

  His offer took me by surprise. Staring at his gifted body and visage, I understood what he meant about getting lost in something so deeply that the background faded away. A seal brown blazer draped from his shoulders, clinging tightly to his body. An exact fit. Underneath it, he wore a white shirt wi
th a green circle sandwiched by two horizontal bars centered on his chest, a symbol I’d seen before, but I didn’t know its meaning. His khakis hung from his waist, relaxed. A pair of running shoes protected his feet.

  I found it all intoxicating, put-together without trying too hard and somehow novel. I battled down new cravings that I’d never known were inside me, now stirred, as though he were extricating this strange passion from the darkness of my subconscious by some magical force, bringing the feelings to the forefront of my heart and between my legs. I’d never had such a flutter in my veins.

  I felt like a teenager for thinking it, but he was hot. Really hot. Scorching hot. The kind of hot that made women week in the knees and faint because they stared too long at such gorgeous features.

  Without warning, I noticed the heat of my burning cheeks, and I was held by his gaze, I felt exposed even though my scarf covered the cleavage-peeking V of my sweater. How long have we stood in silence? I wondered, now hurrying myself to come up with something to say. “No, that’s okay,” was all I managed at first. “It’s not that big a deal. I was just looking forward to having it for lunch tomorrow.”

  He nodded, polite and composed. “You took off so fast on Tuesday that I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself. Vince Forte,” he said, sticking out his hand for me to shake.

  The business side of me took over when I saw his extended arm. “Maci,” I said, making eye contact, the way I was taught from an early age, to assert confidence. I withdrew quicker than I normally would, but the eerie tingle produced when our skin touched unnerved me.

  “Maci?” he fished.

  “Sorry. Maci Goodwin.”

  “Goodwin,” he said, examining the name. “That’s a strong name.”

  “Not as strong as Forte,” I pointed out. “Originating from fortis.”

  He laughed. “Quite right. You know words pretty well, I take it?” he asked, fidgeting with the book he held. I caught on to his nervousness then, and it was odd to observe, since it was nearly impossible for me to form a brief answer.