The Dating Bender

by Christina Julian

  He did not answer my mating call. I decided to let him rest for a bit and went out to the pool to grill up some pork and hang with his friends. This would prevent me from looking too needy. Plus, my man would be craving protein when he woke up from his late night nap.

  Grilling the meat only made me want him more. I devoured my chop and reveled in the spectacular view from the back porch. His house was much nicer than ours, woodsy-rustic, but in a good way. And so close to the water you could smell it.

  I alternated between burping and babbling with the boys. I wasn’t flirting with anybody, just passing time until Buff woke up.

  A couple hours passed and he had yet to join us. I wondered if he had come down with vertigo again. While my patience with his ploy thinned, my animalistic instincts kicked into overdrive. I got up and howled at his window like a coyote.

  “Sam, give it a rest. He’s not coming down. He’s whacked out on that diet. Hang with us or, for fuck sake, shut up,” his brother said.

  It was hard to tell if it was the sticky air or maybe the tequila wearing off, but a realization washed over me. I had veered off course. I had not played hard to get. Instead, I forced myself over to a guy’s house who left me outside while he went to bed. At last, the light bulb illuminates.

  I should leave. Enough embarrassment for one night. The last thing I needed was for him to wake up in the morning, indulge in a high-carb pancake breakfast, and then find me still in his home.

  I moved back over to the pool, grabbed my purse, and tried to slip by unnoticed as I walked down the long winding road toward my house. Brother Bob and his brat pack soon drifted out of earshot.

  It shouldn’t have been more than a fifteen-minute walk, yet it seemed like hours had passed and I still wasn’t home. I dipped in and out of the woods looking for The Mansion. I convinced myself it was safe. It was the Hamptons, for Christ’s sake. Nobody but the drunk and disorderly were out at 4:00 a.m. Exactly.

  My tequila buzz had worn off, leaving me with a dismal portrait of the night. A night that ended with me wandering around in the woods lost, hungover, and barefoot. Not the hot romp with Buff Boy I had envisioned.

  “Christ, I will never get home. I’m a total fuck up,” I screamed out to nobody through my tears.

  I’d never find true love and happiness. This must have been punishment for all of my sinful escapades of the past. At last, reality is sinking in. Summer flings were overrated.

  Right when I was ready to roll to the ground and sleep in a bush, I heard a car rumbling up behind me. I panicked, thinking it might be the Hamptons’ version of Ted Bundy who was out stalking stupid girls who did not wait for men to come to them.

  A Jeep stopped and Buff Boy got out and stood before me, topless in his boxers with a chicken drumstick hanging out of his mouth.

  It was true what they said about eyes being the windows into someone’s soul, because as I looked into his, pity stared back at me. I must have looked worse than I felt based on his expression. It reminded me of the look my father gave me every time I fell short of his hopes and dreams for me.

  He straightened his rumpled boxers and got back into his Jeep.

  “Get in, Sam. I’ll take you home.”

  Even with a greasy skinless chicken bone hanging out of the corner of his chiseled mouth, he was still sexy. I wasn’t sure if he came out to find me, or if he just discovered me on his way home from the convenience store.

  None of that really mattered because he ended my journey down what would hopefully be my first and last walk of shame.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  A therapist might call my walk of shame a defining moment since it got me thinking: how many more of these scenes did I need to put myself through? Candy, Miss Married, was so off the mark with her glorified view of summer flings. Of course all marrieds were.

  I had endured a long, hot summer, and all I had to show for it was a bruised heart, scraped knees, and a bout of poison ivy. Buff Boy wasn’t a bad guy; he was honest about his “friendly” intentions. He didn’t pretend to be anything other than what he was: a horny, hot guy with great hair who wanted to hook-up on his own terms with no strings or drama attached.

  Clearly he “friended” the wrong woman.

  As much as I wanted to, I could not have sex with somebody and not fall for him. Hell, I couldn’t even kiss a guy and not fall for him. Maybe this was God’s way of not allowing me to ditch my moral high ground. Please, you have no moral ground, high, low, or otherwise.

  The brisk, soggy weather had seeped in to remind me that it was time to swap my summer infatuation with the Hamptons for a real career.

  Crazy Molly would have to do until I could procure one. Luckily, she spent the entire fall season through Christmas overseas, which I took as a holiday bonus. A true blessing, aside from fielding her tirades from afar in the middle of the night because time-change calculations continued to foil her. At least with my boss in Europe, I could put the phone down and let her rant me to sleep.

  As I lounged on her bed and wiped my perfumed arms all over her pillow to instigate an allergic reaction when she returned, I had a couple of new revelations. One, I was about to turn thirty; it was time to get serious. Working for Crazy Molly was not getting me to the creative career I yearned for. Two, my love life was a demolition zone. Time to fix that. Incessantly playing Justin Bieber’s “Love Yourself” could only get you so far.

  One of Oprah’s many mantras reminded me that female friendships should always be cherished. Ever since summer had ended, Shannon and I vowed to meet for lunch once a week. Today was our day! Molly would never know I had left the office.

  Despite the flipping cold temperatures, Shannon insisted on honoring our tradition of eating outside at the Coffee Shop in Union Square. Rubbing frigid fingertips with one of the wannabe model waiters would be as close to having a date as I’d had in months, which was fine by me. I had exiled myself away from men ever since the Buff Boy debacle.

  “Sam, your dating sabbatical has gone on long enough. It’s time to get back out there,” Shannon said as our Calvin Klein underwear model ushered us to an outdoor table to keep us away from the pretty people. He nodded for us to sit, so we could freeze our asses off while we ate. I prayed that he would eat one day soon, but until then I’d admire his hollowed-out cheeks.

  “I’m fine. Men and me don’t mix, that’s all. I feel blessed to finally understand that. Now I can channel all my love into the banana cream pie. It never disappoints.”

  “Maybe not, but it won’t keep you warm at night.”

  “Neither will sitting outside.”

  “Anyway. Here’s the deal. I’m sick of the pity party. My Christmas present to you this year is to save you from yourself. We’re going to Sasha’s holiday party tonight. I know you hate Brooklyn, but this will be worth the trek. Free booze and food is within your budget, I presume?”

  “Well, I’ll go, but you have to promise not to leave me talking to Sasha all night. She never shuts up about how fabulous her life is now that she is in a committed relationship.”

  “Deal. I will block if she starts coming your way.”

  After enjoying our catch-up over one too many mojitos and forkfuls of pie, we headed out with plans to meet later on at the Union Square subway stop. Shannon balked at my suggestion of public transportation, but it was the only way she was getting me to a borough other than my own.

  ***

  As soon as we walked into the party, I could have punched Shannon for dragging me out. Everybody was cheerful, and the eggnog far too sweet. Merry f-ing Christmas. I nodded in agreement and stuffed my mouth with bad cookies so I couldn’t give bitter responses about my relationship status. Thankfully, Buff Boy had skipped the party. Hopefully, he was hibernating in the Hamptons for the winter since it was too cold out to go shirtless.

  After three hours of being grilled about my dating goals for the New Year, I had endured as much as I could take. I gave Shannon the “slit my throat” signa
l, which marked the end of our tenure at this piss-poor party. She owed me some cheap Irish whiskey back in my borough, at Pete’s, one of our favorite watering holes—severance for attending this humiliating excuse of a gathering. Nothing like a drunken hottie to soothe my soul. It’ll take a lot more than that to save it.

  “Sasha, what a fantastic night. We really enjoyed watching the complete DVD chronicles of how you and Stan got together,” Shannon said without a trace of sarcasm. “But we have to move on to the next party. Busy, busy.”

  “Oh please!” Sasha said. “What else could you possibly have to do? Aren’t you single still? Singles are usually dying for companionship during the holiday season. Stan and I were worried we might have to throw you two out.”

  Then she snort-laughed at us. F-her. Why was it that all attached people think every single person had nothing better to do than sit around at stupid couples’ parties watching boring videos? If that was what couplehood was all about, screw it. I’d rather relegate myself to a life of spinsterhood.

  My desperate need to flee worked in Shannon’s favor when I agreed to cab it back to Manhattan. One whiff of the stinky back seat of the gypsy cab (our compromise) made me regret my moment of weakness. I tried some of the deep breathing exercises that Yoga magazine recommended for stressful situations. It only intensified the putrid stench of the cab and threatened to make me hurl up one of the several mini-quiches I had devoured at the party.

  We walked into the pub after a long, pricy, and stanky ride. Thankfully, we were greeted by two black-and-tan beer concoctions that we downed immediately. My mother would have been proud of my drinking prowess.

  We blended into the scene of rowdy hipsters and blitzed Irishmen. I loved the anonymity that pubs offered. Everyone was too drunk to notice you until a certain hour of the night when everybody did.

  “This unquestionably beats that loser party,” I said.

  I tossed back a shot of Jameson. It burned its way down my throat. “Who needs men when you’ve got Uncle Jamey?”

  “To us!” Shannon said as she clinked my glass to the brink of breakage.

  It was amazing what booze and brews could do for fostering a positive attitude. Oprah should recommend it instead of all her positive self-talk. As I slammed my glass down on the bar and commanded the bartender to pour me another, I noticed a perfectly sculpted pec belonging to an even more perfect body. He was beefy and beautiful even in a shirt. Too bad the bimbo next to him intermittently blocked my view.

  “Like, excuse me, like, barkeep, could you, like, get me, like, a sex on the beach shooter, like, right away?” she said as she threw her boobs onto the counter. An annoying, yet impressive, move.

  Like, could you please hang me now and like get a real life and vocabulary while you’re at it, tramp, I thought to myself, but quickly retracted my inner bitch—I didn’t want to risk revealing that wrinkled crease between my eyes that surfaced when I got angry.

  She flipped her hair three times, pelting me in the eye every time with her frizzy blonde tresses.

  “Excuse me,” I quipped as I tried to regain my personal space by sliding my elbow to the bar and knocking her tits off.

  Fake ta-tas! Unfortunately, my maneuver forced her mounds of flesh right into Mr. Pecs’s sizable hands. He flushed at my faux pas and I cursed myself.

  Booby bimbos always made my barely-there rack feel even more minuscule. Thank you, mother, for passing down your surfboard-flat chest.

  The way Betty the Bimbo shifted her bosom out of Mr. Pecs’s large, shapely hands was impressive because the move simultaneously unbuttoned two more snaps of her already low-cut shirt—a maneuver that inspired me to rally for pancake-chested women everywhere.

  “Do you mind? Every time you flip your hair, you’re hitting me in the eye. Step back at least.”

  She thrust her bust into Mr. Pecs’s face so that her left tit grazed his chiseled chin and caused him to step back. Then she squealed.

  “Ah, like, yeah, like, I do, like, totally, like, mind.”

  Brilliant, she was not. I contemplated if she had the ability to string together two sentences that did not contain the word “like.” She retaliated by doing a boob block: a twist turn into a fake faint where she and her boobies fell into Mr. Pecs—the female version of a cock-block.

  She even pissed Shannon off with her slutty bravado, which fueled me to continue with my derailment strategy. When Betty the Boob refused to move her gargantuan tits out of my way, I bumped into her. She was dizzy and borderline anorexic, so even though I just barely brushed her, it caused her top-heavy frame to topple to the dingy floor. She had it coming. Mr. Pecs seemed to think so too. When she realized what happened (lying in a puddle of beer must have been the first clue), she fled.

  As Shannon and I toasted our success with another beer, Mr. Pecs slid his sexy, sculpted arm out to mine.

  “You’re funny. I’m Justin.”

  His words didn’t captivate me in that instant, but his body had my attention. I reminded myself that my life was more stable without male entanglements; that I was complete without a man.

  Screw stability! I stared politely, sending a vibe of open but unavailable. Cosmo said the best way to score a man was to lead him to believe that you’re not available.

  “Sam, stop overanalyzing and go for it. Suffering through the party earned you this much,” Shannon whispered in my ear.

  She slipped into wing-woman mode and chatted up his friend, Paddy. Since they were both Irish, they shared an instant moment of drinking and chortling. In five minutes, she managed to get the full download on Justin’s vital dating statistics. She motioned to the bathroom, eager to share her insights.

  “So, here’s the deal. He’s an only child, thirty-four, born and raised in South Beach, financially solvent, and never married. And get this, he works in law enforcement,” Shannon said.

  “And don’t forget the wavy strawberry blonde hair and tight butt. I’m tempted to squeeze it,” I added.

  As I tried to tinkle in the potty, Shannon prattled on with a plan.

  “First order of business, another shot. It will chill you out. Second, I’ll flirt with Paddy, and you sit still and try to act adorable.”

  “Got it. I think I might be ready to open my heart to love again. For the right guy. Not that he’s it. But…”

  “Stop talking now. Just go.”

  When we got back to the boys, I downed a shot, and then another, just to be safe.

  Justin told riveting stories about his life and then sexy, scant details about his work. I did a lot of eyelash batting.

  Fueled by whiskey and those beefy pecs, I attempted to look sexy by pouting my lips. Maybe Justin would be different than all the rest—he had to be. Oh, dear God, here we go. The true definition of insanity: repeating the same thing and expecting something different.

  “Do you guys mind waiting just a minute? We have to pee again. Beer does that,” Shannon said.

  She threw me down the hall and pulled me into the pisser.

  “Oh my God, I love them! Don’t you? They are hot and nice and down to earth. I think this is it. We should do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “It,” she said. “I haven’t had sex since summer. It’s time,” Shannon said.

  “No, it is not time. We can do any number of things, but sex is not one of them. I thought you told me never to be the last person lingering at a party. This night is ending here,” I said, channeling my mother’s no-sex sentiments.

  “I’m begging you. How often do we meet guys like this?”

  “Never. That’s why we’re going to leave them wanting more,” I said.

  I wanted my loins tended to as much as she did hers, especially since I hadn’t had real sex since Frankie. Nobody needed that to be their last defining sexual encounter. But now was not the time. Tomorrow, maybe, but not tonight.

  “Fine,” she said.

  I prayed that I was right. We returned to our men in waiting. I tried to
do my sexy walk, hands on my hips, with a swivel step. Cosmo said guys liked this sort of thing.

  “Hey, ladies, how about we walk you home? We promise, no hanky panky,” Justin said.

  Despite the dated lingo, he had me at panky. The four of us walked hand in hand, meandering down the snow-kissed East Village street. Hope was not dead, not just yet.

  Paddy and Shannon left us as we rounded the corner onto Avenue B, which left Justin and I in the glow of our own company. In one swift motion, with no running start, he leaped over a parking meter and muttered a breathy, “Hey, you.”

  I stood stupid and speechless. Did he want me to try and clear the meter too? Say something, you idiot. You can’t just stand there and will him to like you.

  “Wow.”

  Not totally brilliant prose, but the best I could muster between my stomach’s incessant flipping all over the place in that whirly-bird way that only happened around boys with potential, like Justin. I tried not to ruin the moment by obsessing over why he jumped over that meter into my life.

  He went for my sweaty hand. Was he smirking at me? Damn you, Mother, for not teaching me about the birds and bees until it was too late to matter!

  “Justin, where did you learn how to do that parking meter leap?”

  “Aw, it was something I picked up at the academy.”

  “The police academy?”

  “Not exactly.”

  It turned out the academy was the Federal Bureau of Investigations. I had a zillion questions to ask him, such as why he would liaise with me, Simple Samantha, when he spent his days protecting the city and the world from terror?

  “Wow,” I repeated in rapid succession until, thanks to my internal pleadings with God, Justin walked toward me, wrapped his massive biceps around me, and planted a mouth-numbing kiss to shut me up.

  Making out against a parking meter might not be appropriate behavior in the eyes of the Catholic Church, but I saw no problem with it.

  When I eventually recovered from a second round of heated street smooching, he looked me in the eyes as if world peace was at stake.