THE EXES IN MY IPOD: A Playlist of the Men Who Rocked Me to Wine Country

by Lisa M. Mattson

  “But what about your work until then?” He stroked my hand.

  “Restaurants. Bars. Working for tips.” I stared at his hand rubbing mine. “That’s all I’ve ever known.” I’d never stopped to realize that working around food and booze was the only line of work I’d ever considered as a teenager. I never wanted to be a cashier at a gas station or bowling alley. I found comfort in making small talk with strangers while filling their bellies and getting them tipsy. Was working in restaurants actually my calling in life?

  “Try something new,” John said, covering his mouth while he chewed. “Take a risk.”

  I pushed the pasta with my fork. “I can’t make enough money writing to live here and go to school.” Besides carrying four cups of full coffee in one hand, writing was my only other talent. But my penchant for rambling and a feeble vocabulary crippled my progress. I credited my literary handicap to the fact that the only books my mom kept around the house were the Bible and an astrology ephemeris. Making $8 per hour writing obituaries for the local newspaper—as I’d done before moving to Miami—wouldn’t even cover my monthly rent of $500. I didn’t have parents down the hallway to turn to like John did. Waitressing was the pillar of my financial stability. It was my comfort zone. I didn’t want to struggle to make ends meet every month like my mom did. Returning to Kansas with my tail between my legs only to enroll at the local university was not an option. Some force had been pulling me down a different path for years. I had to follow it. I’d made the decision to leave Kansas. Staying in control of my destiny meant working my butt off and never asking my parents for money.

  After dinner, John cradled me in my papasan chair. His hands never slid up my dress; I never tried to pin his shoulders down and play “sub” teacher. He petted my hair and continued to coach me to follow my dreams. When I finally agreed to research new job opportunities outside the restaurant world, he kissed me goodbye and left for the night—like a perfect gentleman.

  John closed my front door behind him. “I have good news, Sweetheart.” His luscious smile grew as he dropped his backpack by my entryway closet. He rushed toward me, planting an intoxicating kiss on my lips. My whole body turned to Jell-O. John spent a good minute brushing his fingers across my cheeks and shoulders before releasing me from his soft embrace.

  “What could be better than this?” I asked in a purr, grabbing his hands. I wore a blue cotton tank and khaki skirt—typical attire during the sweltering summer. We’d begun planning work shifts so that we had two nights off together each week. More than three weeks had passed since we’d started dancing together. I’d cooked him dinner twice. Things were getting downright serious.

  John walked into the kitchen. “Do you have anything we can celebrate with?” I stood next to the half-wall by my front door, leaning against its counter and watching him. John opened the refrigerator and stuck his head inside while music drifted from my bedroom. Lisa Loeb warbled for him to “Stay.” How appropriate. Seeing John make himself comfortable at my apartment made my heartbeat flicker. He pulled out a bottle of Riunite D’Oro, which had become our go-to drink. Drinking sparkling wine made us feel more refined than our co-workers. We had reason to celebrate every day: We had our shit together, unlike them. One night when my glass was filled with bubbles and my spirits high, I’d asked John to stay the night. He’d responded by covering my lips and cheeks in kisses, then said, “Baby, it’s disrespectful to my mother to spend the night at my girlfriend’s place. It’s a Latin thing. A Catholic thing. I hope you understand.” I only understood the Catholic no-sex-before-marriage rule, which I’d been ignoring since dropping out of Catechism in ninth grade. John lived with his family in west Kendall, about thirty minutes south of the Grove, and he’d yet to invite me home to meet his parents. I figured that was a Latin thing too. Hell, the guy called me “Sweetheart” and cuddled me like a stuffed animal. I decided not to rock the boat.

  John cracked open the screw cap bottle in the middle of my kitchen and poured his news first: He’d landed the job with the 911-call center in Kendall. He fished two wine glasses from my kitchen cabinet while jabbering on about his new responsibilities. I nodded to show interest, then stuffed my hands in the pockets of my skirt. His commute would be shorter, his hours normal and his wages higher. Training started in one week. Great, just great.

  John’s teeth gleamed as he poured the wine. “I can’t wait to give my notice.” He paused, watching the wine’s frothy head subside so he could fill my glass to the rim. I stared at the tiny bubbles, as he handed me the flute. My face drooped, a mixture of happiness and sorrow. I pushed my hair off my shoulders. He crooked his neck.

  “I’m sorry, Sweetie.” He pulled me into a long, soft hug. “I didn’t mean it that way. I’ll miss seeing you at work every day. This is the right move for me, though. You know that.” He stroked my cheek and reminded me that the FIU south campus was fifteen minutes from his new office.

  I looked down at my bare feet. “I know. It’s just that I’ll miss you.” We stood in the kitchen doorway silently sipping our wine. I’d held back my feelings until then. Living with Matthew’s ghost had taught me about having patience in romance. I wasn’t quite sure what would happen once John knew I was falling in love. He was the one rescuing me, filling my life with security and confidence.

  “Any updates on your job search?” He took my hand and led me to the papasan in my living room. John’s encouragement had fueled my search for a more strategic and positive work environment. I’d studied the newspaper classifieds every morning, circling every job that piqued my interest: an assistant manager for a tropical plant nursery, a tour guide at Fairchild Tropical Gardens and Dolphin Harbor Staff at Miami Seaquarium. (Life before Craigslist had its inconveniences.) Practically every job opening had a requirement I didn’t meet: bilingual. Knowing how to ask for cream and sugar in my coffee in Spanish would get me nowhere at a palm tree farm. I tried to suppress my inner Bindi Irwin. Those jobs didn’t get me closer to a career in journalism or public relations. Sadly, there were no advertised positions at the Miami New Times or Miami Herald.

  I rested one hand on his thigh to steady myself and gulped a mouthful of wine. “I have some news too.” I smiled sheepishly. My air-conditioner hummed in the living room window as I watched his big eyes widen. Sweet, fizzy bubbles coated my tongue, calming my nerves. I arched my back. “I did get a job offer.” My tone was slow yet firm. He’s going to shit an empanada. “I’m going to be a bartender.”

  John’s bushy brow caved, and the Champagne flute shot to his lips. I bolted through an explanation of my rationale. Fate had intervened during my job search. As soon as I’d started looking outside CCF, the bar manager, Mike, had called me into the back office and had asked if I wanted to join his team. Before Cheesecake, Mike had traveled around the country training bar staff for TGI Friday’s—Marco’s old stomping grounds. Mike could flip bottles better than Tom Cruise in Cocktail. And he promised to teach me his secrets. Bartending meant more seniority and more money, and it was a natural progression for a server. Working while going to college would be much easier behind the bar. One week of tips would cover a month’s rent. Would I have rather been penning stories for the Herald’s Tropical Life section? Absolutely. Making drinks was a financial means to a more lucrative end. And the two-foot-deep service bar would limit my interactions with the cast of our in-house soap opera.

  I looked into John’s brown eyes for a sign of approval. He cracked a smile.

  “That’s what you really want to do?” John petted my arm. He rested his wine glass on my colorful coffee table. I looked down at the bold, abstract swirls and circles I’d painted on the tabletop during my cross-country romance with Matthew. I felt his ghost creep in and grabbed my wine glass.

  “No,” I replied firmly, as John played with a lock of my hair. “I want to graduate from college and work in public relations. But I need enough money to live on my own here. I need a flexible work schedule that will keep my days free for
class and studying.” My eyes fixed on his. My determination blanketed the living room like an afternoon storm cloud.

  John caressed my hand. “As long as it gets you closer to your dream.” His big, brown eyes gazed at me. “I know you would never get sucked into that dead-end lifestyle.”

  I smiled and pecked his cheek, feeling his goatee scratch my face. John had never met Robert and didn’t know I’d already journeyed to the restaurant world’s dark side. I’d learned my lesson. My party days were over. The soap opera had entered its final season. Marco and Gabriela had broken up after a fight during one of their morning surfing sessions. Then Marco had received a forty-percent rating on a Secret Shopper report, and was fired before the ink had dried on the printer paper. Alicia was planning to move to New York. Karma was doing its bidding.

  We finished off the first bottle of Riunite, my head resting on John’s shoulder. He continued to pet and kiss me like a baby kitten. My motor was purring, lubed with alcohol and love. John pulled a second bottle from the fridge.

  He walked back into the living room. “Can I ask you something, Sweetheart?” He stood above me, smiling. I looked up at his perfectly groomed side burns and shiny black goatee. My eyelids batted with curiosity. “Can I stay the night with you?” My heart leapt. I grinned at his big, kind eyes. From opening car doors to pulling out chairs, his politeness never ceased to amaze me.

  He pointed to his backpack by the door. “I brought my things.” He reached for my hand. “I hope that’s okay.” He said he’d told his mom he was staying at a friend’s house. I wanted to squeeze him like a teddy bear.

  I grinned, cradling the wine glass in my free hand. “It’s about time.”

  He looked into my eyes and charged me like a bull. His hands cupped my face as his tongue plunged passionately into my mouth. Wine sloshed from my glass onto my shoulder, but I ignored it, lost in the moment. We rocked back and forth on the couch, him kissing my lips and neck until my body ached. If sex with Marco was soft porn, then sleeping with John was going to be a Danielle Steel novel.

  John plucked my wine glass from my hand and pulled me from the couch. He tugged my arms, guiding me into the darkness of my bedroom. He reached for the light switch. I quickly grabbed his hand and shook my finger playfully. I still wasn’t completely comfortable with my own body, and two glasses of five-percent alcohol bubbly wasn’t enough to loosen my inhibitions. I needed darkness to help me relax, since sex was definitely on the menu. After almost a year in Miami, I couldn’t help but wonder what having sex with a purebred Cuban would feel like—especially one who kissed like John. My curiosity had been simmering for months.

  The street lamp outside my second-story windows sprayed slivers of gray light through the closed mini-blinds. John touched my shoulders, guiding me into a seated position on the edge of the bed, then stood over me and kissed my forehead before moving down to my cheeks, lips and then left shoulder. My body shook like a washer on spin cycle; I closed my eyes to savor the thrill of his gentle kisses. John slipped my cotton tank top over my head, exposing my padded bra. Ugh. The Olsen twins had bigger boobs than me, and they hadn’t even hit puberty. He’s small. I’m small, I reminded myself. My breathing relaxed. My eyes followed his in the darkness, as they moved to the center of my chest. I watched his dark silhouette rest my top softly on the foot of the bed. He pressed his lips on my shoulder blade, gliding my body back to the center of the bed.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered. “You look like a California girl. I can’t believe you’re mine.”

  I blushed, feeling my boobs flattening like pancakes under the weight of his body.

  “Those eyes. That hair. That smile.” His lips touched my eyebrows.

  Relief and happiness rippled through me. I wanted to scream with delight. Finally! I grinned and wrapped my arms around his chest, hugging him tight. His body felt so light and small, I could have bench-pressed him.

  “You are too good to me.” I squeezed him like a puppy’s chew toy, smiling. With John, I finally felt beautiful. I felt wanted in my own bed—not a motel room.

  He kept pouring on the compliments thicker than suntan oil in August, and my body melted into the bed. I wasn’t accustomed to a guy saying such sweet things to my face, so I had no idea how to react. My vocal chords iced over like a windshield in winter. No man had been so gentle and intimate, giving compliments while looking into my eyes. The wheels in my head kept spinning, as I ran my fingers along his skin, following his lead. My torso turned into a ball of Play-doh. I watched John’s lips and hands in the dark, squeezing, tugging and rolling me into different positions. His legs and arms interlocked with mine. It looked like a game of half-naked Twister had broken out on my bed. But his soft kisses never stopped; he remained gentle and kind.

  I glanced over at my stereo while John nibbled on my ear. My mind raced back to that drunken evening with Marco. There would be no sex kittens in the bedroom tonight. Sex with John would be loving, special. We’d actually make love. His lips pressed against mine, then navigated every inch of my body—my face, my ears, my neck, my shoulders, my arms, my chest, my stomach. His touch relaxed and excited me at the same time. I fanned out my long curls on the bed, trying to look as sexy as Tawny Kitaen on the hood of that Jaguar in Whitesnake’s “Here I Go Again” video. Getting bedroom tips from music videos probably wasn’t a great idea.

  John pulled away and stood above me, as I lay on the bed. “I want to look at you, Baby.” His silhouette glowed in the darkness. His body was small and soft, which made him feel all the more gentle. A frown shot across my face. I squirmed, uncomfortable with his bravado. My eyes darted around the room as he stared at my face and bare chest.

  My arms flew to his dress shirt buttons. Having a well-mannered guy staring at my half-naked body in silence made me feel like a middle schooler getting my first physical. The rush of endorphins calmed my nerves, as I opened his shirt. What will he do when he sees my scar? He probably didn’t have scars on his body to reveal like Chris and Matthew, and he wasn’t drunk like Marco. My mind started spinning the web of self-doubt again. John had told me how much he loved my curvy hips. All the Latin guys at work did. But how long could a Cuban man be satisfied with tiny boobies? Latinas were stacked. I was stacked like a pad of paper. I distracted myself from my insecurities by unzipping his fly and tugging at his Calvin Klein boxer briefs. Rico suave.

  He pushed my shoulders back onto the mattress. The tip of his tongue glided slowly from the nape of my neck to the top of my ear lobe. His lips flew to mine, and he slid his tongue so deep into my mouth, I could hear his heart beating. The intense kiss jolted me upright. I grabbed his shoulders and planted a deep, long kiss on his neck. He gently prodded me onto my back again before dropping the weight of his body onto mine. I exhaled deeply, welcoming the safe, warm feeling of having every ounce of him so close to me for the first time. He lifted my khaki mini skirt and tugged at my panties, kissing my knees and ankles along the way. I arched my back in anticipation of his tongue, which had worked wonders on every inch of my body … except that one. My breath quivered with pleasure as I closed my eyes.

  John slid up my body faster than a wet Slip ‘n Slide. I felt him hard inside me, his small hips thrusting back and forth at warp speed. It felt like a gummy worm was gyrating inside me. John’s cock was skinny, short and gooey. My little man was little everywhere. He started moaning, sharp and shrill like a cat trapped in a shower. The shock froze my entire body. He didn’t even put on a condom or ask me if I was on the pill.

  “Ey, Mami,” he whispered in my ear. The hairs of his goatee touched my earlobe, shooting goose bumps down my arms. His wet nose nudged my cheek like a Chihuahua begging for back scratches. “Your body drives me crazy.” I slammed my eyes shut, as his lean frame pounded against my skin. This can’t be happening. My worst fear was being in bed with a guy and hearing him say, “I want to ride you like a Harley,” but this felt just as horrific. John’s hipbones banged mine. I felt lik
e a mechanical bull being ridden by a lemur that had just drunk a case of Red Bull.

  My mind raced along with the frantic pace of his hips. He’d just called me Mom. I suddenly felt as if both of our Catholic mothers were hovering over the bed like guardian angels, wagging their fingers. Memories of the ever-polite John flashed through my head. Could two bottles of Riunite turn my Cuban prince into a horny, sleaze bag?

  Before I could push the horrid maternal images from my mind, he pushed himself deeper into me. His skinny body arched, as he threw back his head and let out a long, screeching wail. John collapsed on top of my half-clothed body—all this in less time than it takes to microwave a bag of popcorn.

  Welcome to the world of a Latin lover. The thought rolled through my head like movie credits—movie credits for Schindler’s List. Unprotected, primate sex was not on my list of firsts to experience with John! His skin began sticking to mine. I stared at my ceiling in silence, feeling the weight of his body grow heavier. My inner voice began scolding me. I’d made relationship progress by waiting a good month before sleeping with the guy, but then I didn’t buck up and have a serious talk about protection before we got into bed. I soooo needed to stop expecting the man to run the show. Maybe John’s manners wouldn’t have said “adiós” if I’d told him we needed to have a heart-to-heart talk about protection if he was going to stay the night. Talks about sex needed to happen before the guy was inside my apartment. At least he’s still holding me after sex. Sort of. I rationalized the situation, trapped under his sweaty body with my skirt crumpled around my waist. He didn’t hop off once he’d reached his goal like a cowboy on a rodeo horse. Every guy is entitled to one quickie after a dry spell, right? I couldn’t get the vision of my grandma kneeling at a pew during Sunday Mass out of my mind. I thanked God for my daily dose of Ortho-Novum 7/7/7. My eyes darted around his body, looking for the best escape route straight to my shower.