Tempted

by Cj Paul

  Evening - Late night play online. Back in school, and when I was new to the workforce, I would always go out Thursday night...all night. As a result, I got in the habit of staying in Friday nights. And the habit stuck. To this day, I love reserving Friday nights for lounging at home, and just sort of futzing around and catching up with friends and fans online

  Saturday

  Breakfast - I bound out of bed ridiculously early on Saturdays, well rested and far too excited to remain horizontal a moment longer. An English muffin with peanut butter to eat in the car with one stop at Starbucks for a Grande Mocha, and I am set for the drive into the city

  Morning - Tai Chi in Washington Park by St Peter & Paul’s Church with the exquisite Chinese ladies with whom I’ve anonymously shared Saturday mornings for years

  Lunch - While awaiting my favorite treat of the week, I indulge in a respite at Kamala spa. The treatment rooms feel like Indian tents, with yards of rich-colored fabric draping the ceilings and walls. The spa is known for its ninety-minute Abhyanga Four Hands (two therapists) Massage and each treatment room boasts its own small steam room. Girard Winery Zinfandel and Chardonnay, as well as dosha-balancing teas are available throughout the process. Not too shabby

  Afternoon Tea - I rotate tea spots, usually bouncing between Neiman Marcus’ rotunda, Lovejoy’s, Crown & Crumpet and the Fairmont. But my mecca is tea at the Palace Hotel in the nearly unbearably gorgeous Garden Court that used to serve as the carriage garage, dirt floor and all, when the luxury hotel opened more than a century ago. Tea consists of delicate finger sandwiches, scones, Devonshire cream, lemon curd and rose petal jam, plus a harp serenade – truly heaven on earth

  Dinner & Evening - This is my one full day to spend in the city, and I love to play tourist and breathe in the sights and sounds of the place where so many have left their heart, including me. So if I have tickets for a show here, or at least no plans elsewhere, I go to one of my favorite haunts, such as Masa. I always go by myself and am surrounded by gussied-up couples or buttered-up clients and their bill-footing teeth-whitened sales reps. Some diners throw me pitying glances when they observe I’m alone. Most are too embroiled in romance or deal making to notice me. I prefer the latter

  Sunday

  Breakfast - Just coffee. I am most likely still full from last night and have Mom to deal with today

  Morning - While Mom goes to the community church where she has worshipped and served for decades, I experience God in my own way – through nature. Sunday mornings are my time for silence, gratitude and reflection. And there is nothing like a morning spent traversing the quietude of the Muir Woods to set me to rights. It helps me get my zen on in preparation for the blitzkrieg that is my mother

  Lunch - Ever since Dad passed away, Sundays have been spent at Boudin’s Bakery on the Wharf. My mom loves the place, but equally enjoys commenting on my weight and taunting me with baked goods she says I of course can’t have, given my ample mid-section. Grrrrrrrrrrrr. I admit I am not bikini-ready, regardless of season. I am a busy woman with a variety of interests and tastes, and while I used to be something of a gym rat, I have now migrated to other joys and pursuits, and frankly if Mom doesn’t like my body then she shouldn’t torment herself by scrutinizing it so closely. Sure, I’d love to be 36, 22, 34 again. But in the scheme of things, it just doesn’t matter – really!

  Afternoon - Sunday afternoons are all about Mom, and I am happy to take her wherever she desires to go. She may be a pain, correction, a royal pain, but a girl only gets one mom

  Tea - Back at my place, we dip into our arsenal of bakery sweets, and Mom insists on having both tea and coffee. Go figure

  Dinner & Evening - Tummies full, I deposit Mom at home and then head to Jeffrey’s Natural Pet Foods, making a point to mention this errand to my mother, just to get her goat and hear her outraged despair over my menagerie and catlady future – a term that is undeserving of its stereotype and stigma. Annoying of my mother this way has become yet another tradition

  * * *

  All said, when it comes to my social life and courtship, I very much enjoy traditions. So, when Bret responded to my email (thanks IT man, Mark) inviting me to Starbucks in Strawberry Village for a Grande Mocha, remembering what I’d ordered the first time we met, I squealed and shot off an email of gleeful acceptance.

  And went shopping in my closet for just the right cuppa jo ensemble.

  Chapter FourGoing to a coffee shop on a date can be tricky business. Not only do you have to order at a counter, but you are not guaranteed any sort of seating, and can easily be overdressed. How long do you stay without being a seat-hog? And where do you wait to meet when you’re there first?

  Even though the Starbucks Bret chose is just blocks from my house, I make a point to take my car to avoid sweatiness and the prospects for a turned ankle in my 4” high Espadrilles, my shoe of choice in order to look leggy without appearing overly sexy or just plain overzealous. The cute navy blue dress I am sporting says all that I could want: I’m playful, respectful and would like to think I have a classic sense of style.

  I do my best to arrive at the last minute, but fail, and I have to wait for what feels like eternity for Bret’s arrival, in part because he is about seven minutes late.

  “Wow! Look at what I missed by being late!” I hear from somewhere behind me, or to the left of me, or to the right, or wherever I am not looking since I can’t find the source of the voice anywhere.

  A tap on my shoulder sets me straight and I turn around and look up into Bret’s kissable face. His mere presence causes my heart to skip a beat and I stand transfixed, grinning like a fool and breathing in his clean, classy, cologned scent. He later informs me that he is wearing JB by Jack Black which, according to AskMen, provides “a fresh London barbershop aroma without the cheap afterglow. JB is the right scent if you work in a traditional office with double-vented suits, wingtips and catered lunches of Dover sole but has the right amount of individuality that you won’t blend in all together.” Wow. That sums up Bret to a T. His cocksure swagger is utterly beguiling and I stutter and giggle like an awkward schoolgirl when attempting to order my coffee selection. Before I can get the words out, he has ordered for me, standing dangerously close behind me to the point that I can feel his manhood nestle blithely between the cheeks of my backside. Suddenly I wish I was wearing black-seamed stockings and seductive lacy underpinnings in lieu of the chaste cotton culottes I chose. I am feeling warm already, even before the barista hands me my Mocha. Wordlessly, I follow him to the only available table. I quickly realize why it is available: nearly everybody that passes bumps into it, apologizes, and a brief conversation with each embarrassed bumper ensues. But, no matter. I notice nothing but him and his enticing scent.

  Through the course of conversation I learn he trains guide dogs, is Ivy League, an avid skier, raises orchids and loves mountain biking. My goodness, eclectic tastes, I think. I am fascinated. And what’s more, I am captivated.

  “Is that a yes or a no?” he asks, his mischievous eyes crinkling.

  “Excuse me?” I weakly reply, realizing I have no idea what we’d just been talking about, as I’d been lost in some sort of yummy, dreamy trance.

  “I said, do you like hockey?” he repeats.

  “I love hockey!” I rejoin, and it’s actually true. Without a word, he is on his feet and next thing I know he’s escorting me out the door, his hand on the small of my back, guiding me and making me tingle.

  He opens the car door, delivers an unexpected smack to my bum and shoos me into the apple red Cadillac Escalade. Nothing shy and retiring about this fellow. I tingle again.

  Within a short period of time we are at the Cow Palace in the city, taking in a game of the local, semi-pro ice hockey team, the Bulls. Our seats are middle of the pack, but it isn’t long before Bret exclaims, “Come on!”

  We pirate a pair of empty seats on a piece of prime real estate and have a blast watching the Zamboni do doughnuts, eating the junkiest
of foods, and getting vocally up-in-arms over bad plays and cheap shots. Our team – during the course of the game I decided I liked the festivities so much that I would incorporate season tickets into my schedule, so yes, I refer to them as ‘our team’ – ends up losing in a shootout. But I am far from daunted, as I still have several games left this season and a full season to look forward to come Fall.

  Walking back to the car, we are both giddy and animated, jumping about, laughing, punching and pushing each other like teenagers who ‘like’ each other. After milling aimlessly about the parking lot for so long that half the cars have gone, Bret casually asks, “Hey, where did we park?”

  We both stop short and realize we have managed to misplace the car. Despite the relative emptiness of the lot, we see no sign of Bret’s oversized, red-delicious status symbol and really can’t recall in which direction to look. We start the long trek around the arena, traversing some turf I am positive is nowhere near any area where humans might park. As we walk, we touch and grab and laugh, pausing for the occasional urgent tonsil-tickling kiss session. As we round the loading dock, Bret stops and leans against a crew truck, pulling me into him and off-balance as he begins a new assault of my lips and neck. Greedily, he starts groping me, quietly grunting and growling his intentions. I get the feeling that he wants me and that he wants me right here and now.

  Elise Phillips, that sweet new-agey healer type who I had on the show awhile back, said sometimes our chakras are in conflict. I wonder what she meant by that. Huh.

  What the heck? Who thinks of old work contacts when they’re being manhandled by a hot guy? And why on earth am I thinking about esoteric eastern philosophy at a time like this?

  Elise described them in colors, something that an OCD color-coded spreadsheet lover like me could understand. Red is the root chakra located at the root of the body, the bowels of your core, Kundalini energy, instinct, survival, security, that sort of thing.

  Bret holds my face in one hand, pulling my hair down with the other, forcing my head back for even greater access to my exposed neck and hungry mouth. His lips find the spot where my jaw meets my ear.

  Orange is the second chakra, the seat of emotion, creativity, sexual and sensual energy.

  Well color me orange! He nibbles and sucks my ear and neck, whispering sweet nothings – scratch that – breathing salacious threats of sexual carnage.

  Next comes yellow. It’s about power and control and the freedom to be oneself.

  As if I have any control right now.

  It’s about mental functioning.

  Ha! My mental functioning is non-existent right now and has been totally usurped by body functioning.

  In western culture, yellow is also the color of chickening out!

  Crikey!

  His mouth returns to mine, keeping me too busy and focused to notice his hand cupping my breast while his other finds the hem of my dress and begins searching its way up the back of my thigh.

  God what comes next? I picked a fine time to forget my colors!

  Red, orange, yellow...

  His breath on my neck is making me...

  Green! Of course, green. Green is the heart chakra. It’s love, balance, compassion ascending the scale of being.

  Going up even higher, his hands begin to...

  No no no! Not his hands! The chakras!

  Going up into the blue chakra located in the throat...

  The throat his tongue is currently mining...

  The blue chakra is speech, self-expression.

  Ha! Clearly he has no problems expressing himself! As for speech, that went out the window when we lost the car. Still kneading my breast, his opposing hand mirrors these efforts by squeezing my bum, and his fingers begin a subtle ploy to get my thighs to part ways... He succeeds. I gasp.

  OK, six, six, I can do this, six! The sixth chakra is...is...ack, red! Orange! Yellow! Green! Blue! Purple? Wait...no...not purple. Help! Where’s a kindergartner when you need one? They know this stuff. I need to find a kindergarten kid now! Then again, this is probably not exactly suitable entertainment for a little one. A kindergarten teacher, yes! They’d know what color comes next and not be scarred for life by the scene before them.

  Dear, Lord. His hands feel incredible on me – manicured, white-collar hands to be sure – smooth, but not so soft as to be effeminate. His fingers toy with the opening of my womanhood, pausing slightly, and in they go. Indigo! That’s it! Indigo!

  Indigo is the famous third eye...but the 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6th chakra. How confusing is that?

  I moan as his fingers take up a quicker pace, darting in and out of me with greater urgency as his pouty lips pull my earlobe and he sighs in my ear.

  Good grief! Where was I? Indigo – 6th chakra, 3rd eye, the forehead, site of imagination, psychic abilities and clairvoyance. Claire-voyance? Ha! I highly doubt that my Indigo 3rd eye 6th chakra is doing much clairvoying now. I’m putting my money on those bottom chakras.

  The hand that had been getting familiar with my breast has now grasped my own seeking hand and unabashedly placed it on his swelling crotch, sliding my palm up and down the hard, blunt object straining at his fly.

  At last, number seven, the violet chakra. Interesting because violet is the color of royalty and this is the sovereign or crown chakra. It is the seat of spiritual connection, understanding, knowing, oneness, bliss.

  Umm...you sure the oneness and bliss aren’t located down below with that deadly Agent Orange chakra of sexual energy and creativity?

  Ooh, that was new. I think he’s found the spot, that little patch of pleasure inside that’s kind of like an elevator button you push to skyrocket straight up to the penthouse...up up up...yes! *&^%$!!!

  Chapter FiveIn the throes of a deep and lurid kiss, Bret turns me around and pushes me forward against the truck. My hands involuntarily brace against the cold metal wall, mostly to keep my dress from getting filthy from the grimy truck body. He deftly wraps an arm around me at the hips and pulls them back toward him, my bum now acting as a homing device for his desire. My kundalini meows in appreciation, even as my upper chakras look at one another, drop-jawed.

  His free hand flips my skirt up and yanks my panties aside. Without warning, the warm, smooth head of his cock slides inside me and I gasp in surprise and confusion. Suddenly my chakras are in chaos. My orange chakra is doing a happy dance, while yellow wants to step back and consider the situation. Unperturbed, indigo is chanting peacefully, eyes closed – ohmmmmmm – and green is off in the corner, squatting and weeping! Blue stands up and announces, “Not here. Not like this. Not yet.” Indigo raises her eyes and nods, and before Bret can go for thrust number two, I pull myself away and it’s all over.

  I re-arrange myself and lamely explain that I’d like to get to know him better, that it’s too soon, that he can’t do that without protection... Bingo! That’s it!

  “Bret, that is not cool to do without using something, especially when we don’t really know each other yet. And I’m not on birth control. Besides, how do you know I don’t have some sort of STD?”

  “Because I know. I can just tell. You don’t sleep with men.”

  “Excuse me? You think I’m a lesbian? Just because I wouldn’t let you do me behind the hockey arena doesn’t mean...”

  “Hahahahahhaha no! I didn’t mean that! I mean it’s obvious you don’t have sex

  much...if at all.”

  “Excuse me?” I have no idea what color the chakra for anger is, but I am positive she’s wide awake and ready to pounce.

  “Hahahahahahahahaha!” He is doubled over laughing himself into hysterics. When he catches his breath he explains, “You’ve got all of this wrong. I’m just saying that it’s pretty obvious you are highly selective about who you have sex with. It’s a compliment...and a turn-on.”

  “Oh…” Miss Indigo ‘ahems’ in my head. “Thank you... I...”

  “I can also tell that you are gonna be a little tigress in bed. You’re a challenge. I lik
e that.”

  My orange and yellow chakras are doing a tango together until I catch up to speed on what he just said. “Gonna be? Mighty sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

  “Cocksure!”

  I freeze on the spot, not knowing how to respond, and the internet connection linking me to Team Chakra has just gone down.

  “C’mon,” he reassures, grabbing me by the hand, kissing it sweetly and pulling me back to the parking lot, his eyes laughing.

  Without the ether of potential sex clouding our thought, we are quickly able to find his Escalade, which is now sitting stately in marked solitude in the empty lot.

  The drive back to Starbucks is light and pleasant. When we arrive, he starts to get out of the car, but I dissuade him, giving him one last kiss, both playful and sincere to show there are no hard feelings after the momentary defilement by the truck.

  “See you soon, Claire. Very soon,” he says with a wry smile.

  “Ciao for now,” I return, inwardly shuddering that I have just ended a date with the same phrase I use to sign off of my talk show.

  “Ciao, bella,” he adds, driving off while holding my gaze in his twinkly, mischievous eyes.

  My breath catches as I wonder which chakra covers heartbreak from the past. “Ciao, bella” is what David always says to me. But David’s not here and Bret is. And unlike David, Bret does not have a girlfriend he’s living with in Italy.

  * * *

  The next couple of weeks, Bret and I are disgustingly adorable, with both of us giggling and tittering and falling under one another’s spell. Ever since the hockey game, lunch has been the only time we can get together, so I meet him in the city the next couple of Mondays and Thursdays, for an all too brief flirt fest and salad, extra flirting on the side. At one point, I actually do ask him if he has a girlfriend. When he replies ‘yes,’ my heart sinks. I hear that sound a turntable needle makes when it comes to an abrupt stop on an LP, and my green and Indigo Girl chakras speak at the same time, “I knew something was off / Oh no, not again.” Before I can bark out a retort, Bret amends his answer. “I have the best girlfriend a man could ask for… you!”