Dinner Should be Enjoyed Naked

by Michelle Charpentier

  Dinner Should be Enjoyed Naked

  By Michelle Charpentier

  Smashword Edition License notes.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for you only, the please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, place and events either are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, locals, or events either living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Copyright©2010 by Michelle Charpentier Smashword Edition.

  Wednesday November 22.

  What have I done? How could I have so easily committed myself to anything so foolish? I have officially lost my ever-loving mind! I was minding my own business, cheerfully going about my life when I felt the innocent vibration of my cell phone.

  Without thinking, I flip it open saying, “Hello,” while continuing to rifle through the stack of papers on my desk. The voice on the other end made my hand freeze in mid-shuffle. It was Rick—big strong, handsome Rick. Rick with the athletic legs; muscular thighs that remind me of an Olympic weight lifter; six pack abs; powerful arms; and hands, which are soft and gentle enough to send tingles down my spine, just thinking about them. Add his curly black hair, combined with those chocolate brown eyes and I’m three quarters of the way to an orgasm. If I hear one, “Hey baby,” through the receiver I will have to grip the desk ‘cause I’m going all the way. Luckily, my office door is always shut!

  After a few minutes of idle chit chat, I silently congratulated myself for staying cool. He has no idea I want him—all of him—to spend hours entertaining me in the privacy of my bedroom. My, oh, so lonely bedroom. Picture the classic scene of tumbleweed rolling across the prairies encountering nothing but dust, and you get an idea just how little action that room has seen in the past few years. This man could change all that, but I cannot seem too eager. If I take my time, let him know I enjoy our little bouts of conversation he may eventually ask me out on a date.

  At this point, I will have to research what constitutes a date, since it has been so long since I have had one. I would hate to miss an invitation because I don’t recognize the lingo. Suddenly I’m jolted back to reality. Did I really hear him say what I think he said?

  “So, how about it? Will you have dinner with me Saturday?” “Of course, I would love to,” I respond automatically.

  Apparently, when my mind wanders my libido takes over. Oddly enough, my voice remains calm during a hormone-induced reply. This is good to know if I ever find myself at, say, a strip club when that all-important phone call comes in from the president. Men in g-strings gyrating close by, will have no effect on my ability to negotiate world peace. Yeah, for all humanity. Right now, however, my palms are sweating and my pulse is racing over the idea of having dinner alone with the man of my dreams. Thank goodness, video phones have not invaded the communication market or I would be busted. The key to pulling this dinner off is not to act too eager. Acting like an infatuated schoolgirl won’t do. I’m definitely past the age of giggling over a hot body. Okay, I should be. Time will tell if I have actually attained adulthood. My brain interrupts my angst, prodding me to pay attention, since dreamboat is still talking.

  “Great, how about I pick you up at eight o’clock? We can go anywhere you’d like; any favorites?”

  My mind is blank. I could not name a restaurant to save my life. “Surprise me,” I stammer. “I trust your taste.”

  What a cop out. Can you say blithering idiot? Promise me a meal and I lose any ability for rational thought. Time to put the hormones back in control; they seem to be able to function intelligently under pressure. With any luck, I will at least get through the meal before he discovers I’m a complete idiot.

  “Then I will see you Saturday night,” he purrs into the phone before it goes silent.

  I savor the tone of his voice for a few minutes. His deep, husky tone had caressed each word before transcending the airwaves to my ear and sending shivers down my spine. I swear he spoke this way just for me.

  I lean back in my chair, arms stretched toward the ceiling and coming to rest behind my head, and savor my awakened senses. A big beautiful manly, man wants to take me to dinner, and if I play my cards right, spend some quality alone time afterwards. Soft music playing in the background as candle light dances in the shadows, sending sensuous aromas wafting through the air, create the perfect atmosphere for love, runs through my mind. Right now, I would settle for some heavy petting, but I’m aiming high.

  Reality starts to creep into my fantasy when my eyes land on the calendar. Saturday is three days away. Repeat, Saturday is three days away. Jolted upright, my mind finally registers, Saturday is three days away! Every known stereotype of women and dates scream through my fantasy-loving mind. I have nothing to wear. Are we going somewhere fancy or casual? What color is he wearing? Must we match? Certainly, we should not clash. What about shoes? Should I wear heels or flats? Will one get me more action than the other? Okay, put that question at the end of the list. My hair is a mess; is there time for a cut or perm? I really should be more prepared for a social life, but who knew all my begging to a higher power would finally pay off?

  Looking for inspiration and a chance to brag a little, I pick up the phone to call my sister.

  “Hello,” Marsha’s voice echoes from the cell phone. “

  Hey sis, how’s it going?” A few pleasantries are always necessary before asking anyone for advice. It puts the person in a good mood so they forget how needy you really are.

  “Just fine. You have today off?”

  “No, I’m at work trying to figure out how to move this product before the end of the month. Nobody wants to buy anything when they can bitch at me for free. I do have one major problem to tackle. I’ve just been asked out on a date and haven’t a clue what to wear. I was hoping you could help me out; any ideas?”

  “A real date or just coffee?”

  “This will be a real dinner date where a waiter takes your order and brings real food.

  “Really! And a man is taking you there? My goodness, this must be a first.”

  “Thanks for rubbing that in, now how about some help.”

  “Okay, what are you leaning toward—dress or pants?”

  “I was thinking of a nice knee length dress, with heels. I just don’t know what color. I’ve always worn boring clothes. I want this outfit to sizzle.”

  “Better make sure your boobs show then. Men can’t resist cleavage.”

  “Boobs? What are you, twelve?”

  “Stop being such a prude. You should be able to say boobs at fifty. Come on, repeat after me: boobs, boobs, boobs.”

  I could hear the mirth in Marsha’s voice as she coaxed me. That is one family trait we all share: the ability to tease each other without taking it personally. A more normal family would not survive the conversations we had when the five of us got together. Our own mother shied away from them at times; not embarrassed over the context but uneasy with the candor. I think self-preservation would take over to keep her out of harm’s way if a bomb suddenly went off. With her in the distance, at least there would be someone to call 911 if necessary.

  “Okay, smarty pants, think it over and I’ll call you later.” Flipping the phone shut, I hold it in my hands for a few moments to keep the connection with my sister just a little longer. I haven’t seen her in a few year
s and I miss her. Little sisters are a cute addition to the family when they first arrive as babies. Suddenly they begin to walk and talk and before long, the expectation is that you will keep them entertained. With a six-year age gap, we really didn’t have much in common as children. Before long, we were blessed with another sister. Initially this was a good thing, since the two little ones could keep themselves occupied. Mom assured me the girls would still need my companionship for the next few years, so then I had to entertain two.

  The best part of having two little sisters is that they grow into women, quickly. While I was off establishing my life, they grew into intelligent worldly women with opinions I could trust. We don’t always take the same path but I can rely on their judgment to be solid, when I need their help. In reality, little sisters are only a pain for the first ten to eighteen years. That leaves at least fifty to eighty years to enjoy the camaraderie only sisters can provide. Every woman should have a sister.

  A knock on the office door reminds me I’m still at work. Thoughts of dancing in the moonlight have to be pushed aside for now; the public awaits my expertise to help solve their problems. I love my job, but can’t these people see that my need to find the perfect dress takes precedence over their broken appliance? Well, I just hope none of them are mind readers; otherwise, there will be red faces on both sides of the counter. Deciding whether to wear a thong, briefs, or go au natural is a decision best made among the voices already residing in my head. I don’t need strangers butting in with unwanted opinions.

  I just need to concentrate for a few more hours, and then I can agonize over my lack of suitable dating attire, in the comfort of my easy chair. In retrospect, I realize this would not be such a problem if I had dated more, as a teenager. Damn it all to hell my lack of interest in mindless teenage boys! Why did I spend so much time reading textbooks instead of fashion magazines? I bet all those cheerleaders who I considered too “girly” have closets full of sexy clothes, fabulous shoes, and pretty lingerie to fit any occasion. I’m smart, I can catch up quickly; just watch me. I’m a woman and I understand shopping comes naturally to us. We will put that stereotype to the test, big time, in the next few days; trust me.

  As I wander back to the front of the store, customers start lining up at the counter, waiting to pay for their items. Since a big part of my job is taking other people’s money in exchange for merchandise, I really should get my head out of the clouds. I hope the line of customers will continue to grow, giving me little time to think about Saturday. Oh great, not only is the line growing, it is breathing fire. I don’t understand why people think we are magicians. If they don’t know what part they need, then how am I supposed to know? Apparently, a description is all the information I need, to be able to solve their problems. Maybe I should call the president and offer my services. Surely, I can negotiate world peace if I’m successful at this job.

  Pay attention to the customer, my mind screams. It is the only way to get him out of here so you can make plans for Saturday. My eyes blink a few times as a diversion to allow the voices in my head to retreat so I can get back to the customer. I would like to say, “So what? My washer works.” Instead, I hear my voice say, “This is what you need. It’s fourteen dollars and ninety-nine cents plus tax.”

  Slowly he pulls out his wallet searching for money. Maybe I’m being insensitive but if you come to the counter with an item that has to be paid for, how about being proactive and have the money already in your hand.

  “How much did you say?” he asks after looking at the bills. “Fourteen dollars and ninety nine cents plus tax,” I try not to sound exasperated.“So how much is the total?”

  He can’t be serious. Everyone should be able to add the taxes to their total. “Sixteen dollars and four cents,” I reply with my hand outstretched to encourage the money to jump from his wallet into my hand.

  “Are you sure? The sign says eighteen dollars and fifty cents.”“I can charge you that if you want, but the price I just gave you is a better one.”“Are you trying to get smart with me?”

  Someone has to get smart with this guy. Why would you argue for a higher price? I wish I could just refuse to sell him anything. If this were my store, I would take the part back and tell him to get out. No one who cannot recognize a deal staring them in the face should shop in stores. Instead, I use my best customer service voice to reassure him he is the most intelligent person in the room.

  “No sir, I am just pointing out that the sign must be incorrect because you are getting a lower price.”

  Finally, he hands over his money, takes the change and leaves. Unfortunately, another man steps up to take his place. His lips move forming words but the sound doesn’t reach my ears. This guy does not have a clue that I’m really thinking about red stiletto heels. My eyes glaze over wild thoughts invade my mind.

  Do you think there is an age limit on wearing them? Who would police a thing like that? Probably the sales clerks at the shoe store—just like buying cigarettes at the supermarket. Signs would be posted at the checkout: Anyone Who Looks Over The Age Of 40 Will Be Proofed For Heel Height, or something similarly insane. A nubile blonde-haired person just out of high school would smile sweetly saying, “I need to see your license. Sorry ma’am you are past the age limit for wearing four-inch heels. “

  Her slim fingers reach out to retrieve the shoes from my grip, but my hands won’t let go easily. My fingers tighten around the straps unwilling to release their hold. If I let go of these shoes I will be releasing my hold on youth. From this point on, I will be banished to the Old Woman Club, made up of those people whose journey through menopause was not a happy trip. Others will see me as old, as every wrinkle is intensified for all to see and every extra pound visible from miles away. Children will snicker as I walk by, and men will no longer gaze at my breasts instead of looking in my eyes, when we talk. This only proves that all those people who told me I don’t look my age, meant I looked older, not younger.

  “Please,” I beg, “let me have this one last pair. Let me be young for one more day.” Slowly the shoes slip from my grasp, disappearing behind the counter. As I turn to go, I see an older woman at the next checkout gingerly place her shoes on the counter. As the checkout girl looks at her license, the woman lets her eyes roam around the room, trying to act nonchalant. Satisfied, the checkout girl hands back her license. The woman quickly puts the shoes in the bag, signs the credit card slip, and hurries out the door. My mind is racing. How did she do that? I have to find out. I fly out the door to catch her; I must know how she got away with it.

  “Excuse me,” I shout, trying to get her attention before she reaches her car. Without looking back, her pace quickens. She must think I’m security, sent to retrieve her precious shoes. “Wait,” I shout. “I’m not here to hurt you; I just want to know your secret.”

  Damn it! She made to her car. Against all I believe in, I break into a run. I hope no one I know is watching; I have spent years convincing people I physically cannot move faster than a leisurely stroll. If they see me, my entire persona will be in doubt. All those carefully cultivated characteristics designed to make my life easier will be in jeopardy. People will expect me to join in, have sympathy, want friends, or be friendly to others. My entire life could collapse. A quick scan of the parking lot eases my fears. I see no one familiar.

  I reach the car just as the engines starts to hum. My hand rapidly bangs on the window in an effort to get it open. My desperation must have shown. The window slowly retracts in the doorframe as the woman tentatively whispers, “What do you want?”

  “I need to know how you got away with buying those shoes. You must be the same age as me; how did you get through? Please tell me. I finally have a date with a glorious man and I can’t be seen in boring shoes.”

  “It’s simple. Scout the store to find out when the youngest girl is working the checkout. Look for the cheerleader type. You know what I mean; they have bleached blonde hair, too much make up, and are usually chewi
ng gum. They are less likely to be able to subtract quickly in their head. Act nonchalant but in a hurry; it confuses them. As soon as you leave the store, hightail it to your car. And don’t talk to anyone until the shoes are in your trunk.” With that, the window zooms up and the car jolts into reverse. “Bless you,” I whisper as the woman drives away. A voice from the other side of the counter breaks my concentration.

  “Boss, the phone is for you,” Rebecca says as her head pokes around the corner. She quickly moves in and takes over the customer patiently waiting in front of the register.

  “Thanks, I’ll take it in my office,” I reply. Closing the door, I fall into my chair at the same time my hand reaches for the phone. As I sit my eyes scan the emails sitting on my computer. Each email wants something, more spreadsheets, more sales, or another pound of flesh. I’m sure whoever is on the phone wants something also. Just wait until someone has the nerve to ask me what I want. My sons know the answer—Peace and Quiet! Sometimes I feel like telling the customers to take what they want and get out of the store. Boy, I really need this date. I’ve heard that sex can be a great stress reliever, especially with a man who knows what he is doing. My mind wanders back to Rick’s curly hair, long strong fingers, and bulging biceps that totally make me forget I have a call on hold. Reluctantly, I reach for the phone instead of lingering in the emerging fantasy.

  Thirty minutes later another customer is satisfied while I’m less interested in anything not pertaining to my upcoming night of romance. I don’t care if their vacuum is broken; I only want to think of bubble baths that will make my skin irresistible to touch. I wonder what his favorite fragrance is. I hope it is not vanilla. Everything from flavored coffee to bathroom scents smell of vanilla. The last thing I want him to think about while smelling me is how clean his bathroom is. If I get lucky enough to have him that close I want him to smell the scent of lust. I have three days to figure out what lust smells like. I need to make a list of what goes into a wonderful date so I can tip the odds of having sex, in my favor. I’m hoping for a long, sensuous night of passion, but will settle for a hot steamy quickie. Something tells me Rick is all about the night, from flirting at dinner to long lingering kisses under the covers. I don’t believe quickies are ever a possibility. I wonder if there is a prayer for that. Which saint covers good sex? Since according to the Bible, we were supposed to go forth and multiply, it only makes sense there would be a patron saint of whoopee. Wouldn’t the local priest love that question? I think I will file that one away for a rainy day when I’m bored. Embarrassing a priest is a minor offense, not worthy of going to hell. It only gets serious when you involve the Pope in a sex talk.