Wow, in five minutes or less, my internal warning system, or my internal sex meter, has gone off.
Two A.M. and I have been sitting on the patio talking to Laguna Beach stockbroker Stan for over two hours.
“I have to find my friends.” I run my finger over the rim of my empty vodka crème soda glass.
“They left about an hour ago, waved and gestured that they were leaving. The blonde gave me a big thumbs-up,” he says.
“Really?” I raise my eyebrow.
“Would I lie?” he says, raising his eyebrow, comically matching mine.
Hmmmmm, would a man lie? Silly, silly question. Of course he’d lie. Men will lie about anything to avoid anger or confrontation with a woman.
I set my drink down. “I don’t know, would you?”
“No, not to you.”
I like him already.
Chapter two
Keep It Out of the Office
People who are late annoy me. Aren’t we all in a hurry? Isn’t all of our time valuable? So I try to be on time. Call it respect … for myself, for who I’m meeting. Just be on time. Living in Los Angeles, you leave an extra forty-five minutes to get anywhere, knowing that you will inevitably be stuck in traffic.
I am never late. Yet I’m late for Dr. D.’s office, as I’d rather lose twenty dollars of therapy than sit in the lobby, waiting, running the risk of being subjected to inappropriate “bridal” reading materials. I know it’s silly and a waste, but I’m willing to pay it.
Rushing into the inner lobby, I push the button outside his door to let him know I’m here and pace around because I don’t want to sit. I can see that … that … bridal magazine, but I shake it off. Shake it off. The door opens. “Sorry I’m late.”
“It’s your time,” he says, opening the door to his office. In my spot on the burgundy sofa I already feel more relaxed this visit. The cuckoo clock actually brings a grin to my face.
“I met someone.”
“Did you get the flutter, flutter?”
“No, I got a flitter, flutter … but, yeah, I guess I got the flutter.”
Dr. D. sighs. “Did you sleep with him?”
“No, I am a self-respecting woman.”
I leave out the fact that I really, really wanted to, as it has been too long since I have even been kissed.
“Did you do your reasons for him yet?”
“No, but I did notice his eyebrows are waxed. Not really a reason, but it was weird, he has these really groomed eyebrows. They come to a perfect point at the end. It’s a little off. I mean, for a guy. At what point did men go from being the Marlboro Man to arching their brows like Ru Paul? It’s not really a reason, more a question.”
“I want to hear about the new flitter guy, but more importantly, did you bring your list?” Referring to my homework assignment from last week.
“I did,” I say, reaching into my Kate Spade bag. “The list of ten reasons that I guess I should have known or at least thought about before dating David.”
“That’s good.” Dr. D. gestures for the list and I hand it over like a teacher’s pet. He glances at it, places it on his yellow legal pad, and takes his place across from me. “Tell me about him.”
As I start to remember David, it seems like I’ve already been through it in my head a thousand times. Within a few sentences I am back in that place and time, reliving it.
Four and a half years ago, Asheville, North Carolina, day one of our entertainment company retreat. Josh, my gay friend, and I are late for our first meeting of the morning. I spent the last hour lying on the double bed in Josh’s hotel room while he e-mailed his boyfriend, Ronald.
I am reduced to vicariously living through my gay male relationship for testosterone intake. Frankly, I think Ronald is a jerk who doesn’t deserve Josh, but then again, I don’t know who would be good enough for Josh. We’ve been friends since I moved to L.A. in the early nineties. He’s from Nebraska and always says he’s the only gay Jew from the state. We’re both single, both in PR, both looking for men. He’s my date to any social function where a girlfriend is unacceptable, unless of course you are Melissa Etheridge, Ellen, or Rosie.
I look at Josh as we run down the hotel corridor holding hands. He is the perfect specimen for me, if only he weren’t gay. But maybe that is why we are so close. There is no pretense, no hiding who we really are in hopes of getting the other naked. Just two people with similar morals, ethics, and senses of humor.
I would probably have an easier time getting him to say 10 Hail Marys and take Jesus as his favorite savior than I ever would getting him to visit my little man in the canoe, my flower, my whoo-whoo.
We’re late for a presentation on corporate collaboration by our new CEO and president. I tug on Josh’s hand. “Come on!”
He barks back at me as we hurry down the hall holding hands, “Five minutes is fashionable, not late! Always the company do-gooder.”
“If I didn’t have to wait for you to instant-message Ronald, the sausage king, we wouldn’t be late,” I say, out of breath.
“We broke up,” Josh says nonchalantly.
I stop dead in my tracks as we hit the lobby area. “You wait until now, not on the four-hour flight to Atlanta, two-hour bus ride to Asheville, and thirty minutes on the treadmill to tell me that you broke up? What’s up with that?”
Why is it that Josh’s breakups are never as dramatic as mine? As if by being gay he holds some secret knowledge that there will always be another. Apparently there is a plethora of gay men looking for love and no straight men looking for anything more than a beer and a nice set of hammers.
Josh tugs at my hand as we search for the Azuma conference room. “It was never going to last with someone named Ronald,” Josh says as we find the conference room. He opens the door to the huge ballroom where Avery, the head of PR, my boss, is addressing a hundred happy Warner employees. The audience claps as Josh and I duck into the back and sit on hard wooden chairs.
Then, I see him … He saunters onto the stage clad in a dark gray Hugo Boss suit and wonderfully bright yellow tie. “Good morning, everyone. For those of you I haven’t met, I am David Jenkins, your new president.”
I grab Josh’s hand and we both mouth “babe.”
Oh, my dreamy president. Now I know what happened to Monica Lewinsky. Except I don’t think I could ever roll in the hay with Clinton. He 100 percent does not give me the “flutter, flutter.” But I understand how the power can do it for some women. Must be like good teeth for me.
I pause my story about David and look at Dr. D. “Looking back on it, David’s allure, standing at the podium in his leadership position larger than life, got me bothered and a little hot.”
The reality that he was a great-looking man in a tailored suit making seven figures a year somehow dazzled me. Wow, does that make me shallow?
Plus he had one of those voices that can make your toes tingle. Voices are important. I don’t think I could date a guy with a whiny, high-pitched voice. Match David’s power with his low raspy tones and translucent green-yellow eyes and I was pretty much willing to be thrown up against any desk or nearby file cabinet by him.
I stop my train of thought on the track and smile at Dr. D. “I am starting to realize why I am single.” He smiles back and writes a note on his yellow legal pad.
Reason #1: If your boss is bigger than life in your company, that doesn’t necessarily mean he is bigger than life in real life.
“Please continue,” Dr. D. says.
Josh leans over and whispers in my ear, “I wouldn’t mind being collaborative with David.”
“Shhhhhhh …,” I say, trying to analyze what it is about that man up there that is making my palms sweaty. His mouth moves … his upper lip is slightly smaller than the bottom. He has gray at the temples. His eyes are slightly creased at the corners from too many tennis games in the sun or too many smiles at pretty girls. He shaved this morning, but he has slight stubble already peaking out of his tan skin. OH MY!
>
He is giving his rousing, inspirational, motivational speech about … Shit, I have no idea what he’s talking about.
I look around the room and everyone seems as riveted as I am. I realize that I have been lost in the hundred different ways to kiss him and have not been listening at all. He’s probably rambling on about demographics or programming. It could be about a sewer treatment plant in Uganda and I’d gladly watch those lips move all day long. He’s a six-foot-one-salt-and-pepper Alpha fox through and through. Making my six-foot rule. Nice teeth, good voice, has a job. No ring. Things are looking good in Asheville!
We break for coffee and Josh calls Ronald, but before it rings he stops me, delicately touching my arm. “Let me pose a few words of wisdom to you, Kitten,” Josh says, leaning out of his phone booth, waiting for Ronald to answer. “Don’t shit where you eat. Don’t fish off the company pier. There is a reason that so many sayings exist about relationships gone badly in the workplace. Not that I don’t see why you want him. Hell, I want him. But sweetie, Em, throw this one back. He’s exactly the wrong guy.”
I jump back to reality, sit up, and twist my back from side to side, subtly eyeballing Dr. D. “You look like you want to say something,” he says.
“Well, this is where I came up with my second reason.”
Reason #2: If there are kitschy little sayings about the guy you’re dating, there is probably a universal reason why it is a bad idea.
“Your friend, Josh, sounds like a smart guy. And your reason is a solid one. Too bad you didn’t see it then.”
Josh closes the door to the phone booth as I scrunch my face at him and mouth through the door, “I am going for coffee.”
Why does there always have to be an obstacle in the way of love? Perhaps this workplace obstacle is like any other. It simply must be conquered. There are mental, physical, and spiritual hoops that one must jump through to really feel satisfied that we deserve our ideal relationship. It makes perfect sense.
I try my best to seductively grin at David while he waits for me to finish pouring my coffee. “Emily, right?” I swear to God he low-growled at me.
Tingling. Toes, knees, thighs, tingling. “Good guess.”
“Not really.” He points at my laminated name tag.
SHIT! I am such a looossssseeerrr. I am wearing a name tag. No one looks at all remotely sexy in a laminated name tag that says, “Hello, my name is Emily Sanders, I am in the PR department.”
David and I stand around a nicely decorated table with silver serving trays overflowing with bagels, cream cheese, lox, croissants, and glazed pastries.
He takes a bagel and walks away. I stare at the back of his head as he stops to talk to Avery
Flutter. Flutter.
“I knew right then with David.” I smile at Dr. D. He jots a note and shakes his head, understanding.
I must have been drooling when Josh snuck up next to me and rolled his eyes. “Coffee, cream, Sweet’n Low, doggy-style?”
Proceed or retreat? That is the question. Is it nobler in the mind’s eye to move forward with the hope of finding the “right” love, or to go back to my room and watch an old movie while I stuff my face with French onion soup and a club sandwich from room service?
I say, CONQUER! Conquer him. Conquer them all. Make them give you their balls so you can keep them safely tucked in a Tiffany satchel around your neck.
I think at that point in my life, at only twenty-six years of age, a one-night whoop in the hay-ho with my boss’s-boss’s-boss didn’t seem like such a bad idea.
There he sits, at the top rung of the success ladder, just waiting to let down the rope so I can climb up.
Day three of the retreat I wear a tight, gray, above-the-knee, linen skirt with strappy red heels and a stunning black sleeveless V-neck sweater that maxed out my Visa. I make my way to the lobby bar, sit down on the stool, order a Kettle One and cranberry, and wait patiently for Josh to curl up next to me.
“Kitten, learn from what I am about to tell you. No good comes from drinking at company functions.” Josh looks at the bartender. “I’ll have a Crown and soda.” Then back at me. “Great shoes.”
“Gucci outlet,” I say, holding out my foot. We spot hotty-president-boyfriend-to-be sauntering across the lobby in black trousers and a black cashmere sweater.
Josh turns and watches him. “He’s trouble. Big, yummy trouble.” David spies us looking at him as I pretend to laugh and look away … I sort of spin around on my barstool, frolicking and carefree, but I lose my balance and bash my elbow into the brass railing. “Shit! Why do they call it a funny bone? That’s not fucking funny.” I wince, rubbing my elbow.
“Subtle, flirty turn, nicely done with a hint of I-don’t-give-a-shit-about-Mr. Beautiful-late-thirtysomething-God.”
Josh gives me a little golf clap.
He rubs my elbow for me. “Em, I don’t want to see you get hurt, or fired.”
Two martinis, two glasses of wine, and one tequila shot later, Josh and I are singing to Frank Sinatra’s “My Way” on the dance floor.
We tango across the floor. “I did it mmmmmmmyyyyyy wwwaaay.” Josh dips me. “Thirsty, Kitten?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” I say, rolling out of his arm.
Do you see why Josh is the perfect date? Sexy dancer, singer, friend, and cohort, and he even knows when I need a drink. He is practically the perfect man.
However … this is where anyone in his or her right mind would have said no to more alcohol. But instead I stand waiting at the bar for our beers.
The DJ spins the Village People’s “Y.M.C.A.” and Josh hurries back to the dance floor, drawn by the irresistibility of a flashback to summers in the Hamptons in the heyday of the eighties. He spins in a circle and claps above his head. I hold my arms in the air at Josh making a Y, M, C, AAAAAA. The bartender sets down two Bud Lights and two tequila shots. I hand him a twenty.
“Want to dance?” David says from behind me in his low-sex growl as he lightly brushes up to me and sets every hair on my body aflame. I am dizzy with him. Maybe it’s the tequila. No, it’s him. Yep, definitely him, David, wow, front and center, Mr. President, Mr. Sexpot, Mr. Perfect, Mr. Power Boyfriend candidate.
Then I look around the room and see a few people watching me out of the corners of their dirty little minds. Wondering what I was wondering. Why was this man of great importance paying attention to this lowly director of PR?
Or I guess maybe it was obvious with the Gucci stilettos.
“I’ll be right back,” I say, “and yes, I one hundred percent want to dance with you. Just, can you wait one, maybe two minutes?”
He does this sexy little shoulder shrug and agrees. I look at Dr. D. “That’s when the whispering officially started.”
Reason #3: That which is considered scandal in a relationship is bad, really, really, bad.
“I guess I knew then, really. Well, at least Grace told me,” I explain.
“What do mean?”
“Well, after David asked me to dance, I walked outside and called Grace from my cell phone …”
“I need a voice of reason, need you to stop me from tearing the president of my company’s clothes off, which I know sounds terrible, but I haven’t had the ‘flutter, flutter’ in a long, long time. I haven’t found someone who actually likes me back in a long time. What exactly is wrong with seizing the moment?”
Grace takes a deep breath and puts on her would-be-therapist’s voice. She was getting her master’s in social work at this time. So every time she gave me advice, I got the calm-stern voice of reason. “Walk away from anyone in your company who has a bigger title than you. Walk away from anyone in your company who will cause jealousy, gossip, and notoriety from your peers. Even the mail guy. Don’t do it at work. It’s your bread and butter. It is the place that enables you to shop, eat, pay your rent, go on vacations, and buy overpriced Kate Spade bags, not to mention pay your cell phone bill. WALK AWAY!” Grace is now barking into the phone. “And
stop drinking, you’re borderline slurring.”
“Walk away?” I repeat, not convinced. “Walk away?” I repeat to myself, shuffling back into the bar. I should walk away.
But my willpower defenses are dulled by what would be at least a 2.0 on the alcohol blow meter. I stop at the entrance of the bar and see him watching me with his confident, I-want-to-have-sex … wait, I-will-have-sex-with-you eyes. I look from him to the elevator outside the bar. It’s an easy twenty steps to a scandal-free existence in the corporate jungle. And then, as if he is reading my mind, he winks at me and mouths, “You’re okay” and gestures with his head for me to come back.
Cheek to cheek, sweaty, another drink, another dance, the smell of him, the way he guided me on the dance floor, held me close with his strong arms. At that moment, with our bodies pressed together, I knew that he was meant to be my boyfriend, and I didn’t give a damn who knew.
There is safety swaying in the arms of a man you are really, really hot for.
I bury my head in his chest, right at his collarbone, run my hand over his forearm, melt and disappear into him.
It was a flawless moment that I wish I could have put in a pink box and saved for every time I was feeling lonely. Just that one song, Billy Joel’s “The Piano Man,” one dance, the moment when I felt the faux-man-woman-stranger connection. It made me feel wanted, sexy, alive.
As we left the bar to get some air outside, it played like a slow-motion instant replay on ESPN highlights. The entire room watched. It was like one of those big blindside hits a 320-pound defensive lineman lays on the quarterback, a meat-wagon shot that makes your stomach sink, a textbook corporate version of—YOU GOTTA SEE THIS!
Then, sensing my fear … Josh gave me a wink and waved. David smiled at him and waved good-bye. My heroes.
We walk along the outskirts of the resort. “I think those are the Blue Ridge Mountains,” David says. “They’re really magnificent.”
He’s magnificent. Powerful. Smart. Handsome. A great dancer. Take a deep breath. Slow down. In, out, in out. “Yes, they are,” I slur.
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