“Great. Why don't we go to Chataqua? There's a ranger's station at the entrance of the park. Let's meet there, say around ten?”
“Sounds good. I'm looking forward to it,” he said.
“Good. Well, I guess I should go back to work. I'll see you Saturday.” I took my unfinished salad with me to eat at my desk. Halfway to my office, I stopped midstep. What had I done? What if Les thought I'd just asked him on a date? What on earth would we talk about for two hours on the hiking trail?
I considered e-mailing him to tell him I couldn't make it, but I couldn't think of what to say to get out of it. Well, I did want to go hiking and I did want to get to know Les better. I'd just make it clear I wasn't romantically interested in him, and we could go from there.
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y fears turned out to be entirely unfounded. Early on in the hike, I made a point of saying that I wasn't ready for any sort of romantic involvement with anyone, that I was still recovering from my divorce and happy to be single. After I'd made it clear that this wasn't a date, I relaxed, and our conversation came easily. Les kept me laughing for most of the trail.
In two hours, I learned that Les was thirty-three and had never been married, though he'd lived with a woman for a couple of years way back when. He'd changed majors a lot in college, and as a result had gotten an exceptionally well rounded education. He'd taken courses in art history, anthropology, literature, international relations, and economics before finally graduating with a degree in physics. He taught physics in a high school for several years, and he taught himself about computers in his free time. He'd launched the technology literacy program at his high school. He loved the work, but the pay was atrocious, so he got a job at a large Internet company, and for the next two years he rarely worked fewer than seventy hours a week. He was so stressed out all the time that he gained thirty-five pounds in a single year.
He'd always loved Colorado, so he decided to move out here and focus less on his career and more on his life. Except like so many good plans, his was unrealized.
What was perhaps most striking about our conversation was how much I shared about myself. When I'd been with Gideon, I'd grown used to never talking about myself or my feelings. With Les, I opened up and told him all about my years as a dancer and the very unhealthy relationship with one of the musicians on the ship I'd worked on. I told him all about my five years at McKenna Marketing and my marriage to Gideon. I told Les about my passion for yoga and jogging and discussed my favorite writers and artists. Les was also a huge fan of Bosch, Toulouse-Lautrec, and Bracquemond, among others. He seemed to actually consider my babbling interesting.
“This is a reasonable hike,” he said as we approached the top of the hill. “This path has a decent incline, but it's not so steep you have to focus on staying alive every second. I like a trail where you can enjoy the view as you go. Maybe the reason I've only gone hiking once since I moved here is because the one time I did go, it was
traumatic
. Tom took me to Rocky Mountain National Park a couple weeks after I moved out here and took me on a trail that was like this.” He indicated with his forearm an incline that was nearly vertical. “Now, I'm still not used to the change in elevation, but I certainly wasn't used to it after being here only a couple weeks. I know people who have lived here for a while don't notice it, but let me tell you, there is no oxygen to be found anywhere around here. I could barely breathe when I was just standing immobile on the ground, so you can imagine what it was like to charge up the side of a cliff with über-athlete Tom. So I think we're going on this little jaunt. Turns out it's a
four-hour hike
. By the time we got to the top of the mountain, I was delirious from lack of oxygen. I was completely out of breath.” He demonstrated, wheezing comically. His expression was hilarious and I couldn't help laughing. “I'm standing there, clutching my heart like a dying man, and I look over, and there is this obese woman, smoking a cigarette, and she's got two little kids. Granted, I'm not in the best shape, but this woman was
rotund,
and a smoker on top of it, and she managed to get both herself and her two small children up this cliff without apparent difficulty. It was
humiliating,”
he said, smiling. “Oh sure, laugh at my pain.”
The climb down the mountain went quickly as we talked nonstop about every topic that popped into our heads. We came to the end of the trail where our cars were parked and turned to face each other. “I had a lot of fun,” I said.
“I had a great time. Would you like to get some lunch?”
I hesitated. “Lunch? Sure, but . . . I just want to make things clear. I don't date coworkers.” It was a perfectly reasonable excuse. And not a total lie.
“Sure, I understand,” he said with a smile.
“I mean, not that you were even interested in me in that way. I mean, I know you're into someone. Why are you smiling like that?”
“Nothing.” He shook his head but continued smiling that disconcerting smile. I quickly changed the subject back to lunch.
“You know, I know we just exercised and did this really good thing for our bodies, but I'm craving a big plate of cheese-filled enchiladas,” I said. “And maybe a margarita or two.”
“Only if we can start out with some lard-laden chips.”
“Twist my arm.”
He pretended to battle fiercely to twist my arm. “Uh! There. You know, we shouldn't feel guilty. After expending all this energy, our bodies are telling us we need to refuel with a heaping plate of fried cheese products.”
“It's really so important to listen to your body.”
“Exactly.”
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ver margaritas and nachos I asked him to tell me about his mystery crush.
“Avery, I'd really rather not get into it.”
“I've told you everything. Come on, spill.”
“I told you, it's a silly crush. It's nothing.”
“Where did you meet her?” I knew he didn't get out much, so I made a guess. “Work?” I could tell by his sheepish expression I was right. “It's not Jen, is it? Don't be embarrassed. She's very beautiful. And very flirty.” My good mood suddenly faded a little. I finished my drink.
“Do you think, maybe if I lost some weight . . .”
“Les, don't lose weight for Jen. Do it for yourself. You could get into great shape. You could get a new haircut, new glasses, new clothes, and Jen still wouldn't be interested. She only goes for pretty boys who treat her like crap.”
“Glasses? What's wrong with my glasses?”
I couldn't believe how rude what I'd just said was. “Nothing's wrong with your glasses, I . . .”
“Should I get contacts? I can get contacts.”
“Take your glasses off,” I said. He did. I looked at his eyes. There were dark brown, like melted chocolate. “You have very beautiful eyes. You need some stylish glasses to show them off.”
“These are out of style, huh?”
“Yeah, well, they just aren't exactly flattering.”
“And my hair?”
“I'll give you the number to the salon where I go. You know, you should not take relationship advice from me. I'm divorced and recentlyâ” I didn't know if it was the margarita making me bold or just the way Les made me feel like I could tell him anything, but I decided to tell him about Art. “I've recently been e-mailing a man I met over the personals on the Internet. We've never met and I don't know what he looks like, I don't even know his real name. It's kind of dating training wheels, before I get out there and do it for real. Do you think that's awful and pathetic?”
“Of course not. Not at all. It doesn't matter how you meet someone. You know more about a person you meet over the Internet than you do a stranger in a bar.”
“I guess. I still feel pathetic.” I stared at a lone chip marooned in the salsa. “Do you believe in true love? Destiny?”
“Yes. I don't believe it's easy, but I believe that somewhere out there is someone who gets you, who will listen to you and support you and be there for you. My father had a saying that it's not the person you are with but the person you become when you are with that person. Certain people bring out your best self. That's who you need to find. A man who brings out your best self.”
I'd always envisioned myself falling for a dashing, romantic guy who would sweep me off my feet, but right now the idea of a guy who simply understood me sounded pretty good. “That makes a lot of sense,” I said. I slid my finger around the edge of the margarita glass and licked the salt off my finger. I was getting a little tipsy. I had to change the subject before I said something stupid. “Do you have any family out here? What brought you to Colorado?”
“I've been to Colorado several times on vacations, but I moved here without knowing anybody. I've always loved it out here. I wanted a change so I just decided to go for it. The rest of my family still lives in Ohio.”
“Are you going to see them at Thanksgiving?”
He shook his head. “I'll probably just make myself something.”
“I'm going to my mother's house. Why don't you come? We both would love a little more company, and we're both decent cooks. It would be nice to have more guests. It gets kind of dull with just me and Mom. Sometimes we invite our friends over, but this year everyone is busy and it was just going to be the two of us.”
“I'd love to, but you have to let me help. I'm a pretty good cook too, you know.”
“It's a deal.”
Les's kind smile was infectious. I felt better than I had in a long time.
JEN
Porno Pyrotechnics
W
ork had become hellish, not only because there was way too much of it, but because Avery was being such a capital
B
Bitch. So I was surprised when she asked how my weekend had been and how things were going with Mike.
“Pretty good. He really treats me right, that's for sure. He always takes me to nice restaurants and calls me when he says he'll call.”
“What is he like in bed?”
“I have no idea. He's gotten nothing more than a chaste smooch from me.”
“You're kidding.”
“No I'm not. I'm following âThe Rules.' You're not supposed to sleep with a guy for at least two months if you want him to marry you.”
“I thought you didn't really like Mike. I thought you said he was boring.”
“That's really not the point.”
Just then, Tom entered our office. “Hey, just want to check in and see how things are going.”
“Good. I think you fixed everything,” I said.
“Great,” he said. “Hey listen, some of us from IT are going out tonight after work for Happy Hour. Would you like to go?”
I thought for a moment. Les would probably be there, but I could risk that to see Tom. “Yeah, that'd be great. Thanks for asking.”
“Oh, Avery, you can come, too.”
“Thanks. I'm busy.”
I waved good-bye and turned to Avery. “I think he just asked me out. I'm sure he did! Finally!”
“Does he know about Mike?”
“No, what would I tell him? Mike and I aren't in a committed relationship or anything.” I turned to my computer, but I was much too happy to work.
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I
'd tried to explain to Kitty that sex should not be used in a medicinal capacity, but there were times when she just didn't listen. Kitty and I had been very good about not sleeping with Mike right away. Mike and I had gone out several times in the last week, and we hadn't gone any further than a few good-night kisses. So by the time Tom asked me out, Kitty was about to explode.
The numerous beers I drank that night at the bar didn't help the situation. Nor did dancing so close to Tom. I lost myself in the flashing lights and pulsating music, in the smell of Tom's cologne, and the feel of Tom's warm skin.
Tom pulled me aside to a dark corner. We finished our drinks and he pulled me close to him, dancing slowly despite the fast music and the thunderous bass. Tom whispered in my ear all the places he wanted to kiss me. Kitty was all ears.
When Tom suggested we go to his place for a drink, I agreed without hesitation.
We'd barely made it inside his apartment when Tom leaned into me, running his hands slowly up and down my back. His kiss was delicious. For a moment, I was extremely, extremely happy to be single. I was looking forward to being a sexless wife and mother, but until such a time, I was going to have
fun
.
Tom wasted no time in peeling off my shirt and bra. For all his promises of how he wanted to kiss me all over, except for some brief but enthusiastic lapping at my breasts, most of my body was woefully ignored, and within moments, he was trying to unzip my jeans. I moved his hand and shook my head no, but a few minutes later he tried again and managed to peel off my jeans in one rapid, expert motion. He slipped his fingers inside my underwear. I closed my eyes and willed myself to relax.
“Tell me how good your pussy feels,” he whispered. My eyes popped open and I looked at him quizzically, but his own eyes were closed and didn't notice my discomfort. He told me again to debrief him on the goings on of my pudenda.
Pussy
was not a word I particularly liked, and I felt like an actress being given stage directions, so I pushed his finger out. He promptly began taking off his own clothes and then whispered, “Suck my dick.” Had he seen too many pornos in his time? Did normal people actually talk like this?
I went down on him as he'd requested, but the beer must have desensitized him, and after about fifteen minutes, my jaw was getting sore. I told him to put a condom on and come inside me, not so much because I wanted sex but because my jaw was cramping and it seemed like the quickest way to get his dick out of my mouth.
He pulled a condom out of his jeans, put it on, and pushed his way inside me. While he was pumping away, he asked in a breathy voice if it felt good. I could guess at the answer he wanted to hear, but the truth was that I was indifferent. I mumbled an ambivalent “Mmmm.” I watched the expressions he made. They had a practiced, theatrical air to them, as if he were putting on a show. Porno pyrotechnics.
He kept encouraging me to tell him how good my pussy was feeling, and finally I said, with about as much enthusiasm as I might muster to discuss laundry, “My pussy feels so good; oh it feels so good.”
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How to Be a Drunken Slut
Rule #1: Remember your lies.
All at once my social calendar was becoming a difficult balancing act.
I couldn't decide who I wanted to date, and dating two guys was exhausting. It meant constantly doing laundry so I'd always have my sexiest underwear and bras ready to wear. It meant never having time to clean the house or going to bed early enough to get a decent night's sleep.
I couldn't remember who I'd told what. I kept saying, “Have I already told you the story about . . . ?” One night when Mike and I were trying to decide where to go to dinner, I asked him, “Do you like sushi?”
“Jen, we talked about this for half an hour the other night when we were discussing all the different foods we like and the unusual foods we'd eaten. Yes, I like sushi.”
It was Tom who didn't like sushi. Oops.
More challenging was remembering my lies about where I was when I was with the other guy. I couldn't remember who I'd used the I-have-to-stay-home-and-do-laundry lie with or the my-girlfriend-broke-up-with-her-boyfriend-and-I-need-to-be-there-to-comfort-her lie. I'd told that to Mike one night when I went to the clubs with Tom. The next day I was complaining to Mike about my hangover. He said, “I thought you were comforting your friend.”
“Oh yeah, I was. I, uh, we just you know were talking and started doing shots at her place.”
“But I thought you said you were at the Oasis.”
“Right, right. That's why we got hungover. We did shots at her place and then went to the Oasis and started drinking beer. You should never do that, mix hard liquor and beer.”
Mike chose to believe my inexpert lies, so I kept telling them.
Rule #2: Do a particularly good job of disposing of telltale condom wrappers.
I'd hoped that sleeping with Mike would help me decide which guy I wanted. If he'd been a great lover or a terrible lover, the choice would have been a little clearer, but as it was, sleeping with him only confused the issue.
If only I could mix the best parts of Mike with the best parts of Tom, I'd have the perfect man.
On the one hand, Mike was a caring, if dull, lover. He gave me long full-body massages and he always took the time to lovingly kiss my neck, back and arms before and during sex. Otherwise, his hands and tongue weren't good for all that much. Tom was more exciting in bed, but he was often too rough and rarely caressed any part of my body except my breasts and Kitty, and even then it was perfunctory, like he was impatiently waiting for the car to warm up in cold weather when all he really wanted to do was race away.
Outside of the bedroom, Mike took me to nice restaurants and seemed to really take an interest in what I had to say. He empathized with my frustrations at work and gave me constructive advice on how to advance my career. I talked a lot when I was with Mike because whenever he spoke I became instantly bored. He just didn't know how to tell a good story, how to sift out the uninteresting details to get to the heart of the anecdote. He had a penchant for punning and he thought he was funnier than he was. Tom was funny and entertaining, but whenever I started to tell him about my day he would interrupt or look bored, staring at something across the room. If I could tell him a funny story and get him to laugh it was great, but with Tom I always felt like I was putting on a performance.
Then one weekend, Tom didn't call me for three days straight. I went out with Mike Saturday night, but when he asked me go to a movie Sunday night, I said I had plans. I assumed Tom would call me.
He didn't.
I spent the entire evening at home alone. I didn't know what to do with myself. My life had been so busy lately, and I didn't know what to do with the sudden calm.
My thoughts raced. Was Tom going to break up with me? Had he met someone else?
I called him and got his machine. I called again a couple hours later at around ten and left another message.
I tried to go to bed, but I was sure he'd call me, so I was rigidly alert, waiting for the phone to ring, and I didn't fall asleep for hours.
The next day at work I e-mailed him first thing. By two in the afternoon when he still hadn't returned my e-mail, I went down to his office. He was charging out as I came down the hall.
“Hey,” I began.
“Hey, I can't talk. Glenn's computer crashed. Got to keep the VPs happy.” His tone was distant, as if there were nothing more between us than the fact we worked in the same building. He brushed past me with cold indifference.
That night Mike begged me to let him come over. I told him I really needed to clean and do laundry and get some sleep. Oh how I craved eight hours of sleep in a row. He said he would bring dinner and leave promptly at eight and I could do my laundry while we ate.
I finally relented and let him come over. He brought brie and fresh French bread and fruit and red wine and paté and decadent pastries from a local upscale market. That was another problem with dating two guys. I'd been going out to eat almost every night. With Mike I always drank a bottle or so of wine to lessen my boredom, and I often went to bars with Tom where I'd drink more beers than my waistline could afford. I was trying not to eat during the day to save my calories for night, but it still wasn't enough. I'd had to purge a meal or two here or there. I wasn't going to get dangerously bulimic againâI was too smart for thatâbut I also wasn't going to fatten the goose that laid the golden eggs.
Mike gave me a long back rub and said I seemed tense. I told him I wasn't looking forward to going home for the holidays, especially since Rette would be going to her future in-laws for the weekend, leaving me to face my mother alone.
After discussing what had been stressing me out and after the long back rub and a couple glasses of wine, I felt much better, so relaxed. We had slow, delicious sex, and I decided Mike really was the guy for me.
Mike left early as promised; he was out the door by nine. I was in bed asleep by ten. Half an hour later, there was a thunderous knock at my door. At first I thought it was Dave and, despite myself, my heart leapt. Then I remembered that I'd been sleeping, and that he was a jerk for waking me up.
Except it was Tom.
“How'd you get through the security door downstairs?” I asked.
“Somebody let me in. Aren't you glad to see me?” It was obvious he'd been drinking.
“Tom, I was sleeping. I have to go to work tomorrow. Why didn't you call first?”
“I was in the neighborhood. I missed you.” He leaned toward me and kissed me, his hand stroking my breast. I didn't mean to get turned onâI was mad at him for waking me up and anyway, I'd decided I was going to break up with himâbut I did, and minutes later we were pulling off each other's clothes on my bed. I reached over to the nightstand to get a condom and when I turned back, Tom was brandishing the empty condom wrapper from my escapade with Mike just a few hours earlier that had been left on the windowsill.
I swallowed hard and said, as nonchalantly as I could, “What?”
“Are you sleeping with someone else?”
“Of course not, that's from you the other night.”
“We haven't seen each other since Thursday.”
“Right. It's from Thursday.”
I could tell he wasn't sure, but he was horny and decided not to worry about it, at least until after we'd had sex.
Rule #3: Become an expert at covering up hickies.
The next day Tom was really attentive. Maybe the threat of another man made me seem more desirable. He asked me to go out with him that night since I would be gone for the weekend. I said okay, thinking I would break up with him for sure that night, but as soon as we got to the bar, we started having so much fun I lost my resolve. I never laughed like this when I was with Mike.
That night, the sex with Tom was rougher than usual. After so many shots of tequila, I didn't remember the whole thing all that well, but I do remember thinking that the pain sort of felt good.
The next morning I kicked Tom out early, saying I had to get to the airport and hadn't even packed yet. The asshole never even offered to drive me to the airport. I was going to break up with him for sure. I would've been even madder if Mike hadn't already offered to take me to the airport.
I was so hung over I threw a few clothes in a suitcase and decided that was close enough to being packed. I hadn't even finished drying my hair or putting my makeup on when I heard Mike buzzing to get in.
He took my luggage downstairs to the parking lot where his car was. We had just started driving away when he said, “What's that?”
“What?”
“On your neck. It looks like a hickie.”
My stomach lurched as I flipped down the visor and looked in the mirror. It was indeed a hickie. Tom must have given it to me during our drunken romp the night before.
“You gave it to me Monday night.” It almost scared me how easily the lie came. I said it with such assurance I almost believed myself.
“Really? I guess I must have,” he said. He smiled an awe-shucks smile, like he was pleased with himself. “I haven't given anyone a hickie since high school.”
“I have delicate skin, you know, being a redhead and all.”
“Your skin is beautiful. You're beautiful.” He looked affectionately at me. He was only three or four years older than me, but I knew I made him feel young. I felt old, and very, very tired.
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Sex and Alcohol
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Sex and alcohol had not yet filled the cavernous ache, but I kept trying.