Bruce, You Brute!

            “Is it okay if I drop by for a little while?”

Allen did not answer right away, so I explained, “Ruth and I dropped by Mother’s nursing home, but Mother isn’t lucid right now. I was hoping that if we waited an hour and went back, she might be a little better.”

When Mother had entered the facility near my friend Allen’s house, he told me I could use his house for just such an occasion. I wondered why he hesitated, though, when I was asking to do exactly what he had offered. Finally he admitted, “I have a few friends over for a brunch, but of course you can come by.”

“We’ve already eaten, so food isn’t a problem,” I said.

I sensed more indecision, but then Allen said, “At least you’ll get to meet Bruce. I’ve wanted you two to meet, and he’s here with his partner.”

“Great! I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

 

Allen’s front door flew open only seconds after I rang the bell. An effusive greeter raised his hands and declared, “You must be Bobbie. I’m Bruce, and Allen’s told me all about you.”

“So glad to meet you at last,” I told him. “This is my friend Ruth.”

We walked into the house, and I noted that we had interrupted not just any brunch, but an all-male, all-gay, all-couples brunch. In addition, everyone was much younger than Ruth and me. She and I were in our fifties at the time. Allen was my junior by more than ten years, too, but none of our dissimilarities had ever affected our decades-long friendship.

Regardless of our differences, Allen’s friends quickly absorbed Ruth and me into their conversations while we all stood around sipping various drinks. Several of the couples held hands or kept their arms around each other, without being intimidated by Ruth’s and my presence, too. I felt quite welcome.

Allen had been right about Bruce. He and I fell into an easy banter that did not stop. Ruth, a little quieter than most of my friends, did not talk much, but I watched her observing the men.

One man wore a tight shirt that accentuated his unusually pointy nipples. After a long silence, Ruth turned to Bruce and me and said, “I wish I had breasts that stood out as well as his do.”

Without hesitating, Bruce blurted, “Well, I’m sure Bobbie at least lets you feel her breasts all the time.”

Ruth pulled herself up to her full height and declared, “Wrong assumption!”

Several men turned toward her to see what was going on.

My face must have gone bright red for Ruth’s embarrassment, but soon I burst out laughing. Through my laughter I stammered, “I’m not—I mean we’re not a couple. We’re not gay.”

Everyone within earshot erupted in laughter, and it was Ruth’s turn to blush.

Under the circumstances, Bruce had made an automatic supposition.  Ruth got over the incident quickly. Bruce and I became close friends, and he continued to make me laugh until his sudden death about a dozen years later. Allen and I are still friends to this day.

Although I’ve lost both Ruth and Bruce to early deaths, I still giggle to myself whenever I think of the phrase “Wrong assumption.”

Mushy Lips

          My sister and I were young teenagers when our parents befriended a married couple quite a few years our parents’ juniors. The younger brother of a family friend, the man owned a local shop that specialized in children’s and teens’ clothing. Naturally mother took me to his store to buy my outfits.

The wife, possibly in her thirties, looked like a teen herself. Perky and petite, she usually remained quiet, while her husband did most of the talking. The couple attended many of my parents’ parties, where liquor always flowed freely.

Whenever adults visited our house, we kids were expected to hug them and sometimes kiss them on their cheeks. The man in question, however, did not greet us in the way we were accustomed. Instead of giving us the typical peck on the cheek or forehead, he insisted on kissing us on the mouth, and he did it with soft lips. As a fourteen-year-old, I did not grasp why he gave me the creeps, but my sixteen-year-old sister nicknamed him Mushy Lips.

At around the same time, I finally sprouted the bare beginnings of breasts, so downtown Mother and I went, in search of my first brassiere. We naturally went to Mushy Lips’s store.

Mushy Lips greeted us effusively. “Hello, there! How are my favorite customers?”

Mother said, “Fine.”

“And how’s my little Bobbie today?” he asked. “Got a big kiss for me?”

I stepped back.

Mother pushed me forward. “Give him a kiss, Bobbie. He’s glad to see you.”

His soft, fat lips pressed mine. Yuck.

He held his face close to mine while he asked, “And to what do I owe the pleasure of seeing you today?”

“Um, er,” I stammered, unable to speak while his dragon breath huffed in my face.

Mother spoke up. “It’s time for Bobbie’s first bra.”

“Ah.” Mushy Lips looked down at my practically flat chest. “A training bra, I presume?”

“Yes, a training bra,” Mother agreed.

Mushy Lips led us over to a counter and gleefully pulled out an array of teen-appropriate bras with their little stretchy cups. Practically dying of embarrassment, I picked out a beige one and a white one that I liked.

“Only two?” Mushy Lips asked. “You’ll want to try on more than that.” He pulled out a few lacy numbers and even a see-through net bra that I would never have picked. “Try all these on. You never know which one you’ll like best.”

Mother agreed. “Do what he says, dear. Try on as many bras as you’d like.”

I held up two pieces of underwear. “These are the only ones I like.”

Mother contended, “Try on all the others, too. I’m not coming all the way back downtown just on your whim.”

Mushy Lips handed me five or six bras. “Now go over there to the dressing room. Take your time and try them all on,” he instructed. He turned to Mother. “Bernice, make yourself comfortable here.” He pointed to a chair near the left side of the narrow store, while I walked toward the dressing room on the far right. Before I entered the dressing room, Mushy Lips excused himself and ducked through a dark doorway under a sign that said Stockroom: Do Not Enter. 

I locked the dressing room door, hung the bras on a hook, stripped off my dress, and peered into the full-length mirror. It reflected my barely noticeable breasts. I felt silly buying a bra, but I felt a little grown up, too. I admired my body in the mirror awhile before I took the first bra off the hook.

While I tried on one bra after another, I heard shuffling footsteps outside the room, but when I peeked out the door, I saw Mother still sitting in the same place. Each time I tried on a new bra, I heard shuffles behind the wall, but with no windows to worry about, I decided not to concern myself. Mushy Lips had a store to run, and I knew he was probably at work in the stockroom.

As soon as I dressed and emerged from the dressing room, the shopkeeper popped back into the store area, even more gushing than he had been when we walked in. “So what do you think?” he asked.

“I still like only these two,” I said.

“Okay,” he said, smiling. He took Mother’s money, gave her a receipt, hugged her good-bye, and leaned down for a good-bye kiss from me, again with his mushy lips.

 

A few months later, a boy from another school invited me to his high school formal. We did not call the events proms, back then.

On the night of the occasion, I dressed in a new taffeta frock. While I stood in the foyer waiting for my date to arrive, Daddy took photos of me and then went back to doing whatever he was doing.

Mother, however, told me I could not leave until Mr. and Mrs. Mushy Lips dropped by. “He wants to see you in your first gown.”

“Why?” I asked. “We didn’t buy the dress at his store.”

“I think he has a little crush on you.”

“A crush? Why would he have a crush on me?”

Mother scoffed, as if I should understand.

I didn’t.

Still, I had to wait for Mushy Lips to appear. My date arrived with the couple that was our double date. We all stood around, shifting from one foot to the other, until Mushy Lips came bounding up the front steps two at a time.

“Where’s your wife?” Mother asked.

“She couldn’t make it,” Mushy Lips said breathlessly, “but I wouldn’t miss this.” He turned to me. “Let me see the whole picture,” he insisted, indicating that I should twirl around.

Right there in front of my date and another couple, I had to twirl like a beauty queen on display, while he ogled me with more appreciation than even my parents had shown. I tugged at the strapless gown and felt embarrassed.

“Approve?” my mother asked.

“Maybe,” the man said. “One more twirl for good measure.”

Again I turned around like a jewelry-box ballerina. When I finished I pleaded, “May I please go now?”

“Okay,” Mushy Lips said. “Now you be good.” He leaned over and mashed his lips on mine, right there in front of everyone. I wanted to disappear.

 

I learned to avoid being home when my parents gave a party if Mushy Lips was attending, so I did not see him again after that last embarrassing encounter. He continued to be friends with my parents, though, so they mentioned him occasionally. Four years or so passed before Mother told me the man had closed his clothing shop and opened a hangout for teens, complete with music, video games, and other entertainment. My baby sister, by then a teen herself, frequented the alluring haunt and spoke of it with enthusiasm.

Another year passed before I learned that a young patron had charged Mushy Lips with molestation. When I heard of the charges, the Mushy Lips picture came together like a jigsaw puzzle.

Years earlier, when I had tried on bras as a young teen, he had ducked into the dark “stockroom,” and from there he probably watched me like a Peeping Tom. Maybe the mirror was a one-way, or perhaps he had drilled inconspicuous holes in the wall. No doubt he was a predator when he insisted on scrutinizing me in my first strapless gown. Without any question, he kissed my sister and me like we were his lovers, not the naive teenagers we were.

One more piece fell into place, as well. His petite wife looked like a teenager. Of course!

Right before Mushy Lips went on trial, he died of what I was told was a heart attack. I now suspect it may have been a well-timed, covered-up suicide, but I’ll never know. When I saw his widow shortly after his death, though, she seemed happily independent.

Parents today have more awareness of pedophiles, but I grew up in a time of innocence. Thankfully for me, Mushy Lips did nothing worse than kiss me inappropriately and scrutinize me. I’ll never know what he did to the girl who filed charges against him, but I’m proud of her for standing up for herself. I wish I had done the same many years earlier.

 

 For more stories about my many encounters with the opposite sex, subscribe to this blog by clicking on the Follow button next to my photo. Watch for the book Neurotica: One Woman's Lifetime of Lust, Love, and Letting Go. Most of the stories in the book will not appear in this blog and vice versa. Disclaimer: Many names have been changed to protect people’s privacy. While these stories are true, I have resurrected dialogue as best as I can recall it.

Book Doctor Bobbie Christmas is also the author of Write In Style: How to Use Your Computer to Improve Your Writing.

 

METAPHYSICAL PHIL

      Even though I know that most men don’t respond if I made the first overture on an online dating site, sometimes someone's profile stands out so boldly that I am intrigued and must make the first move. Such was the case with the man I will call Phil. His profile said the following:

 

Realistic, Spiritual, Kind, well credentialed, just a nice guy
I am a Writer
I am a Dancer
I am Intuitive
I am Pandora
I am a Communicator
I am a Meditator
I am a Listener
I am a Memory
I am Practical
I am a Teacher to others
Honest, faithful, caring, bright, have a rare commodity called common sense, emotionally healthy—not a drama king, enjoy affection, good communicator, positive, fun, sense of adventure and more.

 

The only thing I questioned was that he considered himself Pandora. According to Greek mythology, Pandora was the first woman on earth and the giver of all, but she also was the one who, out of curiosity, opened the jar that released the world's misfortunes and sorrows. Oh, what the heck? He sounded good enough to pursue.

His profile also said he was bald and black, and I chuckled at the thought that he might be similar to my prior boyfriend, but an improved version. He also was a teacher and a vegetarian, like my prior boyfriend, who, I admit, still owned a piece of my heart. Despite the fact that Phil's profile had no photograph, which always makes me wonder, I sent a brief note asking why he was not taken already. He wrote back with only his first name and phone number.

I waited a few hours before calling. Instead of the usual voice mail message everyone uses, his somber missive, spoken in the type of deep radio voice I've always found alluring, went something like this: "We are not human beings having a spiritual experience. We are spiritual beings having a human experience. All interactions are either love or a call for love. The universe provides all that you need. Abundance begins in the heart." Beep!

I left a message giving my name and number. He called me back within an hour or so, around nine o'clock. Although I don't recall anything we said, we laughed and joked all the way through the conversation, and I felt hopeful and delighted. Maybe he was even better than my prior boyfriend, who was a little bit too serious at times. The similarities of the two men continued. Not only were both black, bald, special-education teachers, vegetarians, spiritual but not religious, and age appropriate, but also Phil invited me to dinner at Sweet Tomatoes, the same salad bar where my prior boyfriend had taken me. Yes, perhaps I had found the 2.0 version of my prior boyfriend, except that Phil ate only raw food.

When Phil invited me to dinner, he said, "I'll leave the day and time up to you. It's all about you, baby."

Before I could offer a day and time, though, he broke in and said, "I really like to dance. Maybe we can go dancing sometime."

I said I hadn't danced in years and would love to do it again sometime.

It's odd that I barely recall anything else we said in that first conversation, and although I did feel that he cut me off before I could set a date and time for dining together, I still hung up the phone feeling elated and hopeful, because we had laughed genuinely together over many little things. I felt so expectant that I sent e-mail notes to two friends saying that I looked forward to meeting this new person.

Cheerful and optimistic, I was preparing for bed around 11:00, when Phil sent a text message. "You up?"

"Yes, I am," I wrote back.

Another text message arrived. "I live you. Meaningful. You are alive. Your eyes."

I tried to untangle the message. The phone rang. Oh, maybe he would explain. I answered joyfully, eager to continue our earlier laugher-filled conversation. Instead his voice was solemn, and he mumbled. He said a full poem that, despite his incoherency, I was mostly able to decipher, and I also found it later on his LinkedIn profile. It went like this: “I have only just a minute / Only sixty seconds in it, / Forced upon me; can’t refuse it, / Didn’t seek it; didn’t choose it, / I must suffer if I lose it, / Give account if I abuse it, / Just a tiny little minute, but all eternity is in it.”

I shrugged and said, "That's nice." I later looked it up. Benjamin Mays wrote the poem.

Phil continued, "Our ears are shaped like question marks for a reason, so we can question everything we hear and make our own decisions."

"Oh."

"You have beautiful eyes. I really want to slow dance with you."

"Thank you," I said. "I look forward to it." Trying to get the conversation onto some tangible subject, I asked, "Have you ever been married?"

"Yes," he responded. "For nine years. How long has it been since your last relationship?"

I couldn't get angry at him for asking; I had opened the door by asking about his marriage. I admitted, "I was in a brief relationship until Christmas Day."

I feared he might scoff, since less than a month had passed, but he simply asked, "Who ended it?"

"He did. Said he was too busy to be a good boyfriend to anyone. It was sad."

"I can't believe anyone would say that. People make time for things that are important to them."

"Exactly. I had become unimportant to him."

"It's hard to believe, baby. I mean your eyes are so beautiful, and you're smart and sweet, and I get the feeling that you're very nurturing. I like nurturers."

"I am a nurturer at heart."

"I knew it. I am intuitive. I pick up on such things, but really it'll be all about you. Whatever you want, whenever you want it."

I squirmed a little. What exactly did he mean?

He went on, mumbling and quoting other sources. Although I might not have all the right quotes right, I've located a few that give the gist of the things he said, such as "The truth is not found in a different set of circumstances. The truth is always and only found in the circumstances you’ve got."

As the conversation bore on, with bore being the operative word, I yawned, but he ignored my subtle message and continued. "Yesterday is gone. Tomorrow has not yet come. We have only today."

I saw an opening and said, "That's true, but even today is gone. It's bedtime now."

His voice dropped like that of a little boy who had been told he couldn't have a lollipop. I could almost see his pout when he said, "You want to hang up then?"

"Yes. I was getting ready for bed when you called, and we've been talking for a long time."

"Okay, if that's what you really want to do, hang up on me."

"I'm not hanging up on you. I'm saying it's time to say good-bye and go to sleep."

"We were just getting to know each other."

"We were, and we did, and I look forward to talking to you again, after I've gotten my sleep. I have things to do tomorrow."

"If that's what you want."

"I do. Good night."

"Good night."

With a sigh of relief, I hung up the phone. I wondered why he would say it was all about me, but when I said I was tired and needed to hang up, he tried to whine his way into talking more. Well, I didn't have time to think about it. I needed sleep, and I had a busy day coming up and a friend coming into town for a couple of days.

 

The next day, I sent Phil a text thanking him for the phone calls and saying we would talk more in a couple of days.

The following afternoon I received a text from him. "Hey."

I had company, so I ignored it.

Later that evening, almost ten o'clock, he wrote, "Hi."

I wrote, "Hi back."

Phil wrote, “I did not know you had a high back.”

“I like your silliness,” I responded. I hoped to return to the mood of our first, happy conversation.

Phil answered with a happy face emoticon.

Still texting, I wrote, “When do we go to Sweet Tomatoes?”

“Do you like Indian food?”

“Sure do,” I wrote. “I prefer it mild, but I love it.”

Phil then sent me a link to a website. “Look up the group Celebrate Atlanta and see if you are interested.”

I never like it when someone gives me homework instead of simply telling me something, so I resisted. After a few minutes I looked up the information. It was a family-style Indian dinner with a singles group. It gave the menu, which included several spicy dishes.

I formulated my answer. “Although it sounds like fun, I'm concerned that it's family style. I don't know how spicy the choices will be. I have to have mild. Is there a reason why you would rather meet in a group than one-on-one?”

“That was pre-scheduled. It's okay. Maybe another time.”

I tried to hint. “It's funny, because I'm meeting a girlfriend for lunch Saturday at Taj Mahal Indian restaurant, only a mile from Sweet Tomatoes.”

His only response: “Enjoy.”

I sensed his pout, even through a text message, but I shrugged it off and went about my life. Two days later, Phil sent another text. “Hi.”

“Hello! Did you have fun at the dinner?” I asked.

“Did not go.”

Hm. What that another pout?

 

On Friday I decided to take matters into my own hands and sent him a text. “I would still like to meet you. Are you available tonight?”

“There is a dance tonight and one Saturday.”

I assumed he meant he is going out dancing and was not available.

Around 4:00 he called on his way home from doing volunteer work and sent me back to the same website where he'd sent me earlier, to read about the dances and decide which one was nearest to me. Again he was giving me homework, and again the event involved the singles group. I reluctantly logged back on and looked at the two events. I still did not want to meet him at a singles event. It would seem odd and awkward to me, so told him, "I'd love to go dancing with you sometime, and I mean it, but first I want to meet you, just the two of us."

"Okay, do you want to come to my house, or shall I come to yours?"

"Neither. I want to meet you in a public place first."

"Why?"

"Because that's how it's done."

"That's so traditional. We have but one life to live; we can live it freely and enjoy it or live in fear and trepidation."

"It's not trepidation and fear; it's simply the way things are done."

"Well, I'm not a traditional person, and I'm surprised to hear that you are."

"There's nothing wrong with tradition; it's kept women safe for years." I heard crunching. No doubt he was chomping on some raw vegetable.

"Are you afraid of me?" (Crunch, crunch)

"If I were, I wouldn't meet you at all. I'm simply being safe, and this is how things are done. People first meet in a public place for tea or coffee."

The pout voice started again. "I don't understand. I wouldn't feel unsafe if I came to your house; I don't know why you'd feel unsafe to come to mine."

"You're not a woman; that's why."

"Well, baby, it's whatever you want. Where do you want to meet?"

"A restaurant would be good," I said.

"Well, I'm eating dinner now, so it doesn't have to be a restaurant."

"But a restaurant would give us a public place where we could sit and talk."

"Okay, baby, just name the place."

I mentioned a couple places near me. To each one he said, "I'm not sure where that is," until he suggested, "Peachtree Diner is close to me. Do you know where it is?"

"Yes. I think it's about thirty-five minutes from me."

"Well, baby, if you insist on being traditional, we could meet there tonight, but I've already eaten dinner."

"Okay, but we could have tea or something."

"Yeah, I like their soup. What time suits you best, baby?"

I looked at the clock and did some mental figuring. I wanted to avoid the horrendous afternoon traffic around Atlanta, so I said, "Seven-thirty would be good for me."

"Seven-thirty? It's quarter after four now. What'll you be doing until then?"

"I'll feed the dog, walk the dog, do a little work, eat dinner, change clothes, and then drive there."

"I thought you work for yourself. Can't you work some other time?"

"I could, but you said to pick a time, so I picked seven-thirty."

"Why so late, though, baby?"

"You want to meet earlier? I shook my head and reluctantly asked, "How about six-thirty?"

"Six-thirty? Don't you live just a half hour away?"

"Yes, but I have other things I have to do, and it's raining and the traffic could be bad this time of day. It could take longer to get there. Doesn't six-thirty work for you?"

"Well, I really want to see you."

I shook my head in wonder. "Okay, five-thirty, then, but that's the first possible time I can make it."

"Okay, if you insist," he said.

Insist? He had used the word twice, as if I were trying to force him into something, but didn’t he ask me what I wanted? We hung up and I pondered our verbal exchange. While saying he was fine with whatever I wanted, he had maneuvered and manipulated me to his chosen location and his chosen time. As a result I'd have to skip dinner to meet his schedule.

Traffic was even worse than I had imagined, possibly because of a light drizzle of rain. I was running a little late, but he called and said he had hit heavy traffic too and was running fifteen minutes late. I relaxed and eventually pulled into the parking lot. As soon as I did, Phil called again. "I'm stuck in some bad traffic," he said. "It'll be another fifteen minutes, at least."

"Okay, I'll just go inside and wait for you." I felt confused. He said he lived close to the diner, yet he was going to be at least thirty minutes late? I suspected that he had not left his house when he called the first time to say he was running late. A sense of distrust grew larger inside me.

He instructed me, "Okay, go inside and tell them to give you a booth near the front window."

"Okay." Hm. He had just told me where to sit, too.

 

Once settled in a booth, I asked for a glass of water with lemon while I waited for Phil. A server came by and put a platter of food and a huge loaf of bread on my table. I grabbed him and said, "I didn’t order this."

"It's complimentary," he explained.

I had to wait and I had not eaten any dinner, so with great interest I eyed the complimentary spinach pies. What the heck? Phil wouldn't eat them for several reasons. They had cheese in them and they were cooked. They are best when hot, I reasoned. My stomach growling and my mouth watering, I bit into one. Delicious. I took another bite. M-m-m-m. On my third nibble, I felt spinach stick in my teeth and realized my error.

I grabbed a napkin and dabbed at my teeth. Large green stains spread across the paper. I wiped again and achieved almost as much green the second time. I took another taste. Yum. I drank some water and swished it in my mouth, swallowed, and took another mouthful of spinach pie.

My phone rang. I looked up and a black man stood in the doorway with his phone to his ear. He was only one table away from me. Oh, no! I grabbed my napkin and rubbed furiously. Green, green, green! I gave my choppers one more swipe, answered the phone, and waved.

Phil looked down for a second on his way over, and I patted my teeth another time before I looked up and smiled. Oh, God, please don't let me have any spinach in my teeth.

Phil sat, and we stared at each other. He had complimented me on my eyes, so I made sure to look into his and try to make my eyes sparkle and shine. He looked much like the picture that appeared on the website he'd told me about, the one that listed him as a chairman or director or leader of some volunteer organization. He looked his age, sixty-seven, with sad puffy eyes, but he wasn't ugly by any means. He did not remove the hat that covered his bald head. In the silence I remembered that when I was young, a gentleman always removed his hat indoors. Not anymore. We stared at each other for a few awkward moments.

A server asked for our orders. I ordered herbal tea. Phil said he didn’t want anything. The server left.

When Phil did not begin the conversation or ask me any questions, I asked him how he came to live in Atlanta, because he had been born and raised in New York.

He launched into his history, but he kept his elbows on the table and his hands clasped in front of his mouth. I don’t have the best hearing, and the restaurant was noisy. I wasn't able to see or read his lips, and his voice was coming from behind his hand, so I could barely understand him. What I could comprehend, though, was that he interspersed his talk with many of the sayings he had already used in our phone conversations. “I have only just a minute, only sixty seconds in it, forced upon me...” He finished the poem in its entirety before he asked, “Do you know why our ears are shaped like question marks?”

I listened as he repeated himself with another saying attributable to someone else. Somewhere in his dissertation he added, “Yesterday is gone. Tomorrow has not yet come. We have only today.”

In an attempt to stop him from muttering behind his fingers, I asked to hold his hands. He was metaphysical, so he understood when I said I read hands. I’m not a palm reader. I don’t read the lines in someone’s hands, but the feelings and messages I get empathically through their hands.

He smiled at the chance to hold hands, one of his first smiles, and I accomplished two goals. He could no longer speak behind his hands, and through his touch I sensed a kind person but one with many hesitations and conflicts, a person who did not easily give of himself.

I released one of his hands and held onto the other. He probably thought I was being romantic; I was being practical. I could understand him better when he did not cover his mouth.

He uttered, “I sense that you’re a nurturer.”

“Yes, we talked about that.”

He leaned closer. I smelled raw onions on his breath.

“I want to go dancing with you,” he muttered.

“I’d like that. Maybe next time.”

“No, now. Let’s go to my place.”

“No, I won’t go to your place. I just met you.”

“Would you rather we go to your place?”

“Maybe you don’t understand my intent. I’m looking for a relationship, one that lasts a long time.”

“Sure, baby; it’s all about whatever you want.”

“Well, I don’t know you well enough to invite you over to my place or to go to yours.”

A little pout formed, so I added, “It’s time for me to go now.”

“I’ll walk you to your car,” he offered. When we stepped outside, a light rain was still falling. He put his arm around me and we ran together to my car. When I unlocked the door, he asked if we could talk a little more. I agreed, and he ran around and leaped into the passenger seat.

Inside the car, I could smell his raw onion breath. I hate raw onion.

We talked a little more, and he kissed me lightly. The only thing worse than raw onion breath is raw onion taste.

As for the kiss, I felt absolutely nothing. To double check my first reaction, I leaned over and pecked him on the lips again. Yup. I was right. Nothing. Not a speck of chemistry.

I could not get out of the parking lot fast enough, but first I had to get him out of my car. Doing so took a little encouragement on my part and pouting on his part, but finally he stepped out.

I drove home mulling over our encounter. The man had said everything was about me, but he had done everything in his power to manipulate me into fulfilling his wishes, not mine. He showed no concern for my needs at all. He did not seem to have an original thought, other than getting me to his place, and women know what a man means when he says “Come to my place.” We’re not dumb, especially when we’ve been single for decades and are in our late sixties.  

Later I sent him a text thanking him for meeting me but saying that I did not feel a spark between us, but I wished him well. I heard nothing back and felt relieved.

 

Fast forward about six months. I was falling asleep around 11:00 when I got a text from him saying “Hi.”

I felt a little creeped out, so I ignored it.

Fast forward again, this time about two months, and again around 11:00 at night I got a text from him saying “Hi.”

Again I did not respond, but wrote again, “It’s me,” and gave his name.

He was not going to stop contacting me, so I wrote back that I was in a wonderful relationship and I hoped he had found the same. Why hurt him with the truth?

I haven’t heard from him again. I hope he met a nurturer who loves raw onions and manipulative men.

For more stories about my many encounters with the opposite sex, subscribe to this blog by clicking on the Follow button next to my photo. Watch for the book Neurotica: One Woman's Lifetime of Lust, Love, and Letting Go. Most of the stories in the book will not appear in this blog and vice versa. Disclaimer: Many names have been changed to protect people’s privacy. While these stories are true, I have resurrected dialogue as best as I can recall it. If you like to write, you love my book on creative writing, Write In Style: How to Use Your Computer to Improve Your Writing. It's available through Amazon and other outlets as a paperback or an e-book.

 

 

 

Pipe Dreams

As a writer, editor, and photographer working for a multinational construction and engineering company back in the 1980s, I traveled to project sites across America and even a few in Europe..

After I finished interviewing and photographing the manager and several construction workers and supervisors at one remote project, I thanked the project manager and folded my reporter’s notebook. When I turned to pack up my camera equipment, the manager asked, “Do you have any plans for later?”

“The usual. Find some dinner and go to bed.”

“Where’re you staying?”

I told him the name of my motel.

“Great! It’s Thursday, and on Thursdays I take my supervisors out for a bite to eat at the lounge right there at your motel. You should join us.”

“What time?”

“In half an hour. You have time to put your camera equipment away and then join us.”

“Thank you,” I said, relieved not to spend another night on the road without company. I looked forward to a meal with fellow workers.

A half hour later I walked to the lounge, which looked more like a bar than a restaurant. “Oh, well,” I mumbled to myself. To one side I saw the project manager sitting with a few of the men I had interviewed that day. Construction firms were beginning to hire females at that time, but only males had acquired enough experience in their craft to move up into management.

The project manager introduced me around, and I recognized the pipefitter supervisor as one of the more outgoing men I had interviewed that day. I’ll call him Pete.

Pete pulled out a chair beside his own and pointed. “Ya’ll sit yourself here,” he said, so I did.

A loud four-piece band struck up, which made conversation difficult, but I shouted to Pete, “Have you already ordered dinner?”

Pete moved closer, so I could hear his answer. “Food here’s awful. If you’re hungry, have some pretzels.” He pulled a bowl toward me.

What happened to dinner? Pretzels are my least favorite snack.

A woman wearing tight shorts and little else came over and asked, “What’ll ya have, hon?”

All the men had a beer or mixed drink in front of them. I figured a beer would at least have a little food value, so I ordered a draft.

The band struck up a tune from the 1960s. Familiar with the song, I tapped my fingers to the beat, nervous about being at a bar with six men in a strange town.

Pete leaned in again. “I used to shag to that song. Do you shag?”

“I haven’t in years,” I admitted. I looked down at my spreading forty-plus-year-old body.

“Well, it’s time to get up and do it again.” Pete stood, took my hand, and pulled me out of my chair.

I reluctantly walked onto the dance floor while trying to recall the simple steps to the shag. Holding hands was the closest thing to intimacy that it required. Otherwise dancers basically moved forward and back and side to side to the music.

Pete had not let go of my hand. He tightened his grip, and we began our dance. Up from the depths of my memory came the moves I had taken twenty-five years earlier, when the shag was popular. Pete surprised me with his a smooth swaying, and we fell into a sleek synchrony of steps. The best shaggers move their legs and feet, but their heads and shoulders remain level. The dance has a smooth look when performed right, and Pete did it right. The band played a long version of the song, but Pete and I kept up to the end.

Afterward I rushed back to the table eager to wet my parched throat. I gulped big swallows from my beer that had arrived while I was away from the table.

Pete threw back his mixed drink and ordered another.

In a few minutes the band played an additional beach-music tune. Without talking, Pete clutched my hand and again dragged me out to the parquet dance floor. Once more we performed to the music as if we had been dance partners for years. Other dancers even stopped to watch us. Toward the end of the song he leaned in and said, “We dance well together.”

“We do,” I agreed. “You’re a very good dancer.”

More drinks and dances followed. I was sipping my second beer, but Pete had probably consumed three or more drinks by the time he pulled me close on the dance floor and whispered in my ear, “If we dance this well together, we’d be great in bed together.”

Stunned, I shook my head. As if his wedding band weren’t enough of a deterrent, I felt no attraction to the toughened, tipsy fellow twenty years my senior.

Back at our seats, Pete tossed back another drink before he leaned over to conspire in my ear, “So no one will know, I’m going to leave first, but I’m coming to your room later.”

“Um, no you aren’t.”

“I can’t resist you. We’re gonna be great in bed.”

“No. No, we won’t.”

“You know we will.”

A few minutes later Pete slugged the remainder of his fifth or sixth drink before he rose and slurred to the group, “Shee ya’ll tomorrow.” He looked at me. “’Shept for you, ’cause you’re leaving tomorrow. Nice to meet you.” He flashed me an private grin before he staggered out.

A shiver went down my spine.

The night wore on. Afraid to go to my room, I nursed my second beer until it became as lukewarm as the room. When I could wait no longer, I said good night to the remaining men and walked away, glancing left and right with every step, afraid I would run into Pete. I had not given him my room number, but in the 1980s security was slack. Anyone could get any guest’s room number or even get into a guest’s room simply by asking at the front desk. 

I reached my room without encountering Pete, but I still held my breath until I unlocked my door and found the room empty too. Whew!

After a refreshing shower, I slipped into the bed. Tired, clean, and confident that I was safe, I dozed off.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

“What the—” Being awakened from a dead sleep, I could not at first decipher the sound. “Oh! It’s the phone.”

Shaken, disoriented, and in a dark, unfamiliar room, I flung out a hand to find the phone on bedside table. I missed the table, though, and my momentum pitched me out of bed. I landed in a squat on the floor, shaken and fearful that I would again have to fend off an insistent pipefitter. I rose to my knees, found the receiver, and answered with trepidation, “Hello?”

“Is Arnold there?”

“Arnold?” I exhaled in relief. “You’ve got the wrong room.”

“Sorry.” Click.

Thank heavens! It wasn’t the pipefitter; it was a wrong number.

I did not get any more sleep that night. At every moment I wondered what might happen next.

I never again socialized with coworkers while I was traveling, not with project managers, supervisors, or pipefitters. 

My pipes were fine just as they were.

For more stories about my many encounters with the opposite sex, subscribe to this blog by clicking on the Follow button next to my photo. Watch for the book Neurotica: One Woman's Lifetime of Lust, Love, and Letting Go. Most of the stories in the book will not appear in this blog and vice versa. Disclaimer: Many names have been changed to protect people’s privacy. While these stories are true, I have resurrected dialogue as best as I can recall it.

 

 

Then and Now

 

My encounters with males have not always been as potential dates, but some circumstances have still been funny, embarrassing, or memorable.

From the time my son was a toddler, for example, he bombarded me with questions. Each response led to another question. I saw his behavior as a sign of intelligence, so I did my best to satisfy his curiosity. I found some circumstances more difficult than others, but I did my best, even when the answers embarrassed me. Perhaps the worst situation, however, happened one afternoon at home.

We had been shopping together, and after I unloaded the groceries in the kitchen, I carried a small blue box of into the bathroom.

Sandy’s little feet followed close behind, questions pouring out of his mouth with every step. “What’re you doing, Mama?”

“I’m putting away the groceries.”

“Why are you putting groceries in the bathroom?”

“These aren’t food.”

“What are they?”

Gulp. “They’re tampons.”

“What are tampons?”

I felt heat rise in my cheeks. “They’re something women use when they aren’t having a baby.”

Silence fell for a moment before he asked, “Why?”

“Because when women are not pregnant, they bleed once a month, and tampons keep the blood from coming out.”

He never paused. “Out of where?”

Oh, yikes! What do I call it? When I was growing up I was told my private parts were called a pocketbook. As a parent myself, though, I had read not to use euphemisms with children. I clinched my teeth, but I used the correct term. “Vagina. Blood comes out of my vagina, so I put a tampon in there to stop the blood.”

“Do you have a tampon in your vagina right now?”

“Yes,” I admitted. I felt proud of myself for bravery and correctness, satisfied that I could answer any question my boy might throw at me.

Until he said, “Can I see?”

My bravery ended. My poor son had to be much older before he saw his first vagina, and I am pleased to add that I was not there when it happened.

 

Some forty years later I stood in line at the post office when another young boy waited ahead of me with his mother. A typical four-year-old, he blathered away, question after question, but his distracted mother ignored him, never even turning around to look at him.

“Why do we have to wait in line? Mommy, why do we have to wait?”

My automatic grandmother gene must have kicked in, because I answered his question for her. I leaned over and said, “It’s Christmastime, so more people than usual are waiting here in the post office.”

“Why?”

“Because we all have to wait our turn.”

“What for?”

“Most of us are mailing Christmas gifts to friends and family members.”

Proudly I straightened back up and tugged at my sweater. I usually did not wear tight sweaters, but that morning I had pulled on a sweater and run out the door without noticing that it conformed to my body a little more than I preferred.  

The little boy stopped bugging his mother and turned to me. “How long before Christmas?”

“About three weeks.”

“That’s when Santa Claus comes?”

“Yes, it is.”

“If Santa delivers presents, why do we have to mail them?”

“We also buy presents to give to others. We aren’t Santa, so we have to mail our presents.”

“What are those?” He pointed at me.

I reached up and touched my big earrings. When my son was a teen, he claimed I wore chandeliers. “They’re jewelry. Earrings,” I clarified.

“No, those,” he said more insistently.

I touched my glasses and looked at him with a question on my face.

He shook his head. “No, those.” He continued to point up at me.

I leaned over. “What?” I asked.

“Those,” he said. He poked a pointer finger deep into my boob.

Geez! I gasped and looked at his mother. She still stood with her back to us. I took a deep breath, hoped I was doing the right thing, and answered, “Those are breasts.”

“Breasts?” He tried out the word as if he had never heard it.

“Yes,” I assured him. “Breasts. All grown women have them. Even your mommy has them—”

His mother swung around to face me for the first time. I glanced at her chest, and it was as flat as a desk. Struck speechless for a moment, I stammered, “A-a-and th-they come in all sizes.”

She turned around to face forward again, so she did not see my face go red enough to match the Christmas decorations. Thankfully she got called to the counter, sparing me any more embarrassment.

Yes, men of all ages can render me almost speechless.

For more stories about my many encounters with the opposite sex, subscribe to this blog by clicking on the Follow button next to my photo. Watch for the book Neurotica: One Woman's Lifetime of Lust, Love, and Letting Go. Most of the stories in the book will not appear in this blog and vice versa. Disclaimer: Many names have been changed to protect people’s privacy. While these stories are true, I have resurrected dialogue as best as I can recall it.

 

Plays Well

 

When I try to make the first contact through a dating site, I rarely hear back from those men. I must assume they are in a relationship or they check out my profile and have no interest in responding. I feel only mild rejection.

When men contact me through a dating site, though, they have seen my photo, read my profile, and have an interest. Phil contacted me first, so he and I were one step ahead of the game. He knew my age and preferences, but neither of us had posted photos to that particular site.

We wrote back and forth, and his notes showed intelligence and wit; another good sign. Soon we chatted on the telephone with no awkward pauses or gaps. More good signs: like me, he was Jewish, and like me, he was not a practicing Jew. I could almost shout, “Halleluiah!”

He was age appropriate and neither too tall nor too short, if I could believe the height listed in his profile, but we waited to evaluate each other physically until we met midafternoon at a quiet restaurant midway between us. Yes, the only drawback appeared to be that we lived about forty minutes from each other; longer during high traffic times in Atlanta.

I entered the lobby of the restaurant where we were meeting, and an adorable man in the waiting area stood and faced me, a question on his face. Could that darling creature be Phil? In addition to having a loveable face, he also appeared to have his original hair and teeth, admirable traits for someone of retirement age. To make things better, he had a sweet smile.

The hostess sat us at a table, and we ordered tea.

I had enjoyed our correspondence and then telephone calls, and the moment I met him in person, I felt drawn to him. We easily picked up where we had left off in our telephone conversations, never running out of subjects. As our discussion progressed, I felt chemistry building between us. Ah, chemistry is such a rare thing!

He revealed that after he retired from a career in nursing, he pursued his passion for the clarinet and succeeded in getting a seat on a local symphony orchestra. When I had been in junior high school, more than fifty years earlier, I too had played clarinet, although never to the level he had achieved. Still, I had progressed to first chair after two years of playing. Because of my trials and setbacks on clarinet, I understood the man when he spoke of his love of the instrument. I remembered issues with that beautiful woodwind instrument, particularly the reeds—even new ones—and notes that squealed instead of sounding melodic. I could grasp the work he had to put into achieving his dream of being in an orchestra, so when he spoke of performing, I listened and watched while his eyes sparkled with enthusiasm.

"Are you really sixty-eight?" he asked.

"Yes. Why would I lie?"

"I don't know; it's just that you have beautiful skin. You don't look sixty-eight."

"Well, you don't look sixty-six, either," I admitted. He could have passed for fifty-five or even fifty. "Maybe you don't want to date an 'older woman.'"

We both laughed before he countered, "That's where you're wrong. I have nothing in common with younger women."

After two hours that passed too quickly, we reluctantly agreed to part, but not before he asked, "How about an afternoon movie Saturday? Afterwards, we can go somewhere for a light dinner."

"Sounds great to me," I said with sincere enthusiasm.

He walked me to my car and hugged me warmly. I liked it. We talked a little more, and then he gave me an even longer hug. Hmm. Good stuff.

 

He called me the next day. "I know I should wait a couple of days so I don't sound too eager," he said.

"No," I assured him. "I'm flattered."

"I just had to call, because you're such a nice person."

"I thought that about you, too."

"I don't know if you'll understand this, but you play well right out of the box."

"What?"

"You're like a good clarinet reed. When I buy a new box of reeds, not every reed in the box is good. I have to soak some of them for a long time before they produce a good sound. Some play better after I've shaved or trimmed them. Some never play well, no matter what I do. If I'm lucky, though, one reed will play well right out of the box. You're like that. You play well right out of the box."

I smiled at the strangest compliment I'd ever received. Other men had told me I was a good listener. Some said I had a nice smile. No one ever said I played well right out of the box, but I understood him. We clicked; no doubt about it.

As he had in person, he paid me more compliments. "I love that you have a fresh, clean look; you don't wear a lot of makeup." He added, "I hope I didn't push you too hard about a date Saturday."

"You didn't have to push; I look forward to it. Besides, you couldn't push me. No one can push me anymore. That's what I like about being my age."

We chuckled.

My mind wandered. I already felt strong feelings for the fellow, and my heart ached a little as I thought what our life might had been like if we had met twenty years earlier. How much fun we could have had together!

Friday, when I was having dinner with a girlfriend, the man called and left a long voice mail message listing movies, times, and potential theaters. I appreciated that he had performed so much research, and I liked his choices. Our taste in movies was similar. When I got home, I called him with my choices, and we settled on a theater, movie, and time. Again we gabbed easily, and unlike some of my prior encounters with online dating prospects, he said nothing off-color or suggestive. I felt relaxed and eager to see him again.

 

Saturday while I drove to the theater, I realized I might have picked one that would be difficult for him to find, because he was not familiar with the area. I waited outside for a while, and sure enough, my cell rang.

"Okay," he said, "I'm at a theater, but you're not here, and the movie you picked isn't playing here. Am I in the wrong place?"

"Yes. There are two theaters on this street. Are you at the first one after the corner?"

"Yes."

"Get back on the road and go to the next theater on the right, about a half mile down."

"I'm on my way."

We still had plenty of time before Marigold Motel began, so I relaxed against a wall and watched people until he pulled up in his car, got out, and walked over to me. He still looked as cute as the first time I saw him.

We hugged briefly, and together we walked to the ticket window. He bought two senior tickets for the movie we were to see. He put his arm on my shoulder briefly as we walked toward the lobby, but he quickly removed it. Maybe it felt awkward to him, but I had liked it. When we tried to enter the room where the movie would play, though, someone stopped us.

"We're still cleaning in here; give us another ten minutes, please," a fellow with a broom said.

"No problem," my date said, and we walked to a nearby bench. We sat down and chatted, but he did not make much eye contact. When I realized I had plopped my heavy purse between us on the bench, I moved it to my other side and slid a little closer. He did not move. While his eyes wandered everywhere but on me, he told me about a movie in which his symphony played a part, and he explained that he had wanted to meet early, to see the coming attractions. He said his orchestra might be in the trailer. Hmm. Still all about his passion, but I understood.

I missed the compliments he had paid me on our first meeting, but he didn't have to repeat himself. Worse, though, was the fact that I simply didn't feel the warmth we had shared on our prior meeting.

We finally entered the theater and watched all the shorts and the trailers for the coming attractions. Nothing referred to the movie he had mentioned.

Our plush seats had arms we could leave up or pull down. I liked that he had not pulled down the arm between us; the better to cuddle, I assumed.

The movie began. We watched it. I kept looking over at him for any sign that he recognized that I sat only inches away. Would he put his arm around me? Would he rub against me? Would he even lift his elbow two inches and bump me during the funny parts? No. Two hours passed, and we had shared oxygen in the same room, but nothing else. I hoped our dinner would be more intimate, because we would get to look at each other and talk more.

After the movie I climbed into his vehicle. We easily chose a restaurant nearby that we both liked, and again we had no difficulty talking on the way there. At the end of the salad bar, I offered my credit card to pay for our light dinner.

He said, "Why?"

"Because you paid for the movie. It's only fair."

"Okay," he said with a shrug.

We found a seat, and our conversation continued, but again, we had little eye contact. At one point he questioned me again about my age.

"I'm sixty-eight," I said. "I don't mind telling the truth."

He shook his head. "I can't believe it.

I thanked him, thinking he meant my face looked young.

Instead he pointed. "Look! You can't be sixty-eight. You have no age spots on your hands."

I laughed. What an odd observation! Okay, if he wasn't looking me in the eyes, at least he looked at my hands.

We talked more, after we had finished our meals. Eventually he revealed that a few years earlier, he had survived testicular cancer. "I'm fine, now," he said, "but it was a scare."

"I understand," I said. "In fact I haven't told many people, but I just had a hysterectomy because I had endometrial cancer."  

He pursed his lips but said nothing, so I added, "I'm doing great, though. I don't need chemotherapy or radiation. The first day we met marked one month since my operation, and that was the first time I was allowed to drive."

He pushed his chair back and stared at me. "You just had an operation? You shouldn't be out. You should be resting."

"I've rested for five weeks," I said. "I'm finally able to get around and get back to life."

"You should be sleeping. I'm a nurse; I know that when you're sleeping, you're healing."

"I healed for weeks. I'm ready to resume where I left off."

He shook his head, leaned forward, and said, "I wish you were resting."

I thought it dear of him to be concerned, but then good nurses do feel compassion, and he had spent his life as a nurse.

He glanced at his watch and looked at me. "I guess it's time to go."

"Okay." I gathered my jacket, stood, and we walked to his vehicle. He drove me back to my car in silence. I knew things had gone terribly wrong, but I wasn't quite sure when, where, how, or why.

When we reached my car, he did not get out of his vehicle. He did not walk me to my car, as he had done the first time we met. He reached over and gave me a cursory hug, not nearly as warm as the first ones he had given me after our first meeting. "Take care," he said, when I climbed out of his vehicle.

 

The next day my sister asked, "Did you have fun on your date?"

"I did, but I don't think I'll hear from him again."

"How can you know that?"

"I can't, for sure, but I have an odd feeling about it. He didn't make much eye contact, and he hugged me good-bye as if I was nothing to him. He didn't even walk me to my car. He didn't ask for another date. I don't think I'll hear from him again."

"Sure you will," she assured me.

I didn't.

He had given me his card. It had only his name, his number, and clarinetist on it. I used it as a bookmark in the book I was reading, and every night I saw his name, his phone number, and clarinetist. My heart ached a little each time I saw it, and my mind mulled over everything that happened. Did I forget to flirt? Probably. Should I have nudged him while we sat in the theater? Maybe. Did he get offended when I put my purse between us, when we first sat on the bench? Perhaps. Did I upset him by paying for dinner? Apparently. Did he get put off by the fact that I had been diagnosed with cancer? It appeared so. Was he looking for someone completely healthy and strong to take care of him, in case his cancer returned, and if so, had I failed the test? Who knows?

After a week, I sent him an e-mail and asked where things went wrong. I said knowing the truth would help me the next time I met someone.

He did not respond.

After a few months I threw away his card and used another bookmark in my reading material. Finally, a few months later, I couldn’t remember his name if I thought about him, but more than a year later, my heart still yearned a little, wondering what happened.

How could something that played so well right out of the box have gone so wrong? I will never know.

Oh, and for those who want to know, my cancer was only stage one. I caught it early and the operation removed it all. I’ve been cancer free ever since, and I’m fine, except I will always wonder whatever happened to Phil.

 

For more stories about my many encounters with the opposite sex, subscribe to this blog by clicking on the Follow button next to my photo. Watch for the book Neurotica: One Woman's Lifetime of Lust, Love, and Letting Go. Most of the stories in the book will not appear in this blog and vice versa. Disclaimer: Many names have been changed to protect people’s privacy. While these stories are true, I have resurrected dialogue as best as I can recall it.