The votes are in.
You wanted to hear about Mr. Clean the most.
The other “official” thing is that he’s too old for me.
As of TODAY, he is now 40 years old.
That’s 15 years my senior.
Well, 14 and a half.
He’s midway between myself and my parents in age.
This is too old, right???
Anyway . . . back to what you wanted to know.
I had skipped the gym Wednesday afternoon to get a bit tipsy.
Yes, it’s a bad idea to drink alone.
Yes, it’s a bad idea to drink before 5 PM.
BUT, it had been a bad damn day.
Not Chairborne, Rolligun and Eunuch bad, but bad for us normal Americans.
The kids were crazy (as they are prone to be the closer the holidays get), I had been bawled out by two parents - and I use that term loosely, giving birth does NOT make you a parent, gotten into a knock down drag out with one of my doctors, and the list goes on (Sonny and Cher tune in your head) and the list goes on.
So I took matters into my own hand.
I drank about 3/4 of a bottle of Kendall Jackson Chardonnay and then chased it with a couple of beers. Yes, I know, beer following Kendall Jackson - faux pas, however, I had no more Chardonnay in the house and refused to start on red wines after a white. Pale ale seemed to make more sense. Bear with me, I hadn’t had anything to eat and my rationalization skills were lacking.
My cell phone rings.
I don’t recognize the number, but think that perhaps it’s business related and therefore I must answer it.
It’s Mr. Clean.
“I’ve been thinking about you all day, and I know this is short notice, but can I take you out to dinner.”
Hmm . . . I’m drunk. Gorgeous man. Free meal. Why the hell not.
“I can be at your place in 15 minutes.”
“I’ll leave the door open, I need to shower, I smell like kids.”
“You can’t come back to the bathroom! Just sit patiently in the living room while I beautify myself.”
So, I hop to it.
Turn the stereo on (because I have to have music at ALL times), put the Garden State soundtrack in, put it on Repeat, turn it up loud enough to hear it in my bathroom and away we go.
I made sure to lock not only the bathroom door, but also my bedroom door, to bar any intrusion.
I emerge from the bedroom looking as good as I’m going to get considering I was still very tipsy and probably had not the steadiest hand applying make-up.
Off the shoulder black loose, yet clingy, sweater.
A touch below the knees, striped silk skirt.
Black knee high boots.
Diamond stud earrings.
Just the right amount of perfume in just the right places.
Very, very light makeup. My skin is naturally quite pale, the alcohol had blushed my cheeks quite a bit, naturally, so a touch of grey eye-shadow, a bit of mascara and a shimmery lip gloss and I was done.
I had even taken the time to turn my hair into loose waves instead of the bone straight look I tend to favor. No hair-spray because men hate it and, actually, so do I.
I looked alright enough.
The CD had just started over.
Coldplay was echoing through the house.
He was standing in the middle of my living room floor and had moved my coffee table out of the center of the floor.
“Wanna dance for a minute?”
Oh god, yes, I do.
Even though it’s really NOT that kind of song, he holds me close and we dance together.
I’m not certain, but I could swear that he kissed my exposed shoulder.
The CD switches to the Shins, but we’re still dancing.
I could have been like that forever.
It wasn’t him, at least I don’t think it was.
It was the music, the alcohol, the bad day and just needing to be in someone’s arms.
His were available.
He pulls me a bit closer and I lay my head on his chest (even with the higher heel of the boot, he was still taller than me - yay!).
I inhale his cologne and try not to reach up and kiss his neck as I so desperately want to do.
I can feel him stroking my hair with his other hand on the small of my back.
Both of those things get to me. Stroke my hair. Put your hand on the small of my back. I melt.
Oh. My. God.
I’m in trouble.
I’m always in trouble with Zero 7.
The music is haunting and wonderful and makes you FEEL.
Even when you’re apathetic, even when you don’t want to feel, you have to with Zero 7.
I don’t even try and fight it anymore.
I pull back a bit, grab his tie and use it as leverage to pull his face down to mine.
I kiss him to stop me from feeling.
It wasn’t a gentle kiss, and I’m sorry for that.
It was a harsh, hard, brutal but a passionate beyond reason kiss.
I feel my toes curl again, like they did at lunch the other day.
Hell, I think even my hair curled a bit more.
I finally break away, go turn the stereo off and tell him to take me to dinner.
“But . . . what just happened?” He looked a bit shell shocked.
I laughed and tried to cover up my own confusion, “I used you. Now let’s go.”
And off we went.
Dinner was a bit like lunch the other day.
Although, this time it was picnic style.
We picked something up, headed back to my house and then spread out on a blanket thrown on my living room floor.
It wasn’t awkward because we didn’t have things to talk about, we had lots of things to talk about, but he kept having to go outside to talk on the phone.
Remind me to not be so suspicious.
He is not Jeff.
We had red wine with dinner.
As though I needed more to drink??
And when dinner was over, he asked if we could dance again.
I didn’t trust myself.
I couldn’t let him hold me again. If I did, I would want more than I should get.
I declined the dance and asked him if he thought it was getting late.
“Yes, a bit, but I can stay a while longer. I’m not ready to leave yet. You look sad.”
Wow, mood breaker. Never tell a girl that she looks: Sad, Fat, Tired, Depressed, Worn Out, Old, you get the idea.
“I’m fine. It’s probably time for you to leave.”
This dude has a habit of sticking his foot RIGHT into his mouth, doesn’t he?
“I did something wrong again. I’m sorry. I just wanted to see what was bothering you. Being upfront about it is just my way. Tell me what’s on your mind.”
Well, that little speech did it.
I was quite certain I wouldn’t want more of him now.
So I did what any other girl would have done.
“Forget it, I’ll take the dance over talking.”
And put the CD back on.
We didn’t dance so much as hold one another.
He just held me.
He didn’t make any sly moves.
Didn’t try and whisper sweet nothings in my ear.
Just held me, swayed with me, trailed his hands up and down my back, let me be.
It was the perfect thing to do.
Around 1 AM, he stopped dancing, bent down a bit and kissed me.
A sweet, gentle, not pushy at all, kiss.
“I’m going to call you tomorrow.”
“No objections? You’re going to answer?”
“No objections and yes.”
And he kissed me again, on the forehead this time, and left.
We met again last night at 9 for coffee.
We didn’t even kiss.
We just held hands across the table (I know, I know, how freakin cheezy) and talked.
I have no idea where any of this is going.
Or if I want it to go anywhere.
But I have a list of reasons that you guys MUST be wrong about him wanting me just for sex.
Here they are:
1 - He’s too gorgeous. He’s George Clooney people! He’s BEYOOOTIFUL. He could have ANY woman. Just based on looks alone. ANY woman. Add into that the fact that he’s a very successful businessman, humorous, intelligent, driven, self-sufficient and well-read and you’ve got the male specimen of perfection in front of you. (Minus his uncanny ability to say the wrong things.)
2 - He made NO moves. None. Not any Wed night, not any Thurs night. He was a saint.
3 - He does what he says he’s going to do. That’s always a good sign that he’s not after just sex. He calls when he says he will call, he stops by when he says he will stop by. Who tries that hard if it’s just for a lay???
4 - There’s the me factor. He knows I’m not a “just sex” kinda girl. (A) because I told him so (B) because I do everything possible to avoid physical contact with him . .. unless I’m tipsy. Plus, and DO NOT take this as self deprecating - but - if you were gonna pick a “just sex” kinda girl, wouldn’t you go for one a little more . ...ummm . . NOT me? I’m pretty, hell yeah I am. But I’m the girl next door. What gets me over the top is my personality, my intellect, my humor and my ability to dress and accessorize. But you don’t care about personality, intellect, humor or dressing ability if you’re just looking for a lay. You want a banging body and killer face. Or just a banging body. Whichever. Honey, my banging body days ended the day after my first surgery. I wish I could tell you blogging men that I had a six pack, a rack from hell and legs that go on for days - but I DO NOT. I have long, but too muscular to be gorgeous legs, I lost my six pack about 5 years ago . . maybe more . . .and my breasts are starting to enter that migrate South stage. That’s what happens when they’re too big for your body . . and when you get older. It’s a fact of life. Deal.
So there ya go.
The semi-kinda-sorta date with Mr. Clean.
Actually you got two dates wrapped into one.
Do I deliver or do I deliver?