TWO FBs PASSING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT - A short story from 2004

She didn’t have a peep-hole in her door and for some reason he was standing in the blind spot of her front porch where she couldn’t get a look at him from her guest bedroom window. She was told he was cute, sweet, and extremely attentive to his women on a date, not to mention that he had lots of money and an MBA from Loyolla. The “great personality” descriptive hadn’t come up when he was described to her and she hoped that Charlie, her legal secretary, had set her up on a winner this time. This time. It had been exactly eight months, fourteen days, five hours, and forty one minutes, give or take a second or two, since she had had meaningful, satisfying, mindblowing sex with a living, breathing human, other than herself, and Thierry Ryder needed it badly.

She smoothed out her Ann Taylor skirt, licked her lips, and sighed. Then she flexed her toes inside her brand new Christian Loubitan high-heeled pumps that she had splurged on and bought at a 41% discount online as a celebration of her Visa limit recently increasing by two thousand dollars, thanks to a seventy hour work week and a generous overriding royalty interest she had in a gas rig that had just been completed. She took one last look at herself in the hall mirror. She was gorgeous, not a line on her forty-year old, which looked 28, face. Hopefully he wouldn’t notice the twenty or so pounds she was packing in the middle, hidden by a jersey knit Ralph Lauren turtleneck, worn out and not tucked in. If she could find an extra half hour in her morning before beginning her day as an oil and gas attorney, she would finally figure out how to use the year old Total Gym that was presently acting as a $1,500.00 shoe rack inside her closet. She took in a cleansing, hopeful breath and opened the door.

She looked straight ahead, only seeing a beat up, ten year old Dodge Caravan with a “My son is an honor student at Byrd High” sticker on the back window parked in front of her Broadmoor bungalow. She made a quizzical face and then looked down. And there it stood, slightly taller than a Hobbit yet shorter than your average jockey. She had an umbrella bigger than him, she thought, almost aloud. He had short, flappy arms, he wore a puke green synthetic-blend Rugby shirt, and worse than worse, he wore what appeared to be orthopedic shoes and Wrangler jeans. But to add even more insult to the gaping wound, he must have been receding badly, because slapped on the top of his head was Hair Club for Men’s cheapest model, the synthetic one. It was lopsided and ill-fitting, probably somewhat nice looking when freshly coiffed, except that his was at least three or four weeks overdo for a re-fitting and trim. She wanted to take her finger and flick it into place but was scared to touch it for fear it might leap off his shiny head and attack her. The Dating Gods had outdone themselves tonight and were patting themselves on the back, Thierry knew.

“Wow, you look so amazing. Charlie said you were a looker, but… Wow!” he said, appearing to speak, not straight at her eyes or face but directly into her size B cup breasts, pushed ever so gently up and together to appear larger than they really were in her Victoria’s Secret bra she had purchased for her last fiasco blind date that went nowhere, two months ago. “Nice job, Charlie!” He tried to pat himself on the back but his little tiny arms would barely reach.

“Yeah, that Charlie is something,” she answered back. “Charlie would be so fired come Monday morning if she was a private practice attorney instead of in-house. Charlie was lucky in that respect,” Thierry noted to herself.

“I was thinking we could go to Chef Lee’s or Ryan’s Steakhouse. Whatcha think?” he asked.

“Oh, buffet, great” Thierry replied while trying hard not to cry. “That sounds like fun. How about Chef Lee’s, then?” She bit her lip and tried hard to erase the taste of the rack of lamb she was so looking forward to eating at the Village, or the medium rare steak she hoped to have, even at the Cub. It was getting old paying for life’s delights herself. Thierry just wanted someone else to treat her like a lady for a change. Just once, she wanted to know what it was like to go on a real date, grown up clothes, grown up food, grown up sex. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind if I ran into that Radio Shack next door to it before they close would you? I forgot I need something there.”

“Oh, electronics, huh? Did Charlie tell you I’m a wiz with gadgets and such? Whatcha need and maybe I can fix it for you,” he volunteered.

Unless this guy could emit a low, monotone hum; tickle her in just the right spot; vibrate in three speeds; and came complete with a pack of fully charged Size D Energizers, there was nothing he could do for her tonight.
* * *
He surveyed his new Porche Cayenne in the garage of his almost but not quite million-dollar North Shore home. He also eyed his black “C” class Mercedes, the company car. Wendi with an “i” would probably be more impressed with the Mercedes logo, but the Porche SUV was true perfection, he thought. And with only fifty miles on it, it needed to be debuted now and shown off for all his hard work, before winter in the city prevented him from driving it on freshly salted pavement.

He was picking up Wendi, with an “i” at the train station in half an hour; she was coming into the city from Downer’s Grove. She was a paralegal at Sonnenshein, a real looker with pilatied legs, personally trained biceps and calves, and silicon filled breasts as perky as a sixteen year olds. Probably because she wasn’t far from sweet sixteen herself, just 24 years of age; Allen could have easily been her father, except that his Bow-Flex body, olive skin complexion, and full head of hair made his 47 years look more like 30 or 35. He had met her at happy hour at Flannigan’s, two weeks earlier. He would take her to Rosebuds then drinks at “Whiskey Sky,” making it an easy $500 plus, third date. The two previous dates had been a Cubs game and a Dave Matthews Concert with very little time for conversation to get to know each other. But tonight she would stay in the city at his house and he would finally get to know her and get lucky. It had been exactly eight months, fourteen days, five hours, and forty-one minutes, give or take a second or two, since he had had meaningful, satisfying, mind-blowing sex with a living, breathing human, other than himself, and Allen Pennington needed it badly.

Dinner at Rosebuds became an experience in age gap. Wendi, with an “i” ordered a $28 salad and ate the one cucumber garnish, three pine nuts and a caper from it, all while describing the fifty-three Boyd’s Bears that her gray-haired forty-eight year old father had given her. For the main course, she managed to flatten the pan-seared $63 lemon-basil flounder even further than it already had been pannied with her salad fork, no-less, never taking one bite into her mouth as she discussed with passion the unfortunate topic of how she was going to talk her best friend out of picking seafoam green for her bridesmaid dresses because the color made her look fat and her new breasts flat. She made a sour face as she took a sip of the $145 a bottle Chateau Neuf de Paup, then ordered a $3 diet coke from the waiter she referred to affectionately as “gar-kon.” She topped off her “meal” with a $7.50 espresso which took seven full packets of Sweet-N-Low stirred into it, plus an ice cube from her water before she would even sip a drop, where the topic had turned to shopping at Pier One and Target, her favorite stores. Allen hoped that cocktails later would loosen her up a bit. He hated that all of his dates felt uncomfortable eating in front of him. Maybe he could get her to eat a Wasabi pea or two at Whiskey Sky before taking her home.

Whiskey Sky was it’s usual packed self and the bouncer prevented a long line of haute couture wearing beautiful people from passing through the invisible velvet rope. There were celebrities in the house tonight. Allen, with his awed and overly impressed West-suburb date on his arm, guided her past all the miffed and anxious wannebes, slipped the bouncer a Benjamin as he called Allen by name and breezed through the door like nobody’s business.

“Oh, my God, this is the first time I’ve ever gotten in here. This is so way cool,” Wendi, with an “i” squeaked with sorority-girl glee, as if she had just been asked into the chapter room of Kappa Alpha Fraternity. A scantily clad hostess ushered them to a reserved table in the back corner. “You’re usual, Mr. Pennington? Crystal?” she asked.

“No, perhaps I’ll just have a Remy Martin XO for me, and….” he waited for Wendi, with an “i” to respond.

“Oh, uhm, a rum and diet coke for me. Thanks,” she said.

“How lovely,” the hostess muttered with reduced tip sarcasm. Allen slipped her his last C-note for the cocktail faux pas. “Would you also like your usual cigar, Mr. Pennington? A Cohiba, right?” she resumed her star treatment on him. The night had now proceeded past the plus side of $500.

Wendi, with an “i” made a face at the mention of cigar.

“No, perhaps not tonight. Thank you, Ashley. Maybe next time.”

They sat down but Wendi, with an “i” bounced back up again. Her breasts never bouncing or moving. “Oh, fuckin’ shit, is that Matt Damon over there? Holy fuck, it is.” She pointed to him, ever so obviously.

“Uh, yes, that’s Matt Damon. Would you like to meet him?” Allen asked her.

“Jesus, you know him?” she practically screamed. Sweat was forming above her fuschia-lined lips.
“He’s been in here once or twice. I’ve met him, yes. He’s very nice,” Allen said and waved at Matt to come over to the table. Matt nodded to Allen, put out his cigarette, and proceeded over to the table.

“Hey, Allen, isn’t it?” Matt shook Allen’s hand. “Good to see you again, man. I meant to phone you while I’ve been in town but I’ve had nothing but early calls on this movie I’m working on.”

“That’s ok. I’ve been out of town for a couple of days anyway. Just got back last night.”

“Oh, I got that comic book you bought from Kevin Smith a couple of weeks ago,” Matt told him. “He gave it to me to give to you. He thought it’d be cheaper to get its worth from me rather than insuring it in on Fedex if it got lost, I guess, the cheap bastard.”

“Thanks, man. I really appreciate that. You’re very kind.” Allen said. “Yeah, I can’t believe I bought a ten thousand dollar Superman comic I know I had at one time purchased as a kid for fifteen cents and then my mother threw away. Un-fuckin’-believable.”

“I hear ya, man,” Matt said. I bet my mom threw away a million dollars of mine, too”

“Oh, Matt, I’d like you to meet…” Allen looked to where Wendi, with an “i” had been sitting, but she was no longer there. She lay crumpled in a heap, unconscious, next to the banquette, either awed and overwhelmed at the site of celebrity or lack of nutrition, Allen wasn’t sure which. Either way, Allen was beginning to hear the sex clock ticking in his head turn over another three hours and twelve minutes, eighteen seconds with smooth and accurate Swiss timing, with no sign of winding down to a grinding, thrusting halt.

“Is she okay?” Matt asked, looking over the table toward her.

“Matt….” she muttered in her unconscious state, a silly smile on her pale face.

“Do you have this affect on all women or just my dates?" Allen joked as he scooped up Wendi with an "i" in his arms and escorted her out of the club. So much for a smooth night on the town.

“Is this like really a Porche?” Wendi, with an “i”, asked as they were driving toward Allen’s home fifteen minutes later. “I thought they only made convertible sports cars, you know, Boxers or something.”

“Boxsters. They make those, too, but this is their new S-U-V. Nice, huh?” Allen caressed the dash.

“I thought you had a Mercedes,” she said, unimpressed and looked away, out the window and toward Lake Michigan. The moonlight glimmered on the water and danced with the waves, making what should have been a romantic drive North, to the his home, a mocking hell.

“I do, but it’s a couple of years old, my company car. I just bought this. This is my personal vehicle.” He said as they pulled into the driveway of his house he’d called home for six years now, since he had transplanted himself to Chicago from Shreveport, Louisiana to start his consulting business.

“This is your house? And you don’t have any roommates or nothin’?” she asked.

“Yes, it is and no, I don’t.” Allen got out of the car and realized he still had time to open her door. He was afraid she was going to pass out again from being awed and overwhelmed, a habit he was not getting used to with her. Allen could see the three cherries rolling and hitting in her eyes – JACKPOT! It was not an unfamiliar sight for him when he brought his dates home for the first, and albeit, always the last time.

He opened the door and escorted her in. It was professionally decorated and appointed for the successful businessman on the fly – minimalist, monochromatic, and masculine. As he gave her the nickel tour, he could see her slowly moving in her Pier One knick-knacks and wicker furniture, her Cynthia Rowley for Target china, and her complete collection of Boyd’s Bears she’d been acquiring since infancy, the one’s her Daddy, a year older than him, had given her. Allen pictured her gray-haired father turning their innocent faces away from their watchful stare over his little girl, as Allen ran through his favorite positions of the Kama Sutra he would use on the man’s daughter tonight.

“And this is the bedroom…” he said as he moved his hand toward her breast and kissed her neck. She pulled away. He pulled her back and proceeded to put his hand into her sheer blouse to feel her fake breasts again, permanently erect and pointing toward true north, just like his penis was trying to do. He also began inching his way to her micro mini to feel the strings of her thong, which peeked out of the waistline. She was dressed for sex tonight, or so he had thought earlier. Now he was beginning to think she was simply taunting the little boy in him with eye candy; what he could have if he behaves one day like a good little boy. Again she pulled away. “Relax. Take off your shoes. I can get you a T-shirt and some boxers for you, if that would make you feel more comfortable. We’ll go slow…”

“Oh, we are not having sex tonight,” she whispered as if they were. “See, Jessica Simpson is my roll model and she and Nick Lachey didn’t have sex until their wedding night. I want to wait until we get married, like Jessica. She was a virgin on her wedding night, just like I’ll be for you.” She smiled and touched his chin lightly as she moved across the bedroom and lay down.

“So I guess a blow job is totally out of the question, huh?” he only half joked.

She nodded in the affirmative and made a face as if she was going to purge her cucumber, caper and three pine nuts at the thought of giving him what he felt should have been a consolation prize for the Katy-bar-the-door frigidity.
“You must like beige, huh?” she asked as she buttoned up the top button of her sheer blouse, locking her breasts away from play for the night. “Me, I think this bedroom would be much prettier painted mauve, with baby blue carpet and..."
The throbbing of Allen’s “blue balls” drowned out Wendi, with an “i’s” matrimonial redecorating of his bedroom. He sighed with despair as he felt his right hand twitch with tendonitis and his penis throb with frustration then point back south. His only satisfaction for the $500 plus evening, as he lay fully clothed in his Armani Emporio slacks next to his Gap-clad virgin was dreaming about using her pink engagement announcement napkins which read “Wendi, with an ‘i’ heart Allen” to wipe his ass off in the morning after a monster shit.
Copyright © 2007 Tracy L. Carnes

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