by Erin Spencer
I’m walking in my three-inch heels at a fairly brisk pace as I review the game plan in my head. I told Liv on the drive over that I was only going through with this if she promised to tag along and rescue me if things got weird. I mean, we don’t know anything about this guy and after watching a rerun of Stella’s show, my faith in her is dismally low, as are my expectations for this date.
I check myself out one last time in the reflection of the restaurant glass, which I know is lame, but I can’t help myself. I still want to look good, even if this is one big joke. The red dress I’ve accessorized with a vintage bag looks sexy and put together, but not like I’m trying too hard. I don’t usually use this bag because it’s got a rock hard resin shell and is on the small side, kind of like a pearlized crystal ball, but Liv thought it was perfect. I take a deep breath to remind myself that I’m not like those women on Who Wants to Date a Millionaire!.
I slow down as I approach the restaurant entrance and look around hesitantly for what I imagine a millionaire who’d use a dating service would look like: an old, fat, white guy with bad plastic surgery who’s channeling the swagger of a thirty-year-old despite his eighty-year-old chicken neck. I spot just the man as he feebly tosses the keys of his sparkling white Bentley to the valet. I smile at him, swallowing the lump that’s suddenly risen in my throat, when suddenly from the open doorway of the restaurant, I hear a deep, smooth voice call out, “Rebecca?”
I stop in my tracks, looking around to see who’s calling my name. When I hear it a second time, I walk into the restaurant and see a fairly attractive man smiling and waving at me as if we’re old friends. Maybe we went to high school together? I glance around the restaurant one last time to make sure he’s actually addressing me and when he smiles and nods, I head in his direction.
Assuming this is the Brad B., I’m relieved to see he’s mid-forties, around five foot ten, not too heavy, almost athletic, with a full head of hair (a plus). Then not so relieved to see that he’s wearing an ugly navy and white gingham shirt (a negative—screams preppy good ole boy) paired with the most ridiculous fishing vest I’ve ever seen. I can’t imagine what he keeps in all of those pockets! I inwardly scold myself to not be so judgy. I can overlook bad fashion choices—things like that are fixable. His smile and youthful energy make me feel more optimistic, despite my doubts about this whole evening.
I extend my hand. “You must be Brad. I’m Rebecca. But, everyone calls me Bex for short.”
He laughs good-naturedly and says in a subtle Okie accent, “Bex! No wonder you looked confused when I called your name. I’m sorry if that was awkward. Stella told me Rebecca, so…” he tapers off and I can tell he’s embarrassed.
Perching on a high-backed chair at the posh bar, I jump in to save him because it’s not his fault he called the wrong name. I guess Stella’s bio of me was just as short, although there was clearly a picture of me included.
“Don’t worry about it, Brad.” And then I give him a playful look. “You don’t go by Bra for short, do you?” What am I saying? Why do I feel so nervous? Fortunately, for me, Brad laughs off my weak joke and hands me the menu.
“Wow, it all looks delicious. I want to order one of everything.” I try not to drool looking at the menu. I absolutely go weak in the knees for Cajun food.
The bartender asks if we’d like to dine at the bar and Brad and I both answer at the same time, “Sure!” We look at each other and laugh.
“Did you have a reservation for a table? I’ll tell the hostess to cancel it and that you’ll be dining at the bar.” The bartender has a casual, friendly style which puts me at ease.
“Thanks, that’d be great. Yes, the reservation is under the name Brad Blunderwood.”
Okay, so Blunderwood isn’t exactly the sexiest last name and Bex Ophelia Blunderwood would leave me as B.O.B. or technically R.O.B…but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.
“We’ll start with a dozen oysters on the half shell and the grilled blackened alligator appetizer. Does that sound all right with you, Bex?” I nod and relax back into my chair. We take a moment to discuss the cocktail menu, which is even better than I hoped for, and as Brad continues his easy chatter with the bartender about our food choices, I see Liv saunter into the restaurant as planned. She’s trying to look inconspicuous, but that’s nearly impossible for Liv. I give her credit for trying, but wearing sunglasses inside isn’t helping her attempt at incognito. As she takes a seat on the other side of the bar I can tell she’s looking to me for a sign. I give her a subtle nod and smile to let her know everything is A-OK. I’m only ten minutes into this date but I actually have a good feeling. Maybe it’s just the relief that he’s not eighty, but Brad is so much better than I expected.
We’re polishing off our first round of Hurricane Camilles (which I imagine are as strong as the real one) and finishing up the last of the oysters when I get a text alert. I know it’s Liv, because this was part of The Plan, so I excuse myself to the ladies’.
I waltz into the bathroom with a sly grin on my face and Liv practically jumps me as soon as the door shuts behind me.
“You little minx! You like him!” she says in a singsong voice.
“I know this is crazy and totally not what I was expecting. But, I do!” My excitement is contagious seeing how Liv’s smile grows as wide as mine. I don’t know if she looks so happy because she’s happy for me or if it’s because she’s about to burst out with an “I told you so,” but it doesn’t matter. I do feel good.
“Okay, give me all the deets and make it quick. I’m dying to know! And, PS, why is he wearing a fishing vest? Where’s the canoe?” She blurts all of that out in one breathless stream of consciousness.
“Right? I know. We can work on that. No biggie.” I wave the fishing vest issue away as if it were a bad smell. “Okay, so, his name is Brad Blunderwood.”
Liv cringes slightly.
“I know, you don’t have to say it. He travels a bunch and owns a boat in Marina. He doesn’t have any kids and, uh, I don’t know…What else? I don’t know. We’ve just been chitchatting. He’s a super nice guy with a great sense of humor and a weird last name! But, I like him. Time for the main course!”
Liv looks at me like she has no idea what I’m talking about. “What’s the main course?”
“Crawfish étouffée, what else would it be!” I slide past her to push open the bathroom door, then look back over my shoulder to give her an over-the-top wink. “And there may even be dessert!”
So, when I said dessert, I really was talking about Key lime pie. But after Brad paid the bill and invited me across the street to see the view from his penthouse suite at the new swanky Spade Hotel, I couldn’t resist, thinking that a different kind of dessert might be in store.
I didn’t want to tell Liv I was going to his room, so when I texted her to let her know I was hopping over to “the rooftop” at the Spade to watch the sunset, she responded immediately.
Liv: 3 drink rule!
Me: Yep. Only had 2. Will be 30 min tops.
We enter Brad’s luxurious suite and I take a look around. I don’t like this kind of glossy contemporary furniture, but I recognize the quality. No expense has been spared in this room—it must cost a fortune. Afraid I might break the glass coffee table with my lipstick-carrying mini bowling ball of a purse, I gently place it and my phone down on the lacquered credenza.
With a look of lust in his eyes, Brad grabs my hand and leads me out to the balcony to admire the sweeping view. It’s a stunningly clear evening and there’s a glimmer of the ocean and the buildings of Century City in the distance. Maybe dating a millionaire isn’t a bad idea after all! As that thought crosses my mind, Brad wraps his arms around my waist and the pockets of his vest press against my back. Okay, well, I could do without that reminder of his sartorial (non)sense but still lean back into him, resting my head on his left shoulder and breathe in the scent of his cologne as we bask in the orange glow of the sunset. Is that Stetson cologne? I think to my
self. Well, we’ve got to work on the clothing and the cologne (he smells like 1991!). My mental shopping list is growing longer.
“I really like you, Bex. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be than right here with you, right now,” Brad whispers in my ear. There might as well be a halo hanging over this man’s head because he’s saying everything right.
“I like you too, Brad.” My voice comes out slow and whispery like I’m auditioning to be a phone sex operator. This whole scene feels so surreal. Am I just getting swept up in the glamour of it? But dinner felt so easy and relaxed. I might actually like this man.
I slowly turn around, looking up at the salt and pepper scruff on his face as Brad pulls me in gently for a kiss. His lips are warm and soft on mine, and I exhale into him, reveling in his caress. God, it’s been so long since I’ve done this. He’s a great kisser, alternating between softness and a rough urgency that has my knees weak and wanting more. Feeling bold, I playfully push him back into the suite’s living room with an eagerness I haven’t felt in years. As my fingers slide down to his belt buckle and our feet are shuffling on the thick pile rug, my mind is reeling. Does he have condoms in any of those pockets? What underwear am I wearing and are they still wet from when I sneeze/peed—sneed at the bar? Ahh, the glamorous side effects of childbirth. I try to calculate the time I’ve been up in Brad’s suite, knowing that Liv is expecting me in about fifteen minutes and she’ll go completely insane if I’m not back at the restaurant on time. But I like Brad. He’s such a gentleman—kind, attentive, sweet. Maybe it’s time I stepped off this frozen tundra that is my sex life and got tropical.
Panting with need, I whisper, “Brad, I don’t have a condom. Do you?”
He kisses me deeply, looks into my eyes and responds in a breathy low rumble. “No, but I’m fine with a blow job.”
Huh. Hold on, what…? He’s fine with a blow job? Admittedly, that is not the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard, and is totally presumptuous, but honestly, I’m kind of relieved. I was never really the type to have sex on the first date. But I do like Brad enough that a blow job isn’t an insane idea. Patrick always told me I was talented at that particular skill, so what the hell, let’s see if I’ve still got it.
Brad kisses my neck hungrily as I lower his zipper one millimeter at a time. He groans into my shoulder and I smile with the knowledge that I’m turning him on so much. I slowly lower myself onto my knees and pull his pants down his legs as he plops down, none too gracefully, on the gray couch, navy boxers still covering his manly parts. I scoot my knees over the rough pile to wedge myself between his legs, when Brad looks down at me, his voice heavy with raw lust. “Goddamn, you are beautiful.”
I feel a sense of empowerment that I haven’t felt in years. Yes, I am the one on the giving end, but I’m overcome by a feeling of confidence as I control this man with his pants around his ankles and his shirt disheveled in lust. I’m in the driver’s seat and he’s the willing passenger I’m going to take on a wild ride.
My mouth watering in anticipation, I reach toward him, high on the control I have over him as my fingers disappear into the front seam of his boxers. My body is singing like Marvin Gaye, soulful and willful, when suddenly the needle scratches off the record in my head…because what I’ve grabbed can only be described as a hot dog. Long, thin, and blotchy red. Trying to shake off thoughts of yesterday’s lunch at Pink’s, my sexy meter dials back more than a few notches and I take a moment to gather my quickly fading enthusiasm. Those feelings I had just moments ago, Confidence and Empowerment, are now running down the hall screaming. Maybe I’m not as hungry as I thought…
Pulling me back into the moment, Brad reaches down and strokes my cheek with his thumb and gazes deep into my eyes. Shit. Come on, Bex, you can’t make him feel bad because he has a frankfurter for a penis! It’s not what you have, but how you use it, right? I can’t give this genuinely nice man a complex because his package resembles Oscar Mayer rather than something I’d buy at a Bavarian meat market! He can’t help it. It’s the lottery of life.
Resolutely, I lick my lips and descend, closing my eyes and parting my lips when…
DING! My phone on the credenza chimes loudly.
“Do you need to get that?” Brad opens his eyes with concern.
“No, it’s fine,” I mumble, determined to stay in the sexy zone.
With relief, Brad drops his head back on the couch cushion. I begin my second approach only stopping for a moment when I breathe in his aroma of sour beer. I can’t help feeling disappointed. Why can’t this be like the romance novels I beach read where men smell like cedar and musk after chopping wood shirtless? Christian Grey he is not. Oh well…
I touch the edge of my tongue to him when…
DING! My phone chimes again, which gives me mild “mom anxiety.” What if it’s Maddie having another meltdown? But, no, she said on FaceTime that she had it all handled. Anyway, whoever it is, I’m sure they can wait a few minutes.
Licking my lips a final time I…
DING!
DING!
DING!
DING!
Okay, that is definitely Liv. Only she would send me back-to-back texts that sound like church bells, making me momentarily question my morality. Not wanting to be deterred from breaking my sexual drought—regardless of how unsexy it’s all turning out to be—my sense of urgency increases with each DING! and I’m even more determined to give Brad the blow job of his life. This isn’t about him anymore, this is about me. I’m bringing sexy back, damn it!
My lips close for the first time over Oscar and with one smooth plunge, Brad jerks and moans, he grabs his swollen wiener with his right hand and showers his boxers before I even have a chance to grasp the reality of what just happened. I pull back in surprise and confusion.
“Baby, that was incredible.” Brad grunts.
I stare wide-eyed at his lap as Oscar bends over his hand, ready for a nap.
“I’m just gonna…” I wave my hand toward the en suite bathroom and hear my knees creak as I push myself to standing.
Still in my heels, I stand facing myself in the bathroom mirror wondering what the hell just happened. I turn on the hot water and look for a clean washcloth to wipe my face. Did I even give a blow job? Does that count as anything? And, jeez, poor Brad must have a premature ejaculation problem. That blows. Literally.
There’s a tube of toothpaste on the counter so I briskly finger brush my teeth. Is this what it’s come down to, middle age dating? I look at my knees, red with indentions from the carpet like I’ve been kneeling on gravel. This wasn’t how I thought my first ride back at the rodeo would be. Not nearly as sexy or gratifying as I’d imagined it. Not how it would have been with Devon…
“Bex, your phone is blowing up!” Brad calls out with a worried tone, interrupting my Devon daydream.
Exiting the bathroom I retrieve my phone to I see I have about ten texts from Liv. A string of “NOW” “WHERE ARE YOU” and “9-1-1” with a series of question marks and exclamation points. I still have two minutes to spare, so I don’t know what she’s going on about. I’m a big girl.
“Is everything all right?” Brad looks at me with concern, his eyes droopy with satiated lust, his pants still half off.
“Yeah, fine. Should we head down?” I grab my purse and walk toward the door.
“Sure. Let’s grab one more cocktail. This has been a great date and I have a feeling it’s the first of more to come!” He says this with such honest enthusiasm as he’s rushing to pull up his pants that I can’t help but like the guy despite his lack of thunder down under. Maybe it’s just first date nerves?
My phone dings a final time and as I draw my gaze away from Brad’s brown eyes I see…a mug shot of Brad looking like he got hit by a truck at a roadside boiled peanut stand in Jackson, Mississippi.
“Bex! There you are! Come over here!” Liv calls out to me in the lobby of the Spade, the echo of her heels tapping across the shiny floor with military ef
ficiency. She looks distressed and disturbed.
I look awkwardly at Brad, still unsure what to make of the last text from Liv. I gesture from Brad to Liv making introductions. “Brad, this is my friend Liv. Liv, this is…”
“I need you. Now.” She glares at Brad so harshly that I blush with embarrassment. Brad grins warmly at us as Liv drags me toward a semi-private alcove in the hotel lobby.
Confused, I hover over Liv’s cell phone as she rapidly fills me in on the details of Mr. Blunderwood. “So far I’ve found five mug shots of him from different states. He has warrants out for his arrest for credit card fraud, check fraud, embezzlement, two DUIs, and there appears to be multiple lawsuits against him and his company. There’s even a blog started by some lady in Oklahoma who says he conned her out of her land then put oil wells on it, and there are about eight people who say it’s happened to them too! He is not a good guy.” Liv is out of breath and I’m instantly out of hope.
I slide down the wall and sit on the floor with my head in my hands and let the tears fall freely. I am such an idiot! I should have known this was too good to be true. I just wanted something good. I just wanted to feel sexy. To meet a nice guy who laughed easily and looked at me like I was special. But here I am, blinded by a swindler who’s a convict with a record as long as my last CVS receipt. Liv sits down next to me and puts her arm around my shoulders. Her gesture is comforting and I lean into her as I sob out quietly, “I gave that motherfucker a blow job.” I wipe the snot trailing from my nose and rub it onto my red dress.
Liv tries to soothe me. “It’s ok, honey. It’s no big deal…”
“Literally.” I groan. “It was literally not a big deal.”
Liv leans in and gives me a tighter hug but then pulls back. “Ugh, you smell like the floor of a brewery.”
