by Tracy Ellen
The date had started with spending a Saturday together in Minneapolis. Luke doesn’t know the city very well. I suggested we do some outdoor exploring because it was gorgeous out. I cannot tell a lie, I was a tad hung over from the previous night at Rueb’s, a local bar, and almost cancelled. But it felt good that Saturday to get outside in the fresh air and clear up my slight hangover.
First, we biked across town along the creek on Minnehaha Parkway. We worked up an appetite and had a huge breakfast for lunch in Uptown at French Meadow Café. I’m a sucker for their Eggs Benedict, plus we split one of their enormously delicious cinnamon rolls. We later walked it off around the scenic, nine mile circuit of Lake of the Isles, Calhoun, and Harriet. The two levels of lake paths were busy with bikers, joggers, and walkers outside with the same idea to embrace the sunshine.
In Minnesota, everyone takes advantage of beautiful, fall days like a bunch of paranoid hoarders. We all know what’s lurking around the corner to descend on us at any given moment. It’s not unheard of for the temp to be fifty one day with a blizzard the next.
Speaking of hoarders, while we walked, I was munching on chocolate-dipped macaroons from a bag that had magically appeared in my hand upon leaving French Meadow. I noticed that no matter how much we were laughing and talking, Luke always kept an eye out on our immediate environs. He truly has a special talent for vigilance. I never felt like I had less than his total attention, but he also managed to admire the awe-inspiring architecture of historic homes surrounding the lakes, watch the people around us, watch me, and watch the ground where we walked.
Turns out this observation knack of his was a good thing for me. Luke steered me over an ankle-twisting pothole in the path, and around a deep puddle I would have gone swimming through. I was oblivious to these dangers to my person. I was too busy waxing on enthusiastically about a recent book I’d read and loved. He later caught me mid-air when I took a swan dive over an exposed tree root. The story he’d been telling had me laughing so much, I hadn’t been paying a bit of attention to the path under my feet. That one would have really hurt, so I appreciated his save.
This would all be a mite embarrassing were I the type to actually care about such things as my own dignity and public humiliation. It was odd to receive a deep kiss for being an oblivious klutz, but I grinned and bore the punishment. I gave in gracefully to Luke’s vehement insistence he hold my hand to keep me alive.
Our daytime date was a great time. We spent hours marveling at how smart we were on almost every subject under the sun—when we weren’t heatedly debating about the other’s idiotically wrong viewpoint. The drive home down 35W was quieter. It was laced with long looks in anticipation of what we’d be doing later when we were alone inside my apartment.
In the dusky, late afternoon light, we relaxed together. Luke was a shadowed outline of a man sprawled at the end of my comfy, leather sofa. I was idly mulling over if I should invite him to come with me to the Halloween costume bash I was invited to later that night. I was envisioning him in his Army uniform; Major Anthony “Tony” Nelson to my “I Dream of Jeannie” genie. Who cares if he wasn’t Air Force, or a major? I’m not picky; a man in uniform is hot.
Luke reached over and started playing with my hand, running his thumb over my knuckles and between my fingers.
Apropos of nothing, in a voice as smooth as the velvet pillow I was leaning my cheek against, he spoke. “Tell me your secret fantasy, Anabel.”
‘Holy…so much for being relaxed!’ After a moment, I remembered to snap closed my hanging jaw. Luke didn’t chatter away in idle conversation to hear himself speak, so I knew immediately he was totally serious. His face was smoothly composed and gave away nothing of what he was thinking. Just like that, easy as you please, he asked me to tell him something I have never divulged to another living soul.
I was confused, too. First off, did he mean most people have only one secret fantasy? Because I knew immediately what my number one secret fantasies was out of about fifteen fantasies. Secondly, did this mean he was into kinky sex stuff to ask me this after dating for only a couple of months, and those dates being spread out? Was he going to get progressively weirder on me? Or, was I the weird one since I found myself really tempted to answer him? Thirdly, did he ask all the women he dated this question, or did he sense something about me that made him bring this up? Fourthly, oh forget it; I could keep up this way forever on this titillating subject.
I crawled closer to Luke. My free hand was curled around his ear so I could whisper my number one secret fantasy. I wasn’t being inordinately shy. Not completely. I like to use any excuse to whisper near his ear, or kiss and suck lightly on his neck. It drives Luke crazy.
Poised to speak, I hesitated. I thought a second if I had the nerve to tell him.
Then I thought another few seconds about why I almost trusted Luke. I’d only known him a short time.
Then I thought a couple seconds more if I liked the idea of almost trusting him. That was a no-brainer.
I sat back on my heels. I released his hand. I folded my arms over my chest. I realized my nipples were standing at attention from him only asking me this question. I blew out my breath in frustration. This was not such an easy question to answer, even if my breasts disagreed.
‘What to do, what to do?’
I rested my head on the back of the sofa, distractedly running both hands through my hair on either side of my head. I looked up at the ceiling for the answer.
I reasoned my dilemma out in my head. I use my hands a lot when reasoning things out in my head. Sometimes, I even hum and mumble under my breath the words that go flying through my brain like a ticker tape at the stock exchange. This helps me organize and make decisions, never mind it makes me look insane.
The left hand: Okay, on this hand I have Luke. A man I cannot deny I am totally sexually smitten with--even if I wanted to. Why? Because Luke all ready knows. Oh yes, Miss Blabbermouth here told him within five minutes into our first date. Yep, that’s how aloof and hard-to-get I play. For the tenth time, I glumly reassured myself there were extenuating circumstances why I told Luke. Anyone hearing the story of our first date would agree I had grounds to react as I did. No, I was more disgruntled about how much I looked forward to being with him, no matter what we were doing. That rule-breaking concept alone was technically reason enough to never see him again, much less confess my sex fantasies.
The right hand: On this hand, I have Luke sitting here right next to me wanting to know my secret fantasy. A man I find interesting, a man who attracts me tremendously. I was relatively sure he was not a Dexter; either that or I hadn’t proved too boring, yet. He has been kind enough to prove he’s healthy by showing me the latest medical report after a routine testing through his secret job. The reasons of death by dismemberment or disease need not stop me. Telling him my number one fantasy could be very fun indeed.
Still indecisive, I worried my bottom lip and mulled it over.
It’s not like I don’t know myself. Any problems or issues I have, I know why I have them. Trust does not come easy. Was sharing a fantasy something I wanted to do? If I did want to share, was I going to be honest and tell Luke my number one fantasy? Or was I going to be a namby-pamby baby and share a white bread fantasy to get off the hook--like he is a peg leg Pirate and I’m a tied-up Princess.
After that brief pep talk with myself, I made my decision.
I gave a nod of thanks to the team of voices huddled in my head and clapped my hands. Then I turned to Luke.
His forgotten beer was arrested halfway to his parted lips.
Even in the dim lighting, I could see he was watching me with fascinated interest. I couldn’t quite meet his searching eyes; I guess I was a little shyer about this subject than I realized. Also, I didn’t want to see any calm, experienced amusement in his expression, or I’d smack him and lose my nerve.
I spoke in a rush before any of the above could happen. “Okay Luke, my top sexual fantasy is I want to
be secretly nominated.”
‘WAIT! What in the hell did I just say? That came out all wrong!’
It also came out louder than I intended. In my agitation, I forgot to whisper my answer in his ear. In the stillness of the apartment, I swear the word ‘nominated’ bounced off the walls and was still echoing like we were in the Grand Canyon.
Over my own incredulity, I had no trouble seeing Mr. Kinky regarding me with surprised incomprehension now added to the fascinated interest. And the one, arched eyebrow I love so much.
I moaned and put a hand to my forehead. I think I felt a headache lurking.
I closed my eyes and hurriedly corrected myself. “I meant to say my SECRET fantasy is I want to be DOMinated.” Even in my embarrassment, I remembered my manners. “Please.”
This brought to mind another point to clarify. I rushed on while holding up my hand like a traffic cop. “This is not to be confused with actual rape—that’s violence and I am not, I repeat, not into violence. Or pain. Or nipple clamps, or ping-pong balls in my mouth.” I had recently seen the old movie “Pulp Fiction” for the first time. Talk about strange, yet disturbingly funny. “No drugs. Don’t get any ideas about E, or anything crazy like that, okay? And needles?” I cringed and shuddered. “You come near me with a needle and I’ll kill you. Absolutely no needles--no way, no how…” my voice trailed off as I finally met Luke’s gleaming eyes. He was sitting perfectly still, and staring at me as if transfixed.
I then had the most alarming, lowering thought. Moaning again, I covered my mouth and felt my eyes widening in horror.
What if I had misunderstood what he meant by secret fantasy? What if he meant something normal like which wife on “The Housewives of Beverly Hills” I would most enjoy torturing slowly before delivering a death blow? Or how many castles I’d buy if I won the lottery? What if he didn’t mean anything sexual at all? What if he now thought I was a creeper, pervert girl that wanted to wear a spiked dog collar and be hung from my foyer chandelier?
In the dead silence of my living room you could hear the proverbial pin drop.
I couldn’t stand the suspense. I squared my shoulders, dropped my hands down from over my mouth, and glared at the silent man staring at me.
“Well, dammit?”
Luke carefully set his beer bottle down on the table at his side.
When he reached over and pulled me onto his lap, I was somewhat mollified that maybe I hadn’t misunderstood his question. When his hand smoothed back my hair and he slowly kissed my neck, I realized if I was a creeper pervert, well then, so was he. His kiss made me shiver and rub up against him. No wonder he likes being kissed right there so much.
‘What was I worried about, anyway, for god’s sake? I’m must be losing my touch. This was a man’s lap I was wriggling on; of course he meant sexual fantasy.’
He finally spoke near my ear. “If you had said you wanted me to tie you up, I’d have worried you were lazy and looking for an excuse to get out of any work.”
I giggled while he nuzzled me again.
‘Christ, now the man had me giggling. What next? His name tattooed on my ass inside a heart?’
“Maybe if I don’t call you some Friday night when I’m out of town, you should wonder why.”
‘Holy BeJoly! What had I gotten myself into?’
His cell announcing a text interrupted our heated kissing. With one last, quick peck and no explanation other than “duty calls”, Luke left immediately after checking the message.
Last night was Friday night, and the first time I’d seen Luke since that day almost three weeks ago. It was a hell of a homecoming.
Chapter IV
“Call Me” by Blondie
Saturday, 11/17/12
7:40 AM
My brain seemed to have only two gears this morning. It had switched back into first. From daydreaming about Luke and fantasies, it was now thinking about work again when I stepped out of the shower.
Bel’s Books inventories a select amount of new books, bestseller hardbacks and paperbacks, but mainly we are a used bookstore. We do not operate like some used bookstores that buy books from people for pennies on the dollar and then resells the book at half price.
In fact, we do not buy used books from customers at all. Instead, we give a store credit for a percentage of the book’s value based on a sliding scale, dependent upon the age and condition of the book. In this sense, we could be considered a paperback exchange. Our inventory is continuously being restocked with approved trade-ins, but no cash is being paid out. Customers can then apply their store credit towards the reduced retail price of their next book purchase. They can buy new and used books at a lower price than other used bookstores or e-book prices.
Toweling off, I was toying with an idea of creating a membership club. I would charge a flat, yearly fee to customers interested in belonging. It would be similar to the subscription lending library concept popular in England during the late 1700’s to mid 1800’s. I set the idea, and the modern problems involved, on the back burner in my brain to simmer away.
It was time for the really important decisions of my relaxing weekend off to enjoy my life to the fullest.
I have a wide array of moisturizing lotions and potions to choose from to anoint myself. Stella is always giving me something new to try. My niece is a fervent supporter of all things organic. Not a carcinogenic chemical or a poisonous perfume was allowed to slip past her eagle eye and into my bathroom, much less soak into my skin. Should the apocalyptic need occur, I could most likely eat or drink from most jars or bottles in my bathroom. Super to know, but the lotions needed only to smell delicious to make me happy.
I relish everything ultra-feminine. I’ve never worried if I am cool or a hipster, I could care less. I am what I am; a female that unashamedly, blissfully wallows in every frowned down-upon stereotype out there for being such a girly-girl in the new millennium. In my mind, there’s a balanced symmetry that is very satisfying to my soul about loving everything pink while also running a business and digging guns, trucks, and power tools. I prefer sci-fi, zombie, and action movies over drama and tear jerkers. I love wearing dresses and pretty undies more than jeans and T’s.
Although, after Luke owning my butt so easily last night, I needed to step it up. It may mean possibly breaking a perfect, French manicured nail, but I am going to search out a teacher and put the time into learning some solid fighting moves. Playing with Luke, the message really hit home that a weapon or a serious drop kick to the gonads wouldn’t always be possible to decide a bad situation in my favor.
I was pondering the merits of gardenia oil over orange blossom lotion when I heard the buzz of my cell announcing a message. I had forgotten the phone was in the bathroom on the charger.
There was a text with the one word: Awake?
Let me backtrack here a second. When I introduced myself, I mentioned which nicknames I do answer to, but neglected to say which names I don’t answer to. I will never answer to the name Ana.
I’m sorry Anna’s of the world, but that name brings back memories of a little brat I met when I was five and starting the first grade. It was the very first day of big-girl school for me.
She called me “a baby” when I got teary-eyed before class started. I had choked up because bossy Anna informed me the fistful of yellow, daisy-like flowers I had painstakingly picked for my new teacher were dumb, icky weeds.
None of the adults heard Anna the Botanist tormenting me first. No, they only saw me swatting her with the flat side of my Troll lunch box upside her fat head. I was officially marked a troublemaker and a kid to keep an eye on from day one of my school career because of Anna Lynn Johnson.
Don’t worry, I got even.
Anna Johnson and I have been fast friends ever since. We are the inseparable, dynamic duo—Anabel and Anna, still hanging and still managing somehow to get into trouble together almost twenty-five years later.
To this day, it’s still perceived by many that I lure he
r into bad behavior with my evil ways and she is the proper, good girl. The reality is somewhere closer to this: On the outside, Anna is pretty and vivacious. She’s a brown-eyed, brown-haired cutie that resembles a chipmunky cheerleader. With her trendy hairstyles and preppy, conservative clothes, she could pass for a preschool teacher or a pastor’s wife. On the inside, she is a frustrated cage dancer and wildly fun.
Anna wasn’t technically an orphan like me. Her Mom gave birth then dumped the baby Anna on her much older, spinster sister Lily. She took off for parts unknown and died a couple of years later in a DUI, head-on car crash with a telephone pole. Anna’s father was a blank space on her birth certificate.
Unfortunately, Anna has no siblings or extended family. Her elderly Aunt Lily provided the basics; shelter, clothing, and food, but she is a rigid, morally self-righteous woman. It isn’t just a shell on the outside that covers up a tender heart. Aunt Lily is through and through one uptight, battle-axe of a fundamentalist church lady.
She is a cold and unaffectionate woman, but I guess if she loves anyone it is Anna. This questionable love manifested itself by her being extremely over protective of Anna growing up, to the point of ridiculousness.
Aunt Lily believes evil lurks in the hearts of all mankind, especially women. Yep, EVIL is just waiting to prompt us female sinners to do any number of deviant deeds. I’ve not heard too many people referring to Jezebel in casual conversations, but Aunt Lily seems to know the woman personally. Anna’s aunt is a woman who believes many women are reincarnated Jezebel’s responsible for tempting and leading poor, defenseless men astray.
I discussed this with my grandmother after first hearing the name Jezebel when I was quite young. NanaBel’s private opinion to me was Aunt Lily’s harshness stemmed from a bad experience with love that soured her as a young woman. My private opinion to nobody but myself; describing Aunt Lily’s temperament as only soured at love was like saying Hitler was merely miffed at the Jews.
