While John’s limp body covered me, I listened to his breath coast into a relaxed, slow pace. I stared at his thick head of black hair in the darkness. As I raised my fingers to touch his shoulder, he made a sound.
He began to snore.
I squeezed slowly out from underneath him. He yawned and rolled over. His mouth was wide open, his closed eyes, his naked body spread-eagle on my bed. Did I want to feel his lips kissing me softly one more time? No, gracias. I’d just lost my appetite for Latin men.
MICHAEL
“TROUBLED MIND”
Everything but the Girl
REWIND: I pressed the phone to my chest and stared up at the pine ceiling. My heart throbbed against the receiver, soaking up his invitation. He just asked me to have dinner with his parents. I held the phone to my ear again and listened to his breathing.
“Hello? You still there?” Michael’s sugary-sweet voice filled the phone line. He always spoke with the exuberant tone of a cruise ship social director.
I lay on my bed, twirling the phone cord. “Yes, sorry. Ummm, well, okay. Sure.” My voice sputtered. Responses to Michael’s invitations were always laced with both trepidation and elation. He asked for my permission for just about everything: Can I take you to dinner? Can I hold your hand? Can I use your bathroom? Would it be okay if I kissed you? A respectful, polite guy who didn’t have a dark side? Too good to be true. He’d been driving the bus of our relationship down a very civilized road for two months. No crash. No burn. It felt like real, adult love. I was torn.
“Are you sure-sure?” Michael asked. I squeezed the receiver in silence, listening to the phone hum. I didn’t want to sound too eager.
“Sure-sure,” I whispered. After a full year of false starts with men, I’d finally built a little wall of my own. Practicing emotional restraint would help me weed out the Steve Stiflers before we’d slept together, and I needed a defense. Horny toads flocked to me like bees to honey. I’d gone from a cokehead bisexual to a body-shaving teacher to little monkey man to Michael—a nice, stable guy in a city filled with my freaky exes. John had been out of the picture for almost three months and had already knocked up his new girlfriend—talk about dodging a bullet! Before meeting Michael, the closest I’d come to finding a new boyfriend was online chats with Basel, a poet from the Middle East, who lived in Jacksonville. I’d dated Michael for more than a month before sleeping with him, and now he wanted me to spend an evening with his mom, dad and younger brother at their home. It was the logical relationship progression that had eluded me since leaving the Midwest.
That week, the hours crept by. When Sunday finally came, I didn’t need driving directions. Michael’s home was located one block off Old Cutler Road, a few miles north of where I’d lived with Chris. I cruised along the picturesque road that snaked from Coconut Grove down to Cutler Ridge, watching the Banyan tree canopies and walled fortresses whiz past my windshield—my daily commute only twelve months before. Maybe it was a sign. Five days had passed since I’d seen Michael—120 hours to think about our mature relationship and my crumbling wall. I thought of the first time he’d made love to me, just two weeks before, and how special the night was. We’d sat together at the foot of my bed, listening to my Everything but the Girl CD—mellow, estrogen-heavy stuff. He’d held my hands, looked me in the eye and told me how much he cared for me—how he’d never felt so good about a relationship. He’d asked me if I was ready to take the next step. We’d been dating without having sex for six weeks—a Florida record for me. I’d cradled his rosy cheeks in my palms and kissed his lips softly. There was no alcohol to cloud our judgment or spread my legs. We talked about protection before our clothes were off. My boundaries were working.
“I didn’t bring a condom,” he’d said. “I don’t like to assume anything.” It seemed so sweet that he didn’t carry around a rubber in his wallet, expecting to get lucky. We’d driven to the Tom Thumb and bought two packs of gum and a box of Trojans. I’d traded romance for respect and couldn’t have been happier. It was a different kind of love than I’d ever known.
When my car turned onto his street, my eyes bulged. The family estate looked more like a compound. It took up at least one acre—something I’d never seen before within the Miami city limits. A brown, corral-style fence lined the property along the road and down a driveway as long as a Wal-Mart parking lot. Rows of oak trees flanked the paved drive, and manicured lawns fanned out and disappeared behind a sweeping, ranch-style brick house. It looked like a Kansas City mansion, not the ubiquitous Mediterranean villas dotting Coral Gables and Miami Beach. Even though I’d grown up in a house slightly bigger than their garage, my jitters melted away. I actually felt at home.
I parked my Grand Am in the circular drive behind Michael’s turquoise Honda Prelude. I let the air conditioning blast my face and chest while readjusting my khaki dress shorts. My pulsed accelerated. I checked my hair and make-up in the rear-view mirror. I needed to bring my A-game, like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman after charm school. Michael was my best catch to date, and those were serious words coming from a girl who grew up bass fishing.
Michael stepped through the double oak doors onto the front steps, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. He stood 6-foot-2 and was the biggest guy I’d ever dated, and I’m talking hunky-football big, not Dunkin’-Donuts-for-breakfast big. The first time I’d waited on Michael at Cheesecake, the hostess had sat his party of three in a booth roomy enough for six people, which would typically piss off any server. But as soon as he’d ordered an Arnold Palmer and his sky-blue eyes met mine, I wanted to know more about him. Michael was Kirk Herbstreit handsome with the body of a linebacker. He had the kind of Cheesecake Factory-savvy to order Crusted Chicken Romano with extra sauce on the side without my upsell. Every time I’d refilled his drink, he’d smiled and said, “Thank you, Harley.” I’d blushed and scurried away to the service bar. Michael had left a twenty-five-percent tip on a $75 tab—any waitress would tell you that was the first sign the man was a keeper, and he’d circled around the bus station after he’d paid, waiting to ask me out.
Smiles spread across our faces, as I walked toward Michael. His rosy cheeks glowed in the late afternoon sun. My heartbeat began sprinting. His blonde hair looked more sun-bleached than usual, making his blue eyes pop. He wore his usual khaki Dockers shorts, a blue-striped Polo and a pair of those leather loafers people wear on yachts. I tugged my Limited top from my chest to fan myself. It was a cool, dry day in October, but it suddenly felt as hot and humid as July. My body experienced global warming whenever Michael was around. His touch made me feel protected.
“Boy, did I miss you.” Michael scooped me up and spun me around in his big arms. I squealed like child on a merry-go-round, feeling the rush of emotions spiral through my body: the sweet innocence of our romance, the comfort of his touch, the joy of being reunited. His lips darted to mine for a quick kiss, then rushed away. My lips parted, yearning for more, as my feet dangled off the ground. I felt like a girl sneaking kisses in a schoolyard. Michael always showed a mix of boyish sweetness and manly passion when we were alone together.
“Really?” My hair whipped around my arms, as I nuzzled his neck. “Ah, I missed you too.” I inhaled deeply, savoring the familiar scent of his skin—crisp, clean, citrusy. Five days was the longest we’d been apart, and our alone time was usually relegated to afternoons or evenings at my apartment. It was the honeymoon phase of dating for two full-time students in South Florida, where college campuses almost outnumber shopping malls. I’d begun my first semester at Florida International University’s south campus in west Kendall; Michael was back to school for a nursing degree at Florida Atlantic University in Boca Raton, which made my apartment an ideal pit-stop before or after classes.
Michael rested me gently on the concrete step, my body gliding down his. He pulled my torso closer to his wide chest, engulfing me with one of his soft, bear hugs. I stood on the tippy toes of my chunky leather sandals, drinking in the momen
t. Beads of sweat began to trickle down my back, as he squeezed me tighter.
“Watch it.” I pulled my head back to look up into his blue eyes. My arms stayed wrapped around his waist. “Your parents are inside.”
“We have nothing to worry about.” He pecked my lips between grins. “My mom and dad aren’t stupid.” His big arms squeezed me again. It was so cool to date a guy whose parents accepted the reality that their son had sex. If my mom would have talked to me about sex and men’s motivations, maybe it could have saved me some unsatisfying bedpost notches.
“I’ll still keep my distance once we’re inside.” I tucked my face into his chest. “I want them to like me.” The scent of his crisp cologne filled my nose again. I closed my eyes, relishing his smell.
He breathed into my hair. “They already like you. I like you.” I pushed my face deeper into his golf shirt, squeezing him. This is what love should be like. My mind reeled from cloud nine. I wanted to spend every waking minute in Michael’s big arms. His hugs made me feel small, protected and cherished.
“So this is the house,” Michael said cheerfully, his big hand cupped over mine as he led me into a fancy, grand entryway under a crystal chandelier. The entryway spilled into a formal living room and dining room covered in gilded gold and ivory statues. It looked like Liberace had thrown up all over the place—ornate, gold-framed mirrors, gaudy candelabras, marble statues and plush, wine-colored furniture with golden claw legs. It screamed old money. Muffled barks trailed from a hallway. His Golden Retriever, Largo, trotted in and sniffed my feet. I kneeled down and raised the back of my hand to his wet nose. Michael smiled approvingly as the dog licked my hand, then moved to my face while I giggled and patted his back. I’d grown up with six hunting dogs and loved the idea of dating a fellow dog lover.
“These guys must be so happy to have you back,” I said in my doggy voice while scratching Largo’s head.
Michael towered over us. “It was my last trip for a long time.” For the past three years, Michael had been living in Tampa, working as an athletic trainer for University of South Florida’s football team. He’d decided a nursing degree would make him more attractive to Division I collegiate football programs, so he’d moved back home in August to study at FAU. Yes, I’d stumbled on a “relo”—a recently relocated, single man—who had no knowledge of my dark dating history, and I wasn’t about to screw up my chances with him. He was twenty-six years old and the most mature, career-minded guy I’d ever dated.
Michael guided me down the long hallway past three bedrooms and a long bathroom. Class pictures of Michael and his brother, from kindergarten to high school graduation, lined each side of the wallpapered hallway. He paused in his bedroom doorway, letting me walk in first. His politeness mirrored John’s, and I tried not to let it haunt me. The boy even cuddled like a Cuban, yet Michael was as vanilla white as me. I didn’t have to worry about cultural differences causing tension in our relationship, or him calling me “Mami” in bed. He didn’t speak Spanish or eat empanadas. And he wore condoms.
“See, I told you it wasn’t much,” Michael said, as we stepped into the childhood bedroom he’d recently reclaimed. A queen sleigh bed sat in the middle of the spacious room, surrounded by a matching dresser, roll-top desk and bookshelf. Sports memorabilia and old pictures papered the walls.
I poked around his space. “Are you kidding me? This place is huge. And it’s free.” His bedroom was the same size as the efficiency apartment I’d moved into near Cuban Memorial Boulevard to save money. My eyes scanned Michael’s framed high school football and golf team pictures on the walls. All I could afford to hang at my place were colored baskets and a framed poster from the Coconut Grove Arts Festival, but I’d proudly showed Michael my simple home. Living in a shoebox apartment helped me pay all my bills and still have ample time for class and study sessions.
“Yeah, it’s just that.” Michael paused, his blue eyes cutting through me. He looked away to the football trophies on his dresser. “Being here makes me feel like a kid again, but not in a good way.” I watched him walk over to a Miami Hurricanes mascot stuffed animal in the corner and kick it.
I stepped to his bookshelf. “You’re really lucky though.” I picked up a quarterback figurine and examined its hand-painted detail.
He stuffed his hands in his short pockets. “I guess you’re right.” His voice bounced each word. That man was always as happy as a cheerleader. I sat down on the edge of his bed and ran my hands across the red bedspread. It felt plush, expensive. The sound of a television blaring drifted from the other end of the house. I looked up at Michael watching me survey his surroundings. My mind dashed back to the first night we’d had sex. We were sitting Indian-style on my bed, professing our strong feelings for each other and approaching sex like adults. He’d cradled me in his arms and kissed me while we’d made love. He didn’t sprint to the finish line and grunt like a baboon. He’d even looked into my eyes! I remember sex with Michael as calm and conservative, as I figured it should between two people who truly cared for each other, and were always stone-cold sober. We were buttoned-up students who didn’t have time for drinking binges. I now call him my detox boyfriend. It’s good for your grades to date one of these boys during college.
I leaned back on his bed and stretched my tan legs, crossing them at the ankle.
“I know what you’re thinking.” His eyes smoldered, craving my touch. “I’m thinking it too.”
I crooked my head. “I’m just daydreaming.” I fell onto my elbows. “You know. Keeping my distance.” The thrill of forbidden touching washed over me. My eyes darted toward the door. I hadn’t snuck around while my boyfriend’s parents were in the other room for years.
Michael stepped toward the bed and leaned over me. My heart shot into my throat like a pinball. I closed my eyes and waited for his lips. His fingers glided down my back. My lungs sucked in air. I threw open my eyes and pulled away.
“We shouldn’t,” I whispered, breathless. Michael exhaled softly in my ear. Dating Michael made me feel like a respectable college woman, and I needed that.
His lips brushed my earlobe. “You’re probably right.” I felt like a campfire was raging in my hips and folded my hands in my lap to smother the flames. “I like it that you keep me in line.” Michael stepped back and stood over me, smiling.
Michael pulled me down the hall toward the living room, his gigantic hands laced in mine. A Florida room with vaulted ceilings opened to a kitchen-dining room larger than The Cheesecake Factory veranda. A wall of sliding glass doors led to a sparkling pool shaped like a kidney bean. Michael’s father stood up from a recliner in the sunken living room. I arched my back and smiled, then walked toward him with the confidence of an Ivy League graduate at a job interview. He scooted toward me and smiled, as his hand extended to grip mine. He stood as big and broad as Michael with a full head of thick, gray hair and the same piercing, blue eyes.
“Michael tells me you’re quite the fisherman,” his father said with a laugh, deep lines forming in his cheeks.
I shook his hand firmly, my eyes never leaving his. I knew I’d already scored Brownie points with Michael’s dad. For our first date, Michael had taken me fishing off the coast of Key Largo in his family’s twenty-eight-foot Boston Whaler. But first, we’d gone swimming at a sandbar hidden beyond a maze of red mangroves. I’d baited my own hook, which I’d thought would impress him. We’d caught four Yellow-Tailed Snappers and had cooked them for dinner at his family’s waterfront condo overlooking Sunset Cove. We’d eaten on their open-air patio under a palm tree. At sunset, he’d asked me if he could kiss me. It still ranks at the top of my list for best date of all time. And I did not put out.
I smiled bashfully. “My dad was a good teacher.” I decided not to mention the American Legion fishing derby I’d won in third grade. Fishing with Michael had reconnected me to happy memories of my father, which were few and far between. I’d learned early on that the only way to get some face time with my dad
was to take up his hobbies, so I'd coon hunted and bass fished until my grandma'd bought me Barbie dolls.
After a fair amount of fish talk, I turned to the leather sectional to greet Michael’s brother, Jeff, who was sprawled out with one arm pointing a remote control toward the big screen. He was a disheveled, brown-haired version of Michael.
“Did you bring me any Chicken Madeira?” Jeff asked with a sneer.
I shot him a sassy look. “Did you bring me season tickets?” Jeff played football for the University of Miami. I’d waited on him three times with Michael, and his restaurant humor made me feel even more at home.
Over the hum of a mixer, Michael’s mother shouted her hellos from the kitchen. Michael ushered me under a doublewide doorway connecting the living room to the kitchen. His mom stood over a white-tiled island circling a hand mixer in a big metal bowl. She was tall and lean with Michael’s same button nose, rosy cheeks and big smile. I walked around the island and reached out my hand, as she wiped hers in a hand towel. Shaking hands was nostalgic after a year of double-cheek kissing strangers—the Latin way to greet someone.
“Nice to see you again,” we said in unison. I blushed as we shook hands. She looked like a mid-fifties soccer mom with her diamond stud earrings, a pink golf shirt and a flowery apron.
“Jinx.” She laughed.
I suddenly felt like we were long lost girlfriends from middle school. Her lunch order flashed through my mind: Chinese Chicken Salad, iced tea with no ice, half a slice of White Chocolate Raspberry Truffle Cheesecake—the other half put into a to-go box for Michael’s dad.
“Would you like any help?” I asked, my inner waitress working overtime.
THE EXES IN MY IPOD: A Playlist of the Men Who Rocked Me to Wine Country Page 18
