The BACHELORETTE Project (The Project: LESLEE Series)

by Tami Anthony

  “Oh, God!” I groan. “Why do I even bother saying anything?”

  “And my name is not Karen tonight,” she tells me, smiling. “I am the sexy and sultry Anastasia.” Karen whips her blonde hair back in an attempt to look sexy … FAIL! “So, what’s the name of the bar we’re going to?” she asks. All I did was ask to borrow her car for the night, and she just decided she’d tag along. On the upside, it saves me the embarrassment of driving that hunk-of-junk vehicle around. What were my parents thinking? Then again, maybe this has worked out for the better. Now I have a designated driver just in case the Patron puts me on the floor, but I have this funny feeling that it’ll be the reverse way around. We will see …

  “We’re going to B.J’s in New Jersey,” I tell her.

  “Oh, B.J’s!” Karen says with uneasiness in her tone. “In New Jersey,” she smirks.

  “Yeah, Annie suggested it,” I say. “It’s supposed to be a cute, little bar with a dance floor. Very casual and cheap.”

  “Is Annie coming?” she asks.

  “Yes, she’ll meet us there after she drops off her daughter,” I tell Karen and she rolls her eyes at the thought of being anywhere near Annie.

  She sighs. “I don’t know about this Annie chick. She seems a little shady to me.”

  “She’s from Temple, remember? Annie’s a good person if you get to know her, Karen.”

  Karen shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t know, Les,” she says worriedly. “She gives me a bad vibe. Something in the Kool-Aid ain’t sweet if you know what I’m saying.”

  “Relax. It’s no big deal,” I reassure her as we pull up to the bar. “Once you get to know her, you’ll like her. You’ll be best friends by the end of the night.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t bet on that if I were you,” she says snidely as she exits the car. This is one thing that I never understood about women. Why are we so catty? Why are we so cliquey? I don’t get it. Like the famous philosopher (OK, maybe not philosopher) Rodney King said, “Can’t we all just get along?”

  I sigh as I get out of the car. This will be a VERY long night, I think to myself. As we walk into B.J’s, I spot Annie sitting at the bar with a Corona in her hand. I wave to her, smiling. “Hey Annie!” I shout as I walk toward her. “I see that you made it,” I say enthusiastically. “You remember Karen, right?” Both women muster up false smiles and shake each other’s hands. Karen then wipes her hand onto her jeans as if to imply that Annie has some sort of infectious disease that can only be passed on by unwanted handshakes.

  “Oh, yeah, I remember her,” Annie says. “Nice hair.”

  “Thanks,” Karen replies and looks the other way.

  “It’s very … how should I say this?” Annie searches for a word that’s neither complimenting nor completely insulting. “It’s interesting.” I notice Karen tightly clenching her teeth. We’re only two minutes into the night and I can tell that they’re irritated by each other.

  “Thank you. I appreciate that,” Karen replies. “It’s only once in a while that I receive compliments from hookers like you.”

  “Excuse me?” Annie says and I just shake my head. Why does it have to be this way?

  “Well, I’m gonna go and mingle,” Karen says to me, still smiling viciously. “It was nice seeing you again, Amelia.”

  “It’s Annie,” Annie responds.

  “Yeah, sure, whatever,” Karen says not even caring to correct herself. “I’ll see you in a little bit, Les.” She winks at me then leaves. At this point I realize that it’s probably best that they stay away from each other. I’m looking for a man tonight, not unnecessary drama.

  I order a Long Island iced tea at the bar and sit down. “So, any potential Mr. Rights in the midst of us?” I ask and Annie forces a fake laugh.

  “Oh, yeah, this place is just full of Brad Pitts and Denzel Washingtons,” she answers sarcastically. I swing around in my bar stool only to observe a fabulous woman’s worst nightmare. The place is full of men, all right. It is literally a sea-pool of Ed Hardy-wearing, hair dyed and spiked, slang talking, young hooligans. In other words, it is without a doubt a douchefest. The ridiculous tribal tattoos, the earrings, the almost shiny Nike Air Force Ones. It almost looks like human cloning gone wrong … and that is just the men. The women on the other hand are on the borderline of either being trailer trash hoes or Atlantic City streetwalkers. I could not feel any more out of place. It is almost as if the cast of Jersey Shore had multiplied and confined themselves in this very bar. Awful.

  “Annie, this is horrible!” I whine. “Why would you want to come to a place like this? There are no eligible bachelors here! This is a douchebag disaster!”

  “I’ve never been here before,” she replies. “I asked a friend where a good bar to go to is and she recommended this place. You know I don’t go out that much.”

  “Did your friend crawl out from under a rock or something?” I ask. “Look at these men! Are they even considered men?”

  “Some are cute,” Annie reassures me. “I’m sure you’ll find at least one.”

  “I doubt that,” I mutter under my breath. “I guess we should walk around and see who’s here.” Annie agrees and we walk around in hopes of finding a man whose wardrobe isn’t killing my eyes. I almost gag from the over usage of cheap cologne in the air. You have got to be kidding me, I think to myself. This is all that Jersey has to offer?

  I spot Karen on the dance floor sandwiched between two guys, laughing. “Maybe we should dance?” I ask Annie and she shrugs her shoulders. We proceed to the dance floor and dance with each other, nothing sexual or kinky, but enough to get the men’s attention. It works, of course. Within a matter of seconds, Annie and I are surrounded by four guys who want a piece of the action. Sadly, not one of these guys could dance for shit. Why am I not surprised?

  “Hey!” one of the men annoyingly yells in my ear. “I’m Mark!” He’s tall with dark hair wearing a black button-down shirt, dark jeans, and black shoes. Not bad, I think to myself. He’s a possibility.

  “I’m Leslee!” I shout back. “It’s nice to meet you!”

  “Can I buy you a drink?!” he asks and I nod approvingly. We maneuver our way off the dance floor and sit at the bar. He orders me another Long Island iced tea. “So, what brings you out tonight?”

  “A girls’ night with my closest friends.” I say as I point to Annie and Karen on the dance floor. I notice them giving each other the evil eye. Why do women do this? “And you?”

  “Me and a few of my boys came out just to have a good time,” he replies.

  “Oh, OK,” I say then take a sip of my drink.

  “You live around here?” he asks me.

  “Kinda. In Philadelphia, right across the Walt Whitman Bridge.”

  “Yeah, I live right up the street in Moorestown,” he responds taking a chug of his beer.

  “So you live by yourself?” I question. I wonder if this is more of an interview rather than casual talk to him. It’s sometimes difficult to figure out what men are thinking, at least that’s what I’ve noticed.

  “I live by myself,” he replies. “I have a house, a dog, that’s it really.”

  “Oh, nice.” I smile, and then he smiles back. He has, by far, the most gorgeous smile that I’ve ever seen on a man, and I could probably stare in his honey-brown eyes all night.

  Mark reaches out and strokes my arm. I get shivers. “What else you wanna know?” he asks and I blush.

  “Hmm …” I think for a second. Usually, I have the list of questions to ask a potential suitor, but my mind somehow goes blank. I can’t help but to think that it’s been months since I’ve had sex and how much I’d enjoy this man’s body on top of me. The questions that I want to ask are completely X-rated and I don’t want to come off as some whore, but then again …

  “What do you do for a living?” I ask him.

  “I’m an accountant.”

  “What do you recreationally?”

  “I go to the gym, hiking, go to concer
ts, hang out with friends. I’m just your typical guy who likes to have fun,” he says, smiling. He’s cute. He’s soooooooo cute, and I get a good vibe from him. He’s independent obviously, he has a job, and he doesn’t dress like he just walked out of an Ed Hardy ad. These are all pros in my book, but there’s just one question that I have to ask that may or may not be a complete dealbreaker.

  “Do you have kids?” I ask innocently. Please say no, please say no, please say no…

  “Yes,” he says and my mental visual of having hot, passionate, mind-blowing sex with this man vanishes into thin air. Why oh why can’t I find the perfect man with no strings attached?

  I figure it would be rude and extra-stupid of me to leave the conversation. This man is buying me drinks! You take water from the well while you can, right? I forcefully muster up a smile.

  “Oh, kids,” I say as I polish off my drink. “What a blessing.” OK, I’m cruel. I’m not attracted to men with kids, that’s all. Usually where there’s kids, there’s some drama with the ex lurking beneath the surface. You never know both sides of the story. Men will only tell you the parts of the story that make them look like they’re innocent and vice versa. “So, how many kids do you have?” I ask. I’m not interested, I’m not interested, I’M NOT INTERESTED!

  “I have ten kids, six different mothers,” he says and my eyes widen in disgust. He has a village of children. How incredibly gross! “Leslee, I’m kidding. I don’t have any kids,” he says. “I don’t think that I can change a diaper to save my life.”

  I sigh. Relief. Thank God! “Funny, me neither,” I laugh. “Well, we have that in common, the whole ‘not changing diapers’ thing. You could say that I’m domestically impaired.”

  “Who needs to know about that stuff anyway?” he says and we laugh at the fact that we probably should know how to do these things. It’s not like it’s brain science or anything, but how difficult can it be to change a diaper? Really?

  Our conversation continues to flow. He tells me about his college days, I tell him about how nutso my parents are. The chemistry between Mark and me is great. I can’t ask for anything more.

  “So, Leslee,” he starts, “I don’t know what you’re doing after this, but I’d like it if you came to my place tonight. We can have a cup of coffee and talk some more, that is if you’re up for it.”

  “You know, I think I’d like that,” I respond, grinning from ear to ear. “Can you excuse me for a second? I just have to use the ladies’ room.”

  “Sure, take your time.”

  “I’ll be right back.” I tell him as I rise from the barstool then scour the dance floor for Karen and Annie. I grab both of their arms and drag them to the restroom.

  “So, he asked me to have coffee at his place,” I blurt out.

  “Who did?” Karen asks. “Where the hell have you been all night anyway?”

  “Talking to Mark,” I gloat. “He’s an accountant, he’s single, he has no kids, no drama, do I need to go on?”

  “Yeah, I saw him, Les,” Annie tells me. “He’s cute.”

  “Isn’t he?” I say with gleaming eyes. “So, should I go or tell him no?”

  “No, don’t go,” Karen says. “That just means you’re a booty call, and not even a glorified booty call at that. What happened to finding Mr. Right and taking it slow?”

  “Karen,” I start, “I am a woman who has not had sex in months! I just want a man to touch me, not my feet though. I need someone at this moment to arouse the emotions that have been hiding for a long, long time. I am so incredibly horny right now it’s almost disgusting!” They both see the rage in my eyes. It’s a combination of sexual frustration and stress. I am a woman with feelings and sexual emotions. I. Need. To. Get. LAID!

  “I think you should go,” Annie says. “There’s nothing wrong with settling for Mr. Right Now.”

  “Yeah, but Mr. Right Now can turn out to be Mr. Gonorrhea, Mr. Chlamydia, Mr. Herpes, Mr. Syphilis …” Karen says and my vagina cringes at the thought of it.

  “Well, thank you, Karen, for that disturbing public service announcement,” I say rolling my eyes.

  “I’m just giving you the reality of it all,” she says and shoots Annie a dirty look. “That’s what real friends do. Besides, you don’t even know him. He could be crazy, a sociopath, anything! The last thing that I would want is for something bad to happen to you.”

  I laugh at Karen’s comments which imply that I can’t protect myself. I’m a grown woman with Mace. Besides, I survived living in New York in five-inch Jimmy Choo stilettos. If I can survive Manhattan, the over crowded concrete jungle, I can survive anything.

  “Sweetie, you do remember who you’re talking to, right?” I ask Karen.

  “Yes,” she answers. “I’m talking to an overly desperate woman who should just go home to a vibrator instead of going to some stranger’s house.”

  “Karen,” I start, “I have Mace on my keychain and about a year of intense Tae Bo under my belt.” She rolls her eyes at me, unamused. “A chop to the neck and a kick in the crotch will have him fall to his knees if it ever came to that.”

  “I think you should go,” Annie chimes in. “There’s nothing wrong with casual sex or maybe you two can just fool around a bit and have some fun. There’s no harm in that.” At this moment my mind is made up. Annie is right. I can just have a little fun with him. Who knows? Maybe Mr. Right Now will eventually turn into Mr. Right.

  “I’m gonna do it!” I say. “I’m going back to his place, have coffee, then let human nature take its course. I do have one little issue, though.”

  “And what’s that?” Annie asks.

  “Is it possible if you can take Karen home for me?” I ask Annie. “Please, please, please?” I plead. The look of disgust on her face says it all. “I’ll give you toll money, gas money, please! That way I can borrow Karen’s car to follow him.” I know that this tiny little favor I’m asking is only a recipe for disaster, but if they can act civil with each other for just twenty minutes on the car ride to Karen’s … OK, maybe I’m asking for too much. It’s a shot in the dark.

  Karen smirks at the idea. “It’s funny how no one asked me my opinion in this little favor of yours, Leslee,” Karen says sarcastically and Annie and I ignore her.

  “Fine, I’ll do it,” Annie agrees. “But only for you.” I pull them both in for a big group hug.

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” I exclaim. “I owe you both!”

  Karen and Annie grunt in unison. “Oh, you don’t owe me anything,” Karen says, smiling. “I picked up five guys tonight and gave them all your phone number.” My smile turns into irritation. “Yeah, so if you get a few calls for Anastasia, don’t be alarmed.”

  “I’ll be looking forward to it,” I tell her. It’s official. My friends are evil.

  “On a lighter note, I did learn something tonight,” Karen says.

  “And what’s that?” Annie asks.

  “That I do not miss being single,” Karen starts, “and that this bar is the official landmark where hair gel, doo-rags, and douchebags come to die.”

  “And that is probably the only thing we will ever agree on,” Annie says. “Cheap drinks or not, this bar sucks.”

  Thank God for me meeting Mark, I think to myself. At least I found something good out of this place.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  I follow Mark to his house from the bar. We pull up to this very quaint brick rancher with a gigantic front yard and half groomed bushes and trees spread about. There is nothing spectacular about Mark’s house. It’s … well, very plain actually. It’s not a dream house nor a McMansion. It’s as ordinary as ordinary can be. Yup, I think to myself, this will definitely be a booty call. I can’t even imagine living in a house like this. It doesn’t scream RICH and FABULOUS the way I would want a house to scream. I imagine that my future husband will have a fantastic two-story house with a classy cobblestone driveway and this breathtaking garden with white roses and lilacs growing in effigy. Y
eah, maybe I need to leave this dream world of mine and face reality. I could very well fall in love with a man who lives in a rancher or worse, a motorhome.

  I park Karen’s car in front of his house. He walks over and opens the car door for me. “So, this is it,” Mark says as I exit the car. “This is my home.”

  “It’s very nice,” I reply politely. So what if I lie? Don’t act like you’ve never done it.

  “Yeah, I’m not home a lot because of work and all,” he tells me. You can say that again, I think to myself. Who in the world doesn’t make sure that their hedges are cut? Who doesn’t mow their own lawn? There’s a solution to this scenario and it’s called hiring a landscaper.

  “That … sucks,” I blurt out. I couldn’t think of a good word to use. It seems that most of our conversation topics were used up at the bar. Maybe it’s a good thing, though. Less talk, MORE ACTION!

  I hold on to his arm as we walk to his front door. I place my head onto his shoulder devouring the exotic scent of his cologne. I’m in heaven. I decide to go in for the kill. Before I know, I’m stopping him in his tracks and planting the most passionate kiss on his lips, taking his breath away. He looks stunned, in a good way of course.

  “What was that for?” he asks.

  “For being the sexiest man that I’ve ever met,” I say slyly. “I can’t wait to see the inside of your house, mainly your bedroom.” I slowly move my hand under his shirt touching his finely-chiseled abs. Mark becomes speechless.

  “I, um, yeah,” he stutters in shock. “Yeah, you can see the bedroom,” he says eagerly and rushes me to the front door. “Let’s, um, do that!” He opens the door and pulls me inside. I push him against the closest wall and begin to kiss on his neck. “You still,” GROAN! “Want that … oh, God! Coffee?”

  “Not … right … now,” I say between breaths as I pull anxiously on the top of his jeans. I then feel something rubbing against the bottom of my leg and I jump.

  “What is it?” Mark asks with his eyes closed.