I watch him lick the custard and chocolate mousse from his spoon, his tongue and mouth closing over the creamy sweetness, and it’s so damn sexy it’s all I can do to keep myself from lunging across the table and ravaging him.
When we’re done with dinner, I ask, “Would you like to go in the living room and watch a video?”
“Sure.”
This, naturally, had been my plot all along—to get him alone in a darkened room. Insert a sound track of a sinister laugh here.
We go into the living room, and I let him select from my anemic DVD collection. I put the DVD in, and from the corner of my eye I see him swinging from his chair to my couch. I turn the movie on, dim the lights, and sit next to him.
The film starts, but I don’t think either of us pay much attention to it. We keep stealing glances at each other. I love how he looks in the dimmed light, the whites of his eyes seeming to sparkle in the darkness. This goes on for several minutes until I finally say, “Can I kiss you?”
He pauses a moment and then nods.
I lean in, and we exchange a few polite, soft kisses. Then we pull away and pretend to watch the movie for a few minutes until we simultaneously practically leap on each other, our tongues exploring the other’s mouth and lips hungrily. I sit on his lap to make it easier for us to kiss, and he wraps his arms around me.
Our kisses are passionate and intense, and we keep up the make-out session for hours. But that’s it, that’s all we do. He doesn’t even feel me up. It’s like being in secondary school again, but at least in secondary school, the guy tried to feel me up (and then had his hand firmly swatted away, but it’s the thought that counts). I can feel his erection boring into my thigh. He allows me to grope at his chest to my heart’s desire, but when I try to stroke his erection that is threatening to rip a hole through his jeans, he firmly takes me by the wrist and pulls my hand away.
I now know how all the rejected secondary school boys felt.
Phenomenally frustrated.
CHAPTER NINE
Several more times over the course of the next few weeks, Ryan and I do a repeat of our smooch fest. Because we’re not having sex, I live my life in a constant state of sexual arousal. Although actually, I think even if we were having sex, I would be living my life in a constant state of sexual arousal. But at least I’d have some occasional release for my pent-up ardor.
I think about having sex with him more or less constantly. It really makes getting any work done at the office nearly impossible. As soon as I get focused on crunching numbers and filling out forms, my mind starts to wander. Then several minutes later I’ll finally catch myself daydreaming, clear my head, try to work, and am productive for mere moments before my thoughts start drifting off again.
I want to be with him every possible moment. In the mornings when I wake up alone, I feel an actual physical ache that he’s not there beside me. I want to be with him when I go to bed at night and when I wake up in the morning. I want to eat dinner with him every evening and snuggle next to him on the couch when I watch TV. I want to travel and see the world with him.
I’m afraid I may be falling in love with him.
And I have no idea how he feels about me.
He comes over to dinner fairly regularly. I still cook nice meals, but not the gourmet (and pricey) feast I prepared the first time he came over. It’s become our pattern that when I cook, he brings over the wine. When I go to his place, we order out. I bring the beer.
One evening at my place over a meal of baked goat cheese salads and Provencal grilled chicken with vegetables and penne pasta, he says, “I’ve been thinking I’d go back to work.”
“Yeah? Even though you can afford not to?”
“I’m bored. I’ve been doing a lot a charity work, and I feel like I’ve read every book at the library, but . . . it’s not enough. I need to be challenged.”
“I think that’s great. Have you started looking yet?”
“I’ve been looking in the papers for openings, and I’ve sent out some e-mails to former colleagues asking them to let me know about any opportunities they hear about. But I’m not really sure whether I want to go back to what I was doing.”
“Why not?”
“Oh . . . I don’t know. I guess . . . I’m not sure if people would take me seriously with me in my chair. What I did for a living—I mean, I had to take on a real leadership role. I’d go into companies and make recommendations for how they could improve their business practices. I’m not sure if people could really . . . I don’t know . . .”
“I can’t even believe I’m hearing you say this. Look, I know it can be scary to get back to something when you haven’t done it in a while. I’m going to give you some advice, okay? I’m sorry to use a cliché, but you really do need to just get back on the horse. I’m speaking from experience here. When I was in high school, I was on the swim team. I don’t mean to brag, but I really was the best on the team. But then I got injured, and I was out of commission for several weeks. When I came back, I had really lost my edge. Girls who weren’t that strong of swimmers were just leaving me in their wake, literally. It was so hard for my ego to take that ultimately I just told the coach I would never be back in shape in time, and I just quit. I gave up, just like that. I’m still mad at myself for doing that. I know I would have been a strong swimmer again if I’d just given it some time, but my ego clouded my judgment. Anything can be scary when you’ve stopped doing it for a long time. It’s scary at first, but it does get easier.”
“I know. You’re right.”
I take a bite out of my pasta and try to decide whether I have the courage to ask him about sex and about us. I don’t have the courage, it turns out, but I do it anyway. “Ryan, since we’re talking about, you know, getting back on the horse again and everything, going back to things you haven’t done in a while . . . do you . . . think maybe we will ever have sex?”
He expels a loud breath of air and looks anywhere in the room except at me.
“Oh, Aimee, I don’t know.”
“Can we . . . talk about this? About what you’re nervous about?”
“What makes you think I’m nervous?”
“I don’t . . . maybe ‘nervous’ isn’t the right word. But you seem uncomfortable about something.”
“I’m not. I swear.”
“Oh. Well, you know, if you ever want to talk about it . . .”
“Sure. Yeah. No problem.”
I nod at him. But then I realize his nonanswer just made me have more questions. I’m no closer to having any answers—or getting any sex—so I say, “Ryan, are you not attracted to me in that way?”
“Aimee, don’t be ridiculous. You’re gorgeous. I just . . . look, I don’t want to talk about this.”
“Okay. That’s fine.”
But it’s not fine. My question wasn’t really about sex. That’s not what I really wanted to know. What I really want to know is, how does he feel about me? Because I am in love with him. I love him so much it hurts. And if I’m just the transitional girl between his accident and the girl who turns out to be the love of his life, I don’t think I could bear it.
CHAPTER TEN
I bemoan the cruel circumstances of my unfortunate celibacy to Olivia the moment she gets into work the next morning. I don’t even look up from where I have my head lying on my desk, buried in my arms.
“We still haven’t had sex. We’ve been going out for two months and no sex. Nothing.”
“Have you talked to him about it?” she says.
“Noooo,” I moan. “I tried to, but he says he doesn’t want to talk about it.” I sit there in a giant stew of self-pity for a moment. Then I lift my head up and look at Olivia. She’s smiling so hard it looks like the muscles in her cheeks are going to snap from all the pressure. “What’s up with you? Did you win the lottery or something?”
“In a way, yes.”
“What’s going on?”
“I went on a date last night!”
; “A date?” She’s got my full attention now. “You didn’t tell me you had a date. Why didn’t you tell me you had a date? Who’d you have a date with? How’d you meet him?”
“I didn’t want to jinx it, that’s why I didn’t tell you. You know Suzy from accounting?”
“Yeah, I know Suzy.”
“Well, I was telling her a week or so back how I hadn’t been on a single date in nearly a year, and she said her husband had this friend, this great catch in his mid-thirties. She said he was funny and smart and had a good job, but he’s kind of shy so he has trouble meeting women, but she said she’d tell him about me and see if he wanted to meet me. So she talked to her husband, and her husband talked to Russ, and Russ and I e-mailed each other back and forth for the last week, and then last night we met and, Aimee”—Olivia clasps her hand to her heart—“it was the best date of my life. We talked, we laughed . . . things were just so comfortable between us. And he already asked me out for another date! We’re going out tomorrow night. I can’t wait!”
I smile. Her excitement is such a wonderful thing to see.
“Good. Good for you, Olivia. I really hope this works out for you. He sounds great. Tell me about him.”
Olivia fills me in on his vitals—what he does for a living, what he looks like, what his interests are. I smile and tell her repeatedly that he sounds great, which he does. And I’m happy for her, I really am, but my feelings of sorrow and confusion over Ryan are making it hard for me to pay attention.
And then the phone rings.
It’s Ryan. And my world lights up again. “Hey, Ryan. What’s up?”
“Aimee, I—”
“You what? Do you want to come over for dinner tonight? I wanted to try out this new recipe.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Oh. Well, do you want to go out to eat? Or I can come over to your place.”
“Aimee, I think we shouldn’t see each other anymore.”
“What? What are you talking about? Why?”
“I just think things are getting too serious between us.”
“How can you possibly say that? We haven’t even slept together.”
“I know, I just think maybe this isn’t a good time for me to be in a relationship.”
I can’t believe he’s using the this-isn’t-a-good-time-forme tap dance routine on me.
“Ryan, I am so sick of you being so afraid. I can’t believe you don’t even have the courage to break up with me in person. You call me on the phone? When I’m at work? That is the lamest thing I’ve ever heard. You are such a chickenshit. I don’t even know how I could ever have let myself fall in love with someone so spineless!”
“You love me?”
“Of course I love you, you jackass.”
“Aimee, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t mean to string you along. I’m just not ready for this . . .”
“Well, don’t call me when you are ready, because I’m not waiting around.”
This time, it’s my turn to slam the phone down on him.
I look at Olivia, and the look of pity on her face makes me burst into tears.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I spend most of my day in the office bathroom crying.
I sit on the toilet in the closed stall with a wad of toilet paper that has been reduced to a soppy pulp from my snot and tears, and I think. I think maybe I should call Sean and see if we can get back together. At least with Sean I was safe, because even though I cared about him, my love for him was never as intense as the way I feel about Ryan. When you love someone this hard, there is so much more to lose, so much more hurt to feel when it doesn’t work out.
At the end of the day, I stop on my way home from work and get an oversized jug of wine that I intend to sip every last drop of this very evening.
When I pull into my driveway, Ryan is sitting on my front porch. The front porch we’d fashioned a makeshift ramp on so he could get into and out of my house. “Makeshift.” The word means something crude and temporary. Like our relationship.
“What are you doing here?” I say.
“I’m here to say I’m sorry.”
I sigh. “Come in. Let’s get out of the cold.”
We go inside into the living room. He swings from his chair to the couch, and this strikes me because it suggests that he’s settling in for a real conversation and not a quick blow-off where he can roar away in seconds. For a change.
“So. You’re sorry,” I say. “Sorry that you don’t feel as strongly about me as I do about you? Sorry about breaking my heart? What is it that you’re sorry about exactly?”
“Well, for a start, I’m sorry about the lame breakup over the phone.”
“Yeah, that was a pretty feeble move.”
“I just . . . I’m not sure I’m ready to get serious with someone right now.”
“Serious? We weren’t getting serious. It wasn’t like I was demanding an engagement ring or something.”
“I know, but the thing is, Aimee, with you . . . I could see an engagement ring in our future. I’ve never felt this way about anyone. It’s a lot to get a handle on.”
“I’ve got some good news for you. That’s exactly how I feel about you.”
“But what if you get bored? What if you decide you want a guy you can go skiing and running along the beach with?”
“Ryan, you are everything I want in a guy. I feel like one of the luckiest women in the world because I was able to find such a great man. Look, the guy of my dreams came to me in a package I wasn’t quite expecting, but I think sometimes the best gifts come in unexpected packages. Nobody is perfect, but even us imperfect people have good sex and fall in love and lead happy lives, if we let ourselves. I think you need to get over your fears and take a risk with me.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“Yeah, Ryan, you are. If you weren’t afraid, we wouldn’t have been dating for two months with only a few chaste kisses between us.”
“I’m not afraid,” he says again, and I know he’s trying to convince himself.
“Well, good, then can we finally have sex?”
He just looks at me, and I can see that he wants to, but he’s nervous. He is, despite his protests, scared. I’m not quite sure what he’s afraid of. That he’ll disappoint himself? That I’ll be disappointed? That I won’t like his body? That he won’t? Fortunately, I have more faith in what we have together and enough courage for us both. I sit in his lap on the couch, put my arms around his shoulders, and kiss him gently. Our kisses are tentative at first, but soon they become more urgent, more intense. I don’t know about Ryan, but the overwhelming desire I’ve tried to hold at bay for the last two months rages within me. I tear off my blouse and my bra. Ryan moans and takes my breast in his hand and my nipple in his mouth. From there, any tentativeness is banished, and instinct takes over.
I won’t go into all the carnal and salacious details, but I will say this: Santa was very, very good to me this year.
NOTES FROM THE GIRLS’ GLOBAL GUIDE TO GUYS
1. Paris. City of Lights? Romantic. Heavily accented gropers? Not so much.
2. Venice. Pasta, wine, art, and men who tell you you’re bella even when your hair hasn’t been washed in three days. What’s not to love?
3. Athens. Just remember: in the land of ouzo shots, everything is romantic.
4. Budapest. Even surrounded by castles, heartbreak bites.
5. Amsterdam. Tall, blond, smiley people. Sex shops. You do the math.
And that’s just the beginning . . .
Best friends Jadie Peregrine and Tate Moran have had it with the dating life in Boulder, Colorado. Somewhere in the world there has to be a place where this whole romance thing is easier—a magical country where the men aren’t commitment-phobes, cross-dressers, or just plain psychotic. That thought starts Jadie on an inspired plan: why not write a very different sort of travel guide, one that gives the 411 on what it’s like to date men all over the world? Jadie and Tate: Love Anthropologis
ts. From London to Amsterdam, Hungary to Greece and all points in between, they’ll research the field of male dating patterns and report back to their sisters-in-arms. And if they happen to meet Mr. Right along the way, so much the better. Now, with their bags packed, passports ready, and their hearts on the line, two best friends are in for the adventure of a lifetime, because when it comes to travel, men, and love, nothing goes according to plan . . .
Here is an exciting sneak peek of Theresa Alan’s
THE GIRLS’ GLOBAL GUIDE TO GUYS
coming in April 2005!
CHAPTER ONE
Boulder, Colorado
“It couldn’t possibly have been that bad.”
“Oh, but it was. I saw his you-know-what within an hour of knowing him, totally against my will.”
“He flashed you?”
“Not exactly. We stopped by my apartment after dinner before we went to the club because we’d gone for Italian, and I had garlic breath, and I wanted to brush my teeth before we went dancing, even though I knew within four seconds of meeting him that it could never go anywhere. I don’t know what Sylvia was thinking setting us up. But to be polite I had to go through the charade of the date anyway, even though I wasn’t remotely attracted to him. So I started brushing my teeth, but I wanted to check on him and make sure he was okay; so I came out from the bathroom into the living room, and he was just sitting there on the couch, naked.”
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