There's Cake in My Future

by Gruenenfelder, Kim

  Scott smirks at me in amusement. “Do tell.”

  “Oh, come on,” I say defensively to him. “What single thirty-two-year-old woman hasn’t made at least one incredibly bad decision in her sex life?”

  “Me!” Mel says quickly. “I have not made any bad decisions in my sex life.”

  “You chose Fred,” I point out.

  “Duly noted,” Mel says. “But I am a serial monogamist. I went from my college boyfriend to Jeff in my early twenties to Fred up until this week. I’ve only been with three men in my entire life. I have done exactly what society has told me to do, and where has it gotten me? Alone, in my old room, and able to fake orgasms better than a porn star. It’s time to try something else.” Mel takes another sip of her champagne as her eyes wander the room. “There. That’s the one. I’ve spotted my prey.”

  “What, you’re a cougar now?” I ask her.

  “Too young for that. I’m thinking of myself more as a sex kitten.”

  “Meeeoooowww…” Scott says approvingly.

  Mel subtly nods her head toward the corner of the room. “See that guy over there? Do either of you know him?”

  Scott and I turn to see five men standing in the corner. “Which guy?” I ask her.

  “The guy in the gray suit,” Mel tells me.

  “They’re all in gray suits,” Scott points out to Mel while he glares at me.

  “What?” I exclaim. “You look great!”

  Scott narrows his eyes playfully. “Grrrr…”

  “The tall guy,” Mel clarifies.

  “Jason works for a basketball team,” I point out. “Half the guests here are tall.”

  Mel leans into us and nearly whispers, “The black guy.”

  “Why are you whispering?” I whisper back.

  “I don’t want to offend any of the guests here.”

  “Why? Don’t they know they’re black?” I say kiddingly.

  “Tall guy approaching. Shhh…” Mel says.

  A rakishly handsome, tall black man in a gray suit walks right past us and over to a gaggle of giggly girls who immediately surround him.

  “Okay. Well, men who look like that have a lot of options,” Mel says, not missing a beat. “I’m going to go look at the table assignments and try to accidentally on purpose run into either him or some other twelve on a scale of one to ten.”

  She takes her leave.

  “Personally, I am a cereal monogamist,” Scott tells me. “I always eat Rice Krispies.”

  I smile at Scott’s joke. Scott waves to someone over my shoulder, so I turn around to see the bitch from the church. “Who’s the girl?”

  “Eh, some ex-girlfriend of Jason’s,” Scott tells me in a brushing-off tone.

  “Was there a love connection?” I ask him, trying not to sound too interested.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” he says, taking a sip of champagne. “Ex-girlfriend. She’ll be fucking him tonight, not whatever poor sap becomes her one-night stand.” He takes my right hand with his left, and begins holding my hand as he says, “Seriously, no sex is worth dealing with tears or anger the next morning.”

  “But you just told Mel—”

  “Mel is a good girl,” he interrupts. “She might talk the talk, but she’ll be going home—alone—with us tonight. Let her feel like a sex kitten for a few hours. It’ll make her feel like she’s in control of her dating life. Which, really, she is. Most women are—they just don’t know it.”

  I look down at our hands, and our intertwined fingers. It feels very nice, and I feel those familiar butterflies in my stomach. But I don’t know how to react publicly. Happy? Curious? Flirty?

  “You know, if we hold hands, I can’t find anyone tonight either,” I tell him.

  I mentally kick myself. Good, Seema: go with suspicious and aloof. Men love that.

  Scott makes a show of whispering sweet nothings into my ear as the girl approaches him. “I can have you out of that dress in three minutes.”

  I giggle, then take a sip of my champagne. “Is the extinguisher goo that bad?”

  “No, no,” he assures me, then shrugs and smiles flirtatiously. “But I’ll still use it as an excuse to get you out of your dress.”

  We continue to hold hands as I respond sarcastically, “Right. Like you couldn’t have done that by now.”

  Scott visibly jolts at my statement. Clearly, I’ve made him uncomfortable. I take a nervous sip of champagne. Here I go again with the nervous drinking. I see the girl from the church make an abrupt left away from us and toward the bar.

  Well, at least I won that round.

  I notice that even after she’s gone, Scott continues to hold my hand.

  “So how was the rest of your date with Tiffany after I left last night?” I can’t help but ask, although I’m not sure I want his answer.

  “Britney.”

  I quickly apologize. “Sorry. Right. Britney.” Then I notice the strangest look cross his face. “What’s wrong? Why the look?”

  “Huh? Oh, nothing,” Scott says cryptically. Then he gets another look that I can’t quite read and says, “It’s going really well. Surprisingly well, actually.” And then he zings me with, “And you really like her, right?”

  Crap.

  I try not to hedge as I say, “Yeah. She—”

  “Because she liked you,” Scott interrupts. “And not very many of the women I date like you.”

  Wow. Okay.

  “And I think this girl could really be in my life, so I want you guys to like each other. You did like each other, right?”

  I force a smile, and lie through my teeth. “Yeah. She’s great.”

  He smiles back, relieved. “Good, good.”

  “So who didn’t like me?” I can’t help but ask.

  “Sherri. She thought you were secretly in love with me.”

  Before I can react to that bombshell, Mel walks up and urgently announces, “Nic put you guys at the singles’ table. Switch with me.”

  Oh, good Christ. “Okay, I know you have this whole ‘I’m going to be a slut’ idea going for you right now,” I tell her. “But trust me, no one wants to be stuck at the singles’ table for the evening. Trying to find a bangable guy there is like going to Antarctica for a tropical vacation.”

  “I’m sorry. Did you just say ‘bangable’?” Scott asks me.

  “What can I say? The term ‘smokin’ hot’ has become cliché,” I tell him.

  Mel continues, “He Whose Name Shall Not be Spoken and I are at table sixteen, also known as the happy couples who have been together for a million years table. I just really can’t deal with that tonight.” She takes a moment to register that Scott and I are holding hands. Then she shakes the thought out of her head and begins to beg, “Pleeaaasse let me take your table thirteen seats … I need to be with the beautiful people tonight.”

  Scott and I exchange a look of horror. This is followed by my exclaiming, “You think the singles’ table has the beautiful people?”

  “Of course,” Mel insists with vigor. “They’re the ones who have the time and the money to work out, get plastic surgery, and spend money on expensive dinners without boyfriends telling them they don’t make enough and shouldn’t be spending so recklessly.”

  Before I can say, “What a loaded sentence,” Mel continues, “And they can have sex with whomever they want, whenever they want, so finding someone’s easier.”

  Scott responds to Mel with, “Speaking as one of those people, I can have either one of you out of that dress in three minutes.” He reconsiders his statement, then turns to me with a wicked smile. “Or both of you.”

  I hit him on the arm, then insist to my friend, “Mel, I think you’re missing the point of the singles’ table. It may sound like fun, but in reality there’s a lot of desperation that you don’t want to be a part of.…”

  “Desperation mixed with alcohol is an aphrodisiac at a wedding,” Mel counters. “Haven’t you been paying attention?”

  Just as I am about to st
and firm that, no, we will not change tables just to accommodate Mel’s harebrained scheme, Bitch (I mean the girl from the church) walks up to Scott. She flashes an ivory card with the number thirteen calligraphied in aqua-colored foil. “So, will you be anywhere near me tonight?” she asks him in her sultriest voice.

  And the plot sickens. “No,” I say, trying to sound disappointed that we won’t be joining her. “Honey, I think we’re at table sixteen.”

  Nineteen

  Melissa

  Once the Grand Salon opens up to oohs and aahs, I quickly head to table thirteen to begin my night of wild passion.

  Just as soon as I find a guy to have it with.

  I happily have a seat in the middle of the round table and prepare to hold court.

  Unfortunately, all I get are the jesters.

  “What’s your favorite quadratic equation?” a middle-aged, pencil-necked geek to my left asks me as he sits down next to me.

  “I’m sorry?” I ask.

  Geekozoid smiles at me. “I took the liberty of asking Jason what you do for a living. He said you are a math teacher. So what is your favorite quadratic equation?”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “How was Comic-Con this year?”

  Urkel’s face lights up. “Dude, it was rad. Even better than last year! There was a hot girl there dressed as Princess Leia when she was Jabba the Hutt’s slave…”

  I put up my palm. “Thanks for playing. Buh-bye,” I tell him, then get up and make the long journey to the opposite side of the round table.

  A balding man with a ponytail soon walks up to me and takes a seat by my side. “I’d like to buy you a car.”

  “I’m sorry?” I say, convinced that I must have heard him wrong.

  “I’m Joseph Potter,” the old man says, putting out his hand for me to shake, “and I’d like to buy you a car.”

  I shake his hand, eying him warily. “I’ve heard that name before. Aren’t you some kind of movie producer?”

  His face swells up with pride (or maybe Scotch). “I am. My film Wolf grossed over a billion dollars last year. Perhaps you’ve seen it.”

  The girl who I can tell Seema wants to stab with a fork walks over to our table. I practically pounce on her. “Hi, I’m Mel, and this is my friend Joe,” I say to her quickly.

  She puts out her hand for me to shake. “I’m Janet.”

  “Hi Janet,” I say, shaking her hand quickly. “Are you an actress?”

  “Why, yes I am.”

  I throw her hand into Joe’s. “This is Joe. He’s a movie producer, and he’d like to buy you a car.”

  As the two begin their love connection for the night, I stand up and head to the midpoint between Geekozoid and Rich Old guy who thinks he’s still thirty to have a seat.

  An incredible hunk of a man with short blond hair walks up to the table, debating where to sit. I make eye contact for a few seconds—then smile and turn away shyly.

  He walks over to me. “Hi,” I say, “I’m Mel.”

  He puts up his index finger to shush me. “So then I told the bitch—look, either take me as I am, or I am out of here!” he yells into his headset. “And you know what that cunt of a woman told me…”

  And I’m up again and onto the nine o’clock position of the table (since midnight, three and six are all zeroes in my book).

  It takes about three minutes for a fat guy with garlic breath to sit next to me. He turns to me and says, “Hi, I’m … Achoo!”

  And he sneezes right into my lap.

  Perfect.

  I politely excuse myself and head to the bar.

  Okay, maybe Scott and Seema had a point. I always saw the singles’ table as less pathetic than this. The singles I had always noticed at weddings were happy, flirty, and in great shape. Everyone seemed to be laughing and drinking. No one was secretly glaring at their boyfriend, angry at him for not proposing.

  “White wine, please,” I tell the bartender.

  As the bartender pours me a glass of Clos Du Val chardonnay, the gorgeous man I saw earlier sidles up next to me. The bartender asks him, “What can I get you, sir?”

  “Sam Adams, when you get a chance,” Gorgeous Man tells him. Then he turns to me. “Okay, I gotta ask: are you a dancer, a runner, or a soccer player?”

  I turn to face him. Oh my God—he’s even better looking up close: flawless mocha skin, not a pore in sight, clear brown eyes, short dark hair. And it looks like there’s a nice little body underneath his pinstriped suit.

  “I am a runner,” I say, a little confused. “Although I was on a soccer team in high school. How did you know that?”

  “I’m a personal trainer, so I pride myself on body types,” Adonis tells me. He puts out his hand. “I’m John. I’m Jason’s cousin.”

  Perfect. He has a hot body, he’s someone I would never normally go on a date with (a personal trainer with a math teacher?), and he’s Jason’s cousin, so he won’t be a jerk to me tomorrow morning.

  I take his hand and smile. “I’m Mel.”

  John gently brings my hand up to his lips to give it a gentle kiss. “Charmed,” he says, flashing me the sexiest of smiles. “So I take it you’re a friend of Nicole’s.”

  “No, I just like to go to weddings in really ugly dresses,” I deadpan. “I’ve been thinking about getting a trainer. Do you work around here?”

  “No. I live in Washington State. Just down for the weekend.”

  Perfect. I want to start tapping my fingers together and letting out a wicked laugh as I say, It’s all coming together according to plan when he tells me, “I have to admit, I have an ulterior motive for talking to you.”

  Uh-oh. Please don’t ask me to introduce you to one of my hot friends. “Um … okay.”

  He looks over at the losers at table thirteen. “I have been put at the dreaded singles’ table. I have already been yelled at by a guy talking to his therapist on his headset, hit on by an actress, and sneezed on. Actually sneezed on. I saw you sitting there a minute ago—I was wondering if I could sit next to you and pester you all evening.”

  “Any of them mistake you for a hooker?” I ask him dryly.

  “Who mistook you for a hooker?”

  I jerk my chin toward the balding fat guy. “That guy over there had the opening line that he wants to buy me a car.”

  John laughs uncomfortably and shakes his head. “Wow. As a guy, I have to ask: has that line ever worked?”

  “Probably, or he wouldn’t be dumb enough to use it.”

  “Hmm,” John says, taking a sip of his beer the bartender has put down. “So what line does work on you?”

  I immediately come back with, “So far I’m liking, ‘I was wondering if I could sit next to you and pester you all evening.’ ”

  John smiles at me as though he’s completely entranced. “Now how is it a girl like you got stuck at the singles’ table?”

  I decide to say the next words flirtatiously. “Now, see, that line won’t work.”

  John seems surprised. “I haven’t fed you a line.”

  “Yeah, you have,” I enlighten him. “ ‘How did you get stuck at the singles’ table?’ is another way of saying, ‘How is it a girl like you isn’t married?’ Which is really just a nice way of saying, ‘What the Hell is wrong with you?’ ”

  John laughs. “I cannot imagine anything is wrong with you.”

  He seems to genuinely say that to me.

  “Yeah, well, I got lots of stuff wrong with me,” I say lightly. “So, what about you? What the Hell is wrong with you that no one’s snapped you up yet?”

  John looks up at the ceiling as though he’s really giving my question some thought. “Well, I live in Seattle. I’m not sure girls here are digging someone who leaves tomorrow night.”

  I make a show of considering his statement. “Still only a two-hour flight. Go on.”

  “I have a dog,” he admits.

  “Hmmm … If it’s a Chihuahua, we’re done.”

  “He’s a Dalmatian.”

/>   “And we’re back!”

  “I’m not great about cleaning up my apartment.…”

  “That would make you male…” I point out.

  “And, for the most part, I am too shy to go up and talk to extraordinarily beautiful women.” He flashes me a sexy smile. “But, like the Wizard to the Lion, weddings have been known to give me courage.”

  I smile and blush a little as I let that sentence dangle in the air a moment. “Do you dance?” I finally ask him.

  John seems amused but confused by my question. “I have been known to cut a rug, yes.”

  “I think if you want to hang out with me tonight, it’s going to cost you two fast dances, one slow dance, and a bunny hop.”

  “A bunny hop?”

  “Nic and Jason really want everyone to do the bunny hop. Don’t ask.”

  “Don’t tell,” he quips immediately. “But promise me you won’t raise the roof.”

  “I can’t promise you that,” I tell him. “Nor can I promise not to break out a Roger Rabbit. I do promise not to moonwalk.”

  “Well, that’s something,” John concedes. “Can you do the moves from Beyoncé’s ‘Single Ladies’?”

  “If the DJ is stupid enough to play, ‘If you like it then you should have put a ring on it’ at a wedding, I will body slam him to Tuesday.”

  John bursts out laughing.

  I like making him laugh.

  He puts out his beer bottle to toast, and we do.

  Is it possible that there really are handsome men out there who find me attractive?

  And, if so, where have they been hiding themselves?

  Twenty

  Seema

  It’s now ten o’clock. Dinner has been served, toasts have been made, the cake has been devoured. (I had two pieces.)

  Scott has been witty, attentive, and charming all evening. As usual. I have once again filled myself with nervous cocktails. As usual. And I am now obsessing over Scott’s body, and trying to figure out how to kiss him.

  Well, I’m nothing if not consistent.

  Why is it that every time I’m drunk, all I can think about is how to figure out a way to sleep with him? When I’m sober, I can push the thought out of my mind. I think about his other women, his flighty nature, his not wanting to settle down.