by Lisa Daily
Ahem. Bicep massage?
“Nope, I’m good,” he says, “I’ve got everything I’ll need in the Jeep.”
“Okay, I’ll leave you to it.” He heads back toward the front door and I return to my painting. He’s back inside a few minutes later, banging around in the kitchen.
I’m way up on the ladder, taping off the built-ins, when I first hear the sound. Nate is laughing, deep and loud enough to hear clearly all the way to the other end of the house. What in the world could be so funny about a cat door?
Stepping down from the ladder, I return to the kitchen. There’s Nate, the Adonis in a tool belt, standing in front of the kitchen counter where I’d put the box with the cat door—doubled over with laughter, cracking up so hard his whole body is shaking. His amusement is infectious, and I begin to smile before I even know what is happening. I step around his tall frame to see what’s so funny.
Oh … Fuck. It’s the gigantic, brightly labeled, economy-size, mortifyingly extensive, multicolored selection of condoms—courtesy of Darcy. I’d forgotten all about them.
My hand flies to my mouth, my skin burning with humiliation. Jumping around Nate, I push the box off the breakfast bar to the floor, where it lands with a loud thud—as though the fact that it’s no longer on the counter might erase it from his memory entirely.
“Oh my God,” I stutter, trying to spit out some plausible explanation that might make the situation less mortifying. “I don’t know what to … it’s just … it was a joke from a girlfriend … I sort of got divorced last week.” Jesus Alex, stop talking.
“Don’t sweat it.” Nate grins. “That’s the exact same box I buy.”
Ew. “Really?”
“No, I was just joking, trying to make you feel better.”
“Not possible unless that joke comes with a shot of tequila.”
And maybe a foot massage.
“That can be arranged.” He smiles. “You could stock up a truck stop for a year with a box that size.”
“I know. My friend Darcy is quite the comedienne.”
He starts randomly opening kitchen cabinet doors until he hits pay dirt. I’m too mortified to be bothered by the intrusion. Two shot glasses and a half-empty bottle of tequila. My instinct is to stop him, and send him away, but then I think, why the hell not? I’m divorced and a hot guy handy with power tools wants to drink tequila with me.
“Why do you need to drink?” I laugh. “I’m the one dying of humiliation here.”
“Trust me,” he says. “I’m scarred for life. Besides, I can’t let you drink alone.”
34
Two shots of tequila later we decide to order a pizza. Nate installs Morley’s cat door while we wait for the delivery guy from Solorzanos to arrive. It always takes forever but it’s worth it. Sooo worth it.
There’s a part of me that wants to hang out in the kitchen and just watch Nate work, but the tequila and his cheekbones have begun to go to my head and I don’t want to say anything stupid. Well, anything else.
Heading back to the office, I resume taping off the built-ins so I can finish the painting before I go to sleep. It’s slow progress. I’m positive that tequila will do nothing to improve my already-sloppy technique, so I’m careful with the tape.
“Nice color,” says Nate, poking his head inside the doorway. “Although I can’t decide if it looks better on the walls or on you.”
“Fortunately, there’s both.” I laugh, posing dramatically with my paint-speckled arms. “Are you finished already?”
“Cutting a hole in the door and installing a few screws is not exactly the most challenging thing I’ve done all day,” he says, helping himself to my paint supplies and coming up with a small trim brush. “You’re going to be up all night if you tape off every shelf,” he says. “I’ll cut in, and you do a second coat with the roller.” My mind wanders at the thought of Nate up on a ladder.
“You don’t want the tape?” I ask. He shakes his head no, and steps up a few rungs on the ladder, easily reaching the crown molding. His technique is perfect, quick and methodical, with great attention to detail.
*
“You’re really good at that,” I say.
“I went to art school at Ringling,” he says. “Construction is just how I pay the bills.”
He’s halfway around the room before I finish rerolling even one wall. By the time I’ve finished two walls, he’s done the upper and lower trim for the entire room, and is working on the wall behind the built-ins.
I stand back, ostensibly to survey our work, gratuitously admiring Nate’s sculpted back, his legs, his, er, ass.
Nate turns around, and the doorbell rings just in time to save me from having to awkwardly explain why I’m staring at the guy on the ladder rather than, you know, painting.
“Do you want to eat in the kitchen, or here?”
“If you don’t mind, let’s eat in here,” he says. “That way we can finish this up tonight.” Now you’re talking, buddy.
Heading to the front door, I pay the Solorzanos delivery guy for the pizza, grab paper plates and napkins from the kitchen, and bring the whole shebang into the office. Nate puts the lid on my bin of paint supplies for a makeshift picnic table, and settles himself, cross-legged, on the floor.
“Can I get you a drink?” I ask as I set the pizza box on the bin. “Beer? Wine? Water? Tequila?”
He laughs. “Beer is good. Tequila too.”
On the ten-second walk back to the kitchen, I try to figure out exactly what he meant. I should just ask him, but I’m feeling stupidly self-conscious. Either beer or tequila? Both beer and tequila? I hedge my bets and bring both. Grabbing a cold six-pack of amber ale from the fridge, and the bottle of tequila off the kitchen countertop, I’m already back to the office before I realize I’ve forgotten glasses for the tequila. Oh well.
“Please help yourself,” I say. He opens the box and grabs a couple of slices. It’s almost nine-thirty and we’re both famished. I can’t remember eating anything since breakfast. Unless you count the tequila.
I eat three slices of the large pizza, which is some kind of new world record for me; Nate polishes off the rest. I finish my first beer too fast, weirdly nervous. After Nate’s second beer, he says, “What’s your story? You just got divorced?”
“It’s a long story,” I say, “and not a very fun one.” There’s nothing to do with my hands and I need a diversion, so I grab another beer out of the cardboard holder. “How ’bout you, Nate? Have you ever been married?”
I gaze just a second too long at his mouth, waiting for him to speak. He grins. “I’m not really that guy.”
“Neither was my husband,” I crack. Don’t go there, I admonish myself. This little paint and tequila dinner party feels sort of promising, and the last thing I need is to start bawling into the pizza box.
Nate laughs and reaches for the bottle of tequila.
“Should I go get some glasses or are we drinking this right out of the bottle?” I ask.
“Let’s do,” he says, bringing the tequila bottle up to his lips, his perfect lips, for a drink and hands it over to me. I try my best to take a ladylike swig, but such a thing isn’t possible with a half-gallon bottle of tequila. F-ing Costco. I settle for not dribbling any on myself. I start to hand the bottle back to Nate, and instead of taking it, he pulls me to his body, and kisses me softly on my lips.
At first, I’m unsure whether or not I should kiss him back—my brain takes a microsecond to do a pros and cons matchup to determine whether drinking tequila and making out with someone who is indirectly sort of an employee, but technically a subcontractor so not really, is advisable. The tequila wins, and I kiss him back with a steamy intensity I’ve never experienced before. Oh. My. God. So this is what kissing a straight guy is like. He brings me closer to him, his mouth hot and insistent and all over mine—and I end up sort of sitting on his lap, and suddenly I’m straddling him, the two of us surrounded by paint stuff and pizza crusts. We’re kissing fr
enetically, his hands all over my body in the most delicious way, on the small of my back, along the curve of my waist, centimeters away from my breasts. I’m pawing at his shirt, like some sex-crazed lunatic. He pulls the shirt off in one swift motion, revealing his chest, muscled and lean—it’s as fantastic as I’d imagined. Hello, Adonis.
“Oh my God,” I inhale. I’ve spent my entire adult life with a gay man, and yet I’ve never seen a chest like this outside of a multiplex.
He reaches toward me and tugs gently at the tank top I’m wearing, pulling it off, over my head. My ponytail holder gets caught in one of the armholes and I’m suddenly straitjacketed with one arm up in the air with my face wedged close to my armpit, blinded by my own top, the other arm down, while Nate laughs and attempts to unstick me. I feel my skin turning crimson, burning with humiliation, when suddenly I’m free, my dark hair falling down over my shoulders and my tank top in Nate’s hands.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, studying my face, then letting his eyes linger on my black lace bra. He tosses my shirt to the floor, and kisses my shoulders and décolletage, softly at first and then more insistently—one hand holds me close around my waist, the other slides over my breast against the lace of my bra.
His breath is heavy on my skin, my panties are soaked, and my entire body is electric with anticipation. My hands are all over his chest, stroking the muscles in his back, and I nuzzle his ear as he works his way down my neck. Deftly, he unclasps my bra, and lifts my breasts to his lips, and runs his tongue teasingly over each nipple, one, then the other, as I arch my back in ecstasy. I can’t stop myself from watching him take my breasts with his mouth, grazing his lips back and forth across my hardened nipples, until I’m wet and ripe. It’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever experienced in my life.
As my breath quickens, he’s back at my mouth, kissing me fiercely, his tongue exploring my lips, then my neck, the lobe of my ear.
We look at each other, both hot and panting, and he grins at me. “If only we knew where to find a condom. Or eight hundred.”
Looks like this feng shui thing is working already.
35
I may be terrible at dating, but I am awesome at sex.
“You didn’t!” shrieks Darcy.
“I did.” I can’t stop grinning. I feel like a whole new woman. A woman with a vagina. I can’t believe I was so resistant to the idea in the first place. “It was A-M-A-Z-I-N-G. It was like three hours of foreplay, which beat Michael’s old record by about two hours and forty-five minutes. I swear he kissed every single inch of my body. And, when we were all done, he finished the painting. With his shirt off.”
“Really? Because usually they just roll over and start snoring. He must really be hoping for a round two.”
“Maybe,” I say. “That wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.”
“Did he sleep over?” she asks.
“No, I told him I had an early meeting and kicked him out at two in the morning. I was freaked out that things might get weird in the daylight. And the absence of tequila.” Darcy howls with laughter.
“That was probably a good move. I don’t know if you’re ready for a sleepover. Keep it casual for now.”
“We ate pizza off a paint bin, drank tequila from the bottle, and had sex on the floor. You can’t get much more casual than that.”
“Just be careful, doll,” she says. “I’m glad you had fun, I’m glad you’re moving forward, I just want you to tread carefully. You don’t want to be like one of those people who’ve lived in a cult all their lives and they get out into the real world and OD on Cheez Whiz and bologna sandwiches until their hearts explode.”
“I’ll try to lay off the Cheez Whiz,” I say.
“That’s all I ask,” she says. “I’m just looking out for you.”
“By the way,” I say. “Thanks for the condoms.”
Darcy snorts.
36
I’m feeling a little squirrelly about going to the psych office job site. Obviously I need to check on my projects, just as I always do. But normally I wouldn’t go back so soon. The truth of it is, I want to see Nate. And I think it will be awkward as hell to see Nate. It’s been almost twenty-four hours since he arrived at my house, and he hasn’t called. I don’t know if this is normal, or something I should worry about. Darcy says it’s no big deal. Maybe he doesn’t have my number. I wonder if he feels weird about calling me since I’m sort of, but not really, his boss. Actually Joe is his boss. It didn’t occur to me until after the fact that I’d be completely mortified if Joe ever finds out that I slept with one of the guys on his crew. Hopefully Nate isn’t the type to kiss and tell. Or have wild, crazy, tequila-fueled sex and tell.
37
Even the promise of soy burgers and a life-changing, three-hour orgasm is barely enough to overcome my aversion to the overwhelming fetor of patchouli and incense.
Kai the tantric yogi and I meet at the Green Zebra Café. I’m early, he’s ten minutes late. But I’m fresh off my night of tequila, sex, and paint rollers and brimming with newfound confidence.
Kai is exactly as Sam described him, with sandy, shoulder-length wavy hair and soft brown eyes. He’s lean, about five-ten, maybe five-eleven, and wearing a flowy white shirt and linen-colored pants that are probably made of eco-friendly hemp or bamboo fibers or something. He orders us a round of Balancing Arts Elixir shots from a waitress who knows him by name. I’m hoping the “secret ingredient” listed on the menu is rum, but it’s probably just lemongrass or ginger root or something. Kai spouts Zen platitudes like he’s a human meme generator.
And I’m getting the feeling that while wheatgrass and tantric sex might be Kai’s go-to first date, starting a cult is probably his second.
“Sam’s told me a lot about you, Alex,” says Kai, gazing at my eyes. He barely blinks, and I begin to feel weirdly exposed under the intensity of his gaze. What exactly did she tell him? “You have a beautiful aura around you,” he says.
Jeez, I’m not sure I’ll be able to make it through the entire date, or the bonus round, with a straight face. I mean, is this guy for real?
“Thank you, Kai,” I say, because what else do you say? He reaches across the table and clasps my hands in his, staring deeply into my eyes. My nerves are starting to get to me. In theory, I agree with Darcy and Sam. I’m an adult woman, and sex is part of the human experience. And after my night with Nate, it’s pretty obvious I’ve missed out on a whole lot by spending my entire grown-up life sleeping with a gay man. But in practice, I’m just not sure I can go through with it.
“You’ve been through a great deal of pain this year, but you are a powerful woman, and you will rise above these troubles. Your goddess spirit will find peace and happiness, because that is what you deserve,” he says earnestly.
And your lucky Lotto numbers are 47, 13, 63, 12, and 2, I think to myself.
Dinner is weed-like and wholly unsatisfying, and I’m fantasizing about eating a big juicy steak throughout the entire meal. We agree to go back to Kai’s place, because I don’t want this weirdo in my house, and while I’m not sure I want to go through with this, I am sure that if the Naughty Nine are all that stand between me and a real relationship, I want to get them over with as quickly as possible and get on with my life.
I follow behind him in my car; the drive is only five or six minutes. I was really hoping it would be longer.
Kai’s condo is exactly what you’d expect if the Dalai Lama decided to set up a sex den in Florida.
The whole place smells like incense and lemons, New Agey music is playing from speakers positioned near an odd cream-colored floor couch. He invites me to change into a robe to better relax, and directs me to a powder room decked out with a hook with several hangers, a basket filled with miniature toiletries, and two neat rows of bottled water. I crack myself up momentarily remembering what Sam said about staying hydrated.
A cotton waffle-weave robe is folded neatly along with a pair of spa slippers on top of
a small, round table. It’s reminiscent of the day spa I go to sometimes—all Kai is missing are the little lockers and the key on the curly plastic thing that you put in the pocket of your robe when you go in for your seaweed facial.
I should probably be offended that he’s so presumptuous, but what’s the use? We both know why I’m here. When I emerge from the powder room, he’s also wearing a waffle-weave robe and spa slippers, and I can’t help but giggle at the sight of him. Because, come on, he looks ridiculous. There are bronze and ceramic statues of Buddha everywhere; dream catchers and crystals hang in front of windows darkened with bamboo shades. He’s lit half a dozen candles and dimmed the lights, and he motions for me to come and join him on the squishy floor couch.
“Relax, Alex,” says Kai, “free your mind from all the tethers of earth.” I squint my eyes closed, trying not to crack up about the whole “tethers of earth” thing. It sounds like he’s readying me for a trip to the mothership. “Take a deep, cleansing breath,” he says, “and open your eyes to the sensual beauty all around you.”
He’s going to have to quit talking if he wants me to keep a straight face.
We sit cross-legged facing each other, and he’s massaging my palms with some sort of weird smelly oil as he stares into my eyes for what seems like hours. It’s oddly intense, and hypnotic, but my brain is having none of this. It’s not for me, at least not with a complete stranger. Maybe I just need to see where this thing with Nate the tool-belt supermodel goes. Or maybe I need to wait until I’m in love.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “I just think I need something deeper.” Kai nods at me, with understanding in his eyes, and just as I think he’s about to stop with the tantric hand massage, he swiftly maneuvers me backward, placing my feet on his chest, pulls my hips towards his groin as he squats like a savage.
“Whoa,” I say. Not exactly what I meant, but I’m morbidly fascinated. What the hell is he doing?
“This is one of the deepest positions in the Kama Sutra,” he says. He shifts himself to enter me, and my brain is still squeamishly hesitant to even go through with this. And just as I’m about to tell him I don’t want to, nothankyouverymuch but I’d really like him to stop, he grasps the soles of my feet and starts vigorously massaging them.
