11
1130 Words
“I’m not exaggerating.”
“I know what my butt looks like, Romeo.”
“You don’t know what it looks like to a man.”
I don’t have a smart comeback to that. The hunger in his voice leaves me momentarily speechless, though I know for a fact there were dozens of far perkier asses than mine in attendance at the café.
“Okay. I’ll play your game. What does it look like to a man?”
“Before I tell you—and I will tell you, this is just a side note—I want to mention that not even three minutes ago you ragged on me for fishing for compliments. And now you want me to describe your derriere.”
“This is completely different.”
“How so?”
“For starters, you’re gorgeous. Everyone stares at you, even men.”
“Thank you, but I don’t see the difference.”
“Okay, I’m not trying to be coy now, this isn’t like when someone tells a supermodel she’s beautiful and she goes all bashful and says something outrageously false like, ‘Oh, I’m just an average girl. I’m totally plain without all this makeup.’ I have no illusions about my looks. I’ve got a great head of hair, my teeth are good, my figure is generally in proportion, but—”
“I think you’re stunning,” James interrupts. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since the first time I saw you. In fact, I’ve never been as attracted to a woman before.”
I allow that to wash over me for a moment. I let the sheer pleasure of those words to settle over my shoulders and wake up a sleeping swarm of butterflies in my stomach who flit ecstatically all around.
Here’s the thing: if he’d said, “You’re stunning,” as a statement of fact, I could refute it with facts, like the list I was about to give him of all my physical shortcomings.
But you can’t argue with “I think you’re stunning,” because then it’s a matter of personal taste.
After a rough throat clearing, I offer a weak protest. Because maybe I am fishing for compliments, just a little bit.
“I’m almost old.”
He shoots back with an irritated, “The finest bottle of wine is almost old. And by the way, that age bullshit is an American thing. In Europe, women are considered sexy at all ages. For that matter, in all shapes and sizes, too. Beauty and desirability have nothing to do with the number on your birth certificate or scale. The United States of Advertising has made everybody insecure about their looks.”
It’s very possible I’m going to swoon like I’m a heroine in a bodice ripper. Instead I reply, “The United States of Advertising. I like that.”
“I like it, too. Anne Lamott coined the phrase in her book, Bird by Bird.”
My shock is so great, I have to restrain myself from falling face first onto the floor. “You’ve read Anne Lamott?”
He says drily, “Try not to sound so surprised. I’m quite capable of reading a book.”
“But that book—I mean, the woman is practically my idol. I love her work.”
“Me too. In fact, there are a lot of books I love.” His tone grows warmer. “Looks like we found something we can talk about when we’re busy not getting personal.”
The swooning threatens to encroach again. This man is terrible for my blood pressure.
“First things first,” I say, struggling to remain cool. “We were supposed to be talking terms. Oh, and you were supposed to tell me what my ass looks like to a man.”
James chuckles. “Over dinner. I’ll pick you up at eight.”
“Okay. See you then.”
“And Olivia?”
“Yes?”
His voice turns husky. “Be ready to tell me everything you want me to do to you in bed.”
The line goes dead in my hand.
5
“H
e did not say that!”
“Yes, he did.”
“Holy s**t. I would’ve dropped dead on the spot.”
“Trust me, I came close.”
I’m pacing back and forth in the kitchen of the apartment, trying to burn off some of the adrenaline that has my hands shaking and my heart thumping like mad. I’ve been on the phone with Kelly for half an hour already, filling her in on everything that happened since I hung up on her at the café.
James is due to arrive in ten minutes. My antiperspirant has failed, my mouth has stopped producing saliva, and I really need a bourbon, but I’m afraid one will become two, then three, and then I’ll be out of my wits.
And I desperately need my wits about me right now.
The few that haven’t already been paralyzed by James’s parting sentence.
“So what’re you gonna do?” says Kelly, sounding almost as panicked as I am.
I laugh a little in disbelief. “I guess I’m going to make him a list.”
I have to yank the phone away from my ear to save my hearing from Kelly’s piercing shriek. Then she comes back on, groaning.
“I’m so jealous of you right now. So. Jealous. The last time Mike asked me what I wanted in bed was back when we were first dating.” She stops to think for a moment. “No, that’s wrong. He didn’t ask me what I wanted—he asked me if I’d let him do butt sex.”
I grimace. “Thanks for that. Now I’ll have to picture the two of you having butt s*x every time I see him.”
“I said no, dummy! That hole is exit only. So what’s gonna be on your list?”
“Not butt s*x. I’m with you on that one.”
“Oral?”
“Yes, of course.”
We’re both quiet for a moment. Then Kelly says, “Well, I’m all out of ideas.”
“I know, right? I can’t tell the man I really enjoy the missionary position, that’s just sad!”
“We’re pathetic.”
“How did we not get any better ideas after buddy-reading Fifty Shades? That was practically a s*x manual.”
“That was just fantasy, babe. Nobody does that stuff in real life.”
“Of course they do. There are millions of couples who enjoy b*****e and s******g and stuff.”
Kelly snorts. “Do you know any of them?”
- Writer
