The cell phone jerked me out of my auditing reverie with it’s factory programmed musical notes. I had been reviewing an audit and had just begun to feel myself nodding off. I looked at the caller ID and groaned. It was Last First Date Guy. I hadn’t heard from him for several weeks. I had officially dumped him after he stood me up for the third and final time and I had asked him to never call me again. I considered not answering the phone. Curiosity got the best of me.
“Hello”, I said warily.
“Hello, gorgeous. How are you?” he cooed into the phone.
“I’m fine, Last, how are you?” I answered in polite auto pilot.
“I’m good, I’m calling to see what you are doing this weekend, and to see if I can add a few things to your calendar.”
“I’m going to the Friday the 13th party, spending Saturday with my boys, and what sort of things to add to my calendar?”
He chuckles, “Oh, you mean the party at the girl’s house we went to in January? I want to go! Would you like me to pick you up?”
With deer in the headlights alacrity, I studder, “I’m going after I take Kevin to puppy training. It’s an open invitation party. I’ll give you Jeanne’s number and you can check with her about attending.”
“Great! Now, what are you doing on October 24th? I want to take you to an opening at the art gallery.”
I consider reminding him that we are, after all, not a couple, that we haven’t spoken in almost a month and that he needs to get the idea of taking me anywhere out of his head. His image flashes in my head. Tall, handsome, such a nice ass in those tight jeans he wears. I feel myself wavering.
“I might be free then.”
“Great! And of course, we talked about the Opera Gala. That’s on November 4th. The room only holds 600 people, that’s only 300 couples, so we have to make sure we get our tickets early. It will be a great marketing event for your firm. We will be sitting at a table with the president of Western Southern Life Insurance and the president of the Opera Board. Now here’s the website for you to go order your tick…”
“Whoa! Now wait a second! You are asking me to be your date to the Opera gala and you want me to buy my own ticket?”
There is silence for the briefest of moments on the other end of the phone.
“Well, yeah! The tickets are over $200 a person!”
I laugh sarcastically. “I’m so sorry, Last, I see now that I have plans for the evening of the fourth. I have a client waiting, I have to run.”
“Betty, hold on, so I’ll see you at the party Friday, right? Can we talk about it then?”
“Sure, Last, whatever. I’ll see you tomorrow evening.”
As luck would have it, I was exhausted after puppy training on Friday night and I snuggled up on the couch with my dog instead of a date and caught up with Weeds and Dexter on Showtime. I didn’t hear from Last First Date Guy for three weeks. I had done the unforgivable, I’m sure. I’d given him a taste of his own medicine and had simply not shown up at the party. I didn’t call, I didn’t email, I simply chose a different path, as he had done so many times to me. My conscience was clear because even though I had given him the impression that I was going, I had made no obligation to him to be there, and I had called Jeanne the next day to extend my apologies. She had acknowledged that yes, he had been at her party and everyone had wondered why he was there and where the hell was Betty!
Three weeks later, my cell phone rings, and Private Number is displayed. Thinking it was Kevin calling from Donovan’s, which often has caller ID hidden, I answered the phone cheerily.
“Hiiii.” I hear Last’s familiar low voice almost trilling on the other end.
I sighed to myself. “Hello, Last.”
“I’m calling to see what your plans are for the weekend.”
I ponder this question. Although I’m not psychic, I am pretty sure I know where this conversation is headed. “I’m having drinks with a friend tonight to help her polish up her profile on Match.com.”
“Oh, don’t let her do Match.com. You have to sort through all the dregs of our society on those dating sites. You never meet any quality people on the internet!”
I pause and smile. “Last, how can you say that. We met on Yahoo Personals.”
There is a moment of silence on the other end as he contemplates how to get out of this latest of faux pas. I smile to myself again. Sometimes, I can really be a bitch.
“Well, you were totally the exception to the rule. Just a fluke, a stroke of good fortune. I’ve never met anyone else interesting. The place to meet people is at social events like the Opera Gala. Now that is a great place to meet quality single people. Do you think your friend would want to go to the Opera Gala?”
My face reddens. I can’t believe he has just asked that question.
“Last, I am not going to fix you up. You want a date for the Opera Gala? You are going to have to find one on your own.” I say through clenched teeth.
I can hear the gears some screeching to a halt inside his brain and begin the painful process known in political circles as back pedaling.
“Oh, no, Betty, that didn’t come out right. I don’t want to go to the Opera Gala with your friend, I want to go with you. More than anything, I want you on my arm at that event. Please say you’ll go.”
“I’m sorry, Last, but it’s a little out of my price range.”
“I can spot you a hundred.”
My eyes widen. I bark out a bitter laugh. “No, Last, I actually have plans tomorrow night. And besides, it is rude for you to ask me to buy my own ticket. When I invited you to the play in Indianapolis, I bought the tickets and I paid for the hotel room. I didn’t ask you to pay for your ticket, despite the fact that it cost me well over $500. It was my treat and I enjoyed doing it.
“Come on, baby. I love you. I want to go with you. I want to show you off to my friends and hold you close on the dance floor. At least tell me you’ll think about it. Sleep on it. I’ll call you in the morning.”
I laughed and said goodbye. The audacity of the man.
I got an urgent message on my phone later that evening. “Think about it. Please go with me. I can’t wait to see you.”
And another message just after midnight. “I want you. I want you in my arms tomorrow night.”
After my morning coffee, I called Mindy. We had plans that evening to go out for cosmopolitans and to go see a movie. I explained my dilemma and asked her advice.
“Listen, Betty, I’ve got lots of other things I can do, so just go and have a good time. But…I think you should come up with a list of demands. You should demand that he pay for your ticket. You should demand that he come and pick you up at your house, that he buy you dinner, and that he spend the night with you. At least you might get a good meal and an orgasm out of the deal.”
I thought on that for a moment.
It had some appeal.
All I would be wasting is some of my time, if things didn’t turn out. I would get to get all dressed up, rub elbows with the pretty people, and who knows what else might happen. I decided I was up for the adventure.
The phone rang at 10:00am.
“Hi, Last.”
“Good morning, beautiful.”
“Listen, Last, I’ve thought it over. I’ll go, but I have some…er….requests.”
“Whatever you want, baby.”
“Ok, well, I’m not paying for my own ticket. You are.”
“Of course, sweetheart, I’ve had your ticket all along. This is wonderful news. I’ll pick you up at 6:00, cocktails start at 7:00, dinner is at 8:00 and afterwards, I’m going to want to have sex with you all night long.”
This was easier than I thought. He was already saying he’d pick me up and the gala included dinner!
“Wait! There’s one more thing!”
“What’s that, sweetheart?”
“I want …..”
Could I really ask him about Viagra? I wasn’t even sure I still liked him enough to have sex with him, but if at the end of the evening, after champagne and the romance a gala evening evokes, if I decided I wanted sex, I wanted to have lots of it. I wanted Viagra sex.
“I want….”
I could sense the seeds of impatience as he waited for me. I sighed to myself.
“I do want to go to this with you, Last. I’m sure we will have a lovely time.”
I got my nails done, bought some hot rollers to fancy up my hair, and was putting on my lipstick when he knocked at the door. I opened the door to a tall man in a black tuxedo with a crimson bow tie, suspenders and cummerbund. I acknowledged in my head that this was indeed, a handsome figure of a man, but my heart did no flip flops. He pulled me to him and hugged me…and hugged me…and kissed me and hugged me. I almost felt sorry for the man.
I grabbed my tiny little black satin night bag and we headed out. Chivalrously, he opened my car door and told me I was beautiful, thanking me once again for agreeing to go with him. Looking out the car window at the houses whizzing by I caught my reflection in the night glass. I smiled wryly to myself. Here I was, poor little dirty girl from Richvalley, all dressed up to go to the ball with her prince.
We parked the car and held hands as we waltzed our way around Music Hall. The neighborhood homeys were out on their porches casually observing our descent and I wondered what they thought of all these honkies dressed up in their finery. I smiled sincerely at them, but I don’t think they paid any attention to me.
The hall was decorated in garish gala style, with Japanese Lanterns and garland garbed pretend columns of greek ruins. The theme was Some Enchanted Evening and keeping that theme in mind, I had decided to forget the future and focus on simply having a wonderful time on the arm of a charming and handsome man. We spoke with an elderly couple and smiled for the traveling cameras. As we were chatting, the gentleman excused himself to check them in and Last followed to check us in. They were seated at table 30, we were at table 2.
We posed for a pretty picture against a backdrop of Cincinnati’s sunset skyline and chatted with all of the opera people Last knew from his work with the guild. I met a tall and elegant, perfectly coiffed brunette whose face never moved when she smiled and who’s vacant eyes immediately passed over mine to scan the crowd for more important people. I felt no envy. Just the opposite. How sad, I thought to myself, to endure such indignity simply to have success at the poker table.
As we moved from table to table, Last asked each person where they were sitting. They would refer to their tickets and reply with a respective table number. At one point I turned to him, “Oh how convenient! Our table is right next to the dance floor. I won’t have to take my little purse with me when we dance, I can just keep an eye on it from the dance floor. How lucky for us to get table two.”
Last grimaced. As I pondered his reaction, the gong sounded for everyone to be seated for dinner. We continued to chit chat our way through the gala hall, Last continuing to inquire after people’s table numbers. I finally whispered that perhaps we should head to our table. He reluctantly agreed, looking over my head in the direction of our table and then quickly swiveling us both in the other direction.
“Whoops, nope, we can’t sit there.”
“Last, wha….?” I turned my head to look at table two and sure enough, there was only one seat open. I clenched my teeth in a knowing smile and turned to Last. I almost laughed out loud. How typical. How predictable. He had not actually bought a ticket for me. I was a stowaway at the Opera Gala. Last looked hurriedly around the gala ballroom. People were scuffling back chairs and the folks still standing were rapidly dwindling. I arched my eyebrows and laughed to myself. I did not know one person here. I felt no embarrassment. These were Last’s people and this was Last’s problem. I was willing to do what I was told, but I was not offering up any suggestions.
Last’s eyes lit on the Artistic Director’s table. Taking a few steps towards the table, he inquired of the Artistic Director’s partner, “Are these seats taken?”
“Why, no. Have a seat.”
“Our seats are way over there, and I’d like to be closer to the performance,” he lied gracefully.
He turned to me excitedly. “Things always work out for me! Always!”
I smiled and groaned inwardly.
Dinner was lovely, the conversation light and nonsensical as conversations are at large social events. We danced one dance, “I Will Survive”, which seemed apropos for the evening. Afterwards, he drove me home, parking behind my Mercedes and sweeping me into the house on his wave of euphoria at having pulled off the event.
I watched him undress in a disconnected sort of way, admiring his physical form, but becoming increasingly unenamored with what I saw within his heart.
He kissed me passionately, under the covers, touching and nibbling, but his body simply wasn’t cooperating and we were both soon asleep. I was startled by how strong my physical need was, not for an orgasm, or even the fulfillment of sexual expression of any kind, but simply for the warmth of another body next to mine while I rested. I snuggled up against his back and felt a contentment I hadn’t felt since the last time I had slept with him in July.
I awoke with a start, Last pulling back the covers and climbing over on top of me, his lips reaching my mouth just as I gasped in surprise. Quickly, he entered me and began a furious quest for an orgasm. He had found morning wood and was determined to make the best of it. I had a fleeting thought of condoms as he quite suddenly slid his long monkey arms around my torso, and flipped himself backwards with me landing on top. I felt like I had just done the loop to loop on a roller coaster at Kings Island. I settled myself on top of him and had just started moving when he yelped in pleasure and it was over.
How typical.
I dismounted, glancing at the nightstand on his side of the bed I noted that the clock was blinking 5:15am and out of the corner of my eye, spied an empty condom wrapper. I smiled in relief to myself and then inwardly laughed at the thought of him waking, delighting in the discovery of his erect penis, hurriedly slipping on the condom and dispelling with his dately duties before it disappeared.
It was with a certain sense of relief that I watched him get dressed to leave, no discussion of breakfast or coffee. I wanted him out of here. The ending to the evening left no questions as to what the future held with him. Even for an optimist such as I, who had hoped, and hoped and hoped until it painted my face, I knew, finally, that this wasn’t going to work.
I kissed him goodbye, meaning it this time.
He called me a few days later while he was driving to Dayton for a business meeting.
“Betty, it’s time for you to forget about your silly ideas about your girly girl office feelings and fix your pension plan so that you can maximize your contributions to your retirement account. You are in dire need of more retirement funds!”
“Last, wait one second.”
“No, Betty, you can’t afford to wait, you need to take action now. We need to schedule an appointment for you to talk to Rebecca who handles retirement plans for my office.”
“Last, no. No. We need to get our personal relationship on stronger footing before we even think about establishing a business relationship.”
“Fuck that shit.”
I hung up the phone. I was shaking with anger. The audacity of that man. I couldn’t believe it. He swore at me! Only my children get away with using that kind of language around me and even they know better than to actually swear at me.
My cell phone rang again. I listened to the factory notes. A few seconds later, the message tone sounded. I picked it up, punched in the numbers and listened with curiosity.
“Betty, I think I went under a bridge and lost the connection. Either that or you hung up on me, which I can’t imagine you doing. Call me back. Let’s talk about this.”
I laughed to myself. I wasn’t going to call him back. Not today, not ever.
