The Dating Bender Page 15

  I hoped he wouldn’t notice that I had on the same outfit from last night and would pardon me for being such a spastic klutz. My face glistened with a red undertone as he strutted out of the coffee shop. Excellent—I had managed to make a fool of myself in yet another ZIP code.

  I stunk of booze, my head pounded, and I was late for work. My summer was off to a smashing start.

  During my ride to work, I tried to convince myself that my tawdry look could be construed as a good thing. It conveyed my status as a free and confident woman.

  When I entered the internship office (shack), an answering machine, of all things, blinked incessantly at me. Before I had a chance to check messages, my cell and the wall phone barked at me in unison.

  By arriving a half-hour late, I had missed fourteen calls from calm Marjorie, terse Marjorie, belligerent Marjorie, and finally, Marjorie firing me on the answering machine’s final message. She went from perky, to perturbed, to hell-bitch, and monster Marjorie over the course of a painful, eight-minute long message. I wanted to call her back and scream, “Get a real phone with voicemail, nobody uses answering machines anymore,” but didn’t.

  It was official. I’d been sacked from my first job. I had to wonder if it mattered when you were working for free. The upside was, I could go home, shower, and sleep off my hangover.

  By the time I got back, most of the older crowd from our house had left for their morning ritual: a marathon jog to the beach. They were a lively bunch.

  I made my way back to the cottage and climbed the stairs to the loft, which was sweltering hot, but I needed sleep so I stripped down to my underwear. I felt up the bunk beds for a free spot. It was like summer camp—who knew what you were going to find in there.

  One night in and I already loved the place…except when Evie pranced around topless in her g-string panties. She was a little too free if you asked me. I felt a lump on the bottom bunk, probably Shannon passed out. Halfway up my climb to the top, Evie bounded into the room.

  “I am so horny. Oh, Sammy, you look dreadful. I hope you at least got some action last night. The bags under your eyes are horrific. For me, everything went fuzzy after that last round of shooters.”

  I paused to come up with a way of telling her I had been fired from my internship, but it was too late. She had already lost interest and moved onto her own problems.

  My energy waned, so I let her rattle on while I pondered the tough questions of the hour. Was it appropriate to get fired on a voicemail, an answering machine, in a text, and then in a confirmation email? Overkill if you asked me, but according to Forbes, in this age of instant information, you had to cover all your bases.

  Shannon peeked out from under the dated floral bedcover.

  “Sammy, so proud of you nice…” and she was out.

  Fired, divorced, floozy, cursed—at least my new friends loved me flaws and all. Don’t count on it, dear.

  ***

  I anesthetized myself with booze on the weekends and retreated back to Manhattan and Crazy Molly’s work dungeon on the weekdays, for that I was grateful. Oprah was all about gratitude journaling. Aside from Molly’s manic personality and volatile mood swings, she paid me, which was more than I could say for the internship—correction, former internship.

  On weekends, I played sex-free cat and mouse with Buff Boy—flirty, yet distant—my attempt at remaining mysterious just like Cosmo suggested. It was unclear what type of effect, if any, this was having on him, but what I did know was it made me want him more.

  While being carefree wasn’t my strong suit, it was for Shannon. Despite our common Catholic upbringing, she rolled guilt-free through her hookups with Irishmen and firefighters. I longed to be like her.

  Only a couple months of summer remained. If I wanted to make tracks, I needed to conjure up a situation where I could make a subtle move on Buff Boy. Tomorrow’s midsummer bash might be my best chance to pounce.

  Evie be-bopped out of the bathroom, topless and shaving. No female could possibly have this much body hair.

  “Sam, you need to plot your manhandling strategy now. The other women are closing in. You need to play seriously hard to get.”

  That showed what I knew. Here I thought it would be a good time to switch to a more straightforward approach. Lucky for me, Evie volunteered to manage my social life for the rest of the summer.

  “We’re going to happy hour before the party, just us cottage girls. This way, when you run into him, you’ll appear more open and available with sparkling eyes from all the booze. Follow my advice and you’ll wind up bopping him by the end of the night. But ditch that sappy sarong and pop your boobs into my peach sateen tube top. Wear it, and he’s guaranteed to kiss you before the party is over.”

  I wasn’t even certain that was my desired outcome. Besides, it was hard to imagine that my chest would be capable of holding up her top given the disparity between our breast sizes.

  She resumed shaving her bikini line in our common space. Maybe that was why she had always gotten what she wanted from men.

  “Yeah, I agree, Sammy. If you show up tipsy and smoldering, you’ll make an impression,” Shannon said.

  Davis, our fabulous, could-be-gay housemate, called up from the driveway.

  “My sweet taffies, the convertible awaits.”

  We filed out of the house and into our chariot—a sky blue vintage convertible caddy. There was something invigorating about Katy Perry belting out of the speakers as we cruised down a beach-lit drive, confirming that anything was possible, maybe even some fireworks.

  We arrived at The Dockside Bar & Grill for a quick cocktail and app, and were greeted by a harried-looking guy belting out Jimmy Buffet. It was hard to tell if he was working there or just a blitzed wannabe. His face looked almost as sun-fried as my father’s did by midsummer. It matched the degree that my social life had started to cook.

  Davis garnered three rounds of Alabama Slammers for us in mere minutes. He slicked back his hair with my drinking water and pretended to be our waiter. Note to self: don’t sip on that water.

  “To my favorite ladies, love ya forever.”

  “Right back at ya, Davis. You’re a good egg. I love you too!” I said and shot back my slammer. And then another, and another. The next thing I knew, Evie tweeted in my ear.

  “Shit. I just re-read Buff Boy’s text. The party was more of a happy hour thing. We’ve already missed most of it. We’re leaving, now.”

  Perfect. I’d accomplished her mission of looking “unavailable” by missing the whole damn thing. I wondered if I would ever get to bag the buff, long-haired wonder before summer’s end.

  “No worries, let’s go by the house, anyway. I’m sure somebody is home. Stay positive,” Shannon said.

  She was always optimistic under the influence. I admired that about her, since I just got sloppy and sad. As we sped down the driveway to Buff Boy’s place, things looked low-key, but I prayed that peeps would still be chillaxing by the pool. I stumbled out of the car and Evie followed.

  “Remember, open but unavailable,” she said.

  We approached the house and were confronted with a crooked note tacked to the door.

  It read:

  You missed the boat, babes. We’re gone.

  Amazing. This stud had winked at me on paper. I dipped in closer to see the fine print.

  For all of you who are man enough to handle it, we’ve moved the party to Murf’s. Go ahead, I dare ya.

  Confirmed. Buff Boy had written this note.

  “Stop sulking, Sammy. We’re not giving up. To Murf’s we go, ho, ho, ho,” Shannon said.

  We sang “Roar,” not in unison, the whole way there. We arrived at our destination, and before Davis could bring his buggy to a complete stop, I’d jumped out and ran toward the bar. My loyal posse caught up and we linked our arms as a trio so I could walk a pseudo-straight line. They were excellent wing-women.

  I panned the bar from the front door and just missed being shot in the head wi
th a dart. “How could they not be here? They left the note. They dared us.”

  “Focus on the jukebox,” Shannon said. “It always calms you down.”

  It was a gem all right. So much joy to be had beneath a yellowing sheet of Plexiglas. I adored that thing. My most fulfilling relationship of the summer so far. The raucous scene put me at ease. Coupled with the stench of booze and stale garbage, it reminded me of home.

  As I vacillated between song selections, Buff Boy and his entourage emerged. Instead of his usual pussy-footing around, he locked eyes on me and strutted in my direction. I guessed the peach tube top was working. I scratched my nose until my eyes watered. His brother Bob stopped in front of me and offered me a hankie, which prevented me from drawing my own blood. Buff Boy slid up behind me. I stood between them, forming my first ever man-wich. A delicious place to be, and not nearly as unpleasant as the pulled pork sandwich I’d eaten for lunch.

  I could see Evie miming behind his back with goofy hand signals. The best I could surmise was she was reminding me to be unavailable yet sexy. She threw her boobs around in circles to demonstrate her preferred approach. Unfortunately, my execution proved not nearly as engaging, since my breasts weren’t big enough to twirl.

  Buff Boy unpeeled himself from my sweaty back and slid to my side where he outstretched his hand to me and pretended it was the first time we had met. He made extreme eye contact. Hardcore, porn eye contact. I fell to the floor under his spell. Or maybe it was all the alcohol.

  “Why, hello there, can I help you up?” he said. It felt like he was panting over me.

  “Cake By the Ocean” came on the jukebox. He scooped me up into his arms as if he was going to kiss me but instead swept me into an upright spoon. He thrust his pelvis into my butt to the beat of the music—dirty dancing with a surfer stud. Oh, what a night! I could feel his sweaty pecs and pounding heart against my small and willing frame. As I pondered the possibilities of how best to leverage the situation to my advantage, he dipped me down to the ground where nobody could see us.

  “So, how about we make-out right here? What do you say to that?”

  Do-me-now came to mind as I allowed myself to fantasize about his likely more-than-ample private parts. While I drifted in wonderment, he remained frozen in our downward dip.

  “But it wouldn’t mean anything. After tonight, we’d go back to being friends. Are you cool with that?” he said, killing my Alabama slammer buzz.

  After nearly two months of cat and mouse, this hook-up scenario was not as enchanting as I’d hoped it would be. I wasn’t sure if it was the shots talking or Buff Boy’s swaggering hips soldered to mine, but I squeaked out a tentative, “Okay.” Tawdry moron.

  Before I had time to kick some common sense into myself, right there, in front of everybody, he planted a luscious kiss on my throbbing lips. It brought me to my knees, again. Just like my mother, I still couldn’t handle my liquor.

  My face flushed as I attempted to gain footing, but his deep brown eyes rendered me incapable, so I sat there as the bar and its patrons spun behind me.

  “How’s it hanging, darlin’?”

  Was he mocking me? I was afraid to look down and see if one of my mosquito bites for breasts had popped out of the tube top during my tumble. He resumed the lip smacking before I had a chance to check. I had ended up in the middle of someone else’s erotic fantasy, and boy was it tasty.

  Thankfully, the smooch-filled reality continued on and off for the next hour. My lips were on the brink of being kissed off. We paused only for brief moments of dirty dancing and drinking in between lip smacks and booze sips. Keep up that tango and you’ll be ousted from the family for good.

  I had no recollection of the ride from the bar to Buff Boy’s boudoir because I was too busy necking with him to care. I prayed that my kissing haze would never clear. The bed-rolling aspect wasn’t too shabby either. I could live in his room for the rest of the summer, though I had to wonder if it was kosher to cuddle when you were slated to go back to being “friends” tomorrow.

  “Babe, I’m dizzy.”

  How cute. I made a man dizzy. I don’t think I’ve ever had that effect on someone.

  “Babe, seriously, do something, I think I have vertigo again.”

  Vertigo? Who gets that in real life?

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m on an all-protein, no-carb diet. Sometimes I get vertigo when I don’t eat enough meat.”

  A downside to being so hot I guess. I should’ve known this romp was too good to last. It could prove challenging to explain to the girls that I did not fornicate the night away with Buff Boy because he went into a no-carb-induced coma by way of vertigo.

  “Can we just stay still and spoon? I’ll let you rub my temples. My trainer told me that a forceful rub can help stop the vertigo,” he moaned.

  Since I hoped to rub much more than his temples, I obliged. I wasn’t aware I had such a gift, but apparently I did, since he fell almost instantly asleep under my care. This rendered me unable to sleep, as my untouched nether-regions lay awake and yearning to be stroked. Men were never supposed to be the one to call off a one-night stand; it was unheard of.

  As I remained wrapped around his beautiful body, part of me felt relieved that he petered out. As eager as I was to hook-up with him and then pretend like nothing happened, my rational side knew I couldn’t have pulled it off. I would have hated myself and then him.

  To switch things up, I moved on to his pecs. They looked like they needed some attention. I felt that I should get some satisfaction out of this defunct deal. Massaging his body parts would be well worth the effort, even if it inflamed my carpal tunnel.

  As I stroked the goods, two things came into focus. While he had the body of a twenty-year-old, his face was not faring nearly as well. Fitness magazine always preached that lifelong tanning was unhealthy. I could see why. It was a pity, because from the neck down he did indeed still look like a college co-ed.

  When I thought about things, my decision to smooch him was no smarter than practicing unsafe sun. Who would agree to friendship as a term for canoodling with your crush? You’re an idiot.

  The sun blazed through his shade-less windows and woke me. I had a killer headache, chapped lips, and carpal tunnel from all the temple rubbing. At least I got to accidentally bump into his pee-wee stick last night, when my hands dropped down in defeat after one too many strokes of his forehead. His penis was long and strong, just like I imagined.

  Buff woke looking startled to see me. He also sported “friends only” eyes.

  “Babe, that was nice last night, but lots of business today. Can I give you a lift back to The Mansion?”

  I could be cool and friendly.

  “Sure thing, let me find my clothes.” Charming, Samantha. Have you no shame?

  There were two trends developing this summer: the first being an inability to bounce back after a night of heavy drinking; and second, the older and sexier the man, the more likely he was to not want a relationship, yet still command commitment-free sex. The really brazen ones went as far as suggesting moronic deals about post-boinking friendships. The equally moronic women one-upped them by agreeing to such deals.

  He yodeled as I searched for my tube top.

  “Hey, babe, we need to stop off for breakfast on the way because I won’t be able to drive if I don’t get some protein in my system.”

  He drove topless in low-slung jeans for the duration of the ride to Fairway, which made the night and the deal totally worth it.

  He gnawed on a pulled pork breakfast sandwich while I nibbled at an egg-white omelet. What was it with men and pork? We barely spoke. I assumed it was so he could inhale as much protein as possible. As “friends,” it was understood that silence was bliss. He aborted any could-be romantic fantasies when he burped and didn’t bother to do it under his breath. It was a shame we were only going to be friends. I could have liked him, not only for his body, but his table manners.

  “Let’s
hit it. I’ve got some waves to catch and deals to close,” he said.

  It was still unclear what he actually did for a living, aside from beach combing. Not that there was anything wrong with that, especially since we were just friends. As we drove back to the house in silence, he flipped his flowing mane in the wind, which made me horny—you’ve got to love jeeps.

  I couldn’t imagine how we would end this short-lived fling of ours. While I pondered, he sped to the end of the driveway, stopped the car, planted one last kiss on my cheek, grazed both of my breasts just long enough to make my nipples erect, and then strutted out of the car and over to my side. He flexed his pecs while opening my door, and right when I started to get swept up in the romance of it all, he winked at me.

  “Remember the deal, babe.”

  If he wasn’t so damn good-looking, even with all the wrinkles, I would’ve slapped him across the face and flipped him the bird. Instead, I patted his ass and channeled my sexiest, footloose and fancy “friends” voice.

  “You betcha, sweetheart!”

  I wagged my butt with sass as I strutted back toward the cottage.

  At least he drove down the driveway as opposed to leaving me at the mailbox. He didn’t seem worried by the fact that everyone saw his car, and me getting out of it.

  I wore my hook-up like a badge of honor as I waved to a few of my housemates who lingered on the deck. It smelled like rain, but nothing would pee on my hook-up parade.

  “Morning, guys!” I said with a cheesy smile.

  Bagging Buff Boy by temple rub alone was something to be proud of. Yes, dear, it solidifies your place in life as a tramp.

  My headache moved to the forefront as I crawled up to the loft. Shannon and Evie looked as hungover as I felt.

  “Did you slip him the tongue or what?” Shannon asked.

  “That, and then some. I even got to stroke his pecs, while he was sleeping but still.”