The Dating Bender Read online

  Who did he think he was? His nakedness was still fresh in my mind, yet he stood fondling somebody else’s cheek with a rod.

  “You’re in the way. Beat it,” he said.

  When did he turn back into the arrogant and cocky bastard I met that first day on the job? And when exactly did he find the time to seduce a Betty Boop wannabe?

  “Didn’t you get any of my emails and texts?”

  He laughed and stroked his peach fuzz.

  “Oh yeah, I got the first one, the second one, and the trail that followed, it was mildly entertaining.”

  I stared at him trying to make sense of his behavior. I waited for him to recant his statement, or at least attempt to ravish me on top of the pool table, but he remained focused on the dame and his game.

  I grabbed the Slippery Nipple shooter from Babs’ hand and flipped it right on top of Superstar’s coarse head of hair.

  “Asshole. You complete and total asshole!”

  Chapter Eleven

  In the months that followed the A-hole incident, Superstar never spoke a single word to me except for work-related matters, which went from hot and sexy to stilted. He was no longer interested in having me in his bed or in the boardroom. Not only did he dump me after my insidious scene at Phantom Canyon, he attempted to squeeze me out of my job.

  Newlywed, divorced, dated, and dumped. I had developed quite a name for myself. Why not simplify the monikers and just go with sinner instead? How could somebody so brilliant and geeky turn out to be such an asshole? I mean, bad person. Given the fallout, the “A” word had been stricken from my vocabulary.

  My first failed post-divorce liaison felt like a sinner’s payback from the devil himself. If only I had been sent to hell. Instead, I was stuck working with the tech geek every damn day. What was I thinking? Apparently nothing. As usual.

  I fought hard and worked crazy-long hours to retain a place of importance at the company—penance for my infidelity. Superstar “rocked the tech stratosphere” (his words) as he continued to pork his way through the workplace.

  Following the demise of our relationship, the company, unlike my love life, took off like a speedboat. NetSocial went from five employees to over two hundred in less than a year.

  I worked at such an insane pace it left little time to pine over my divorce—or Superstar. For his part, he remained an asshole in lamb’s clothing, aside from the coarse sheep’s hair.

  Many new faces inhabited NetSocial’s headquarters. These “expats,” as I liked to call them, were charged with whipping the company out of start-up mode and into a corporate powerhouse as soon as possible. As one of the company’s initial employees, I found the strategy offensive—especially when our bean-bag towers were replaced with institutional-looking cubicles and soundproofed offices.

  Babs was pushed off the management team and replaced by a new regime of Superstar wannabes who lacked her verve and social networking know-how. Among the more annoying new hires was a caustic Italian Catholic who called himself Frankie Frank, and Carson, a nose-picking “suit” who Candy promptly nicknamed Boogie.

  There came a time in one’s life when visible boogers should not be a problem you’re faced with. Boogie, at thirty-one, had not reached such an age. How hard would it be to do a double-take in the mirror before leaving the bathroom, and if necessary, blowing those things out of your nose? Especially before heading into the boardroom.

  “Hi Boog—sorry, Carson. How’s it hanging?” I asked.

  From what I could see, far too low.

  “Well, Sam, now that you ask, things aren’t going so well. I was charged with putting a financial schema together, mapping a plan for longevity and growth, and yet nobody has followed my recommendations,” Boogie said as he entered the conference room, clipboard in hand.

  Clearly, he had forgotten what decade we were in. Boogie conducted himself with the arrogance of a Wall Street suit minus the fat wallet and sharp looks. The fact that he wore actual suits to the office worked against him almost as much as his poor nasal hygiene habits.

  “Sam and I did that three months ago, which is why we shouldn’t waste company money to redo it. Catch up!” Candy said as she flicked a faux nose pick at his back.

  “Oh. I wouldn’t have bothered had I known that,” he said.

  “No problem. You may want to hit the little boy’s room before the meeting starts,” Candy said, miming a tissue dab to her rosy nose.

  “I hate to break up the hen party, but the meeting should have started at 0800 hours, so you’re all late,” Frankie said, standing at attention behind the podium.

  He looked like an idiot up there at his makeshift pulpit. He was way too formal for our company. Plus, it looked like he attempted to wear an outfit that coordinated with the wall color of the conference room. Sea green was not a good look on anybody.

  “Sam, cut it out, stop staring,” Candy whispered.

  “What?”

  “He’s a bozo. Please,” she said.

  “I obviously know how to captivate clients, having attended the best colleges on military scholarship and scoring top of my class. You all could benefit from learning even one-half of the sales strategies I have to offer, so focus,” Frankie said.

  I scribbled to Candy:

  Who cares. Why does he always spit out his credentials?

  He was so not NetSocial material. We weren’t corporate. We were cool. Plus, he had a receding hairline and wore sweater-vests with pleated khakis as a uniform. Nobody wore sweater-vests anymore and no man should ever wear pleated pants, especially to work. Pleats made it impossible to ascertain if the wearer of said pants had a boner, or if the bulge in the britches was just a bad cut of the fabric. Either way, did you really want people pondering that premise whenever you walked into a room?

  “I would like to kick off today’s session with a PowerPoint presentation,” he said. Then he adjusted—his pleats.

  This man knew no other way. PowerPoint was antiquated. I couldn’t wait for Superstar and Frankie to have an ego showdown. Superstar would cackle at this display.

  Despite his arcane audio-visual preferences, Frankie’s business acumen shined through as he talked about the top-secret ways our app would change the meaning of social networking. Superstar would be threatened by Frankie’s Ivy League education since he never even finished high school.

  I peered over at Candy. By slide number five, she already had a glazed-over look on her face as she twisted her long black hair and daydreamed out the window. Admittedly, the mountains were extra attractive today. Snow still capped the top of Pikes Peak even though it was the dead of summer.

  Boogie looked totally entranced by Frankie’s presentation, further cementing his position as the resident brownnoser.

  “I’m here to make your life easier. Use me when you need me. Call on me at any time and I’ll be there,” Frankie babbled.

  He sounded like a cross between a telemarketer and an insurance salesman.

  “And that, my tribe, is how we shake up the social media stratosphere.”

  He adjusted his pleats, for the fifth time in the last hour. Candy had started a tally sheet. He saluted us as he walked out of the room.

  “Please fire me now,” she said. “I can’t take it. He’s clueless.”

  “Isn’t he brilliant?” Boogie said.

  Boogie frequently mentioned that he would one day take over the company. Perhaps he should start with a simple hankie swipe. There was only so far you could climb with balled-up boogers getting in the way of your career trajectory.

  “Oh yeah, he’s brilliant all right,” I said.

  It was impressive that I managed to make it through the meeting without hurling. Between Frankie’s speech, a hangover, and Boogie’s boogers, that was no small feat. I excused myself from the meeting and made my way back to my office in hopes of grabbing a quick nap.

  Instead of shuteye, though, Frankie greeted me at the door looking like a poorly dressed prepster.

  “Sam, c
an we talk?”

  That was all this guy ever did. He’s your boss. Show some respect. He served our country, which is more than you’ve ever done.

  “Sure, what’s up?”

  “At ease, soldier,” he said. “I realize we haven’t totally connected, but I think we could help each other if you’re willing to work with me.”

  That would be just like a man. Come kick me when I’m hungover and don’t have the energy to resist.

  “Okay,” I said, hoping to get him to leave before he busted out another PowerPoint presentation.

  “That’s great news, Sam. There are two camps residing in this mess tent: those who have been following Superstar’s lead, and those who are looking for more, how shall I put this, more skilled and scholarly leadership. While he was our beginning, I feel quite confident that he’s not our future. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Frankie, you’ve got my attention. What did you have in mind?”

  “The social networking conference Dreamforce is fast approaching. This is where I want us to make our move and launch the app—without Superstar. We, and not he, should be leading the troops. This San Francisco event will put us in a position to do just that. I’m not interested in being your boss…I want to be your partner,” he said as he power-shook my hand.

  Aw shucks, what could a gal say to a proposition like that? In that moment, Frankie moved from foe to friend.

  Chapter Twelve

  In a couple months’ time, Frankie and I were entrenched in a synergistic relationship as boss and semi-subordinate. Despite his pleated pants and PowerPoint preference, Frankie and I had become allies. My personal life also flourished with a colleague named Ryan, who fast became a best bud. Ryan and I spent hours hanging out in that wonderful no-pressure friend-zone, often on the ski slopes. After the back-to-back fiascoes with Superstar and the divorce, friendship felt like the only way to go.

  The cool thing about life in Colorado was that you could start skiing as early as October, which is what Ryan and I did. One November weekend, as we rode the Arapahoe Basin ski lift up the mountain, laughing at silly knock-knock jokes, Ryan popped my earmuffs off when he leaned in to kiss me. What a surprise! The power of his pucker almost knocked me right off the lift. It was unexpected and surprisingly sensual, like a scene from Girls.

  Ryan met the criteria that Glamour magazine had outlined in their article on procuring a man with “relationship potential” at the workplace. Tall and fit with tousled brownish-black hair, he had mastered the super sexy fresh-off-the-sheets look. He was also single and available. After that passionate kiss we shared and the nurturing way he treated me, I decided it would be okay for me to explore the possibility of a deeper connection with him. I got up the courage to invite him over to watch the relationship classic, When Harry Met Sally, hoping he would glean the larger meaning of the film.

  He tickled me on my satin rose-print couch, sliding us all over the place with each smooch.

  “Ryan, you’re bad. If you don’t stop, we will never get to watch the movie and learn why women and men can never be just friends.”

  He looked at me sternly and then curled up his tongue and touched his nose with it as he crossed his eyes. Then he kissed me. I found his blend of goofball seduction oddly erotic.

  “Ryan, stop, you’re making me giggle,” I cooed.

  “Cutie, would you still like me if my face stayed this way?” he said, still cross-eyed.

  I wondered if my striped pink walls were causing his peeps to cross or if it was part of his seductive plot. He smelled like vanilla which made me want him even more.

  “Of course I would. It’s just if you don’t leave soon, Frankie and I are never going to get our presentation done in time for the conference.”

  I had strategically invited Ryan over on a night when we wouldn’t have enough time to get too intimate. Even I had boundaries. Plus, no matter how much the world twirled and the dating road rules evolved, playing hard to get was still and would always be the most prudent tactic in securing a long-term relationship, according to Marie Claire.

  “Okay, okay, you’re right. One of us has to save the company,” he said, “I’ll let you get to work. But this is to be continued.”

  He smooched me one last time and did that sensual trick with his tongue and nose and walked out my front door. Damn, he was so sweet, and not in that annoying way, just adoringly respectful. As much as I hated to see him go, the could-be budding romance would have to wait. There was work to do. I slipped on my comfy hot pink Uggs and set off to Jack Quinn’s to meet Frankie.

  ***

  Frankie had a thing for booming Irish pubs. He claimed they inspired greatness; I thought they just stunk, aside from this one, which was borderline snazzy for a watering hole. I obliged his Irish urge because he had become my mentor, and the pretzel kabobs rocked. In return, I was a keen listener—mostly when it came to hearing his marital sob stories.

  After three hours of reviewing PowerPoint in a bar, anybody would need a respite. Mine included daydreaming about Ryan over a glass of Jameson Irish Whiskey, straight up. I coughed every time I took a sip, but I liked the feeling as it burned its way down my throat. Let Frankie overthink our strategy for the trade show—I’d had enough. I sipped and coughed and pretended to listen to him.

  “We met in high school and it all seemed so promising. Especially when we won prom king and queen. That was a highlight,” he said.

  The whiskey almost made me laugh, but I held it inside. If powder blue tuxedos and puffy satin dresses were a high point, I felt sorrier for him than for myself. It looked like Frankie was about to cry. Good God, man up.

  “Then Sherry got pregnant right out of high school, which ruined all our plans. But like good soldiers, we carried on, got married, and tried to build a life together. I don’t think Sherry ever forgave me for impregnating her too soon.”

  “Wow, that’s too bad. But you guys have beautiful children. That’s what really matters.”

  Why was it that married people always wanted to talk to their single friends about their troubles? It didn’t make sense. If we had all the answers, we wouldn’t be single.

  “Well, it’s probably just a bump. Everybody has them. I’m sure you and Sherry will be fine. Dr. Phil always has good insights into this kind of stuff. You should check him out.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “Yes, his advice is outstanding.”

  “No. I meant about Sherry and I.”

  “Oh sure, sorry. I’m sure everything will work itself out,” I said.

  Or so I hoped. I hated to see men, other than Superstar, suffer.

  Frankie, placated enough to complete our presentation, rewarded me with another shot of whiskey. It was funny how he had predicted that we would become allies in the war against Superstar. We were kind of like brother and sister twins, the yin to each other’s yang. See, Harry and Sally? Men and women could be just friends.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Sweetie, I’m gonna miss you this weekend. You and Frankie spend more time together than we do,” Ryan said.

  “Pookie, you have nothing to worry about. Frankie is my work husband, and you are my boyfriend,” I said as I ravished him on top of my fuzzy fuchsia rocking chair.

  Ryan and the chair made me dizzy. Having a relationship was effortless with him, which made me really like him.

  After an abbreviated make-out session I sent him off on a mission to hit every bump on the ski slopes, but not before dropping me off at the airport.

  When we got there, we smooched a little bit longer, which was tricky in Ryan’s vintage burgundy Beetle. Cramped but cute! He gave me one last peck, unloaded my suitcase curbside, and pushed me on my way so I wouldn’t miss the flight. All of the necking had put me behind schedule. Thankfully, the Colorado Springs airport was pint-sized, so I swiftly checked my luggage and boarded the plane just in time.

  Airplane flights had turned into therapy sessions for Frankie and me. At takeoff
, our topic du jour turned once again to his marital discord. Midway through the flight, though, our usual roles reversed, and by the time we landed in San Francisco, I had unloaded the unabridged version of the Sheldon saga on him. It was the first time I had talked about my divorce out loud to a real person. I felt cleansed. Maybe try going to church to cleanse your soul.

  As we waited for our luggage at the turnstile, Frankie resumed yammering.

  “Sam, I never realized you had been through all of that. You seem so strong,” he said.

  “Well, I guess I fooled everybody, including myself. I was taught that when trouble strikes, you pretend like nothing has happened, which I guess is what I did during the end of my marriage. It just seemed easier. But eventually you have to pass through the anger and grief to get to the other side.”

  “Yeah, I hope you’re right.”

  How could I get him to stop talking? Maybe I should burp lightly to throw him. His intensity was starting to make me uncomfortable. Denial, that was the answer. I looked past his sweater-vested shoulder in hopes of spotting our luggage.

  “Sam I never realized how much we have in common. I blame the Catholic Church.” He chuckled.

  “So do I, man, so do I.”

  I looked into his eyes and he grabbed my hand.

  It was impossible to break his gaze. He had a point. We were simpatico because of our upbringing. He understood me, the real me, like nobody had until now. Oh Christ, here we go.

  ***

  At the conference, people flocked around our booth. Apparently, all of Frankie’s PowerPoint presentations had made an impression because the press couldn’t get enough of us. By the second day of the conference, we had been dubbed the “wunderkinds of the social networking world.” Take that and stuff it up your keyboard, Mark Zuckerberg and all your fake Facebook “friends.” I counted six different quotes in four global newspapers. My favorites: “NetSocial—Beyond Friending” and “NetSocial’s Serrano and Frank Fly Company to Social Media’s Next Stratosphere.”