My sex life is certainly NOT like the movies, . . . I just wish it was ~ Lucky Lopez

Blog #5: To Taste Strawberry Stained Lips . .

(Cont’d from “Sexless Cougar Meets Unsuspecting Cub”)

Day 78:  No Sex

Have you ever seen a male specimen approach you that was created so perfectly in every way – it’s as if an Abercrombie model spontaneously came to life out of a NY billboard ad and decided to grace you with his presence?

Well, if you haven’t been so lucky, I am here to inform you that it is a damn incredible, jaw dropping, great substitute for 78 days of no sex – experience.

When Max entered the café – which I’m most certain appeared in some Audrey Hepburn movie in the 60’s – we immediately connected glances across the numerous linen-clad and softly tea-lit tables.

His tall and lean Olympian swimmer-like body walked towards me; a much manlier, sexier, and debonair version of the kid I remembered.

He sported an 80’s rocker t-shirt – concealed by an understated black blazer and ratty, yet well-tailored low-rise jeans.

His hair: dusty brown, unmanaged, swept to the side and ridiculously sexy.

His eyes: gorgeously green and piercing – as if Luke Skywalker himself aimed directly at my eyes; blinding them with his neon Lightsaber.

His jaw –  flawlessly chiseled . . .

and his lips . . .  his lips . . . they were like two slices of a perfectly ripe strawberry – blush red, and ready to eat.

He approached the table smiling at me – with the innocence of a man not yet fully carved and cursed with the cynicism of love and life’s complexities.

It was endearing.

As he neared the table, I spent a few seconds doing the musical “sit and stand” – debating whether I should remain seated and extend my hand for a professional “mentor” hand shake, or stand up to offer the obligatory “I knew you when you were a kid and not nearly as hot” hug.

I opted for the alternative – a “sorority hug” – always a safe choice:

A not too much hug that says “I want to take you to the back storage room and have my way with you.”

And a not too little “I’d like to see your resume and list of references immediately” hand shake.

He sat down across from me – smirking like a school boy with a suspension worthy secret.

Although initially distracted, I proceeded with the proverbial L.A. niceties:  “how have you been?” “how was the traffic on the way over?” “how is the family?” etc. . . .

I tried to keep it professional, completely repressing my undeniable attraction to the fine young specimen before me – knowing full well that deep down inside, I was a nervous school girl – pitifully awing at her first crush.

When the dust of the initial conversation “niceties” settled, we found ourselves in the midst of that uncomfortable, yet inevitable conversation lull.

In an effort too repair the gaping silence, I asked him -

“So what can I do to . . .

(clear throat)

umm . . . I mean . . . for you Max?”

Insert larger school boy smirk – propelling me into a red-faced/flushed cheeks embarrassment.

Now desperate for a diversion from my embarrassing “slip of the tongue” (no pun intended) -  I took a sip of my now extremely watered down, liquor-deficient mojito, and was (gratefully) interrupted by our nauseatingly cute waitress who embodied everything “L.A.”:

Tan, tall, blonde, and beautiful . . .    . . .   puke.

Over the ensuing dialogue of recommended salads, soups of the day, and numerous fatty dressing choices, I prayed desperately that my humiliating Freudian slip would conveniently disappear into the hemisphere of “things that should never have been said,” and forgotten forever.

We decide on a Ceasar Salad for him, and a Baby Greens salad for me – with added grilled vs fried chicken (of course) – to prevent overstretching the lycra in my already-too-tight spandex/polyester blend wrap dress.

Once our order was in, “Abercrombie model” Max began to comfortably unravel with details of his exceptionally simple college life - bridging the gap of time since I last saw him with truly “grown up” and “mature” experiences:

Fraternities and sororities, threesomes, keg parties and such:

A far departure from the life I now knew – filled with self esteem issues, sexual depravity, and a lifestyle overcome by the depressing consequences of a recession.

Yet even then – somehow in between the collegiate terms “hangover” and “greasy tacos” – I found myself hypnotized by the sensual movement of his beautifully luscious, strawberry stained lips.

They looked soft, shiny, and extremely edible.

I struggled to take my eyes of them – intentionally darting them from side to side as if I had something better to do than look at a “hot-man-boy” – otherwise known as a now hot man that you used to know as a boy when he was awkward, immature, and even somewhat grotesque.

Suddenly feeling guilty, I began to engage in a mental scolding; reminding myself that I do have an almost perfect boyfriend . . . who just doesn’t want to have sex with me . . . that’s all.

That’s all.

That’s all . .

That’s all . . .

I did quite well for a while, but then somehow in between a few bites of spinach leaves and feta cheese, I once again caught myself entranced by his perfectly puckered/incredibly kissable lips – missing the conversation entirely – minus a few miscellaneous “jello shots” here and “tail-gate parties” there.

In an effort to finally terminate these ridiculously fantastical thoughts, I had to have an internal “Come to Jesus” with my hormones:

“What the hell is wrong with you?!  Get yourself together!  You are an old, boring, way past college-boob-perkiness woman who despite your ridiculous fantasies, will never be seduced by this hot-man-boy!” I repeatedly told myself.

Had my self esteem reached such low depths that I couldn’t sit with a hot college kid in a restaurant, eat a low fat salad, and keep it professional, instead of fantasizing unrealistically about how he might find me attractive?

I mean did it really matter what this kid thought of me anyway?

I had to do a focus shift.

In the midst of that shifting finally beginning to effectuate, Max interrupted the “college talk” to say with that damn schoolboy smirk:

“You look great Lucky.  You haven’t changed much since I last saw you.”

My stomach sank to my thighs as I wondered:  ”Did he mean you look “hot” great? – or “hot like a mom” great?

It took great effort on my part to deter what would have typically turned into a session of me obsessing over the “much” part of his compliment – wondering if the “slight change” he referred to meant a few new wrinkles and a few extra pounds.

After forcing myself to focus on the “look great” part, a subtle sense of self appreciation began to creep into my consciousness.

These few words – probably entirely insignificant to him – meant the absolute world to me.  Knowing that I wasn’t half bad to a hot-man-boy who at any point in time is probably surrounded by gorgeous college cheerleaders and hot sorority Britney Spears wannabes, meant that I could continue to grasp onto at least a kernel of my dwindling self esteem.

We spent the rest of the lunch talking less about college, and even law school for that matter, and more about life.  I actually found myself surprised that I could engage in a compelling conversation with a guy a decade my junior.

The thought that I could actually get used to these little eye-candy rendezvous began to percolate in my mind.  I played out several scenarios in my head:  spending evenings with my mature and responsible sex-repressed boyfriend, while sneaking in sultry afternoons with my newly found cabana boy.

He took out his iPhone to show me some pictures of him and Cassie at their last family reunion.  As he scrolled through the photos, I couldn’t help but notice one of him hugging a tall, skinny, “I have no idea what cellulite and crow’s feet are” college chick.

“Is this your girlfriend?”  I asked casually.

“Ohhh no, she’s not my girlfriend, . . . she’s just a girl” –  followed by a devious chuckle.

I digressed (once again) to old lady reality – the age gap: an apparently large and painful zit on the tip of my nose.

Labeling every girl as “just a girl” is a technique solely utilized by 20-somethings.

Men in their 30′s lack the luxury of wasting time, so they immediately categorize every woman: “platonic friend”, “friend with benefits”, “friend for convenience”, “friend of a friend”, etc. . . .

All of these to simply distinguish between those that they would and wouldn’t have sex with on any given day – a practice Max has yet to be acquainted with.

As my deep rooted self consciousness began to wear through the mojito mint and alcohol, I began to fear that the lonely sex repressed 30-something was beginning to visibly emerge – dragging on what should have been a one-hour lunch into an afternoon fantasy fest.

My mock Diane von Furstenberg dress – once seemingly sexy, began to feel hot, tight, and extremely uncomfortable.

I initiated the rendezvous conclusion:  ”Sorry, I’ve gotta go – I have a meeting this afternoon,” I said – with professional conviction.

“So, if  I needed a letter or recommendation?” . . . he began – aiming his green Lightsaber eyes for the kill.

I catch on to his motives quickly – all my ridiculous fantasies deflating like an old worn out party balloon.

“Of course – not a problem,” I uttered as if finalizing the structure of an acceptable no-sex settlement agreement.

I rescued him from the “faux L.A. tab treat” (the “I’ll pull out my card, but if you insist on paying once – I will most definitely give in” technique).

As I paid for the check, I am pained by the reality that I am nothing more than a glorified babysitter – sitting in a cute little café with a hot college kid as a pathetic attempt to save her failing ego.

We stood up and exchanged our goodbyes – while jointly walking through the door:

“It was good to see you” – we said – overlapping.

“Maybe we can do this again sometime – I mean talk about law school and stuff” Max said, almost nervously . . .

“and stuff” being the vocabulary of babes.

“Sure.”  I said – patting him on the shoulder like a concerned school teacher.

(uncomfortable silence)

Suddenly, prior to parting ways, he stopped me in my tracks,

put both of his strong – yet incredibly soft hands on my face and said:

“You’re really beautiful Lucky” . . .

I smiled in recovery and simply said “thank you.”

Then – like the Greek goddess Daphe fleeing from Apollo, I swiftly turned to walk away – and while still digesting the sultry moment – I began to wonder how many other sexy outfits I had in my closet . . .

- Lucky

Copyright 2010 Converge Entertainment, LLC

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