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

Blog #15: Spending the Night with Reality Dude

Day 179:  No Sex

So in our last phone conversation, reality dude was deficient of small talk – leading me to conclude that this hombre is an hombre of action, and not words.

And for that, I am awarding him a shiny gold star for a good start

. . .

considering my last boyfriend was a man of ummm . . . neither.

I knew a face to face would be required if I ever cared to get to know reality dude beyond any of my initial superficial perceptions.

So when I decided to call him a few days later, I was beyond shocked when he asked:  “You wanna come over for dinner?”

Although my knee jerk reaction prompted a casual affirmation, I was later swelled by anxiety as I began to contemplate all the possible interpretations of “dinner” . . .

For a single chick . . . being invited by a potential beau to “come over for dinner” can mean a multitude of things; including but not limited to the following:

> Dinner
(din·ner (noun)  din·ner[ dínnər ](din·ners))

  • Code for a “get into your pants” collection of entrees
  • A cheap alternative to a real date at a restaurant requiring a hefty tip and expensive valet fee
  • A private rendezvous whose true purpose is to limit the risk of being spotted by other currently juggled girl “friends”
  • A unlikely romantic gesture by a man who understands that chivalry is not yet dead

I won’t lie . . . despite my gut intuition, my strong curiosity exterminated any of the negative possibilities, and encouraged me to focus on the latter.

Before I knew it, I was getting all gussied up to have “dinner” with reality dude.

I put on a cute sun dress; attempting to embrace my diminutive girlie side . . . . the one that manages to emerge every once in a rare while.

Although I did shave my legs, I opted to not proceed with any maintenance farther “north” . . . I knew this strategy would force me to divert any potential efforts by reality dude to get me naked on the first date.

I was determined to differentiate myself from the mass of college cheerleader/silicone enhanced stripper types that he seemed to typically entertain.

When RD (reality dude) picked me up from my tiny studio apartment, he waited for me outside – leaning on his car: a relaxed and confident predator ready to size up and conquer his newest prey.

He stood there looking at me with his sultry eyes . . . arms crossed in cautious repose . . . his smile was sweet and endearing.

As I approached his long, lean and inviting body, I was suddenly flooded with fond memories of my first love . . .

His name was Allen . . . we were 16 and in high school . . .

We shared that purely innocent, sweet love – the kind that can only be experienced prior to the scalding and pruning of adult heartache – devoid of life’s baggage, multiple defense mechanisms and paralyzing insecurities . . .

(For some reason that sounds like a country song)

Allen and I lived one city away from each other and attended different high schools.

So in order to (in his own words) “never spending a day without me,” he insisted on picking me up from my house every morning, driving me to school, and kissing my untainted lips goodbye prior to approaching his own destination.

He was there every morning at 7 a.m. without fail – waiting for me to come rushing out – hair still bouncy from the recent shaping of hot rollers,

lip balm: dewy and sweet,

and face completely devoid of stress induced acne that was unfortunately destined to appear later in life.

Very much like Allen did every morning of my sophomore and junior year in high school – R.D. opened my door – touching the small of my back gently – to guide me into his manly “domain.”

We shared a nice conversation on the way over his apartment as I attempted to repress any of my underlying nervousness.

Although I barely knew this guy, I felt extraordinarily comfortable with him.

We arrived at his apartment in a remote area of Studio City . . . it was small and simple . . . decorated with possessions of a 30-something bachelor whose abode didn’t quite reflect the “girl crazy boy” I had been imagining . . .

The Playboy calendars, lava lamps, and incense trays were non-existent, and I was pleased to notice that his study nook was adorned with quality literature.

The work of legendary poets inhabited the shelves:  Khalil Gibran, Frost, and Whitman to name a few  . . .

I was admitedly disturbed by my lingering anticipation – wondering when my initial suspicions of dinner turning into a booty call would begin to materialize.

Those suspicions slowly began to subside, as R.D. cued his 80′s playlist on his ipod.

We both sang a host of 80′s hits ala karaoke style while the new target of my affection prepared a delicious dinner.

He insisted that I relax and enjoy a glass of wine as he juggled various spices and sauces in the kitchen . . .

target goal:  a pita filled with balsamic marinated steak and a colorful array of bell peppers, complemented with a side salad of mixed baby greens and feta cheese.

I was impressed with his culinary skill, and ability to juggle several scary sharp utensils all at one time . . . Made me wonder how skilled he could be in other ways . . .

and in other places . . . .

like the bedroom.

But for now . . . an impromptu greek dinner . . .

which of course lead to a few glasses of red wine . . .

as well as the quick passing of the evening hours . . .

I struggled with my intuition – encouraging me to make a dash for the door once dinner concluded, against my innate desire to continue peeling back the layers of this guy who obviously possessed more depth and grace than your average reality TV guy.

Against my underlying expectations, this man who can obviously cook . . . loves 80′s music . . . and plays a “womanizer” on reality T.V.   . . .

had yet to put a hand on me . . .

On the one hand, I was incredibly impressed with his gentlemanly behavior . . .

and on the other . . . I began to question whether this dude found me attractive enough to engage in an “accidental” back-side swipe while reaching for a napkin . . .

I wondered if in fact I was turning into the platonic chick that was just fun to “hang” with.

Don’t get me wrong . . . I didn’t expect to spend the evening tangled in the bedroom sheets, but I wouldn’t have minded some innocent PG-13 action before the clock struck twelve.

Nonetheless, (against my better judgement), I allowed our dinner date to turn into the early morning conclusion of a 2nd bottle of wine . . . making me a little tipsier than I had planned . . .

As I tried to play it cool and maintain my composure despite my flirty and giggly behavior . . . I began to feel the awkwardness of an evening dinner/turned early a.m. wine fest begin to descend upon the “friendly” fun and light atmosphere.

And then the inevitable question was imposed by R.D. . . .

“Wanna spend the night?”

To be continued . . .

- Lucky  

Copyright 2010, Converge Entertainment

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