Moving Right Along

Okay, I plan to finish my Meet Story this week. I think there will be two more posts about Tom and I, and one just about Janet. There will be a couple more pictures. I also have to gather myself to post a picture of the old, chubby me that I am now—never fun, but there it is.

I also want to welcome one new person to this blog. Yes, Mr. Swami has followed a trail of breadcrumbs and is now reading his story along with you! I think he planned to let me finish telling the story before he let on, but last night out of the blue he remarked on the Red Dress. So I figured that out right away, lol. I will punish him with my next photo—oh yes I will!


Part III. Dating Games, Mating Games.

I left off last time when Tom figured out I was not wearing panties and we made love for the first time. Oh, it was so wonderful! I thought we had connected on every level—social, spiritual and physical! He said he would call of course, and I was really looking forward to getting to know him.

On Monday morning I meet up with Janet right away so we can discuss the date. Janet is my designated expert on men and we do a play-by-play rehash of the date. I ask Janet, “So, when do you think he will call?” I know she will think just about what I think—but it is always nice to have your friend confirm things.

Janet thinks that today (Monday) would be too soon. He wouldn’t want to look desperate. Tuesday or Wednesday seem like the best days to expect a call. I agree.

And so it begins.

Tuesday, he doesn’t call. I am a little bummed because I was hoping he would be so eager to see me again that he couldn’t wait. Janet and I are not worried yet.

Wednesday, he doesn’t call. I am very disappointed. Gol-darn! That was the day to do it!

Thursday, he doesn’t call. I am starting to get a bad feeling. Janet tries to reassure me by saying, well, sometimes men are idiots. They don’t want to look needy so their timing is bad. But we both know that the chances of him ever calling back are dropping fast. She asks if I want to go clubbing with her on Friday but I say no. After all, he could still call—right? Janet says “Right. Well, maybe he’ll call next week sometime.” I agree. Janet looks at me compassionately because we both know that I have probably been used and dumped.

Friday, he doesn’t call.

Saturday (my last hope) he doesn’t call.

I am so freaking mad! How DARE he use me like that! How DARE he!?! I thought he liked me. I sure liked him! I think there is no worse feeling on this planet than thinking you have connected with someone then finding out you were just a one-night stand, another notch on the old gun, fucked and dumped. So I am so mad and sad and depressed. You would never know this to look at me because I rarely act dramatically when things don’t go my way. I just carry on.

By Sunday, I am resigned. Maybe he will call again some day, maybe not. But whenever or if ever—our first sex date just wasn’t what I thought it would be.

Sunday night, about 9:30 p.m., Tom calls. I pick up the phone.

Me: “Hello?”

Him: “Hi, it’s Tom.”

Me: “Oh. Hi,”

Him: “I was just thinking about you and I wondered if you wanted some company tonight?” This was said in his best charming and sexy voice. And I? Go ballistic!!!!!

“What are you talking about! All week long you don’t call and now you want to come over for sex!?!?! Who the hell do you think you are! What kind of a person do you think I am!” And on and on I ranted at him. I can’t really remember exactly what I said or how much I swore at him, but I was so obviously furious!

Him: “Oh. Sorry.”

Me: “You should be! Don’t you ever do that again!”

Him: “Okay. So, can I come over?”

Me: “Yes. But don’t ever do that again!!!”

I think he gets to my house a little after 10 p.m., and we go straight upstairs, lol. And yes, all the bells ring and all the fireworks go off. Tom is perfect for me—just perfect. Tom is a former national champion collegiate athlete and in those days he is still lifting weights and stuff. He has a body Michelangelo might have sculpted, and the kindest eyes in the world. He is also so warm and caring! I think that is the night I fell in love with him. I sure never looked at or slept with another man from that moment to this!

So we settle into a routine of dating. He meets my friends; I meet his friends, etc.

On Friday nights we often go out for drinks and dinner with the folks from his CPA firm. I can’t remember the name of the restaurant in Minneapolis we usually go to, but it is one of those upscale places with lots of ferns and hot waitresses. The CPAs are not at all what I expect. I’m thinking accountants are dull but these guys are wild yahoos! I am used to hanging out with lab people and doctors, so CPAs are a breath of fresh air to me!

Like, when it comes time to settle up the bill. Lab people and Docs are mostly good tippers and just throw in money. At least half of the CPAs calculate the division of the bill down to an exact decimal. They seem to be generally chintzy tippers, and one guy (who is a nephew or something of the Senior Partner) always tries to get out of paying. I mean always! But they are a fun group.

On week-ends we do a lot of physical things—biking, canoeing, like that. Tom meets my Sierra Club friends. We go canoe-camping a few times. We both like live theater. Tom gets on fine with my daughter and she seems to really like him.

Eventually, we meet each other’s families. I give him a key to my house and he moves in about one year after our first date. We are a couple.

Here is a picture of Tom and me taken during our second summer together. I think my brother took it. Isn’t Tom gorgeous?














Next time, I’ll talk about Janet.

This may be a photo

of me and the Beautiful Child, taken a few months before I met Tom. If there is nothing here feel free to point and laugh.



Oh look, I got code this time! Maybe there will be a photo. If there is, thank Lights. I think I just did what I tried to do before, but then my process had not been blessed by Lights. That must be the missing step.

Meet Story, Part 2. First Date, First Kiss, Etc.

Tom picks me up at about six thirty and we head out for the hour or so drive to Lake Minnetonka. I am all excited because I am off to a new place with what seems like a nice guy, and I am wearing my hot new dress.

Tom is driving an older Buick Cutlass. When I get in the car the floor mat kind of smooshes and moves around funny under my feet. I look down and see a bunch of coins. “Oh,” I say. “You dropped some change down there!”

“Oh,” he answers, “I hate carrying change so I always just throw it under the floor mat on the passenger side. I’ll clean it out eventually.”

I tip the floor mat back with my sexy gold heel. There is maybe an inch and half deep layer of coins on the floor or his car. Okay; that’s weird. Maybe the guy isn’t such a catch after all. What kind of idiot throws change on the floor until it is inches deep?

His car engine makes a weird sound and he says something about some engine part maybe going bad, and hopes it will hold up. It starts to rain lightly. Even though it is June, his windshield fogs. The wipers don’t work well. He is out of washer fluid. He sticks one hand out the window and wipes at the windshield while we fly along the freeway. He seems to be alternately accelerating and decelerating. I think I start gritting my teeth.

Then he really pushes my buttons. He drives in the passing lane the whole way! For no reason!!! I hate that and can’t stop myself from asking why he is driving in the wrong lane. He says that way he never has to worry about people trying to merge into his lane. Drove of people are passing us on the right, and I am going nuts because I CAN’T STAND LEFT LANE DRIVERS! He can’t see out his windshield and he’s driving like a madman. Plus? I think he senses that I am not very happy because he starts talking way too much, babbling on about the strange fog and his reluctant window wipers and how he can’t remember exactly where it is we’re going!

Yes, Tom has left his invitation at home. He can’t remember the name of the yacht club or where exactly on Lake Minnetonka it is. His plan is that we will just find the right place because that’s how it goes. Again, I go crazy because *I* always have a map and addresses with directions and phone numbers and all kinds of resources when I go somewhere.

I make a mental vow that I will never go out with this idiot again. Never!

Amazingly he suddenly says “This looks like it!” pulls across two lanes of traffic and just like that we are off the freeway and in the parking lot of the yacht club. It stops raining and the sun comes out. Just. Like That.

The parking lot is very full but we find a spot and walk in. Tom introduces me to a couple of people, but with a funny, tight and rather uncomfortable smile. Several people look at me with the oddest expression on their face. I can’t figure it out. I am in a strapless red dress, but it doesn’t have a plunging neckline or anything—it is a straight-across, all-cleavage-covered kind of cut. I am entirely decent. My hair is combed; there’s nothing in my teeth; I can’t figure it out. Year later I would finally discover that when he took me to the yacht club Tom had been separated from his wife for all of two weeks. Two. Whole. Weeks. For most of the wives there, meeting me was the same moment they learned that Tom and his first wife had broken up! No wonder they looked at me like I was some kind of pro. I am there with a married man, wearing a strapless red dress and fuck-me shoes! Kind of funny, in retrospect.

We find some people to socialize with. The food buffet is fabulous! I eat a little and have a couple of Bloody Marys. (I drink Bloody Marys because they match my dress, lol.) We walk out on the dock and look at some of the boats. Minnetonka is a huge lake—just huge—so there are any number of very expensive boats pulled up, some with parties on board. We watch the sun set from the end of the dock before rejoining the CPA’s party. It turns out to be a great evening and I have a wonderful time with Tom.

The ride home goes well. No fog, no rain, no wiper problems—even his driving seems improved! Tom is charming. So I forget all my earlier reservations about his being an idiot and we agree to go on a picnic the next afternoon. I will supply the picnic basket, with all the plates & silverware & napkins & stuff. We will stop at a deli and pick up some food to put in the basket.

Tom walks me to my front door. I decide to not invite him in, but I give him that kiss-me look and so we have our first kiss, that all-important first kiss—the one where you test the waters, or the pheromones, or whatever it is that makes one kiss perfection and another kiss just wet lips on yours.

Mmmmmmmmmm—this is a kiss! All my body parts line up with his body parts just right. He tastes just right. His arms around me are just right. He doesn’t try to play grab-ass or anything else; just gives himself to the kiss. Perfection.

Oh, one funny thing. At some point during the kiss I decide to run my tongue along the lines of his teeth. Beginning with his top teeth I trace the line where his teeth meet the gum, from the backmost tooth around to his front teeth and then on to the other side and back again. Soft gums, hard teeth, mmmm. He likes this. When I switch to his lower teeth he gets suddenly stiff. Same thing, I start at a back molar and trace around the gum line until I get to the front, when suddenly there is nothing—no front teeth, just a gaping hole! I remember stopping and thinking “Okay, this is awkward. Guy has no teeth!” But I am already committed so I finish the maneuver with his lower teeth.

We break off the kiss for a minute and he gives me such a strange, almost guilty look.

“You don’t have teeth?” I ask. (Yeah, I know—that sounds like a stupid and rude question. And it probably was. But I was pretty surprised at the time and missing teeth was not a situation I had ever encountered before. So the question just fell from my lips.)

“They were knocked out by an oar,” he answers.

I look at him blankly. Who gets their teeth knocked out by an oar? What the hell kind of story is that?

Then he explains—he used to row Crew for Rutgers and his teeth were knocked out when one of his team mates mishandled an oar. He had a bridge to replace those teeth, but it had cracked a day or so before and he was getting a new bridge made. So I said the first thing I could think of, which was “I have two capped teeth!”

So I showed him my two capped teeth, and he showed me his gaping hole and we discussed dentition for a while. Romantic, huh? But it was a strangely intimate thing to do, standing close there in the dark, on my front stoop, looking into each other’s mouths. It also explained his uncomfortable smile as he introduced me at the club—he was trying to cover up his temporary problem!

After we had settled our oral hygiene issues we kissed a couple of more time, nice soft smooches, no deep explores, and he said goodnight.

----------------

The next day, a Sunday, I decide on wearing a 3-tiered skirt with matching blouse in shades of deep blues and purples on a black background. Possibly, this is a prairie skirt thing (!!!) although we didn’t call them that. They were just an in-style look, circa 1980. It is a hot day so rather than wear my hair loose as I usually did on a date, I pull it back into a ponytail and tie it with a big, silk hair scarf. Anyone remember those?

Also, at the last minute I decide to go without panties. This is something I often did on a date because it just gives me a nice edge of naughtiness or something. Maybe a Mona Lisa smile thing—I know I have no panties on, but you don’t (yet).

We go for a picnic supper at the Lake of the Isles. (When they say Minnesota has 10,000 lakes they are not kidding. And Lake of the Isles is one of the more popular of the seven large lakes within the city limits of Minneapolis). We walk around the lake for a while, then find a nice spot to spread the tablecloth I have brought.

We have such a good time, just sitting and chatting. I get to be Mona Lisa, sitting on the ground in constant danger of flashing my naked crotch. Tom gets to pull out his pocket knife and demolish the cork in the wine bottle since neither of us had thought of a corkscrew. We drink wine from Dixie cups, spitting out the odd bit of cork. It is such a sweet date. And the funny thing? Less than a year and a half later we would buy our first house together about 4 blocks from where we sat down for the picnic!

So we get back to my house early, and this time I do invite him in. My daughter is at her dad’s house; we have the place all to ourselves. We sit on the couch and start making out. Kiss, touch, first base, second base—like that. When I finally let him discover that I have no panties on, the expression on his face is glorious! He has no idea that sometimes women don’t wear panties.

I decide to show him the rest of the house, beginning with my bedroom. Oh, he is so much fun to play with! No hang-ups, no awkwardness, just sweet and generous all the way. We undress each other and fool around. Tom is an old college jock who still works out. He has a marvelous body, such strong and perfect legs. I am a sucker for sculpted legs. He has a nice amount of curly black chest hair—another plus. And? His dick is my favorite size, lol. Right before he enters me for the first time I finally see him truly naked—he puts one hand on each side of my face, looks at me with such intensity I can barely stand it and says “Oh, God. I NEED you!”

It is good to be needed.


…to be continued.

My Meet Story, as promised

I am calling this a "temporary blog" because I'm not sure I want to committ, lol. Not that I have committment issues--I just have blogging issues. But I promised to tell my Meet story, so here it is and now Bob can check me off.

I apologize if the font looks funny and template stuff is all rough around the edges. I have no idea what I am doing. I actually found one or two photos I wouldn't mind posting but I have no idea how to do that either! So I'll just start my story...


Part 1. A Little Back-story, and the First Meet.

This story will begin in the 80s. Well, maybe the late 70s/early 80s. There is no Internet, no cell phones. Practically no one owns a computer and the words ‘going commando’ have not yet entered the language. We still go commando now and then, we pioneers of pantilessness, but we don’t have a cool word for it! Sex is pretty much assumed part of any relationship. AIDS is (at least according to popular misconception) a disease of gay men and we never worry about it. Mr. Goodbar is a Hollywood fiction. All a girl really needs for protection are her diaphragm and her wits.

In the late 70s and early 80s I am a young woman living on my own with a small child. I have a good job at the University of Minnesota. I am divorced from the absent-minded, very sexist professor I accidentally married when I was a teen. I own my own house in a nice suburb. I have a smart, well socialized child, and no debts beyond my mortgage. I am fiercely independent. I’ve tried marriage and it sucks. I am not looking for a husband but I do want a man in my life

On Friday nights I usually go clubbing with my best friend Janet. We have three or four favorite nightclubs down on the 494 strip in Bloomington, practically in the shadow of the old Vikings stadium. Nothing is more fun than dressing to the nines (or maybe the elevens!) and hitting some nightclubs with Janet.

Janet is one of the beautiful people of this world. Startlingly, aching beautiful. Kind of like Kiera Knightly, only prettier. I am pretty enough to look good with Janet, lol. Both of us are 5’10”, only interested in tall guys and so we wear high heels without hesitation. Depending on the height of our heels we are 6 ft. to 6 ft. 2”! I wish I had a photo of the two of us from those days, but there are none. Much of the time we don’t have to pay a cover charge for the club, the doorman guy just waves us in. Okay, mostly he waves Janet in—but I get to tag along!

It’s starting to sound like I hooked up with someone every Friday (and I guess that would make a more exciting story) but mostly Friday Night is about dressing hot, feeling hot, and having drinks with Janet. And dancing, of course. Damn, disco dancing is fun! Rarely, someone we consider date-worthy will appear. Mostly we drink and talk and dance. Guys almost always ask Janet to dance first, then ask me. Somehow this never bothers me. If I were a guy I would ask Janet first too, lol. She is ungodly gorgeous.

I also belong to three Singles Clubs and do a lot of activities – biking, canoeing, hiking, skiing, dancing – with them. By 1980 I may have met every single guy in Minnesota! Or so it seems at the time. I’ve dated maybe a dozen guys and been disappointed maybe a dozen times. I have dumped a few guys and been dumped once myself. I am still looking for The One. And I can’t find him!

In desperation, I turn to the newest, trendiest way to meet people. I take out a Personal Ad. This sounds so tame now, but in 1980 it is an extremely radical and crazy thing to do. So radical and crazy that I tell no one but Janet. But the guys I am looking for evidently do not hang out in discos, and the single clubs are mostly meat markets of the worse type. This is my ad, in the Twin Cities Reader (don’t laugh):

SWF 29 5’10” 140 lbs, waist length wavy brown hair. Seeks SM 6’+, 25-40. Likes biking, canoeing, hiking, reading & dancing. Reply to Box # 1234.

Man, I sweat blood over the wording of that ad! And I am so worried that somebody (like maybe my mother) will find out that I am advertising myself to men in the newspaper! Taking out a personal ad seems like part act of desperation, part Brave New World.

Most ads are far racier than mine. I know this. But I am not looking for just a sex partner. I am looking for a full and complex real person. I get 17 letters to box #1234. Some guys send me interesting photos of themselves. Head shots. Full body shots. One guy sends a photocopied generic reply. I figure he must respond to every ad every week! I get a letter from a guy who says he is only 5’6” but he loves tall women – just loves them. As if I care! Can you see the trend here? Most letters go straight into the trash. I pick out five that seem to have possibilities and start calling the phone numbers they have sent. I arrange to meet my first chosen ones at the Ground Round, a hamburger/sports bar fairly near my house.

Guy #1 creeps me out big time. I am boobs on a bar stool to him. If the bartender had lopped my head off with a machete this guy would have barely noticed. He was too busy looking at my nipples and crotch. I give him a fake phone number and drive 10 circuitous extra miles on my way home, being very sure that no one is following me. Not a good beginning for my Personals quest.

Guy #2 is late. I am ever so punctual and arrive right on time wearing whatever it is I said I would be wearing, and wait at the bar. After about 8-10 minutes this guy gets up from a table of four guys and comes over. He’s my guy. I am moderately annoyed. Not because he decided to check me out first, but because he brought three (three!) buddies along to help him check. It just seems a bit excessive. I wish that I could know what all they said during those 8-10 minutes that I was under the microscope! Still, he is a very good looking blue-eyed blonde and just over 6 feet. We chat for a while and he seems pretty nice. He invites me to go target shooting. I explain I don’t like guns and don’t want to do that but I am open to just about anything else. He talks about how fun target shooting is and invites me to go target shooting. I tell him again I don’t like guns. He says he would like to go out, maybe we can do something else. I give him my real phone number. He calls the next night and invites me to go target shooting. GAH! Strike out guy #2.

Guy #3 takes over the conversation and interviews ME, but nicely. He laughs when I point this out and apologizes. He seems nice, says he is still married but in the process of getting a divorce. I understand, since the paperwork to get a divorce finalized takes about a year in Minnesota (at that time). And besides – I am now desperate to find at least one decent person from my Personal Ad so I don’t feel like a total fool. I decide to meet him after work at the Improper Fraction, a bar near my job. I wear a blue skirt with a tuck in sleeveless floral print blouse. He tells me his name is Tom

I see him as soon as he walks in the door of the Fraction. He doesn’t hesitate or waffle around or make a big effort to look cool. He just walks right up to me, extends his hand and says, “Hi. I’m Tom.”

I like his smile. I guess him at 6’3.” He is wearing a nice light gray suit with a tone-on-tone white shirt, blue striped tie and perfectly polished, deep oxblood-red Florsheims. This? Is a man.

We order some house wine and chat. Tom is a CPA, a Junior in one of the big accounting firms in downtown Minneapolis. He smiles and laughs easily, glances at but does not stare at my body, and just seems comfortable in his skin. He is more tough looking than handsome, but I like that look. He has a full head of curly black hair, a fairly dark complexion and a prominent nose. He also has a great body!

We find lots of things to talk about. Turns out, his CPA firm is having some kind of big dinner party at one of the ritzy yacht clubs over on Lake Minnetonka that Saturday, and Tom invites me. I say yes, of course. I have just bought a gorgeous strapless red sundress I am dying to wear, and the yacht club sounds perfect. Plus I can wear my highest heels!

Saturday, I dress carefully. I don’t have a bra that works with the dress, so I go braless. I am so in love with my dress! It is a bit tight, being one size smaller than I usually buy, but I love it so. It is some kind of stretchy material (not spandex, lol) with narrow horizontal stripes in several shades of tomato red. I put on my highest shoes—strappy, red, patent leather sandals with gold-toned metal details on the straps that criss-cross my feet and then wrap around my ankles. Best yet? The 4” heels are gold metal! I feel so hot.

The doorbell rings. I slowly count to ten then go answer the door. Tom is dressed a bit more casually than I would have liked but damned if I am going to take off The Dress! We get in his car.

…to be continued.