Paul, I thought, was a dream come true. Everything I had ever hoped for, seemed to be embodied in him. My heart soared every time I thought of him. Zing!
Paul invited me to his beach house for dinner. He was going to cook. Wow. When I arrived, fresh cut flowers were on the table, the wine was breathing and mood music filled the air. I was impressed. The meal was incredible. The Cabernet tasted as if the grapes were grown for the soul purpose of creating a wine that would compliment our dinner. I was being wooed and I liked it.
As we sat there gazing into each other’s eyes, everything seemed so right until I began to ramble. I couldn’t help myself. My mind raced as I tried to think of clever anecdotes about myself to impress Paul. Instead, I blathered on with inappropriate and self-deprecating stories about my childhood pudginess and thick glasses. Besides, I was trying to picture him naked and was having trouble concentrating.
I was dying for him to touch me. I executed a combination hand-half-way-across-the-table with an interested lean. This particular maneuver is extremely difficult to do successfully. Precise angling, attitude, and timing are essential. You must lean your upper body inward, at just the right angle (approximately forty-five degrees), while maintaining hand placement and eye contact. The weight is shifted laterally onto one buttock. It is crucial that the correct buttock is selected. Optimum head and face placement to receive a kiss is the goal. For maximum benefit, lower the eyelids, part the lips slightly and execute a single heavy inhale-exhale combination.
Finally, Paul took my hand, drew me close and kissed me. I nearly fell off of the chair and under the table. I suddenly felt flush. My palms got clammy, my heart was leaping and my stomach was churning. Wait. I began to wonder, Was this supposed to be happening? Was he the one?
Paul suggested that we go for a walk along the beach. As we removed our shoes and placed them on the porch, I began to fantasize about the movie, “From Here to Eternity.” Paul would be Burt Lancaster, I would be Deborah Kerr and the gentle waves would roll over our entwined bodies as we kissed in the surf.
We walked hand-in-hand as the surf rushed over our feet. Everything seemed so perfect. The fresh air snapped me back into reality and I realized that my stomach was feeling unusually queasy. Was it the romance? No. It was the dinner. Nausea began to overtake me. I felt dizzy. I started to cramp and broke into a sweat. Oh no. I tried to think it away. The gurgling from my stomach and the hot flashes were eventually overtaken by the crashing waves of nausea. I fell to my knees and proceeded to pollute the ocean in my own special way.
When I came to, I realized that I was sprawled out and the surf was lapping up my, now ruined, suede dress. I was soaking wet and covered with sand, seaweed and various non-biodegradable items. I lifted my head and searched for Paul. He was sitting on a sand dune about thirty feet away. When he saw me moving, he stood up and walked toward me. I was hoping for compassion. Instead, he was disgusted and angry.
In a sarcastic tone he asked, “Now, was that necessary? You certainly know how to ruin an evening. I suppose you’re too sick to have sex tonight.”
What? I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. What a Jackass!
Without help from Paul, the king of concern, I pulled myself to my feet. I stumbled down the beach in an effort to catch up with Paul, who kept pace about ten feet ahead of me. I felt my body becoming chaffed by the wet suede and sand.
When we arrived at his house, Paul handed me my shoes and told me to wait outside while he got my purse. He didn’t want me to “drip” on his carpeting.
After receiving my purse, I walked, alone, to my car, Paul went inside the house, dead-bolted the door and turned out the porch light. He acted as if I had maliciously and intentionally become violently ill in an effort to destroy his sex quota. Of course, at that moment, I wished that I had. I felt another wave of nausea come over me. I desperately looked around for a place to heave. Then I spotted it. With my hand covering my nose and mouth, I made a mad dash for the porch. I took careful aim and then vomited in Paul’s loafers.