“You’re an accountant. An accountant who doesn’t happen to be very good with money.”
“It’s not my fault the real estate--”
“This is the deal of the century, and you’re about to turn it down!” he practically shouted in my ear.
“He didn’t say we’d have…” I started then stopped. It was assumed we’d have sex. He wouldn’t suddenly become all shy on me. Would he?
“You’re really going to turn him down?”
“Yes, Peter, I am. I’m not gonna marry some hooker and live happily ever after.”
“Have you learned nothing from me? There are other things to do with a man besides marry him.” He sighed heavily. “Sometimes I think deep down inside you’re a lesbian.”
I said a hasty goodbye. About thirty seconds later, I called Eddie and invited him to my house for dinner that night.
Chapter Three
After work, I ran to Ralph’s and picked up a few things for dinner. Cooking without a kitchen is a challenge, but I’d been dealing with it for more than a year, so I’d come up with a few decent dishes. That night I would make microwaveable brown rice, pre-cooked chicken strips, and semi-steamed veggies. The stainless steel refrigerator that sat in what would someday be the dining area would hold the salad and a nice bottle of white wine.
When I got home, I changed quickly and had just enough time to work up a good case of nerves before Eddie arrived. I did a mental inventory on the necessities. I had at least six condoms and an economy-sized bottle of lube. I wore the same pair of designer underwear I’d worn before, figuring this time they might actually get seen.
Suddenly, I had an uncomfortable feeling. This was a date. A date like any other date and was now subject to all the same confusions and insecurities I’d been experiencing all year. Had I ruined things by saying yes? Would it be an incredible disaster? I decided to jump onto the Internet and read some dating dos and don’ts. If nothing else, that would give me ideas in case things got uncomfortable. Some of them seemed actually helpful. Maintain eye contact. That was probably good. Though sociopaths seem to know that instinctively, and I didn’t want to look like a nut job. I’d maintain some eye contact. Reasonable eye contact. Don’t talk about your ex. I’d screwed that one up in the past, so I already knew better. Well, most of the time I knew better. No sex on the first date. Clearly, that ship had sailed. Of course, most advice columnists would tell you not to date sex workers, so--
The doorbell rang. When I answered, Eddie walked in with his portable massage table, his duffle and small overnight bag. The overnight bag was a little presumptuous. I mean, I was pretty sure that we’d be having sex, and I’m sure he was, too. But staying over. Well, that was a little intimate, wasn’t it?
And the table was odd. A date implied something different than a rub and tug, didn’t it? I wondered if it was a fetish thing with him to always be using the table, but then Peter’s voice popped into my head reminding me that the evening was free. I shouldn’t complain. The worst that would happen to me was that I’d get for free what I’d paid a hundred and forty bucks plus tip for a couple weeks before.
Eddie gave me his crooked smile, except this time it was different. It was shy, almost nervous. Like he was afraid I wouldn’t even let him in. He looked pretty much the same. Maybe a little tired. He wore a tight pair of Levi’s and a thin, brown turtle neck sweater. He hadn’t shaved, and the dark stubble made him sexier.
“You gonna invite me in?” he asked.
“Oh, sorry,” I said, quickly stepping out of his way. “Come on in, please.”
He set the table and his bag near the front door, then grabbed my collar and pulled me down for a quick, friendly kiss. His tongue slipped into my mouth and explored. I allowed myself to enjoy this for a moment, then pushed him away. A date should have some kind of other activity before the sex starts. As I led him into the house, he hooked a finger into my belt loop. I glanced back at him and laughed.
“You’re nervous,” he said. “So am I.”
He didn’t seem nervous. In fact, he seemed completely in control. But why would he feel like he was in control? This wasn’t--wait, I was over-thinking this, just like Peter said. I needed to relax and go with it.
“How about some wine?” I asked.
“Yum.”
I pulled together the bottle of wine, a corkscrew and a couple glasses. Eddie was inches away as I did. I led him into the living room. Aside from the disruption of the construction, the room looked pretty much as it had since Jeremy and I moved in. Early on we’d spent an entire day on furniture row in West L.A. in order to find the least expensive, most comfortable black leather sofa the city had to offer. I complemented the sofa with a couple of wooden, vaguely Chinese chairs I’d found at an import shop for a very low price. Beneath the chairs and the sofa was an area rug with a geometric pattern. A glass coffee table and two Jackson Pollock prints on the walls finished off the room. Trespassing slightly into the room was a Danish modern dining table found at a garage sale. Jeremy and I had spent an entire weekend recovering the chairs (with a fair amount of fighting) in a pattern similar to the living room’s area rug.
“What happened to your kitchen?” Eddie asked, as I opened the wine.
Nervously, I dumped out the story of my thieving ex. I knew better than to talk about Jeremy, and not just because I’d just read it on the Internet, I’d watched as previous dates had mentally stamped BAGGAGE
