“As much as it pains me to do so, I have to agree. I’ve got to get up in the morning as well and go suck on the tit of corporate America.”
“I’ve never heard it put quite that way before,” Kyle said with a look of astonishment on his face. “Not overly fond of what you do?”
“Not at the moment, no. I’m good at it, and I do it very well, and I get paid really well for what I do, but I’ve done it for a while.” I stopped myself. “No. You don’t need to hear about that. We need to get you home and into bed so you can get some sleep and get up to be a responsible adult in the morning.”
We tossed some cash onto the table to cover our dinner and drinks and then made our way out to the street. The sun was long gone, and the chill of an early fall evening permeated the air.
I stuck out my hand to Kyle, but he simply opened his arms and drew me into a big hug. Okay, now, this was really unexpected. Hmmm, straight men don’t initiate hugs with other men. Hmmm. Collecting data. Collecting data. Analysis failed due to testosterone overload. My lips were now closer to those nipples that had taunted me earlier, but unfortunately they were all covered in cloth—not quite as appealing, but my dirty mind had made photographic imprints of the little orbs of delight for posterity. I lost myself in his arms, savoring the joy of being so close to Mr. Perfect. I was convinced that I was about to wake up and discover that this had all been a dream and that I was really an old troll who only got near cute men by stalking and waylaying them.
“Call me, please?” Kyle asked as he stepped back from the unexpected embrace.
“I would,” I said with a smile, “if I had your phone number, or your name so I could find your phone number, or knew anything about who you really are. I know that the godlike beings such as yourself don’t like to reveal much about their true identities when they walk among us mere mortals. I’d love to call you if you’d help me out a little.”
“I still think you’re delusional when you say things like that.” Kyle laughed. He pulled a business card from his gym bag and wrote a number on the back. “That’s my cell. It’s always with me, but I can’t answer when I’m doing morning rounds, talking with a patient, or in blood and guts up to my elbows.”
“You’re a doctor?” Didn’t see that one coming, but then I hadn’t seen any of this coming.
“Yes. Just finished my residency. I promise to tell you all about it if you’re interested. Have dinner with me again so we can talk some more?”
“Yes. It’s a date.”
“Great! Night,” he said as he galloped off into the dark to go to his extra-long bed and get some Tall Man sleep. Me, I stood there on the street corner, completely befuddled. Testosterone coursed through my veins. My vision was all fuzzy. Nipples. Sweat. God among men. No. Home.
Somehow I got myself moving down the street in the proper direction and made it to my apartment. I hadn’t been inside more than five minutes before the residents from the lower quarters stood up and demanded attention. Knowing that I would never be able to do anything else until I had dealt with this, I sat on the sofa, leaned back, closed my eyes, and pictured my own Greek God Come Down from the Heavens in all his naked, sweaty, dripping, smiling, laughing glory. I had one of the fastest orgasms of my life—partly because he’d kept me on the edge for so many hours by being all perfect and talking with me for so long. What a day!
Chapter 3
The next morning I was confronted with that age-old dilemma, that dilemma that would determine the future course of events: how soon is too soon to call for a second date? In fact, had we even had a first date? I hoped so. I really, really hoped so. And I also hoped that he was willing to put out on the second date. Either that or I might possibly hump his or some other random man’s leg without intending to do so.
Rather than let testosterone rule the day—yeah, right! Like that had a snowball’s chance in hell of happening!—I decided to approach this decision carefully, analytically, and act only after giving the subject careful consideration. Let’s see. He had told me he was a doctor and that he had to cover the early shift starting at 7:00 a.m. So when did doctors have breaks to make phone calls? Did he work in a hospital? Or did he have an office-based practice? What was his specialty? Crap! So many questions with so very few answers. I needed more data, a lot more data. So much for the careful analytical approach. Unintentionally score two points for testosterone.
Since logical analysis had failed me so utterly, I decided to split the difference between two big benchmarks of 8:00 and noon and call him at 10:00 a.m. By then I had been at work for an hour, had checked my e-mail, dealt with the minor crises that had arisen, and was already bored—and distracted. Visions of the nipples on the man and his perfect penis kept leaping in the front of my brain, blocking out other thoughts.
So at ten o’clock I closed my office door, took out my cell phone, and dialed the number Kyle had given to me the night before. I said a few hundred silent prayers to any god that might be listening that the man himself would answer his phone. No such luck. Voice mail. I despised voice mail. The thing was a part of the modern
