Chet leaned across the restaurant table, looked deeply – and of course longingly – into my eyes and said, “I want to be your lover.” Then he kissed me.
This was our second date.
I knew from the moment I met him earlier in the evening that this was his intention, without his having to say a word.
Did I know it consciously? Could I have articulated this knowledge? Probably not.
But my body knew it. That carefully calibrated tuning fork made up of my skin, my blood and my nerves started vibrating as soon as I greeted him where he stood, waiting for me in the theater lobby.
What caused all that commotion, that furious vibrating? Waves. Waves of
testosterone. Aimed at me. Rolling over me, seeping into my pores. Addling my brain.
That’s exactly what it did. All that male drug directed at me
totally addled my brain. Decades, literally decades, make that more than two decades, had passed since I last experienced the full force of the hormones of a new man focused on me. The waves swept away the whole persona of calmness and coolness I usually project, leaving behind a jittery,
over-bright, overly talkative, silly me.
Right before the lights dimmed and the orchestra struck up the first notes of the overture, he announced, “We’re going to have to delay our plans to go out dancing. I injured my shoulder this week.”
Sympathy was called for, so I said. “That’s too bad. What happened?”
“I over did it at the gym. I just met this beautiful woman…” Here he paused, looked in my eyes and smiled so I couldn’t misunderstand to whom he referred. “…and I want to look my best for her.”
The orchestra saved me from having to respond. That simple remark, flattering as it was, threw me into a greater tizzy. That was exactly what my ex-husband had done. When we went out on our second date, Alan announced that he was on a diet.
He didn’t say why, made no comment about meeting a beautiful woman, but
the implication was clear.
Alan sent about the same dosage of hormones my way on that second date as Chet did. The big difference was that in Alan’s case it was completely and joyfully reciprocated. With Chet, the flow was one way. My confusion and mindless babbling – I’d be embarrassed to reconstruct that evening’s conversation – were all a result of his chemistry, not mine.
I continued to feel off balance through the intermission, as we walked to the restaurant, and on through dinner. It all culminated with me making our waitress cry.
She was exceptional, that woman; attentive, tactful, efficient, capable of ignoring the kissing going on at her corner table.
I was hyper aware of her, this attractive, thirty-something woman, in the way we are when our senses are over stimulated, when we’re high on a drug.
So, when she brought the check, I gave her my warmest smile and said, “Thank you for being such a wonderful part of our evening. You’ve worked so hard and so smart to make this the best dinner for us. I admire your gracious ease at your job”
When she came back with the credit card slip, she said, “I told the kitchen staff what you told me. No one has ever said anything like that before. I started crying in the kitchen”
With that, her eyes welled up. Chet said, “She’s got a good heart, our Georgia.” To which the waitress replied, “It’s in your eyes, your bright eyes.”
Ah, dear readers, what a person will do when under the influence of a
drug. Even if it’s someone else’s. What was I to do? What would you have done? (ahem…What have you done?!?) Stay tuned to the Vixen to hear more about Chet.