The guy I suspected was my date parked his cherry red Miata next to my Honda. Feeling a queasy mixture of expectation and dread, I watched as he approached my open window with a self-assured gait.

“Curvy Kathy?” he asked with a half grin.

“That would be me, but my friends call me Kathy for short.” 

He laughed at my nervous chatter, which gave him immediate points in the plus column. 

“You must be Greg.” 

The initial glimpse of an online guy was always nerve wracking, not to mention his first sight of me.  But this one was cute.  At least during drinks I didn’t have to worry about staring at nose hairs or, worse yet, a nose ring.

He helped me out of my car while I tugged on my short black club dress. Climbing the steps to the Addison Pub, I glanced up at his profile and neatly trimmed, dark hair. Did I say cute?  Let me amend that to freakin’ hot. 

As he ushered me inside I felt him looking down on my exposed cleavage like he wanted to skip our first-meeting cocktails and jump right into the getting-to-know-you-better dessert. Actually, my low-cut neckline was on purpose. I hoped he’d be so dazzled by my ample, yet non-surgically enhanced breasts, that he’d be willing to overlook my equally ample hips and thighs.

The pub was packed so we sat at the bar.  At five-foot-two the climb to the top of a barstool with any kind of grace was a near-impossible task.  But my years of Internet first dates for drinks taught me to back up to the stool and climb the rungs backward. Strappy platforms also helped give me a boost.

Finally situated on my perch, with one sandal hooked through the footrest and the other leg crossed, I could relax. That is until the imminent slide to the floor, which depending on how strong the drinks were, could be iffy.

Amidst Dallas’ beautiful people we ordered drinks.  A bar was a ludicrous place for a first date. The live music and roar of the crowd made it impossible to talk; however the heavy bass resonating through my body felt exhilarating.  I was alive with possibilities, even more-so sitting shoulder to shoulder with hunky Greg.

He was soooo much better looking than his online picture.  When I’d downloaded it several weeks ago he looked pale and pudgy. In person he was tan and buff.   And to think I almost passed up this guy because he doesn’t know how to adjust contrast in Photoshop.

“Have you been here before?” he yelled, knocking back his first double scotch.

“A couple of times,” I screamed.  “It’s a fun place.”

I sucked down my melting frozen belini.  Brain freeze sent a piercing pain through my temples, but my contorted expression didn’t matter. I doubted Greg had gotten a good look at my face yet. He was still salivating over my cleavage.

I took in the scent of his intoxicating cologne as he leaned close to my ear. “You wanna get outta here?  Have some dinner where we can talk?”

“Sounds good.”

An offer for dinner was a definite step in the right direction.  Phase two of the online first meeting.

I struggled into his petite convertible, warring with my dress every inch of the way.  Fortunately the car’s top was up so I didn’t have to worry about my carefully turned-under tresses being blown to smithereens.  We drove a couple of blocks to Friday’s. It was crowded, but much calmer than the pub.  The hostess immediately seated us in a cozy booth.

“So, Kathy, where do you work?”

That was a little irritating.  Greg and I had spent many evenings over the last couple of weeks kibitzing online.  I knew his occupation, his pet peeves, his favorite position and his siblings’ names and ages.  The least he could do was remember where I worked.

“Pandora’s Box.com¾I’m an assistant buyer. Remember?”

There was absolutely no recollection in his well-chiseled face.

“They actually pay you to buy stuff?  What a perfect gig for a chick.”

What a sexist thing to say.  Besides that, I remembered my exact words when I explained the irony of being a buyer who didn’t like to shop.  I guess he’d gone to the bathroom or something while I was chattering away to an empty chair. 

“It’s a great place to work¾I’m just not happy with the opportunities for advancement.”

Jeez, this was starting to sound like a job interview.  Okay, so the guy had a lousy memory.  I could overlook that, especially when I took in his smoldering blue-gray eyes, even if they did always seem to be focusing downward.

The conversation stalled a few times, but overall we managed to keep things lively.  I ordered my usual soup and salad with light Italian dressing and no croutons.  He ordered about five double scotches and a steak.

“You know, Kathy, some of our chats really got me hot.”

Of course, he remembers our cyber flirting. 

“I try not to conjure up anything I can’t pull off in person--you know, no swinging from the chandelier.  I like to keep it real.”

“Oh, it was real alright,” he said as he began to slide his hand upward along the inside of my thigh.

“Greg, stop, really,” I whispered as I clamped my legs together. But he didn’t stop. I grabbed his hand and placed it firmly in his own lap. 

“Did you know I was spanking it during our sexy chat the other night?”

I knew guys did that, and I actually had no problem with it.  I was raised to be in touch with my sexuality.  But it was another story talking about it over dinner while a guy I just met was feeling me up.

“Look Greg, I’m no prude, but you need to slow down.”

“Give me a fucking break, Curvy,” he slurred.  “You’ve been teasing me for two weeks, not to mention all night with those beea-uuuu-tiful tits.”

His voice was too loud to be saying words like tits.  I looked around to see if anyone had heard.  I started to slide out of the booth, but he pulled me back.

“I promise to behave,” he said, lowering his voice. “Finish your salad and I’ll take you to your car.”

Marginally placated, I scooted over, but I knew the night was a goner. Gorgeous Greg would soon be stricken from my Buddy List forever.

He finally paid the check and led me to his car.  The last thing I wanted to do was go for a drive with Dr. Drunkyl & Mr. Hand, but I figured we couldn’t get into too much trouble in two blocks.

Back at the club parking lot he pulled in next to my car.  Pub patrons were hanging out on the patio in front of us. Someone had propped the door open so the blaring techno music invaded our awkward silence.  God, I couldn’t wait for this night to be over.

“Thanks for dinner,” I said, mustering as much sincerity as possible. “It was nice to finally meet you.”

“Don’t go just yet,” he begged.  He pawed my arm and pulled me away from the door.  “Don’t I get a li’l kiss?”

“I don’t think so.  I’m not really sensing the necessary chemistry.”

“Chemistry?” He wrestled me back and started kissing me with his hot, slobbery mouth.  “I’ll show you chemistry!”

While I struggled to get away, he forced his hand down my dress.   Scooping out my left boob, he exposed it to the torch-lit patio of drunken spectators.  As soon as he dove in for my nipple, I pulled it out of his mouth.  I stuffed it back in and lunged for the door. A squeak of panic rose from my throat as I extricated myself from his miniscule sports car.  My legs were weak, but I willed them toward my car.  Fumbling for the keys, I heard his electric window purr down behind me. 

“How would you know about chemistry,” he yelled.  “You’re just a fat bitch.”

Scrambling into the seat I heard patio partiers snicker. Avoiding eye contact with the beautiful people, I slammed the door, started the car and backed out.  By that time Greg had blessedly screeched away.  Not until I made a left onto Beltline, did I allow impatient tears to roll down my face. 

“So,” I said, sobbing from the anguish of sexual assault and a wounded pride, “that went well.”

***

katheryn meets gregory
peach schnapps meets scotch
just one more date
that’s bound to be botched
there’s room on his belt
for another new notch
as his warm hand slips slowly
up to my crotch
tall, drunken hunk
could not be more raunchy
i’d be better off
with an amputee who’s paunchy

kathy,
march 28

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