Should Have Passed on the Lo Mein

I was undeniably intoxicated. I drank a pitcher of Long Island Ice Tea, flirted, and giggled. I admired our waitress from London, casually mentioning to my date that she was the stuff of menage a trois. "I'd love to be an Oreo in that situation," he teased.

He taught me to use chopsticks. I had chopstick lessons before, but those were lessons of a different sort. That person didn't touch my fingers to show me how to hold the sticks. My date did--cradling my fingers with his, commenting on my long fingers. "Operate them just like a lever." I not-so-gracefully picked up the sushi and placed it in my mouth. He clapped. I brandished my chop sticks like a light saber, "Go me."

We talked for a while, and I continued to drink. He ordered another pitcher of Long Island Ice Tea. "This is going to be a promising night," he smiled, "better than watching baseball."

"You look lovely," he commented. I smiled and thanked him, as I do like the mauve lace tank top. "I'm not wearing a bra tonight," I stated, as if that tidbit of information was the content of regular conversation. He smiled. "Why don't we eat something to absorb some of that alcohol?"

I scanned Houlihan's menu and was not intrigued. "Let's go to Chinatown," I suggested, or at least I thought I did. Suddenly my tongue couldn't form words, although my mind was still scripting things. "I'm having trouble talking," I muttered. "And now you're the perfect date," he teased. "No Chinatown tonight, but we could go back to my place for Chinese." "OK, let's go."

We drove to the Chinese restaurant and placed our order. I chose shrimp lo mein because the words on the menu were swimming like the koi in the fishtank in front of the register. Every Chinese place has lo mein, so my inability to read the menu was no longer a problem. He ordered shrimp with black bean sauce. We had a fifteen minute wait. He placed his hand on my thigh as I tried to make sense of Nightline. "I hope this place is good," he commented, "lots of college kids come here." I asked if he was done with his classes, and he said no. He still needed to finish with French. So I started talking to him in French; our food arrived a few minutes later. "We need chopsticks," he mentioned when he paid. I giggled.

His apartment was freshly cleaned, but he worried about the bedroom. "Sit here and relax." I had already taken off my brown pumps to which he gave a thumbs down. "I much prefer your sexy strappy sandals," he remarked. I curled up on his leather sofa with my feet tucked beneath me, my brown and mauve chiffon skirt draped over the edge of the couch. I looked at his picture book of Chicago while he tidied up. I put SoapNet on the TV and yelled into the bedroom, "Aren't we going to watch a movie?" He brought out several to choose from, but then he mentioned he had Miami Vice Season One on DVD. "Ooh, let's watch that." I was starting to sober up a bit, a point not missed on him.

He went into the kitchen and made margaritas while I rested on the couch. I ran my fingers down the supple black leather and commented on how lovely his taste is. "Very modern; I like it," I mentioned. Out of the kitchen he came with a tray of our food, paper plates, and two margaritas. He handed me my drink, which tasted a bit strong. He then passed me the carton of lo mein, a paper plate, and chopsticks. He sat down next to me, and drank some of his drink. "Random episodes or in order?" he asked while pointing the remote to the TV. "Random." I sighed when Don Johnson came on--I still have a thing for him.

"You've got to try this shrimp;" he fed me from his chopsticks and we made eye contact. I finally looked away, "Look, it's Elvis, Sonny's pet alligator."  "I'll show you an alligator, little girl," he teased. He placed his arm around my shoulders, and I settled in.

"This is nice," I said. "Do you want another drink?" "No, I'm good," I replied. "Are you sure?" "There's enough tequila in here for two margaritas--I'm fine." "I didn't intentionally make it strong," he teased. I glanced up at the clock; it was 1:40. "Bullshit," I half teased/half stated the truth.

We finished watching the episode when he started kissing my neck. My body did not respond. He proceeded to nibble my ear lobes and whisper into them. My mind, still clouded from alcohol, challenged me, "He's kissing you, but you're thinking of your ghosts." And ghosts there were in that apartment--thoughts of ones before him, unrequited ones, and of boys from my college years. The problem was that it was he that was kissing me--and kiss me he did. His hands roamed; he bemoaned my stockings. Try as I might, even when my lace top came off, I could not engage in the moment. Something was not right. He pulled my hair to tilt my face to his. His lips felt alien, and I turned my head from him. His body was ready to go, but mine, well, mine was not. I sat up, as he had pushed me gently back on the couch. "It's getting late," I mentioned as I reached for my top, "and I really should be going."

No sooner had I made that comment when he grabbed my feet and started tickling them. I squirmed and laughed. "You're ticklish, I see." I asked him to stop. "And this tickle is for standing me up at the movie theater." I laughed at my payback, but I still didn't want to stay. "I really need to go."

He coldly gave me directions. "You're angry," I commented as I smoothed my skirt. "Not at all. Are you sure you have to leave?" "Yes, I have an early appointment for my car." He asked if I wanted to take my leftover lo mein with me; I shook my head no. "Call me when you get home."

I walked to my car and didn't regret my decision. What I needed was just to be held, and that was something that I knew wasn't going to sit well with him, so I left. He hasn't called me since I left his apartment. I just am not interested in him sexually, and I shouldn't be made to feel sorry for it.