Tall Order

The gauze top eyes me from the chair that I carelessly draped it over as I search my lingerie drawer for its necessary partner, a black lace camisole.   I have no problem with see-through--I can pull a Terri Hatcher--it's just that I don't want to be that blatant.  I'm subtle.  I'm all about subtle.

It's in my laugh or the way my fingers move slowly across the stem of my martin glass.  It's the way I make eye contact searching for a response to a more than slightly provocative question.  It's in the way I nibble my bottom lip when nervous.  It's the way I feel when my toes are painted Opi "I'm Not Really a Waitress Red:" elegant, but slightly trashy.

Item found, I breathe an audible sigh of relief.  I thought the camisole might be in the delicates pile to be washed, but it's not.  I put on some Billie Holiday as I take my shower; I let the steam caress me and I wash myself gently, deliberately.  Toweling off I spritz myself with body oil and enjoy the sheen on my pale legs.  I don't allow myself to see imperfections; I can't be sexy if I'm thinking I should have visited a tanning salon.

The phone rings.

For a brief moment I let my mind wander to whom I would like it to be on the other end.  Right now there are two options, neither of which have any likelihood of happening, so I suck it up and attempt to enjoy the person on the other end.

I laugh--wait, it's more like a throaty chortle--when you ask me how you will know  it's me at the bar.  "You'll know--I'll be wearing a black gauze top and a gold heart locket that nestles just so in my cleavage.  You'll find me, trust me."

Snapping my cell phone closed, I work on my hair.  The longer layers are still alien to me, and my stylist laughed when I said I waited as long as I could between haircuts.  "Growing out takes effort--I'll see you in two months, and no cheating on me."  I work the Bed Head wax through my hair and am thankful that the tousled look is in style.  I look like I just had one hell of a romp.  This fact makes me chuckle to myself.  I'm as virginal as it gets, but I realize that it's by choice--my choice.  Sex is easy to get, but it's not the primary method of adult communication that I crave, which most men find problematic because they would prefer dancing in the sheets to dancing.  Whatever--someone out there will accept me for me.

It takes me twenty minutes to apply my makeup; I curl my lashes and carefully line my eyes.  My eyes pop and radiate heat, but there’s sadness in them.  It's as visible as the golden flecks in my eyes if anyone cares to look. 

No one notices.

I am tired of having to wear masks; I am tired of shallow relationships. I don't just want sex.  I want someone to make love to me because they want to be close to me because they know me intimately.  Don't tell me that it will cure writer's block.  I want someone to care about me and to know me--is that so difficult?

Why is that such a tall order to fill?