As a newly single woman in her 50s in Los Angeles, I was terrified. She had been married so long that the last time I heard the words “sexy” and “spicy” was when she ordered sea bass in a spicy shiitake broth. I had not been pinched, poked, sucked, filled or augmented. I thought I had a better chance of being struck by lightning than a pretty guy.
Understandably, my friends were getting tired of my “I'm going to die alone” attitude, so they dragged me along for some fun, which I assumed meant a glass of wine and a nice cheese plate, not tequila shots at a club. fashion night in Westlake. The last time I was in a club I was doing the Hammer Dance in parachute pants! I was lost. What happens if no one checks me out or asks me to dance? My self-esteem was already so low that I considered spending the rest of the year in bed. Maybe I just needed 11 months to reevaluate my sleep number and catch up on “The Bachelor.”
As it turned out, guys don't ask you to dance anymore. They just come to you. One guy got so close that it was less about dancing and more about grinding. I joked that in some countries we were now officially married.
He didn't get the joke and I wasn't willing to stay with a man with no sense of humor. He was just starting to enjoy himself when fate reminded me that I had just broken up and that I was supposed to be miserable and made me stumble on an invisible step. I fell. Hard. On a concrete floor.
I felt mortified. I was sure people were laughing at me, but instead they just walked over me on the way to the bar. Alcohol triumphs over everything. I got up, dusted off my pride and went back to the dance floor. I was in the middle of “raising the roof” when a deep-pocketed man approached me and asked me if I liked his friend. At first, I thought he was referring to his penis in the most unimaginative way, but then he pointed behind me to his real friend: a tall, dark, handsome man in his mid-thirties. And I definitely like it!
He introduced himself in broken English as Daniel. He had just moved to Southern California from Italy to be a chef at a local hotspot. I felt like he was entering the pages of a Harlequin romance. Pretty soon he'd be shirtless on a horse and I'd be behind him, holding onto his abs so I wouldn't fall. As if he really needed a reason.
She suggested we go back to her apartment for Prosecco and more dancing, and I did what any 50-something woman in my situation would do: I threw all reason, good sense, and safety concerns to the wind and blurted out, “Yes, God, yes.” ! ”
Daniel asked me if I had a friend who could come with us because the deep pocket man had ironically deep pockets and would pay our bill and drive us around in his fancy SUV. I knew that convincing a girlfriend wouldn't be easy, so I went for the jugular. I used guilt. I had been miserable for months and years. Did my friends really want to deny me a night of superficial, meaningless lust hookup?
After a quick trip in which I sat on my good butt, the four of us arrived at Daniel's apartment in Agoura Hills. He opened some champagne and made a toast that was seductive and unintelligible, but suddenly he was in my head.
What was he doing? She wasn't ready for sex. She wouldn't even undress me in front of a mirror! And what about the lump on my butt from the fall that was swelling by the minute? Would I attract too much attention if I sat on a bag of ice or frozen peas? Before I could get to the freezer, Daniel pulled me and me into spiral turns for a slow dance and started singing to me in Italian. It was cheesy, off-key, and incredibly romantic. My girlfriend, Shauna, seeing where this was going, asked Daniel's friend to take her home. (That's a comedy of errors for another essay entirely.)
I didn't say goodbye. He was too focused on Daniel's wandering hands heading south toward warmer regions. I screamed as he touched the bruised cheek and then quickly recovered with a flirtatious laugh. Encouraged by my fake, flirtatious laugh, he began undoing the buttons on my jeans. I stopped him and raised my hands. He moved them down. I uploaded them. I was wondering if you could have sex with your clothes on. It had been a minute since I had sex with someone new. Maybe things had changed.
He took my hand and led me to the bedroom. I looked at the bed and briefly wondered if the sheets were clean. As a mom, I can remove stains from anything. My domestic reverie was interrupted when she took off her shirt. I looked at her ridiculous body and knew it was my turn. He also knew she wasn't ready. I got into bed fully dressed and he crawled in next to me. He pulled me in and kissed me, and I completely forgot about the divorce, the heartbreak, and the fear of being alone. I was making out with a hot Italian guy with a bruise on his butt that was now the size of a ping-pong ball, and it was exactly what I needed. I felt hotter and sexier than any bass, but most importantly, I was hopeful. Maybe it was going to be okay after all.
The author is a Golden Globe-winning television comedy writer from England. He lives in Woodland Hills, but his adventures happen everywhere. She is on Instagram: @mariaannebrown
Los Angeles Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the Los Angeles area, and we want to hear your true story. We paid $400 for a published essay. Email [email protected]. You can find shipping guidelines. here. You can find previous columns. here.
