Tempted (5 page)

Morning
-
Tai Chi in Washington Park by St Peter & Paul’s Church with the exquisite Chinese ladies with whom I’ve anonymously shared Saturday mornings for years

Lunch
-
While awaiting my favorite treat of the week, I indulge in a respite at Kamala spa. The treatment rooms feel like Indian tents, with yards of rich-colored fabric draping the ceilings and walls. The spa is known for its
ninety-minute
Abhyan
ga Four Hands (two therapists)
Massage and each treatment room boasts its own small steam room. Girard Winery Zinfandel and Chardonnay
,
as well as dosha-balancing teas are available throughout the process.
 
Not too shabby

Afternoon Tea - I rotate tea spots, usually bouncing between Neiman Marcus’ rotunda, Lovejoy’s, Crown
& Crumpet and the Fairmont
. But my mecca is tea at the Palace Hotel in the nearly unbearably gorgeous Garden Court that used to serve as the carriage garage, dirt floor and all, when the luxury hotel opened more than a century ago.
 
Tea consists of delicate
finger
sandwiches, scones, Devonshire cream, lemon curd and rose petal jam, plus a harp serenade
–
truly heaven on earth

Dinner & Evening -
This is my one full day to spend in the city
,
and I love to play tourist and breathe in the sights and sounds of the place
where
so many have left their heart, including me.
 
So if I have tickets for a show here, or at least no plans elsewhere, I go to one of my favorite haunts
,
such as Masa.
 
I always go by myself and am surrounded by gussied-up couples or buttered-up clients and their bill-footing teeth-whitened sales
reps.
 
Some diners throw me pitying glances when they
observe
I’m alone.
 
Most are t
oo embroiled in romance or deal
making to
notice
me.
 
I prefer the lat
ter

Sunday

Breakfast
-
Just coffee.
 
I am most likely still full from last night and have Mom to deal with today

Morning
-
While Mom goes to the community church where she has worshipped and served for decades, I experience God in my own way
–
through nature.
 
Sunday mornings are my time for silence, gratitude and reflection.
 
And there is nothing like a morning spent traversing the quietude of the Muir Woods to set me to rights.
 
It helps me get my zen on in preparation for the blitzkrieg that is my mother

Lunch
-
Ever since D
ad passed away, Sundays have been spent at Boudin’s Bakery on the Wharf.
 
My mom loves the place, but equally enjoys commenting on my weight and taunting me with baked goods she says I of course can’t have, given my ample mid-section.
 
Grrrrrrrrrrrr.
 
I admit I am not bikini-ready, regardless of season.
 
I am a busy woman with a variety of interests and tastes, and while I used to be something of a gym rat, I have now migrated to other joys and pursuits
,
and frankly if
Mom
doesn’t like my body then she shouldn’t torment herself by scrutinizing it so closely.
 
Sure
,
I’d love to be 36, 22, 34 again.
 
But in the scheme of things, it just d
oesn’t matter –
really!

Afternoon
-
Sunday afternoons are all about Mom
,
and I am happy to take her wherever she desires to go.
 
She may be a pain, correction, a
royal
pain, but a girl only gets one mom

Tea
-
Back at my place, we dip into our arsenal of bakery sweets
,
and Mom insists on
having both tea and coffee. 
Go figure

Dinner & Evening
 
- Tummies full
,
I deposit M
om at home and then head to
Jeffrey’s Natural Pet Foods, making a point to mention this errand to my mother, just to get her goat and hear her outraged despair over my menagerie and catlady future
–
a term that is undeserving of i
ts stereotype and stigma.
 
A
nnoying of my mother this way has become yet another tradition

* * *

All said, when it comes to my social life and courtship, I very much enjoy traditions.
 
So
,
when Bret responded to my email (thanks IT man, Mark) inviting me to Starbucks in Strawberry Village for a Grande
Mocha
, remembering what I’d ordered the first time we met, I squealed and shot off an email of gleeful acceptance.

And went shopping in my closet for just the right cuppa jo ensemble.
             

Going to a coffee shop on a date can be tricky business.
 
Not only do you have to order at a counter, but you are not guaranteed any sort of seating, and can easily be overdressed.
How long do you stay without being a seat-hog?
 
And where do you wait to meet when you’re there first?

Even though the Starbucks Bret chose is just blocks from my house, I make a point to take my car to avoid sweatiness and the prospects for a turned ankle in my 4” high Espadrilles, my shoe of choice in order to look leggy without appearing overly sexy or just plain overzealous.
 
The cute navy blue dress I am sporting says all that I could want:
 
I’m playful, respectful and would like to think I have a classic sense of style.

I do my best to arrive at the last minute, but fail, and I have to wait for what feels like eternity for Bret’s arrival, in part because he is about seven minutes late.

“Wow!
 
Look at what I missed by being late!” I hear from somewhere behind me, or to the left of me, or to the right, or wherever I am
not
looking since I can’t find the source of the voice anywhere.

A tap on my shoulder sets me straight and I turn around and look up into Bret’s kissable face.
 
His mere presence causes my heart to skip a beat and I stand transfixed, grinning like a fool and breathing in his clean, classy, cologned scent.
 
He later informs me that he is wearing JB by Jack Black which, according to AskMen
,
provides “a fresh London barbershop aroma without the cheap afterglow.
JB is the right scent if you work in a traditional office with double-vented suits, wingtips and catered lunches of Dover sole but has the right amount of individual
ity that you won’t blend in all
together.”
 
Wow.
 
That sums up Bret to a T.
 
His cocksure swagger is utterly beguiling and I stutter and giggle like an awkward schoolgirl when attempting to order my coffee selection.
 
Before I can get the words out,
he has ordered for me, standing dangerously close behind me to the point that I can feel his manhood nestle blithely between the cheeks of my backside.
 
Suddenly I wish I was wearing black-seamed stockings and seductive lacy
underpinnings in lieu of the chas
te cotton culottes I chose.
 
I am feeling warm already
,
even before the barista hands me my
Mocha
.
Wordlessly, I follow him to the only available table.
 
I quickly realize why it is available:
 
nearly everybody that passes bumps into it, apologizes, and a brief conversation with each embarrassed bumper ensues.
But, no matter.
I noti
ce nothing but him
and his enticing scent.
 

Through the course of conversation I learn he trains guide dogs, is Ivy League, an avid skier, raises orchids and loves mountain biking.
 
My good
ness, eclectic tastes, I think. 
I am fascinated.
 
And what’s more, I am captivated.

“Is that a yes or a no?” he asks, his mischievous eyes crinkling.

“Excuse me?” I weakly reply, realizing I have no idea what we’d just been talking about, as I’d been lost in some sort of yummy, dreamy trance.

“I said, do you like hockey?” he repeats.

“I love hockey!” I rejoin, and it’s actually true.
 
Without a word
,
he is on his feet and next thing I know he’s escorting me out the door, his hand on the small of my back, guiding me and making me tingle.

He opens the car door, delivers an unexpected smack to my bum and shoos me into the apple red Cadillac Escalade.
 
Nothing shy and retiring about this fellow.
 
I tingle again.

Wi
thin a short period of time we are at the Cow Palace in the city, tak
ing in a game of the local, semi-pro
ice hockey team, the Bulls.
 
Our seats are middle of the pack
,
but it isn’t long before Bret exclaims, “Come on!”
 

We pirate a pair of empty seats on a piece of prime real estate and have a blast watching the Zamboni do doughnuts, eating the junkiest of foods
,
and getting vocally up-in-arms over bad plays and cheap shots.
 
Our team
–
during the course of the game I decided I liked the festivities so much that I would incorporate season tickets into my schedule, so yes, I
refer to them as ‘our team’ –
ends up losing in a shootout.
 
But I am far from daunted
,
as I still have several games left this season and a full season to look forward to come Fall.

Walking back to the car
,
we are both giddy and animated, jumping about, laughing, punching and pushing each other like teenagers who ‘like’ each other.
 
After milling aimlessly about the parking lot for so long that half the cars have gone, Bret casually asks, “Hey, where did we park?”

We both stop short and realize we have managed to misplace the car.
 
Despite the relative emptiness of the lot, we see no sign of Bret’s oversized
,
red-delicious status symbol and really can’t recall in which direction to look.
 
We start the long trek around the arena, traversing some turf I am positive is nowhere near any area where humans might park.
 
As we walk, we touch and grab and laugh, pausing for the occasional urgent tonsil-tickling kiss session.
 
As we round the loading dock, Bret stops and leans against a crew truck, pulling me into him and off-balance as he begins a new assault of my lips and neck.
Greedily
,
he starts groping me, quietly grunting and growling his intentions.
 
I get the feeling that he wants me and that he wants me right here and now.
 

Elise Phillips, that sweet new-
agey healer type who I had on the show awhile back
,
said sometimes our chakras are in conflict.
 
I wonder what she meant by that.
Huh.

What the heck?
 
Who thinks
of old work contacts when they’
re being manhandled by a hot guy?
 
And why on earth am I thinking about esoteric eastern philosophy at a time like this?

Elise described them in colors, something that an OCD color-coded spreadsheet lover like me could understand.
 
Red is the root chakra located at the root of the body, the bowels of your core, Kundalini energy, instinct, survival, security, that sort of thing.

Bret holds my face in one hand, pulling my hair down with the other, forcing my head back for even greater access to my exposed neck and hungry mouth.
 
His lips find the spot where my jaw meets my ear.

Orange is the second chakra, the seat of emotion, creativity, sexual and sensual energy.