The BACHELORETTE Project (The Project: LESLEE Series) (17 page)

I can feel Anthony’s foot rubbing faster onto mine. It’s actually beginning to feel a little weird. I move my foot away quickly. Anthony begins to frown. “You don’t like me touching your foot I take it?”

“I guess I’m not used to it just yet,” I reply nervously drinking my wine.

“Oh, I see.” He looks down at his plate and begins to move his food around with a fork. Anthony pulls his head up and smiles this demonic smile, this weird looking, creepy smile. “So, what are your fetishes?”

I practically choke on my drink. “Excuse me?”

He laughs. “You know, your fetishes. Sexual fetishes.” Is it even
appropriate
to ask such a thing on a first date? I’m no genius or anything, but who in their right mind would ask a question like that to someone that they barely even know?

“I don’t think I have any just yet,” I answer. I’m feeling so uncomfortable at this moment. Anthony has just turned from handsome to pervert in 5.5 seconds. I know that we’re adults and all, but something is terribly wrong with this picture. I’m sure that normal guys don’t ask a thing like that on a first date, that is unless it’s some type of booty call. Does he think that I’m a booty call? Do I want to know the answer to that question?

“You want to know what my fetish is?” he asks and I shake my head. I don’t want
to know. He may very well be in
to golden showers or pearl necklaces or something grody like that. I wouldn’t want to do anything
that
dirty.

“I don’t think I want to know,” I answer. “How about that dessert? We should get some,” I say quickly trying to flag down the waitress.

Anthony laughs. “You don’t have to be shy, Leslee,” he reassures me. I don’t think I’m being shy. I just think it’s inappropriate. Am I not allowed to have manners? “OK, I’ll start,” he says.
Cover your ears!
I think to myself. I do not want to know this man’s fetishes! “I am a foot and pantyhose type of guy.”

“A what?” I reply. Did I just hear him correctly?

“I love feet,” he explains with this look of relief on his face. “I love hot, sweaty feet and pantyhose.” I gulp as he leans toward me in his chair. “I get so turned on when a woman shoves her heel in my mouth. I love being told what to do as long as I get to lick your feet afterward.”

“Can’t you choke from that?” I ask. “The whole heel-in-mouth thing.”

“Oh, no,” he replies. “I never choke. It gets me hard.” I don’t think I can be any more disgusted than I am now. Heels? Choking? I can’t deal. “So after this, Leslee, you want to come to my place? Get me turned on?” I feel his foot touch mine again and I want to vomit.

“I, uh …” I have to get out of here! What to do? WHAT TO DO?! “Can you please excuse me? I have to go to the ladies’ room.” I grab my purse and rise from my seat. “I’ll be right back.”

Anthony grabs my hand and tugs hard. “No,” he says as he pulls me toward him. Beads of sweat begin to trickle down my face. “I want you to do things to me that you’ve never done before.”

“Um, I don’t know if that actually will happen.”

“Leslee, I love your feet,
” he whispers, smiling. “I want you to lay me on the bed, tied up, and I want you to just place your beautiful, pedicured hooves on my face until I cum. I’m getting hard just thinking about it.” I can’t help but to glance at his penal area and yep, he is definitely hard … all for the sake of feet. Disgusting.

I pull my hand away and nervously giggle. “I have to go to the bathroom,” I say as I walk away from the table. I stop in the middle of the restaurant looking for a backdoor exit. I turn around and Anthony is just staring at me, smiling. I give a nervous wave then turn the other way, panicking.
Where is the closest exit?!
I think to myself walking toward the bathroom.
I’m in foot fetish Hell right now!

I begin to walk quicker and quicker, looking back to see if the feet freak is following me. I turn my head forward and
BAM!
As I tumble backward from human on human contact, I observe the array of food flying in the air and slowly hitting the ground. Dishes and glasses crash on the floor, and I stand there, watching and embarrassed. The waiter that was holding the food looks at me as if he wants to kill me. The room grows silent as all eyes are on me. I freeze.

“Leslee!” I hear a voice yell from the room: Anthony. “Are you OK?!”

I turn back to the waiter and frown. “I am so sorry about your food,” I say sympathetically.

“Leslee!” Anthony yells as he runs towards me.
Think quick! What to do?
I clutch onto my purse, look around the room, and begin to run like hell. “Leslee, where are you going?”

I run past the waiters and dodge through the restaurant tables like I’m in an obstacle course. I can hear Anthony running and yelling after me, but I don’t turn around. I just keep running until I reach the exit then outside. I stand in the middle of the parking lot out of breath.
Where’s my car? Dude, where’s my car?!
I look to my left and surrounded by Benzs and Bentleys is my car.
Thank you God!

“Hey! Get back here, lady!” I hear another voice yelling at me. “You’re gonna have to pay for that!” I run to my car, plop inside, turn the key, and put the pedal to the metal. I turn out of the parking lot as fast as I can and speed down the road. This will definitely go down as one of the weirdest, most embarrassing nights of my entire life. My poor feet were involuntarily violated. Does such a thing even happen in life?
Sigh.

“Monopoly or Scrabble?” Karen asks as she pulls out the board games from the bookshelf in her living room. Apparently, this is what I’ve been missing out on when I up and moved to Manhattan: game night. It’s when a group of friends get together, bring some sort of food dish, and then play the board game of their choice. This is nothing like what we did in Manhattan, you know, the shopping, the manicures and pedicures, the martinis at all hours of the day. I guess game night is what the normal intellectual people do … the normal intellectuals who get high in their basements and go to random 80s parties. Who am I to judge?

“Can’t we just play Pictionary or something?” I ask her and she shakes her head.

“No, because last time Eric and I got into a heated disagreement over his shitastic clues and how incredibly horrible he is about giving the other team the answers,” Karen tells me as she looks over the games. “Hmm … so I think Scrabble.”

“So, who’s coming to this wonderful game extravaganza?” I ask.

“Just a small group of friend
s: You, me, Russ, Eric and Mike,
” she says as we walk into the dining room.

“Well, that makes five.”

“Oh, Mike won’t play,
” Karen answers as she begins to set up the game board.

“Why not?” I ask.

“Because he’s an idiot,” she says as the doorbell rings. “Come in!” Karen pulls me into the kitchen to assist her with the food. “I have been so stressed out with this wedding stuff. I stil
l have to decide on bridesmaids
dresses. I still have to find my wedding gown.”

“You have months to do all that stuff, though,” I tell her as I slice up a loaf of Italian bread. Little did I know that my best friend is somewhat of a terrific chef. She’s whipped up an Italian dinner with vegetable lasagna, chicken parmesan, fresh salad with homemade Italian dressing, fresh baked Italian bread, fried calamari as an appetizer, and a tiramisu dessert. This is definitely not like our college days when we would order pizzas and cook up Ramen noodles even though I kinda miss those days.

“We’re here!” Eric says as he and Mike walk into the kitchen.

“Great!” Karen says excitedly. “What did you bring to eat?” Eric hands Karen a big white bag. She opens the bag and frowns. “Tacos? Seriously? I told you it was an
Italian
dinner.”

“We weren’t near the Italian market,” Mike tells her as she rolls her eyes.

Karen shakes her head. “It doesn’t even make sense to eat these,” she tells him. “I made fried calamari and chicken parm, you asshat! Your tacos don’t go with the theme.”

“Isn’t the theme ‘food?’” Eric asks and Karen scowls at him. As much as I hate to admit it, he does have a valid point. At least they made some sort of an effort to bring something even if it does smell like overcooked meat and funky salsa.

“Whatever,” Karen says taking the lasagna out of the oven. “Everyone just grab a plate, serve yourselves and I’ll meet you in the dining room.” She shoves the bag of tacos into Mike’s chest. “Do something with these.”

“Like what?” he asks her with a quizzical look on his face.

“I don’t know!” she exclaims. “Eat them, throw them away, I really don’t care. Just get them out of my face.” In this little spat between Mike and Karen, I’ve learned a very valuable lesson: never piss off the chef, especially if it’s Karen.

“Russ!” Karen yells as he walks into the kitchen. “Your nimrod friends brought tacos.”

“Oh, good!” he replies ignoring the disgust on Karen’s face. “Did you bring the hot sauce?” I smirk. I have this feeling that dinner won’t go over too well with Karen. I can see her face filling up with just a tad bit of rage and a dash of aggravation. All in all, a recipe for disaster.

“Just disgusting,” Karen says as she walks into the dining room, me following her. “Now my kitchen has the aroma of livin’ la vida loca and la bella noche. You can’t mix the two.” She’s such the perfectionist. Her living room is perfect, her kitchen is perfect, and her cuisine is perfect. She’s like the angry African-American Martha Stewart.

“True,” I say as fiddle with the edge of the Scrabble board. I’m beginning to think that this game night is a little unfair. Here I am, an unemployed paralegal, playing against a psycho with a doctorate in English, a womanizer with a bachelor’s in English, and an accountant … who apparently loves hot sauce. Do I even stand a chance at winning this game?

The men enter the dining room with their plates, the bag of tacos, and their drinks. Karen glares at Eric with her game face on. “You ready to get schooled, bitch?” she asks him, smiling.

Eric laughs. “Remember what happened last time, Kare?” he asks as he sits down. “You talked a lot of shit and I schooled you.”

“Whatever. Just pick out your tiles,” she says snarling.

“Wait a second,” Mike says with a confused look on his face, taco meat falling from his chin. “If you guys are playing this, then what am I gonna do?”

“I don’t know,” Karen says. “Observe and be an enthusiastic fan.” She rolls her eyes as Mike absorbs what she has said.

“You have any hot neighbors?” he asks.

“No,” she responds frustratingly. “We don’t have any hot neighbors.” I nudge Karen and look at her. I nod wanting her to think exactly what I’m thinking which is more bad than good. She finally catches on to my clue. Karen smiles. “You know, as a matter of fact I do have a hot neighbor.” Yup … Shrek. I knew she would catch on. “She lives right next door, has two very darling children. She’d be perfect for you.”

“Really?” Mike asks as his eyes widen in joy. “Is she single?”

“Of course she is,” Karen says as she hands Mike the bag of tacos from the table. “How about you go next door and pay her a visit? I’m sure she loves tacos.” I see Russ shaking his head from across the table. I kick his foot and he shoots me a dirty look.

“You should go right now,” I tell him. “I bet her kids are asleep. Then you can
really
get to know her.”

“What does she look like?” Mike asks.

Russ coughs. “Shrek,” he says as I kick him under the table again.

“You know, big boobs, big booty,” Karen says. “She’s just your type.” Mike rises from the table with his trusty bag of tacos and a smile on his face.

“If you would excuse me, I have an appointment with the hot next door neighbor,” he says as he makes a mad dash to the front door and exits. Karen and I bust out laughing.

Russ shakes his head. “That was wrong,” he tells us.

“Oh, who cares?” Karen says as she walks over to the stereo in the corner. “He’ll get over it. Besides, I have something very special planned for all of us.” She turns on the stereo and Etta James’ “At Last” blares throughout the dining room. Karen smiles. “It’s a collection of the greatest wedding songs ever. Can’t you just feel the love in the room?” She sways back and forth to the melody of the music as Russ and Eric groan. I laugh.

“Why do we have to listen to this?” Eric asks, annoyed.

“Because I have to pick a wedding song,” Karen replies.

“Why don’t you use the first song you guys ever made love to?” I ask her. “I’m sure that was a romantic song.”

Karen smirks. “That’s not even a possibility,” she says. “Doing the dirty to Outkast’s “Hey Ya” on a twin-sized dorm room bed is hardly romantic.”

“Different strokes, different folks,” Eric says as he places the first letters on the board: C-A-N-D-L-E. “Your turn, Karen.”

“I want our song to be special,” Karen says. “Something that we can listen to years from now and say, ‘that’s our song.’” She spells out D-I-N-E-R on the board. I’m beginning to think that maybe this game won’t be so humiliating for me after all.