The Last Place She'd Look
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Authors: Arlene Schindler
Arlene Schindler
The Last Place She'd Look
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents are products of the writer's imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, events, or locales is purely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.
Copyright © 2013 by Arlene Schindler
All rights reserved.
eISBN: 9781624889363
Cover design by Scarlett Rugers
www.scarlettrugers.com
Book design: Jackie Hoffman Chin
Back cover photograph: Dennis Apergis
First Edition
2013 Extravagonzo Publishing edition
Acknowledgements:
A tremendous debt of gratitude to the many who helped make The Last Place She’d Look a reality, especially the following people for many and varied reasons:
Arlene Phalon Baldassari, Jackie Hoffman Chin, Terry Delsing, Kathleen Fairweather, Julie Falen, Lyn Holley, Debbie Kasper, Bob Keenan, Catherine Leach, Meg Livesey, Janet Lombardi, Mary McGrath, Leslie Parsons, Linda Schwab, Dan Staroff.
Thank you to my best girls for being funny, kind, constructively creative and supportive.
Special thanks to Elaine Silver, for her guidance, support, and cheerleading that helped me arrive at the finish line.
Table of Contents
As his muscular leg swung off the sleek mountain bike he was riding, I was excited to see that this guy had a hot body. At first glance my date looked sexy and promising.
I wanted to believe this blind date would be my last first date. The next week I turned 50. After a half century I wanted to stop the “Hello, my name is…” merry-go-round and actually relate to someone for a significant period of time.
But I should know better. I’m Sara, and my friends think I’m a dateaholic, just because in the past few years I’ve had 340 first dates. Please note that in my case dateaholism has not meant that I am a sex addict as evidenced by the fact that none of these dates led to sex, most not even a kiss, (much to my chagrin and disappointment). Every addict hits bottom at some point, and 341 was it for me. So let me tell you about my last first date. Let me also tell you about my subsequent surprising journey to recovery (and lots of sex—thank goodness!).
It was 10 a.m. on a Saturday, early summer. Sitting at an outdoor table at Swingers, a diner/café in a trendy area of Los Angeles, I was eager to meet my blind date from
match.com
: Karl Acker, an English professor at Occidental College who taught creative writing to freshmen. We’d seen each other’s photos on line, so while locking his bike to a parking meter, he blurted breathlessly before he even sat down. “I bike every day and swim five times a week.”
“Wow,” I said, smiling, admiring his torso, and thinking about my lazy self, “I wash the dishes every day and take the garbage out about five times a week.”
“What do you do to keep in shape?” he asked, now sitting facing me, purposefully eyeing me up and down.
“I take the stairs instead of elevators,” I joked. He looked disappointed. “And,” I lied, “I do yoga a few times a week.”
“So you’re bendy and flexible?” he said, perking up, hoping this was a glimpse of scenarios to come. “I’ve been up since 5:30 this morning. I’ve already eaten. Just a chai latte for me.”
Self-conscious on a first date, concerned about appearing ladylike, and not wanting to be viewed as a voracious behemoth, I ordered tea and a small bowl of fruit.
“What do you do when you’re not biking and swimming?” I asked, trying to find an activity that I could participate in — something quasi-sedentary like movies, theater, or slow walks through museums.
“I teach. I enjoy my students. Young minds are so fertile, full of ideas. And I’m writing a novel.”
Now I was intrigued. “What’s it about?”
“The Vietnam War, how life has been for my buddies.”
“They were in ‘Nam?”
“Conscientious objectors,” he declared proudly. Our eyes met. His were a piercing blue, like ocean waves: relaxing, peaceful, mesmerizing. Looking closely at him, I realized his face seemed twice the age of his body; it was fascinatingly strange.
“And you?” he asked, reaching for my hand. It felt as though he was forcing a connection, but I was willing to play along.
“I’ve never been to Vietnam,” I said, lightly.
“What do you do?”
“I write articles for self-help magazines—relationships, fashion tips, how to get the most out of your IRA. You know, psycho-babble for women’s publications—but somebody’s got to do it.”
“I wrote pulp fiction before I started teaching,” he replied.
“What about the 'Nam novel?”
“I’ve been writing it since I’ve been teaching, 10 years,” he said, laughing. Then there was silence. I sipped my tea, thinking about what to ask next. I felt his eyes exploring my body, trying to X-ray through my denim jacket to my slight shoulders and small breasts. Then he looked at his watch. “I’ve got to meet my daughter. She’s 17. I hope you’ll let me call you.”
“Karl, I think that would be nice,” I said demurely, like a shy ingénue in a Henry James novel. We both stood up and walked the few steps to his bike.
“Call me Ack. That’s what my friends call me,” he said self-assuredly. He pulled on my lapel with one hand as he touched my chin with the other and leaned into me for a sweet kiss, but I didn’t feel much chemistry. I dejectedly walked the four blocks home to my apartment, expecting to never hear from him again.
Three days later, Ack called and invited me to his house for dinner, our second date. He was geographically desirable because he lived a mere mile away from me. Lack of chemistry aside, he offered a hot meal and male attention—two things I was starving for.
I drove to his place around sunset, a tiny guesthouse on the side of someone else’s property. He and his aging Irish setter greeted me. Ack was barefoot, looking sexy in his well-worn jeans, holding a wooden spoon. “Taste this,” he commanded, moving the spoon to my mouth before I could say hello. “It needs something.”
I tasted the spaghetti sauce. “Oregano and garlic.”
“Yes!” Snapping his fingers with the other hand, he gave me a swift peck on the cheek before ushering me straight into the kitchen. “My creation lives! Follow me.”
In the kitchen, he stirred the simmering pot of sauce, then lowered the flame. “You need wine, lots of wine,” he said, grinning, pouring from a giant jug of cheap Chianti into two mismatched wine glasses. Giving me one, he raised his. “To tonight.”
We clinked glasses and sipped. In his kitchen, Ack was genial, boyish, and goofy – he was growing on me. I looked around the crowded, messy kitchen and poked my head into the living room and his office. All were cluttered with thrift store furniture. At mid-life, Ack’s home was not the abode of a thriving college professor; it resembled the studio of a struggling student. In spite of his rundown digs, there was a youthful, endearing charm here too.
Dinner was served on mismatched plates with paper napkins and silverware that looked like it had been stolen from a school cafeteria. The spaghetti was from a box that was still poking out of the garbage pail, the sauce from a jar that was sitting beside the sink. I got the definite impression that he chose to make dinner because he couldn’t afford to take me out.
We ate at a rickety kitchen table. Shortly after I sat down, he got up again to reposition the matchbook jammed under one of the table legs. Then he smiled at me. “More wine…you need more wine. Drink up.”
My fork forged into the mound of spaghetti and sauce on my plate. Although enthusiastic, presentation was not his forte. The strands of spaghetti were so long, I worked to twirl the pasta onto my fork gracefully. That was impossible. The only way to eat this meal was to stab a mound of spaghetti, shove it into my mouth, and bite away. Eating was work. It tasted flavorless. But I was hungry for the companionship of a handsome, intelligent man.
“Do you cook a lot?” I tried to inject dialogue into the spaghetti challenge.
“I have to feed my teen-aged daughter. She’s a vegetarian.”
“Where is she now?”
“Sleeping over at a girlfriend’s house. She lives with me full-time.”
“What about her mother?”
“A flower child who found other things to do. She’s living on a commune in Washington,” he explained, filling my glass again.
“Are we having a wine-drinking contest?” I asked.
“I just want to make sure you’re having a good time.”
“This meal is very … filling,” I replied, putting my fork down.
“No dessert unless you finish this glass of wine,” Ack insisted.
“I don’t think I’ll have room for dessert.” I rubbed my stomach and sneakily unbuttoned the top button of my jeans.
“I made a key lime pie in a graham cracker crust. You’ll find room,” he insisted, quickly clearing the table, tossing the dishes in the sink with the leftover food and forks. “Let’s take our wine and go to the living room,” he continued, ushering me to the main clutter-ateria of his home. The coffee table was brimming with hardcover books, each with a bookmark. There was a wooden rocking chair near a far window. Strewn with mounds of reading matter, scattered mail, and record albums, no rugs on the worn wooden floors, this room was eclectic but less than inviting.
“Sit on the couch,” he urged, gently stroking my shoulder after putting the wine glasses on the table in between the piles of books.
“Looks like you read a lot,” I offered.
“These are books my friends wrote. I’m waiting for mine to be published.”
“When’s it coming out?”
“It’s not finished yet. I’m still writing, rewriting… soon,” he said, reflecting. “Now you, you write …? Don’t tell me …”
“Self-help for magazines,” So thrilled that a man had finally shown some interest in me, I ignored the fact that he hadn’t remembered our first conversation.
“I don’t read self-help. I try to discourage my daughter, too, but I guess it’s a living, right?” He stroked my back and nuzzled my shoulder, then kissed my neck, working his way feverishly, faux passionately, to my mouth.
One moment we were sitting on the couch discussing writing, the next, Ack had his tongue down my throat, playing a clumsy boy’s game of tonsil hockey. Ten seconds later, he was using his sexy, athletic shoulders to push me down onto the couch so he could climb on top of me— without missing one second of tongue-probing. Nimble, then more forcefully, he jutted his pelvis against mine, spastically banging his crotch into me again and again. As he hardened, each thrust became more unpleasant. His mouth never paused in its exploration of mine, as if the centrifugal force of the earth in the solar system would be devastated if he stopped.
I was not aroused—or amused. I tried to remember the last time I’d been touched…was it only two years ago? It felt like forever. That painful realization kept me there, in spite of the aggressive, oppressive foreplay. I wished I had the emotional strength to push him off of me. Finally, I broke free of the Tupperware-hermetic liplock to gasp for air — only to have Ack rally with some swift yoga move. He shimmied his head past mine as he swerved his torso up my body. His head swayed, cobra-like, off the arm of the well-worn couch, and his chest was inches from my forehead.
