SAFE SEX    MR. GOLF SWING

Babyblues4you
Dear Mr. Golf Swing:
Martini? One olive or two?

Ellen

Mr. Golf Swing
Dear Babyblue:
A splash of Kahlua…would you?

Ned

Ellen got up from all fours and soothed the rug burn on her knee. She looked at the area rug with satisfaction. Okay, no dog hair, she thought. And then she raced upstairs to get ready.

“Yikes, D, he’s on his way. He’ll be here soon. God, what if he doesn’t look like his photo?” Divina scrambled up the stairs behind her mistress, sensing the unmistakable excitement in the air.

Ellen decided to wear her new jeans and the little white tee shirt that she had worn for her primary picture on her profile. Ned called from the road. She juggled perfume, mascara and the phone. Her heart beat faster hearing his voice, and her hand shook as she gave herself a last critical look in the mirror. He was less than ten minutes away.

The phone rang at 4 p.m. sharp. Ellen listened as Connie left a message. “This is your four p.m. call… Next call at six… Call me back.”

Ellen didn’t want to be rescued.

In a bold, defiant move, she decided to wing it, alone, come hell or flood waters.

Ellen found the mute button on the phone and pushed her thoughts of danger into the recesses of her mind. She vowed to make it up to Connie – somehow.

Meeting someone new, the traditional way, meant that those first moments of assessment would be calculated by gut and visceral reaction. The mystery of detail that made up a persona was by and large unknown. In the world of online dating, stats were first and foremost, all in black and white.

Of course there was always the danger of falling for fiction. By now, Ellen had fallen many times for a one-by-one photo and nothing more. But falling for someone always had the element of fantasy and suspended belief regardless as to how you met. Every bio struggled to express the individual’s essence in two hundred words or less in the hope of snagging someone’s attention. Body language, pheromones, hormones, eye contact, all the primal methods of courtship were blocked by the format of communicating online. It was essential to get it across fast and in Madison Avenue style, where subliminal advertising techniques were well-guarded secrets. Ellen believed that JDate’s “Customer Care” department was in fact made up of burned-out advertising executives who had relocated in a second career, ghostwriters who were responsible for many of the site’s essays. Over and over, cups half full were mentioned.

What’s with the half full? Ellen thought. Why half full? Ellen’s incorrigible optimism viewed her cup to be full, minus a drop or two. Add a man and you get, my cup runneth over.

Her first “one-night stand” with Mr. Soup and Salad had shaken her up a bit, but had put the glint back in her eye and the skip back in her step. Ellen was fueled with the Power of the Goddess to ask for more, want more, find more and go out and get more.

Monique had insisted on wearing a sheer floral thong under her tight jeans and was prancing around the kitchen.

If he wore that Hawaiian shirt from the photo Ellen thought she’d die, and then she gave the sink another once over.

“What if he doesn’t think we look like our picture? What if he doesn’t like us? What if he leaves? What if he stays?” Fear was beside herself with worry.

“What if he doesn’t bring a gift?” Disappointment quipped as she dumped the last ashtray into the garbage.

Ellen’s heart pounded to the Middle Eastern beat on her stereo and quickly decided to change the CD to something Motown.

The rental car came to a halt in her driveway with a scrunch and a crunch. Ellen stood at the screen door and watched as he lifted an enormous bouquet of flowers from the back seat. Orange hybrid lilies, yellow and peach roses, pale apricot Shasta daisies, violet sprigs of lavender. Disappointment swooned with pleasure as Monique ignored the profusion of colors in the floral arrangement that blended with the large print on Mr. Golf Swing’s flowing Hawaiian print shirt. With a magnum of Grey Goose Vodka tucked under his arm and a shit-eating grin on his face, he stood on her small stoop. Fear and Disappointment gave each other their habitual high-five as Monique gave her thong a last-minute adjustment.

“Hi – welcome! Come in,” Ellen croaked. As if on command, she ran her fingers through her hair provocatively and her pupils began to dilate.

“Hi,” he beamed, “these are for you.” His eyes took in the tiny house with one sweep and then landed on the scoop of her teeny-weeny white tank top.

Mr. Golf Swing had the body of a mature man with a history of competitive sports. His close-cropped dark hair had only a hint of gray at his temples that gave him a slightly classy look in spite of his shirt. At 5’10” and 180 lbs., his body resembled the familiar but nearly forgotten shape of the Un Husband. A slight tremor shot through her body as the thought passed through her mind.

Ellen placed the bouquet on the dining room table, wondering how the hell she would ever fit that large a bottle of vodka in her little freezer. Monique took that as a very good sign.

“Let me show you to the guest room,” Ellen suggested. “Maybe you’d like to change before dinner?” she asked politely, secretly praying he had something sharper to wear than the loud Hawaiian print. “Our reservation is in half-an-hour.”

“Let’s have a drink and celebrate.” Ned laughed with a glint in his eye, breaking the tension. “What say we skip the restaurant and start that barbeque – I’m hungry.”

One kiss was all it took – Ellen forgave the shirt.

The card from the bouquet lay on the table, with the words: “Let the adventure begin.”

The phone rang at six p.m. sharp. Smoke poured from the little barbeque and mingled with vodka and mozzarella.
“This is your friend…I repeat, f-r-i-e-n-d…. call me back. Love you – Connie.”

The phone rang at eight p.m.. Ellen’s thong floated in a martini glass in the kitchen sink.

“Hello, hello? Anybody home? Call me – it’s Connie!”

Ten p.m. and another call. Smoldering heat poured from the second story window of Ellen’s bedroom.

“I am calling the police, I am calling your daughter, I am calling the Rabbi. Hello? Hello?”

While Ellen’s bedroom door had been flung wide and forgotten, the door to the guest room across the hall stood open two exact inches.

“Stop it! Stop it now,” commanded Disappointment, who could be very bossy at times. “Close that door. I’m dealing you in.”

A high-pitched giggle escaped from Fear. Her eyes had a startled Botox look and had remained wider than usual for the last few hours. She was beginning to fade from her vigilance.

Monique shot a scornful look at the pair who sat cross-legged on the guest bed. Disappointment handed seven cards to each. She looked at her hand and a smile of victory spread across her flushed cheeks as she tossed her worn pink boa over her shoulders.

“Some poker face,” Monique retorted. “I’m just checking. You know how fucking hard I’ve worked in the last ten months? This guy is exactly what we’ve waited for and I hope she doesn’t blow it with her schoolgirl concerns.”

“Gee, Monique, settle down,” Fear said. “From the happy noises I’m hearing I’d say the belly dancing classes have kicked in.” She picked a card from the pile and slammed down all seven. “Ah ha, Gin Rummy! Hahaha, I won!”

“No you didn’t,” Monique said, sending a sharp don’t fuck with me message in her tone of voice. “If you had, we’d never be here in the guest room with her upside down in there laughing like a fool for the last two hours.” She threw down her own hand with an elegant pinky up.

“But fair enough – I think we all just won this hand,” she continued. “I’m calling it a night. I need to think about tomorrow. No rest for the weary. We need to be on our toes for the rest of the weekend. I have a feeling it’s going to be a long one.”

Ned rolled over gently and stroked Ellen’s back with gentle pressure. She stirred, then purred.

“Do you know your phone rings exactly on the hour every two hours?” He whispered into the crook of her neck.

“Hmmmm, nice phone… very, very nice.”

“What’s our plan for tomorrow? I’m up for anything,” Ned said as he draped an arm across Ellen and found the soft spot between Divina’s ears. The dog leaned the length of her body into his arm while her liquid eyes focused on the limp form of her mistress mysteriously tangled with his and let out a slow sigh of satisfaction.

“First, petit dejeuner at Pierre’s – D and I always go. They make the best coffee in town. Then I thought… the beach. Everyone wants long walks on the beach. Then a drive, we’ll go on a drive. Then golf, we’ll go to the driving range.”

Ellen was giddy with the possibilities. Here was a man whose energy matched her own.

The next morning, Ellen rose with the sun. Rays of orange light streaked in patterns across the floor. She padded quietly around the room searching for her slippers and motioned silently to Divina. Dear God, she thought, looking up at the ceiling, there’s a man in my bed. She viewed the sprawled shape under the twisted sheet with a sense of wonder.

Ellen’s quiet thoughts drifted about like the late summer clouds that began their morning march across the awakening skies. She tiptoed through her ritual: make the coffee, take the dog out, turn on the computer, and check into her cyber world.

There was an e-mail from Mr. Soup and Salad. Ellen hit the delete button. An IM from Mr. King of the IM popped up. Ellen said: “Not now, John,” and hit delete again.

Ellen listened to Connie’s messages, and then wrote her a quick email in response.

Hey you dearest friend:

I am alive and well … hahhahaha whew having the time of my life in fact, I promise to fill you in when I come up for air…. lots planned for today. Tell everyone, forward this to the girls ahahhahaha yay for me Ned leaves sometime on Sunday

Whatever you do don’t call the rabbi LOL

XOX
Ellen in love

Ellen’s fear of not knowing what to do, not being juicy enough, not being woman enough, had been dispelled, hopefully forever, or at the very least another twenty years, and the other major milestone: fully and rapturously knowing another man after all those years of fidelity. Yikes, 80 hmmmmm, why not? Ellen loath the idea of less than twenty years left.

Breakfast, not just with Divina, but with a man, she thought. A walk on the beach, holding hands, with a man. She visualized her beloved dog running figure-eight patterns in the sand.

A long drive to Montauk to the ends of the earth. She pictured Divina in the back seat with her head out the open window, basking in the wind.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Ned’s voice called out cheerfully from the top of the stairs, interrupting her reverie.

“Making coffee,” she called back. “Want some?”

“No, I want you.”

Ellen giggled and bounded up the stairs. Ellen was a morning person.

They started out early. Ellen pointed the way to all the back roads as they skirted the summer traffic.

Lunch, a famed local restaurant, was at the side of the road. They sat in the sun, eating clams and corn. They laughed a lot, talked about their children, and growing up on Long Island.

The day was all summer breezes, air and boats and sails and endless drifting clouds. They made it to the lighthouse and bent over the railing to watch the fly fishermen hip deep in indigo blue water. He came up behind her and kissed her spontaneously, softly, mixing sweet and sour with the salty air and in one swift moment Ellen melted. There she was in public, with a stranger, but who knew? They must have looked like lovers in a scene from a movie, with the world falling away and the waves crashing against the rocks below.

“God, I’m, hard,” he whispered. “Let’s go. CVS anywhere? I need to go to the drug store.”

The new rules – safe sex. Ellen knew there was nothing safe about this. She was falling into the abyss, lost in space, suspended in time, her own version of hard.

Sunday came too soon as far as Ellen was concerned.

“The pancake house next to the driving range is the best,” Ellen said. “Do you have time for that?”

Ned was washing up and putting his suitcase together.

“Sure, I need some carbo loading. Feels like I just ran a marathon, heh heh.” He grabbed the edge of her bathrobe and gave it a slight tug.

“We could plan a weekend in New York City when you come back.” Ellen’s mind raced. “And then before you know it I’ll be in Florida for the winter. I can’t be more than fifteen minutes from Boynton Beach.”

Ned’s back was turned as he tossed the last few items into his suitcase.

“Sure, we’ll see how it plays out when I get back to Florida. I have a few situations… .” His voice trailed off.

Fear suddenly jumped in the doorway waving the bright red bra Ellen had worn the night before. Ellen flashed a thought, red bra? Oh Noooo. Red flag, Ellen thought, as she watched Mr. Golf Swing comb his hair and put on a freshly laundered, crisp, pink button down. Disappointment blew a sullen thought into Ellen’s ear. Pink button down? And I had to suffer a Hawaiian shirt at Bobby Van’s? Disappointment thought, WTF?

“Situations?” Ellen’s body tensed as she felt a sudden shift in the air.

“Honestly,” he began. “I told her, ‘I’m not your boyfriend.’”

“Her? There’s a her? A her in Florida? Who her? Excuse me? Another her?”

“Well, I’ve got a friend in Florida. Maybe you know her, she’s a pretty well known judge in the horse world. I bet she’s judged your son in the ring.”

Ellen’s mind went blank then crimson. “Maybe I know her?”

Fear, Disappointment, and even Monique were speechless.

“I see, and just how long have you been having this situation?” Ellen’s voice was quiet but steady. “I’m pretty sure you never mentioned a ‘situation’ in the last two months. We’ve talked about children, work, past lives, future aspirations, but I don’t recall any mention of ‘situations.’”

“Hey, this has been really great – you’re amazing. I met her a year and a half ago, no big deal. I told her over and over, ‘I’m not your boyfriend.’” He snapped his suitcase shut with a flourish.

The situation, with another woman, was placed on the table just in time for breakfast. Before the knife and fork were even in her hand, Ellen knew in an instant that she had to eat it. Her heart felt like it was choking on dry toast. The images of her online date of all dates, moments of bliss crashing one after the other, like the waves so nearby, followed by the words, “Well, for a year and a half,” flopped around the edges of her mind like the fish on the dock in Montauk. Shocked and stilled by her thoughts, a new clarity and cognizance at the fore came to her rescue.

After pausing briefly, she simply said, “You know, Ned, if you keep showing up, regardless of what you say, it’s called a relationship.”

Ellen paused for another moment and pictured her opening the door of her condo with a smile on her face shadowed by a large palm tree next to the flowering bougainvillea, wearing a Hawaiian sundress printed with bright bananas and cherries.

Ellen knew life was 90 percent showing up and she, whoever she was, was getting at least 75 percent of that.

“Hey,” he said, “I’ve been with you one hundred percent. You’re the greatest – we’ll make plans.”

“Ned, honey,” she said tersely, “one hundred percent of fifty percent ain’t what I call one hundred percent.”

If Ellen had to pick a moment in time, just like the shared moment when the magic began two months before, this was the defining bucket of cold water. Poof, the magic was gone. The kiss goodbye had a different taste. She stood on her stoop and watched him back out, literally, and she knew in her heart that there would be no more morning IM’s, no more e-mails, no more morning and night phone calls. She felt them peter out and saw them sputter and putter and just knew. He had come on Friday, and Saturday, and Sunday, and then was gone. After the glow, and the glowing reports to all her friends, the embers died down, just like the barbeque, after the dinner they were too drunk to remember.

RULE NUMBER TWELVE: Practice safe sex and wear a condom for your emotions.