Warning: Mud Makes Me Horny

Gordon's OCD kicked in at Carino's Pizza when the wait staff never got around to cleaning the crumbs off of our four top. Distracted as he was with counting which tables had been bussed, and which hadn't, I didn't mind Gordon's occupied gaze as I chatted up the details of my family tree: pretty much all addicts, gambling, drugs, brother in jail, father long gone, mother who feeds on her young. I didn't even mind so much when Gordon half stood, half leaned into the aisle, and snapped his fingers in the direction of the server, his rear-end careening into my personal space like a satellite in denim. 

The Snap! Snap! Snap! of Gordon's fingers were absorbed into the noisy chatter of over-sugared, under-supervised kids, half pep up, table seven, and Rosemary Clooney's When the moon hits the sky honeyed alto.  In the pause between his inhale and exhale, Gordon's swimmer's legs sprang up from the red leather booth, and off he went on a mission to find someone to clean our table.

While Gordon was gone, I scooched over to his end of the booth to get a closer look at his curved neck collared in that blue corduroy shirt when he returned. 

The creamy scent of Parmesan cheese and pepperoni filled the room, and a delicate scent of Barbasol shaving cream hovered in the space left empty by Gordon's absence. My butt shifted into the warm leather dimple where Gordon's bottom had just vacated, and our energies comingled in 50/50 dance of possibility. I picked up the salt shaker, and turned it slowly between my fingers.

 Like everyone else seeking love on OK Valentine! my e-Profile was a tricked out creation of half-truths and fabrications: I was crazy for aerobics, loved to watch hockey and football: Warning: Mud Makes me Horny!  I enjoyed getting out and playing pool, travel to the beach or mountains; bon fires are awesome! My hobbies included collecting comic books, fly-fishing, and I can't get enough of NASCAR!

The truth was more like my brown/brown, five three, one hundred thirty-six pound body type wasn't a Hottie!, was just an Average, and my only true hobby, aside from watching TV, was reading, and if the odds had their way, at thirty two, I'd spend the rest of my life on my couch spooning a pint of Hagen Daz, watching reruns of Law and Order over and over, stuck on a loop of that McDonald's commercial, the one where I get all weepy, where the dad takes his little girl on a date, father and daughter hanging out and, he holds her little hand on the walk home.  Kills me every time.

Truth is, I signed up for OK Valentine because my body made me. 

Fandangoing a single movie ticket, wrangling a table for one or a seat on the bus were nothing new since high school, and although I am getting longer in the tooth, I'm still a few years out from having dimples on my ass like spores in Petri dish, or acquiring the only inheritance of note from my father, not a memory of bonding, but his receding hairline.  It wasn't any of that. 

No, signing up for OK-Valentine was being hit by lightning. One day I was  sitting on my couch, sucking down the Haagen Daz French Vanilla, watching Eliot and Olivia catch sexual predators, and the next day my body plugged itself into some universal energy grid. It was like my body bitch-slapped me and said, "GRRLLL, you best wake up!"  A banshee wail of It's alive and it wants pleasure streamed from every orifice. And it wasn't just hormones driving the show; every cell was in on the act. 

The skin on my legs travelled smooth as a silk stocking up to and beyond the fullness of my belly.  My pubic hair was downright rude in its demand for attention, and the shine on my hair could be seen from space.  My breasts were meaty, their curve taut, and keening for a hands-on embrace. It was like my breasts took out an ad that said, “Squeeze Here” and hung it on my collarbone with an arrow pointing down.

Since I go to bars as often as I vacuum my roof, and since it's easier for me to decode E=MC squared, than what is supposed to happen in a relationship, OK Valentine! seemed like a good choice.  

Pipe and in hand, 420 tamped, I readied myself to fill out the gauntlet of the Profile Questionnaire, an ominous interrogative of who you are, family history, likes and dislikes. I was skipping along nicely through its 378 questions until I ran into the Must Haves section, a divining rod of omniscient choices as mysterious as black holes. There wasn't a checkbox for a working dick, so I skipped that section entirely, and thought it best not to mention my family crest was the minus sign.

Gordon returned followed by a short sweaty Mexican dude in a green apron, carrying a black plastic tub. I hurried to put the salt shaker precisely next to its darker mate next to the napkin holder. The Mexican dude, rag in hand, wiped left, right, across and back. When Gordon finally sat down to a crumb-free table, it was like he was parked in a convertible, looking up at the stars, free at last.

 “I like your green eyes,” I said.

“They're hazel,” he said, and tucked the salt shaker exactly even with the pepper.  “My left eye is 30% blind, sensitive to light and it wanders.” 

“I hadn't notice,” I lied.

In his e-Profile pic Gordon wore an Oregon Beavers cap, and sunglasses; his neck, the way it rose up to meet his jaw was taut, slightly muscular and the casual cross of his legs at the ankle as he leaned against his Chevy Blazer had the countenance of someone who doesn't care, were enough for me to send him a Flirt!

With his Slavic cheekbones and undeniable jaw line, his faux Ray Bans, transformed his features from an Average body type to a Hottie, although, I realized in person, Gordon's wandering eye was no doubt the reason for the sunglasses.

“Do you have a big family,” I asked.

“No. You?” he said, and gave a yank to even out the cuffs of his shirt.

“Not really,” I said.

Gordon's hands were beautiful. His fingers were perfectly shaped, baby-butt smooth, no dirt lodged in the creases, or traces of heavy labor.  His nails were tinted a slight pink, like rose buds just coming into their color.

“You dated anyone else from OK-Valentine!, Sami?” he asked, and for the first time that night Gordon's eyes landed on my eyes longer than the hang time of a hummingbird. At least the right eye did. I had on my white scoop neck top, the one with chiffon edging, the top that made it hard to look away, but didn't scream slut.

“No, you're the first,” I lied again. 

The first guy, Recently Divorced, took me to La Sur Table. He played tennis at the Oak Hill Country Club, and brought his most recent eight by ten glossy for me as a gift. I had the French Onion soup, and Recently Divorced had the Stuffed Trout Almandine.  After dinner, he offered; but I declined. I can't say for sure, but it may have been that when it comes to onions I get a little gassy, and apparently, farting seemed the more pleasurable choice.

The second guy was a flannel shirt-wearing grandpa that drank Old Milwaukee beer.  His Profile pic showed him sitting in a worn recliner, Old Mill in one hand, the other clutching his remote control. I liked the dog curled up next to him.

Flannel Grandpa had lost his job in aluminum siding five years earlier, but he kept busy with his hobbies of collecting carpet samples, and restoring hubcaps. In person, Flannel Grandpa had clocked even more mileage than his Profile pic registered, and he smelled of baby powder and dirty engine oil. 

We met for coffee at Cup 'N Saucer. His face was craggy, and every line told a story not all that interesting. The clock above the window became my refuge right about the time Flannel Grandpa pulled out pictures of his carpet sample collages, and I "Oh, look at the time'd" it out of there. Other dates were pretty much the same disappointment, disillusionment and faltered desire, except for Gordon. Gordon was different.

Gordon's e-Profile said he enjoyed reading a book now and then, liked thin brunettes, (but was flexible up to ten pounds), preferred indoor activities; did not smoke, drink or do drugs; could be deeply romantic, was seeking a LTR, but was open to other possibilities. He listed his hobbies as gaming, taking apart cell phones, and watching black and white movies. He enjoyed browsing second hand stores for phone parts and after work home for dinner and a shower.

But that's not what got me to send Gordon a Flirt, although I liked that he read more than one book a year.

His body type was tall and lanky, a swimmer's body.  In person, he's six foot even, with salt and pepper hair, and those green eyes. The first time he called me said he just got out of the shower, and I joked, I mean I was really joking when I said, “Are you naked?”

“No, but I can be.”  

But even that's not what got me to send a Flirt to Gordon. What got me interested in Gordon was the mention of the death of his brother in his e-Profile!  The devastation of grief is so real it has to be trusted.

 ___________________       _________________

Gordon adjusted the rim of his glasses, and said “You like pepperoni?  That's all I ever eat on pizza.”

“Sure,” I said. 

“Thanks.  Yeah, that's all I ever eat on pizza.  I don't like vegetables, not even cucumbers. It's not allergies.  I just don't do vegetables.” 

In the next instant, like I could see the alert signal going off in his head, Gordon's eyes scanned the room with robotic precision for our server.  Even the wandering eye fell into lock step.

What do you do?” Gordon asked, looking past my head and into the aisle.

“I manage the river traffic off the Willamette at, mostly, the Steel Bridge off of Morrision,” I said. “It's mainly calendaring the barges, and regulating the safety of the pedestrian traffic on bridge.

The usual blank stare, and color loss whenever I mention my job never happened.  All Gordon said was, “Kind of like a lighthouse keeper."

"Kind of," I said.

 He emptied the sugar packets, rearranged each one front side up and placed them back, one at a time, into the steel basket. Gordon's tractor beam stare locked on to our server and pulled him toward the direction of our booth.

“What do you do?” I said.

“I design mechanically operated dog runs for people, mostly older folks who have dogs, but can't walk their dogs, and don't want to mess up their backyards with the holes, pee stains on the lawn, scattered droppings.” 

“Huh,” I said. 

A single bell sounded; large mushroom and sausage was up for table twelve. Our server hurried back to the window to pick up and deliver the pie.

Instead of tracking the retreating server, Gordon singled out a strand of my hair, and rubbed it between his fingers like it was a coin and he wanted to know if it was fake.

“You have pretty hair,” he said.

Under the table, my index finger and thumb rubbed each other for something to do.  My other hand, above the table, played with the chiffon fringe on my top. 

The air in the room didn't constrict, but it ratcheted up a level. When the next moment finally arrived, it was like our eyes had ruled out all the places they'd already gone to for refuge, and had a gun to their head insisting the two sets meet in the middle. A reset button would have been so handy. 

In the time it took to retreat from the moment and reenter it, I wished I could have thought of something funny, startling, or inquisitive to toss back over the net, but the only channel on the station was Gordon's fingers stroking my hair.

It was THAT moment. The one where the entire universe spins on its axis, and nothing changes and everything is different.

Gordon put his arm around me, and leaned in close. The peppermint of his shaving cream filled the tiny pocket of air between us. My fingers traced the small coves and dense muscle through the blue corduroy of his shirt.

Tiny kisses were exchanged, small birds fluttering back and forth from landing to landing, carrying the promise of something more.           

 ____________________    ____________________ 

We were on my couch, making out; I left a lamp on so Gordon's wandering eye wouldn't go totally blind. Gordon slipped his hand down my shirt, took my nipple between his fingers, and squeezed.

“You live alone, Sami,” Gordon said, not so much as a question, but a confirmation of his observation.

I shook my head, “Since I was sixteen.”

Gordon's salt and pepper nudged my brown/brown to the side and he used his lips to explore my throat.

“Tell me about your brother,” I said, and reached both arms over my head, a signal as easy to read as a flare on moonless night.

“He died,” Gordon said. The top of my white scoop became an obstacle that had lost its charm.

“Tell me,” I said.

“Cancer,” he said. His voice sounded like it had a fallen into a barrel of gravel.

Gordon pulled down the top of my top, pushed back my bra, and took my nipple in his mouth.

A wet melting knot tied itself tighter itself between my legs. 

“When?” I asked, as I traced figure eights on his arm.           

Gordon raised his head and looked at me.

“Two years ago.” Flecks of gold confetti rimmed the pupil of right his eye.

“What kind?” I said, and arched my hips closer to Gordon's.

“Fatal," he said. "He lost his leg first. After that it was too late.”

Gordon's hand slid down inside my jeans, brushing past the soft prickly parts, seeking my open spaces. His middle finger found my melting wet and got busy.

“Were you close?” I asked, sinking past the threshold of aware and into the dense loam of desire.

“Twins,” Gordon said, as his fingers slid in and out.

I closed my eyes and let myself be swallowed into the the earthy subsoil of my body.