A PERFECT GENTLEMAN
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I always forget that It's men like him that get to me, The "Perfect Gentleman." They break my heart every time.
You know the kind. The man who makes you detour into temporary insanity--the kind who shakes his head and acts amazed at every thing you do--ignores your faults and sees your possibilities. The smart ones. The self-starters. If you get lucky, he's got a body to match. When he walks, he looks like he is motivated--knows where he's going--ready to take on the world--and you with it.
My ideal man is at an age where he's blind enough to think I'm witty, smart and beautiful--a prince of a fellow that makes me feel like a queen. He makes it no secret he adores the ground I walk on. He's proud to show me off to his friends . . . he even brags about me to the people he does business with . . . that cinches it for me.
There's no denying, this man I met tonight, the one I'm so taken with, is exactly the kind who'd act like that. Now that I think about it, he could be a real pro at doing the kind of things "cons" are known to do. The kind of man common sense tells me, is far too good to be true. But I don't want to believe that.
I'm an optimist. I'd much rather bet there's a 75 percent chance he's for real. That in his case, "con" simply means he's such a good man, he instills confidence in people wherever he goes. Not just me.
Yet, the way I feel tonight, at this point in my life, I don't care. Let me at him. The king of con-men, or the genuine article. Beggars can't be choosy. My biological clock is a cruel reminder. Every day I wonder how much living I have left in me, and if I'm doing it right. Can't help but wish I had it together better. More like Oprah Winfrey. Her money and power too.
But in the meantime, perfect gentleman are dying to the right and left of me.
I'm a pretty happy camper generally speaking. Grateful for what comes my way, but it'd be nice to find a new one before it's time to join them all. To be held and loved well. Not just for my heart and mind, but all of me in one package, nestled in the warm comforting arms of one good man who adores me and thinks I feel wonderful. Sexy too.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
This man I just met, the one who seems like a perfect gentleman? He's taking a long time in the bathroom, it makes me nervous. I hope he's not sick from all the booze he downed earlier. Do I need to check on him?
"Live in the now. Settle for more or less, and be content with what you get. It's all good." It's a favorite mantra of mine and helps calm me as I wait and reflect on perfect gentleman and the impression I got of this newest man to plop into my life. At least he'd be the kind you'd feel good about showing up with at your family reunion.
Not one woman there, would feel sorry for you and you'd go up a notch in their estimation, just by association. No one would think less of you for leaving home early and making something out of yourself. At least, for that day, as long as HE was on your arm.
"What a chauvinist world! And the damn women perpetuate it," I growl aloud. I hope he can't hear me from the bathroom. I remind myself, men are sensitive about such issues. Yet, in my own life, I've always admired them and found them to be great--support equal rights and be loyal friends--be my beloved mentors. I love men. Now if I could just land one.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Is he ever coming out of that bathroom? Seems like I would have heard something by now. Wouldn't I? Oh, there's the shower. Looks like it's going to be longer than I thought. Where did I leave off from my train of thought . . . Oh yeah, now I remember . . .
Somehow, as the oldest, I got into a rut. For as long as I can remember, I tried to help family, give them what I wanted as a kid. Money and the feeling they were not alone in the world--emotional security--knowing that in my book they could do nothing wrong. Not sure why, but it felt good at the time. Besides, they didn't have anyone but me.
Guess I should be grateful today for the motivation it provided. But five years ago, the ingrates hurt me deep. I knew I had to disassociate for a while. Except for the youngest, I temporarily crossed the whole bunch off my list. I figured someday they'd at least say they were sorry. But now, enough time has gone by that it looks more and more like that's never going to happen. It'd been a hard pill to swallow and still hasn't gone down right.
Giving gifts I couldn't afford became a habit I didn't know how to break. I forgot all too often that the little ones had grown up and knew how to make it on their own. That all I had to do was be a good big sister and applaud. Take care of myself rather than sacrifice things that didn't need to be sacrificed. Now, I need to give them one last gift. True forgiveness. For myself too--come to the full realization that we all did the best we knew how to do at the time.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
From what I learned earlier, like me, this guy in the bathroom loves history, antiques, classic cars, sing-a-longs, playing the piano, old jazz, dancing, giving parties, oil painting and fixing up Victorian homes. All that in one man. Hard to believe. I like his hands too. Great hands. He glowed when he spoke of making things grow in his garden and building things. Repairing and rescuing what some might disregard and throw away--making what he touches better than when it was brand new.
He told me he came from good blood lines. The kind where most males in a family lived close to a 100 and stay in good health--retain their mental agility. Doesn't smoke or drink usually, he said. That's good. It'd be a shame to lose a man like that early on.
I have no big regrets, but I don't want to have to care for anyone dying again, at least for a while. I'm overdue for a rest with one who doesn't mind when I say, "I got a problem and need your help."
I know it would be music to my ears, if I heard such a man say, "Name it, anything!" And if he needed me? It would be a sacrifice NOT to be there. Life's funny that way.
And who knows? Maybe the man about to join me here on this very bed will truly be exactly like that.
But what if he's committed? Not honest about it? Maybe he's separated. I bet he is. Perfect gentleman don't run around unattached at his age. Or so it would seem. . . . who knows? Tomorrow I may be putting another foolish dream in my diary . . . back up on the shelf of my bedroom closet. It can set right next to my teenage diaries. For sure, I hold on to old things far too long.
No doubt it keeps the new from coming into my life, this life anyway.
Maybe if there's such a thing as reincarnation, I will meet him in another life. Wouldn't that be nice? But damn. It's not! Postponed happiness is lost happiness. Isn't that what they say?
Actually, that'd be better timing. Decades from now, maybe I could have all the same qualities developed, that I see in him today. But the reality is, that while he may be qualified for me, I'm not for him. I still have a long way to go. A truth I can't deny.
And even though it's only been a few hours since we met, I can't help but wonder if fate sat us next to each other at the banquet. Two hours of talking, that's all it took to know for sure that he made my "Perfect Man List."
* * * * * * * * * * * *
When we went to the hotel's convention bar. I'd like to think he kept drinking because he didn't want to leave me--those doubles his silly buddies kept sending over--the ones we didn't know about until it was too late.
It took two of our co-workers and me to get him back up here. They had to leave. That's how and why I'm still here now. Living more dangerously. Or so it seems at the moment. Crazy? Probably. Yet I can't seem to help myself from carrying on like this.
It wasn't enough to feel him close to me on that bar room dance floor or even to sample him a bit ago. The sweet taste of him lingers and the thoughts of him are making me more turned on than I can ever recall.
It's escalated to such a degree . . . I must lay with him . . . God I need that so bad . . . just for a little while. That's all I ask.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
The bathroom door is opening and here he comes in a cloud of steam, drying his hair. A towel wrapped around his waist completes the look and catches my breath. He smiles and looks a bit sheepish.
"Like I said before, I'll bet you thought I had too much to drink . . . "
"Didn't you? Come on. You know you did." I laughed. He pushed me down on the bed. "I was only trying to warm you up, you got the shakes and I was worried about you. "
"Sorry for getting carried away earlier. You don't need to worry," he said still slurring his words, "I'm always a perfect gentleman, even when I wake up and find a nude woman in my bed."
"Good. I mean about you always being the perfect gentleman and all . . . You may not believe it, finding me in bed with you like this, but I always behave like as a perfect lady . . . tonight . . . tonight . . . I just got carried away too. . . I don't know WHAT got in to me."
"Am I to take it that you being here on this bed with me like this--naked under that robe--s not a normal part of your 'perfect lady' routine when you first meet a man."
"No, it's not. Is getting drunk and into a fight with a liberal bartender part of your 'perfect gentleman' routine?"
"No. First time in my life it every happened," he said peaking under the covers, "I swear. Tonight is a bewitched night and it started with you, I'm not only a gentleman, but a scholar too. And if you would be so kind as to allow me, I would like to teach you a few things."
"Does your usual fair perform more proficiently when she lands in your bed?"
Cocky I know. But I'm dumbfounded. What can I say? Here I am in his bed. To act like the innocent virgin--to tell him that--would be an absurdity. He wouldn't believe it anyway.
I suppress my chuckle and draw far enough back from him to let him see my face. Getting a grip I tell myself. I can fake this. I didn't take acting classes for two years for nothing.
"So teach me. Show me how someone 'new to this type of thing' SHOULD perform. What DOES a perfect gentleman and scholar teach a perfect lady?"
"I can show you, better than I can ever tell you."
I start to answer but I can't. He's kissing me, telling me to shut-up and he'll demonstrate. And oh, does this man know how to demonstrate . . . does he know how to kiss. My body, my soul, everything in me is on fire. Oh, oh. What is he up to now? My hand, he's moving my hand . . .
"Pretend you are on the dance floor . . . let me take the lead . . . we will go to heaven."
He's playing with my ear lobes, moving to my neck, around now to my back, teasing my tummy, he's at my bottom now, kneading it, drawing it close to him. I find myself feeling eager to learn much more--be a brand new student in a fresh subject that's foreign to me--one I''m feeling sure I'm going to like. A lot.
He's putting my hand on his stomach. He wants it there, I can tell. I move it around, feeling it all over . . . I hear him moan . . . I see him wince . . .
"Did that bar room bouncer hit you in the gut before I got to you?"
"Yeah, I think so, I can't remember exactly."
He's moaning, What do I do now? I throw back the sheet--jump back at the sight of him.
"OH!" I tell him, "I hadn't expected to see THAT!"
"Sorry to startle you so, it has a mind of its own."
I couldn't stop staring. His manhood was staring me in the face. It was startling. Much bigger than I would have ever imagined. Where do men hide those things all day long?"
"Hey, look. You aren't in any shape to give me any lessons today. Let's save this for another day."
I'm thinking to myself, yeah, another day maybe--when my sanity has returned and I've had a chance to think this through--with both feet on the ground and my goal list in front of me. That thing could hurt!
"Baby. Touch it, make it lie down. Make my gut ache go away."
How can I refuse him? A few minutes longer and I'll be out of here! But in the meantime, the poor guy needs my help . . .
I'm trying to get the thing to lie down, but it keeps bouncing back up. Fascinating. Truly fascinating. I shift my finger to stroke it . . . maybe it will help it to relax . . . get it to down flat against his belly. He moans. Have I hurt him?
"Damn, so sorry. I'm trying to get it to lie down for you, but it seems to make matters worse."
"It doesn't work that way," he chuckled, "it will just make it harder until you grip it and rub it. REAL hard like. If you do it long enough, it will pop, release. Sorta of like a pimple you know."
I'm fascinated by how silky and baby soft it feels, yet at the same time it is rigid and resilient. Stiff . . . Oh, maybe it's working, putting him back to sleep. I feel him become very still. He has ceased to talk. But then I realize he's still awake. He chuckles. He's grabbing my hand. He looks so serious. He's making my hand go faster, he's putting his lips on mine again, his other hand comes overt top of mine--it locks it into position, he's breathing differently now. He's begun to move against me, writhe. Oh no. Maybe he is out of his mind in pain. No, can't be. He's trying to climb on top of me again. He moans and half sits up, startled.
"Someone is knocking on the door," he tells me, "make them go away, I'm in no shape to answer."
"I thought it was coming from next door. Maybe it's your buddies looking for you."
I spring up and secure the hotel robe around me.
"Who is it?"
"Room service. You called a while ago for aspirin, coffee, and a snack? Sorry we are just now getting it to you. It's been a busy night for us. "
Talk about timing! Not saved by the bell, but definitely by a knock. But for how long? I need to come to my senses and get out of here before it's too late. Either that, or I need to decide to stay. Find out if he's really a perfect gentleman.
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To Be Continued: Part 3
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Submitted by:
Babe
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