As a newly single woman in my 50s in Los Angeles, I was scared. I've been married so long that the last time I heard the words “sexy” and “hot” was when I ordered sea bass with spicy shiitake sauce. I have never been stuffed, stuffed, sucked, filled or augmented. I think I'm more likely to be struck by lightning than to be hit by a handsome guy.
Understandably, my girlfriends got fed up with my “I'll die alone” attitude so they dragged me out for some fun, which I assumed meant a glass of wine and a cheese plate delicious, not a shot of tequila in a trendy nightclub. in West Lake. The last time I joined the club, I performed the Hammer dance in parachute pants! I was in over my head. What if no one checks up on me or asks me to dance. My self-esteem was so low that I considered spending the rest of the year in bed. Maybe I just need 11 months to reassess my Sleep Count and catch up on “The Bachelor.”
Turns out, guys don't ask you to dance anymore. They just move into you. One guy came very close, less about dancing and more about grinding. I joke that in some countries we are officially married.
He doesn't get the joke, and I'm not about to be with a man who doesn't have a sense of humor. I was starting to have fun when fate reminded me that I had just broken up, was supposed to be painful, and made me stumble on an invisible step. I fell. Hard. On concrete floor.
I was so embarrassed. I was sure people were laughing at me, but instead, they just walked past me on their way to the bar. Alcohol overwhelms everything. I stood up, shook off my pride, and walked back to the dance floor. I was “raising the roof” when a small man approached me and asked if I liked his friend. At first I thought he was referring to his penis in the most unlikely way imaginable, but then he gestured to his real friend behind me – a tall man in his thirties. , dark and gorgeous. And I definitely like it!
He introduced himself in broken English as Daniel. He recently moved to Southern California from Italy to work as a chef at a popular local spot. I felt like I was stepping into the pages of a Harlequin romance story. Soon he would be riding shirtless, and I would be behind him, holding on to his abs to keep from falling. Like I really need a reason.
He suggested we go back to his apartment for more Prosecco and more dancing, and I did what any mid-50s woman in my situation would do: I threw throw all reason, good sense, and safety concerns into the wind and blurt out “Yes, God, yes! ”
Daniel asked if I had a friend who could join us because ironically, the pocket sized man had very large pockets and would pick up our bill and give us a ride in the SUV his favourite. I knew convincing a girlfriend wasn't easy so I took the normal route. I used guilt. I suffered for months and years. Did my friends really want to deny me a night of superficial, meaningless connection of desire?
After a quick ride in which I sat on my good butt, the four of us arrived at Daniel's apartment in Agoura Hills. He opened some bubbly and toasted in a seductive and incomprehensible way, but I suddenly thought of that.
What have I done? I'm not ready for sex. I'm not even naked in front of the mirror! What about the bump on my butt from the fall that is swelling by the minute? Would it be too obvious if I sat on a bag of ice or a bag of frozen peas? Before I could get to the fridge, Daniel pulled me and I into a slow dance and he started singing to me in Italian. It's corny, off-beat, and incredibly romantic. My girlfriend, Shauna, saw where this was going so she asked Daniel's friend to drive her home. (That's a funny mistake for a whole other essay.)
I didn't say goodbye. I was too focused on Daniel's wandering hands heading south toward warmer climes. I screamed when he touched my bruised cheek and quickly recovered with a flirtatious smile. Emboldened by my fake flirtatious laughter, he started unbuttoning my jeans. I stopped him and lifted his hand. He moved them down. I moved them up. I wonder if you can have sex with your clothes on. It's been a minute since I had sex with someone new. Maybe things have changed.
He took my hand and led me into the bedroom. I looked at the bed and briefly wondered if the sheets were clean. As a mother, I can remove stains from anything. My dream of returning home was cut short when he took off his shirt. I looked at his ridiculous body and I knew it was my turn. I also know I'm not ready. I got fully dressed into bed and he crawled in next to me. He pulled me into his arms and kissed me, I forgot all about the divorce, the heartache and the fear of loneliness. I'm dating a hot Italian guy with a hematoma on his butt that's now the size of a ping pong ball, and it's exactly what I need. I felt hotter and sexier than any bass, but most importantly I felt hopeful. Maybe I'll be okay in the end.
The author is a Golden Globe Award-winning television comedy writer from England. She lives in Woodland Hills, but her adventures take place everywhere. She is on Instagram: @marianneBrown
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