Played Out
The nice thing about having a dirty old pervert disguised as a church deacon for my landlord is that when he asks whether I'm renewing my lease I can say, "Yes, if you replace the carpet in my apartment with hardwood floors."
And actually get it.
See, he'd been creepy and pervy a couple of years ago and I'd called him on it. I can only assume that his extreme willingness to do my bidding stems from the fear that I'll tell his wife that he skeeves me out and why.
I could have moved, but this arrangement isn't so bad. Leverage is nice in situations such as the one in which I found myself that day in June. The carpet in my apartment was nasty. And Creepy Landlord Guy removed it and installed new floors.
See how my life works?
At 11 PM I walked into my dark apartment. It smelled of sawdust and echoed when I walked across the room. I still had to put everything back in its place before I left for vacation in 36 hours.
I got right to work moving furniture. I needed a distraction after saying goodnight to my dinner date.
I met the Rugby Player via his ad on Craigslist. He was looking for a woman who would fuck him with a strap-on.
What is it with that, anyway? Suddenly all these guys want to be plowed with girlcock? Whatever; I'd had a great time with Billy (I mean, William), and I was looking forward to seeing my kids and having a vacation together, but I had time for one more distraction before I took off.
He'd called on his way to pick me up and I carted the trash out and stood outside a different building watching for a BMW SUV.
Really, that should have been my first clue.
I waved as the car/machine pulled up and climbed in. As he backed out of the space I took stock: His ad read 43, blond hair, athletic build. The dude was 50 if he was a day, with hair that used to be blond and a body that used to be athletic. Oh, and the mullet-with-sideburns thing?
Yeah, you see where this is going.
But, appearances can be deceiving, and we'd spoken on the phone in a somewhat normal fashion, so I decided dinner wouldn't kill me.
We parked at the steakhouse and got out of the car. For the first time I stood next to him. Freaking great. He'd lied about his height, too. He was maybe 5'7" (explains the BMW), when his ad had said 5'11".
Then he looked me up and down in my clingy wrap dress and said, "Ooh, you're a hot little number, aren't you?"
I swear to god. A Hot Little Number. What?
No way could I get naked with this guy. But I would most definitely order bourbon and a filet mignon, thank you.
We were shown to our booth where he proceeded to slide in next to me asking, "Do you mind if I sit here?"
"Actually, I'd prefer to look at you while we talk."
Not to mention that I know people in this town. A lot of people.
Not to mention that he'd have been groping me all through dinner, which he'd already done in the parking lot, loudly noting the absence of panties across my ass.
Charming.
The waiter, an ebullient gay boy came to take our drink orders.
"The lady will have a glass of red wine and . . ."
"Excuse me, Rugby Player, I can order for myself," I turned to the boy very seriously, "Maker's Mark. Rocks. Double, please."
The waiter looked at me with a mix of fear and pity and scampered off to get our drinks.
Rugby Player rolled his eyes, apparently at the gayness of it all and apologized, "Sorry, Maddie, but I'm just used to ordering for my lady."
I smiled to lighten the mood, "Well, sir, I'm nobody's lady."
"You're smart! I like that!"
Christ, next he was going to call me feisty. I changed the subject. He changed it back. What books did I like? Did I listen to Steely Dan?
By the time we ordered dinner, I'd finished my drink and ordered another.
During a lull he looked straight at my chest and said, "You really have some beautiful breastages there."
Breastages.
I'm completely serious.
Needless to say, the only inhibitions lowered by my bourbon consumption that evening were verbal ones.
On the drive back to my complex he put his hand on my leg and told me he'd felt chemistry between us and that he didn't want the evening to end so soon.
I thanked him for dinner, removed his hand and replied politely that I was flattered, but I couldn't echo his sentiments.
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm not attracted to you sexually."
"Will you still bend me over?"
"Um, no."
God, I needed a fucking vacation. I couldn't get out of town quickly enough.
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And actually get it.
See, he'd been creepy and pervy a couple of years ago and I'd called him on it. I can only assume that his extreme willingness to do my bidding stems from the fear that I'll tell his wife that he skeeves me out and why.
I could have moved, but this arrangement isn't so bad. Leverage is nice in situations such as the one in which I found myself that day in June. The carpet in my apartment was nasty. And Creepy Landlord Guy removed it and installed new floors.
See how my life works?
At 11 PM I walked into my dark apartment. It smelled of sawdust and echoed when I walked across the room. I still had to put everything back in its place before I left for vacation in 36 hours.
I got right to work moving furniture. I needed a distraction after saying goodnight to my dinner date.
I met the Rugby Player via his ad on Craigslist. He was looking for a woman who would fuck him with a strap-on.
What is it with that, anyway? Suddenly all these guys want to be plowed with girlcock? Whatever; I'd had a great time with Billy (I mean, William), and I was looking forward to seeing my kids and having a vacation together, but I had time for one more distraction before I took off.
He'd called on his way to pick me up and I carted the trash out and stood outside a different building watching for a BMW SUV.
Really, that should have been my first clue.
I waved as the car/machine pulled up and climbed in. As he backed out of the space I took stock: His ad read 43, blond hair, athletic build. The dude was 50 if he was a day, with hair that used to be blond and a body that used to be athletic. Oh, and the mullet-with-sideburns thing?
Yeah, you see where this is going.
But, appearances can be deceiving, and we'd spoken on the phone in a somewhat normal fashion, so I decided dinner wouldn't kill me.
We parked at the steakhouse and got out of the car. For the first time I stood next to him. Freaking great. He'd lied about his height, too. He was maybe 5'7" (explains the BMW), when his ad had said 5'11".
Then he looked me up and down in my clingy wrap dress and said, "Ooh, you're a hot little number, aren't you?"
I swear to god. A Hot Little Number. What?
No way could I get naked with this guy. But I would most definitely order bourbon and a filet mignon, thank you.
We were shown to our booth where he proceeded to slide in next to me asking, "Do you mind if I sit here?"
"Actually, I'd prefer to look at you while we talk."
Not to mention that I know people in this town. A lot of people.
Not to mention that he'd have been groping me all through dinner, which he'd already done in the parking lot, loudly noting the absence of panties across my ass.
Charming.
The waiter, an ebullient gay boy came to take our drink orders.
"The lady will have a glass of red wine and . . ."
"Excuse me, Rugby Player, I can order for myself," I turned to the boy very seriously, "Maker's Mark. Rocks. Double, please."
The waiter looked at me with a mix of fear and pity and scampered off to get our drinks.
Rugby Player rolled his eyes, apparently at the gayness of it all and apologized, "Sorry, Maddie, but I'm just used to ordering for my lady."
I smiled to lighten the mood, "Well, sir, I'm nobody's lady."
"You're smart! I like that!"
Christ, next he was going to call me feisty. I changed the subject. He changed it back. What books did I like? Did I listen to Steely Dan?
By the time we ordered dinner, I'd finished my drink and ordered another.
During a lull he looked straight at my chest and said, "You really have some beautiful breastages there."
Breastages.
I'm completely serious.
Needless to say, the only inhibitions lowered by my bourbon consumption that evening were verbal ones.
On the drive back to my complex he put his hand on my leg and told me he'd felt chemistry between us and that he didn't want the evening to end so soon.
I thanked him for dinner, removed his hand and replied politely that I was flattered, but I couldn't echo his sentiments.
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm not attracted to you sexually."
"Will you still bend me over?"
"Um, no."
God, I needed a fucking vacation. I couldn't get out of town quickly enough.
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7 Comments:
All I can say is I'm so sorry you seem to have happened across the sleaziest guy this side of the Mason Dixon and vomit, upchuck, spew! I thought those lines died with disco!
Is it very, very wrong, Madeline, that I am pleased that someone actually, at long last, had a WORSE date than some of mine.
Holy crap. Did he imagine you'd be dumb and blind? Breastages? I'm not sure a filet and fine bourbon makes up for such buffoonery.
I had a date like that once, only I wasn't smart enough to make him sit across from me. It was highly repulsive. I still shudder thinking about him.
By the way, you are a hot little number, darling and cute as a button too.
Kisses,
Tess
"I can understand that you aren't attracted to me, but why won't you bend me over?"
Who hasn't heard that line, sister?
tell it, brotherman.
thanks for the sympathy, all. rugby player was pretty grody.
but, the filet was yummy and my vacation was perfect.
lah-dee-dah.
Breastages? Breastages?! Have I read this? o.O
Congratulations on your blog, it's really cool.
Well, not EVERY 50+ man is this bad. And sometimes an older lover takes longer, which is a plus I'm told.
I think you're very scary and I imagine he went home and cried. There's nothing more devatating to a man's ego than an outspoken woman.
Why in the hell do people insist on lying? It's a guarantee that you won't get laid. *sigh* And the sad thing is that I am dying to encounter a sexy middle age type A guy....but this guy reeks of Brut and insecurity.
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