Chapter Fifteen
I spend more time than usual getting ready for my Friday night date. And since I’ve never been one to speed-dress, that means I take a few hours, and I enjoy every single one of the minutes. Tonight’s date with Chris feels like a new beginning. It feels like a real first date, but with someone I’m already sure I like. So I shave my legs, and spread the softest pomegranate lotion into my skin, thinking of how it would feel if Chris’ hands were the ones on my legs. I blow out my hair, imagining his fingers twined in my hair.
I do my make-up as I listen to all my favorite songs, like I’ve Got a Crush on You and Fly me to the Moon, feeling that sweet possibility in the words. It’s as if I’m living in the lyrics, wrapped up in the hope that they might deliver for me. I even find myself swaying to the words as I swipe on my blush.
I grab a skirt, a cute little bluish-green corduroy number, pull on my fuchsia boots, then pick a magenta-colored short sleeve sweater, near enough in color to complement the boots, far enough away so as not to be matchy-match. I make my way to my jewelry collection on my bureau. I choose a black necklace with a big black plastic heart on it and a bright pink fake gem in the middle of that. I push a trio of bracelets onto my right wrist – light pink, aqua and light blue. I switch from the lime-green purse to a basic black clutch, say good-bye to my dog, and catch a cab.
When I get out of the car, I see Chris, five feet in front of me, wearing headphones and holding an iPod. The studio he shoots promos at is near Circa Rose, so he must have walked here. Nerves slam into me. All that warm fuzziness of my alone time flies away, and now I’m faced with the does-he-or-doesn’t-he-like-me dilemma. After all, he didn’t text me back last night. But when he sees me, he smiles and takes the earphones out. His smile warms me.
“What are you listening to?”
“A podcast.”
“On what?”
“You’re going to laugh.”
“So make me laugh, Chris McCormick,” I say playfully as we reach Circa Rose.
“It’s on how to build a car.”
“You’re going to build a car? Like from scratch?”
He shrugs. “I’m thinking about it,” he says as he opens the door for me, then pulls out a stool for me when we reach the bar. I sit down, careful to cross my legs. My corduroy skirt isn’t butt-cheek length, but it’s not long either. The bartender appears. I order a grapefruit juice and vodka, Chris a beer. An image flashes through my mind – or maybe it’s my senses – of the taste of beer on his lips. I can sort of taste the cold fizz, the slight chill from the drink, mixed with his breath. And I want to taste it for real. I want to tell him the contest is off. But how do I broach it especially when I don’t know if he feels the same way?
He taps his iPod. “I’ve got podcasts on how to make your own TV, how to get your computer to go faster, how to build your own Web cam.”
There’s my entry. A joke to slide into the serious.
I smack my forehead. “I forgot my iCam. I forgot my computer. I’ve been video recording the dates, so the viewers can vote.”
“Are you like the biggest dork in the world or what? What about the cat camera I fixed for you?”
The bartender returns with our drinks. Chris pays immediately before I have the chance to reach into my little black bag.
“I forgot that too.”
He laughs and shakes his head, his hair falling in his eyes as he leans closer to me. I so want to reach out and touch his hair, but he never responded to my text last night, so maybe this is all just business for him. I press my palms against the bar, so I don’t start running my fingers through his hair here and now.
“You could use your phone.”
“I could. But I don’t want to.”
“You don’t want to?”
“No,” I say, and I am nearly paralyzed by nerves. I’m barely able to breathe any more. My chest suddenly feels constricted, as if all my fears are gripping me.
He tilts his head to the side. “Why? Am I out of the running? You don’t want me to get past the first round.”
“I totally want you to get past the first round.”
“So then?”
There’s a hopeful sound to his voice, but I can’t quite form the words. I don’t know how to give voice to all the feelings that are building inside me. I don’t have to though because he inches his hand across the bar and loops his fingers through mine. As he clasps my hand in his, sparks race through my body, and I find myself leaning closer to him.
“I don’t want to date you for the cameras,” I say.
“Do you want to date me not for the cameras?” He squeezes my hand, as he holds my gaze so tight.
“Yes. I want to go out with you for you.”
His eyes light up and his flirty, happy smile matches mine. “I want to go out with you for you too, McKenna.”
That’s all it takes for that crazy torquing feeling to fade away, and for me to move in closer and trace his top lip with my index finger. “You have really pretty lips,” I say.
He laughs. “Cute blushing. Pretty lips. Are these compliments?”
“It’s me. I’m a dork. I don’t know what to say to someone I really like.”
“So you really like me?”
“I sent you that text last night, didn’t I?”
“Well, I didn’t know if it was a business text, like you couldn’t wait to see me for the contest, or if it was more.”
“That’s why you never responded?”
He nods. “Yeah, that’s why I never responded. But I couldn’t wait to see you too. You could throw the contest out the window right now and I would still want to date you. I would still want to play video games with you and fix your camera and have dinner with you. And I would still want to take you back to my house. And I would still want to take you out again the next day.”
“You would?”
“Yes. I told you I thought you were hot the very first time I met you, and then we talked and you were so much more.”
“I am?” My heart is ping ponging with happiness inside me.
“Yeah, you are. You’re tough, and you’re smart, and you’re intensely independent, and you like music, and you’re just this totally cool chick.”
“So, speaking of music, you got any music on that bad boy or are you just geeking out with your DIY podcasts?”
“I have many songs. Would you like to see?”
“Yes.”
“I have a whole playlist of cover songs,” Chris continues. He touches the menu button and scrolls through to his playlists, tapping on the one for covers. I lean in close to read the names, and he wraps his arm around my waist. It’s such a date gesture and such an unfamiliar one to me, but as his fingertips press against my hip bone, I know I could get used to this with him. I could so get used to the feel of his hands on me, from how he touched my face when we kissed by the car last weekend, to how he played my fingers in the electronics store, and to the way he’s holding me now. It borders on a possessive gesture, as if he’s saying that I’m with him.
I have to choose to let go of my ex. Because now I’m here, and I’m not just longing for the feelings in this song.
I’m feeling them.
I lean into Chris, my back against his chest, and he wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me close. We sway slightly, almost imperceptibly, as the man sings. When he reaches the words “take my hand” the man does just that and his wife holds her hand out to him. They’re not touching. They’re many feet apart. Still, it’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen.
Until Chris takes my hand. Laces his fingers through mine. Squeezes.
When the music fades, he turns me around so he’s looking at me. “I know you’re not ready for more, but how would you feel about coming back to my place so I can do all those other things I’ve thought about doing?”
“You mean play Qbert?” I tease.
“If that’s what you want to call it.”
* * *
Chris lives in a cream-colored Victorian building, with muted green trim on the windows and the door. His home is above an antique shop and right next door to Barney’s Burger Joint, which received the “Best Burgers in San Francisco in 2007” honor from a local paper.
He unlocks the main door, and we walk up two flights of stairs. As we round the stairwell, his hands are on my waist, and he’s telling me all the things he wants to do to me.
“You know it’s not going to take me long when you talk like that.”
“Good. Then we can go again.”
He opens the door to his place and it’s spacious. The living room is wide and stretches the whole length of the building it seems. I spot a few arcade games off in the corner, including Qbert, and I pretend I’m a zombie, drawn to it. Chris puts both hands on my shoulders and steers me away. “We’ll get to those soon enough,” he teases.
I look around the rest of the living room. A high-definition TV screen is mounted on the off-white wall, flanked by several gaming consoles. Chris told me once he spends close to fifteen hours a week playing games. “Sounds glamorous and it is when the games are good,” he’d said. “But sometimes, it’s drudgery.”
There’s a huge U-shaped couch against the opposite wall, in some sort of indistinct gray color. But it looks cushy and well-worn and is stuffed with brown and burnished gold pillows in the corners. His kitchen is modern and sleek with stainless steel appliances, but it doesn’t scream “bachelor cool.” There’s an antique-y table against the wall, with curvy legs, while a pale yellow tea kettle sits in the middle of the stove.
Chris then gestures vaguely to the other room. “The boudoir. But you can’t see that tonight,” he says playfully. I land on the side of good taste and opt not to peer into his bedroom, but I notice out of the corner of my eye he has a king-size bed with a beige cover, white walls, and blond book shelves beside the headboard.
“So there you go,” he says, leaning against the wall in his hallway, hooking his thumbs through the belt loops on his jeans. I can’t help myself. My eyes drift down to the bulge in his pants. How am I going to refrain from taking his clothes off and wrapping my legs around him? But I know once we go there, I’ll be gone for him. I’ll be more over the moon than I already am. Once he’s inside me, there will be no turning back.
I want to, I’m almost there, but yet the possibility of being shattered in a million pieces again prevents me from taking that step. So I turn away and walk to Qbert. I run a hand across the control panel, feeling the joystick against my palm. I trace my fingers across the name in its big, balloon-y print. Then I peek at the side of the machine. The entire side panel is a bright bold yellow with an illustration of Qbert cursing as he nears the edge of the pyramid. I return to the screen and lay my cheek against it.
“You sure you don’t want me to leave you alone with it?”
“I have other plans,” I say, but then I’m distracted when I notice the Galaga machine to the right, then a Donkey Kong.
“My God, you have your own arcade.”
He joins me by the games. “Would you be impressed if I told you I built them all myself?”
My eyes open wide. I can’t believe what he is saying. My brain is about to pop. “You built an arcade game?”
“You make it sound like I made a time machine out of a Delorean. It wasn’t that hard.”
“Wasn’t that hard?” I parrot back. “How do you make an arcade game?”
“I dusted off an old computer, found some source code from this non-profit development project that preserves old arcade games, tweaked it up a bit and then built the cabinet.”
“This is amazing. You have some serious skills,” I say.
“And you haven’t even seen me surf. I can ride some serious waves.”
“You can ride this wave,” I say suggestively. “You can make this wave.” I hop up on the Qbert, and sit on the console, my legs dangling in front of the machine. I glance down at my skirt, and he gets the hint.
“You on my Qbert machine might possibly blow my mind. But I’m willing to try.”
He runs his hands through my hair and kisses me hard, as if he needs to kiss me first for foreplay or something. But even a whisper of a kiss from him is all I need. Besides, I’ve been ready for this since the karaoke bar.
He moves to my neck, kissing me there, then pulls off my shirt, cupping my breasts with my bra on. He unhooks it in seconds flat, and his tongue flicks over a nipple, then the other one and I lean my head back and say his name, and that sound moves him further down my body, as he kisses my belly, then pushes up my skirt. He’s gentle as he lifts my butt and wiggles off my underwear, careful to make sure I don’t bonk the joystick. Then he bends lower, kissing the inside of my thighs, softly, trailing his tongue from my knee all the way up, then darting over to the other leg.
I am electric and fiery from every touch of him, and I am dying to feel his mouth on me. I want to pull him between my thighs so he can taste me, lick me, press his lips against my warm wetness, and do all the things he said he wants to do.
“Chris,” I moan, since he’s teasing me, toying with me, making me want him more.
He nibbles lightly on my thigh, as his strong hands spread my legs wider. I accidentally bump the start button, and even though he hasn’t put a quarter in the game, the theme music from Qbert begins. I laugh, and so does he, but then my laugh turns into a long, low moan at the first flick of his tongue on me. He makes this sound too, like a rumble, as he tastes how ready I am for him. It’s like an altered state I’ve entered, and my whole body is crackling with heat. He is magnificent, his tongue divine as he traces delirious lines up and down my center that make me whimper.
My noises drive him, and each sound that tumbles from my lips makes him hungrier for me, and we become this perfect feedback loop of wanting, and giving, and taking as I grow wetter and hotter with every single touch. I am in heaven with him, I am in a white-hot dream. I grip the edge of the game console as he consumes me with his mouth, his tongue, his lips.
His mouth was tailor-made for me. He goes down on me like he’s kissing me and devouring me at the same time, somehow both soft and hungry in the fevered slide of his delicious lips against my very core, driving me wild.
Then his hands slink under my thighs and he lifts my legs onto his shoulders, draping them over his back. I feel so completely vulnerable with him, as if I am giving myself to him completely, but I’m not scared anymore, because he wants what I have to give. He wants me, all of me, only me, and that’s why I’m nearly panting as I say his name, and tell him how good it feels, because it does, it feels good, it feels great, it feels like everything is happening for the first time, and the best time, and that it won’t be the last time. It’ll be the start of something amazing with him.
Then he brings me there, and he shatters me with an orgasm that’s as endless as it is intense. I let go of the side of the game, and I grab his hair, his ridiculously soft hair that slides through my fingers, and I hold onto him as I come hard, with the kind of soundtrack that drives neighbors jealous.
Soon, when I can form words again, and when he’s standing and looking at me with those dreamy eyes that say everything I want, I kiss him, tasting myself on him, tasting what he just did to me. He loops his arms around me, and I lean my head on his chest. “That was out of this world. You know how to go down on a girl.”
He kisses my forehead. “I know how to go down on you because I want you. Because I can’t get enough of you.”
“You are the best boyfriend I’ve ever had.”
“Good. Let’s keep it that way.”
Those words feel a bit like a promise, and that promise feels a bit like falling in love.