Sally Rides Single

Chapter 1: Lance Pants Down

"You've never done anal?"

Bill's eyes opened wide with surprise as he choked on his beer.

Perfect.

"So . . . neither as a pitcher . . . or a catcher?" I asked, teasing.

He stiffened. "I'll never be a catcher, THAT′s for sure!"

"Sssshhhh," I whispered, raising my chin and pointing it over his shoulder. Two of the big bosses had cozied up to the bar beside him and were having a laugh. I was pretty sure it was about something unrelated to our inappropriate tête-à-tête, but they were within earshot. And while I liked nothing more than messing with Captain Conventional, it’s a dangerous game when played in a bar filled almost to capacity with professional colleagues.

Ignoring my concern, Bill leaned in, sliding his arm across the bar towards me until his pinky finger rested against mine. I felt the atoms under my skin along that tiny area of shared contact line up and vibrate in response to his magnetic touch. I backed away from his force field and he countered by perching his right foot on my barstool’s footrest. When he angled his knee against mine, his pant leg tickled my calf. He was just about three beers too intimate.

Yeah, I know. I started it.

"I think you’re a bit of a tease, and you like to hear yourself talk," he said quietly.

"It’s all about the story, Bill. Might as well make it worth telling," I said, standing up and out of his orbit.

I felt a cool hand on my bare shoulder and glanced down at the red and gold Asian-inspired nail design. It was Jody, the administrative assistant for our Operations team.

"I hate to bother you with work right now, but it′s Jeff in Montreal on the line. Can you give him five minutes?"

"Sure," I said, happy to leave Bill hanging and focus on something and someone far more important. I hadn’t been able to get much traction working at Southeast Atlantic’s corporate headquarters in Sydney, Florida. That ladder was congested with too much good ol’ boy competition. I’d have to take an unconventional path to promotion and I was convinced impressing Jeff, the head of the Canadian Operations Division, was the ticket.

"Be right back, Bill," I said over my shoulder as I headed away from the bar, concentrating on the call, doing my best to sound confident and competent.

Jeff was concerned the timetable for Phase One of the QuebecNet build-out had slipped. I briefed him on my plan to make up for that lost time, and if it worked, the same strategy could be implemented in the following two phases, bringing the project to completion one month early.

"All right," he said, sounding a little relieved, "I′ll set up a conference call so you can give us the details."

"Sounds good. I′ll talk to you then." I had other things ready to roll off the tip of my tongue, but I′d learned to fight the urge to keep talking. The engineers I worked with were turned off by what they considered unnecessary chatter. They liked yes or no answers and really just wanted reassurance I knew what I was doing.

Why did it take me so long to figure this out?

I smiled at Jody as I passed the company cell phone to her on my way to the elevator. Alone in my room, I stepped out of my high heels and noticed the spray tan had almost completely faded from my legs. HMMPH! Obviously, I′ve been working too much, I mused, as I reached into the small hotel refrigerator for a bottle of wine, otherwise I′d have a real tan. I lived right on the Atlantic but I couldn′t remember the last time my toes had touched the sand.

I smiled with anticipation as I felt the bottle cap twist loose. This particular Sauvignon Blanc was of the Marlborough, New Zealand variety—predictable, sure, but that′s just how I like things. Too bad it′s never on happy hour. You always have to pay eight or nine bucks for a glass, even here in Florida where booze is cheap. I remember when Chardonnay was all the rage, and Kathie Lee Gifford named her dog Chardonnay. That's about when I stopped drinking it.

As I pressed my lips to the glass and drew in the liquid mix of citrus, tropical fruit, and crushed herbs, my thoughts turned to Bill. I′d abandoned the poor, starry-eyed fellow at the bar with a promise of my return. Oh well, no matter, he had plenty of company. By now the place would be packed with our fellow engineers. It was the last night of our yearly offsite meeting week, and we were living it up at company expense at the Grand Tropics Orlando.

Reflecting on Bill′s priceless reaction to my anal inquest, I giggled. He was such an easy mark. But in hindsight, I never should have started it up with him.

******

We worked out at the same gym very early almost every morning. He would wave and say hi when he passed by, but he did that with everyone. I wasn't special. I guessed he was younger than me but maybe still in his fifties, just shy of 6 feet tall, broad muscular chest, shaved head, and a golden tan that emphasized his big white smile and Caribbean blue eyes. He had a confident and friendly manner I found extremely appealing.

Monday through Friday, I would study him from the treadmill as he raised and lowered a heavily loaded barbell from his reclined position on a bench. That was his favorite exercise, and he spent lots of time there. Then he′d move to the leg press, which was considerably closer to the treadmill, and I′d count while his quadriceps contracted through three sets of ten. Watching and interacting with him became my prime motivator for going to the gym, and my workouts were decidedly less productive when he wasn't there.

The fantasy always began the same: reaching for his muscular arms, pulling him down on top of me, feeling his bulk and his weight, welcoming his whispers as he maneuvered his legs between mine, nipping at my neck while he fumbled with his zipper.

It was a ridiculous notion, of course. Men in their fifties were looking to harpoon women in their thirties. I knew that firsthand.

Then one day, I took a new water bottle SouthEast Atlantic had given its employees for Earth Day to the gym. It had the company logo on it and something about how SEA was doing its part to save the planet. I wondered if anyone ever fell for that crap. I was doing stomach crunches when he approached. I stopped, lay flat, and looked up at him.

"I have one of those," he said, smiling and pointing at my water bottle. "Do you work for SEA?"

"I do," I said, surprised.

He said he was an engineer at the Riverview location, but that′s all I heard. Painfully aware my squatty body was no match for the Chiquita bananas he chatted up between sets, I sucked in my stomach and moved the hair around my head while I watched his mouth move. Then unexpectedly and somewhat awkwardly, he asked me out to lunch that Friday, and despite the possible work complication, I said yes.

His name was Bill Pruitt.

******

We met at Clams seafood restaurant near the Sydney Square mall. I wore a yellow sundress and high heel sandals, boosting my height to a whopping 5' 3". I had resisted the urge to over-improve on my appearance as he was used to seeing it natural, keeping the makeup light and my curly blonde hair undone. It was just lunch after all, and I didn't want to give off desperate vibes. Nonetheless, when he saw me he uttered that overused phrase:

"Hey, you clean up nice."

I smiled and took the time to look him up and down.

"You too," I responded, but the fact was he didn′t look much different, just had on nicer clothes. That′s the way it is with guys; no makeup, no hair color, no Botox, no dieting, no nothin′. As long as they have cash in the bank, aging isn′t a factor when attempting to plant the parsnip.

I ordered Clams′ signature dish, the clam chowder, which I knew was excellent, and a glass of house wine, which I hoped was a decent Sauvignon Blanc. I expected Bill to order a mountain of red meat to feed all that muscle, but he chose a big salad instead.

At 52, Bill was indeed a little younger than me. He had siblings: one single, one married, and one divorced, and spent lots of time with his mother, who lived in exclusive Sundown Beach. Unfortunately, after imparting that benign information, my handsome and charming date heavied the mood with a real deal breaker. His wife had died a couple years back and he was looking for someone to take her place. So, within the first 15 minutes of our first date, I knew it would be our last.

When Bill inquired as to my state of affairs, I jumped at the chance to clarify my intentions while entertaining him with an amusing narrative I had crafted from my own truly heartbreaking experience. It was the first in a compilation of short stories I was working on entitled: I Shit You Not: Reflections on Life, Love, and Sex After 50, by a Woman Scorned.

And so began Lance Pants Down.

"Well, after over 30 years of marriage, during which we raised two daughters, my husband, Lance, decided to trade me in for a younger model."

I smirked and shrugged like it was no big deal and spooned a thick hot mound of chowder into my mouth, then chased it with a gulp of the disappointing wine.

Bill had his mouth open, about to shove a forkful of frisée into it, but stopped and looked at me with a confused expression, as if he couldn′t understand why a man would do such a thing.

"I shouldn′t have been surprised. I mean, I had to beg him for sex, and it didn't seem like he was really into it," I said, looking for a reaction. Unexpectedly, Bill blushed.

That gave me great pleasure.

I took another long draw of the watery wine, anxious to finish it and order something superior. Bill looked down at his veggie delight and the crunching resumed.

"I knew there was nothing physically wrong with him, which was confirmed when I caught him and what′s-her-name in our bed doing the forbidden polka."

I chuckled, but Bill didn′t think it was funny. He put his fork down and placed his hand over mine.

"I′m sorry," he said, his sincerity barely masking what I knew was real vulnerability. He was the perfect audience and I couldn′t help take advantage of it. I kicked it up a notch.

"They were oblivious to the fact they had been caught in flagrante delicto, so I decided to sit in the living room and listen to them go at it. She was faking it pretty good, doing a high pitched, ′Oh yes, Lance, yes.′ And then an even more annoying higher pitched, ′Oh Lance, I′m coming, OHHHH, GOD, YESSSSSSS!′"

I stopped my narrative and looked around, suddenly aware I was performing as if on stage, and there were others in the audience besides Bill. I caught the twin stares of an older woman and her friend smiling at me from two tables away. They probably thought I was reenacting that famous scene from When Harry Met Sally. Which is funny, since my name is Sally.

Bill resumed noisily masticating his salad, but I had his full attention. Ranch dressing flicked off his fork as he made a rolling, go-forward motion with his hand, urging me on. I brought my voice down and leaned in closer.

"Lance was breathing hard as he did his best to satisfy her, and I listened, surprisingly detached, wondering how I′d feel if right then he had a heart attack. BAMMM!!!!!!"

I slammed my fist on the table, rattling the dishes, and Bill jerked in his seat like he′d been shot.

"Sorry," I said, waving sheepishly at the startled lunching ladies before turning my attention back to my date.

"And then I heard Lance finish."

I sat back and shrugged.

"Meh . . . didn′t sound that great. For sure no better than with me."

Bill exhaled and looked like he was about to say something, but I wasn′t finished.

"So, about two minutes after the panting stopped, I heard Lance say he was going to get a rum and coke. He asked what′s-her-name what she would like and she said, ′Do you have any Chardonnay?′"

I mimicked her request with a whiny, immature voice and rolled my eyes. Bill smiled and nodded. Then, as if he remembered this was supposed to be a sad story, he frowned and shook his head.

"So Lance walks out of the bedroom in his boxers, laughing, and says, ′I guarantee we don′t have Chardonnay. How about Sauvignon Blanc?′ And then he sees me sitting on the couch. He freezes with that cliché, deer-in-the-headlights look. I told him to grab a suitcase and start packing."

As if he sensed this was the end of the narrative, Bill readied to ask me a question but hesitated, giving me the opportunity to finish my story uninterrupted.

"And then what′s-her-name came into the room wearing Lance′s blue oxford button-down shirt. Her long blonde hair was pink-tipped back then, and I thought, Holy crap, just how young is she?"

I swallowed hard, the pain and embarrassment I′d left out of my recitation attempting to rear its ugly head. I focused and regained my momentum.

"You′d think she′d feel just awful and apologize, but no, she looked quite pleased with herself, like she knew she′d won. She walked back into the bedroom to get her things and told Lance she′d wait for him outside."

Anxious to get a word in, Bill put his hand up and took a sip of water to help force the mouthful of garden down his gullet. I rushed in before he could kill the rhythm between the climax and the denouement.

"That was about a year ago, Bill. At this point in my life, all I want from a man is sex and a lot of it. I′ll never be monogamous again."

I looked down, suppressing a self-congratulatory smile, and started eating my chowder, which was cold. But it didn′t matter. I nailed the story.

Bill was staring across his salad at me. There was a long pause as he waited to make sure there wouldn′t be another preemptive strike.

"Wow," he finally said. "I don't know which is more surprising: the story itself or the way you told it."

It felt like applause.

But things got pretty quiet after that, and shortly thereafter, he picked up the check and we left. We walked to my car in silence, then unexpectedly, he reached for my hand.

"Thanks, Sally, it was really . . . well . . . interesting."

Before I could say likewise I'm sure, Bill pulled me closer and kissed me on the cheek. I felt a sort of buzzing when his lips made contact and then a kind of electric shock. Reflexively, I reached up with both hands and squeezed his big biceps, just like I′d dreamed of doing so many times before. In response, his right hand shot to the back of my upper left leg, lifting it, coaxing my heel around his calf as he gently pressed me backwards against the car. His cheek was touching mine, and I could feel his breath on my ear and the outline of his Little Admiral through my sundress.

I′m sure this odd embrace lasted only seconds, but it felt much longer. It felt . . . wonderful. He stepped back, and we smiled a knowing smile at each other, an unspoken bidirectional acknowledgement that under different circumstances, this could be something.