Just Show Me

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Just Show Me

         John is a dream come true -- honest, gentle, considerate, fun to be with. I'm walking on clouds, singing in them, too. For the first time in years, I've begun to think that this guy is the one . . .

         Our first date was nothing fancy. Friends connected us up, and I’m afraid neither of us much trusted their matchmaking. Still, we’d agreed to give the date a try, so although we were both slightly suspicious, we met at the local pizza joint, exchanged hellos, checked clothes and fingernails, and frankly, wished we were elsewhere.

         We dined on mushroom and black olive pizza, a choice that was agreeable to both of us, drank a pitcher of cola since neither of us drank, and talked our way delightedly through our first meeting. An hour slipped by, and we never noticed. The leftover pizza congealed in its take-home box, and we ordered another pitcher, this time a mixture of orange, root beer, and cola, which we both laughingly called the “Suicide Drink” from the days of our youth.

         A little kid in a booth nearby us was having a birthday. We joined in on the singing. They brought us balloons, cake, and smiles. While watching the little girl open her presents, John and I shared our mutual love of children.

         We talked on, long after the party was over and the sweet little girl and her family had left. It was like dominoes being all stacked up and ready for that first push. Once we started, we couldn’t stop. Subject after subject, we melded together. We shared so many likes and dislikes, it was uncanny.

         At closing time, John and I pulled ourselves together and went our separate ways, but we first set a date for the following week. I should have been ecstatic, but instead, I shivered in trepidation, and as I drove home, I mulled over the night. It had been too good. Something had to be wrong with John. But what? He seemed perfect.

         My thoughts progressed from what was wrong with him, or not wrong, as the case seemed to be, to what did he think about me? I never bite my fingernails, but I felt like it that night. I reviewed every word. I worried. I fretted.

         Then when my friends began to call to ask about my date, I didn't know what to say to them. Should I tell them I thought John was wonderful? I didn't know enough about him to say that yet. I was pretty sure he was, but . . .

         I vowed to myself to keep my mouth shut, but my mind continued to whirl. I kept remembering how he’d looked, how his eyes had sparkled, how his lips had parted when he’d smiled.

         "John." I found myself saying his name for no reason at all, as if I were just practicing, listening to the sound of it, getting accustomed to the way it felt in my mouth. I closed my eyes and recalled the way he looked: tall, slightly plump – just the right amount of plump -- I'd felt safe with him, as safe as I’d feel with an old teddy bear. And, ah . . . those laugh-lines around his eyes. I sighed, thinking about them. I smiled remembering them. I thought about our conversation day after day.

         Our second date was at an ice-skating rink. Both of us were skilled; both of us were rusty. We laughed and skated and laughed some more. We fell several times, but not roughly, not injuriously. Besides, I think when you're laughing, falling never hurts as much.

         We ordered our Suicide beverage once again and sipped it with two straws. We shared French fries with catsup, and back in the corner where the telephone is, where no one was around, we kissed. Feeling like a couple of teenagers, that first kiss was a sampler -- swift, unsure, unskilled -- but we warmed up. Funny how it all comes back. We moved closer, our arms wrapped around each other as tight as cellophane, and then our lips tasted and savored something indescribably good.

         Truthfully, I'd always thought kissing was rather barbaric -- lips to lips, tongue massaging, saliva co-mingling. There was nothing in the process that sounded at all inviting, except when you’re in the middle of it. Then you forget about the process, and you get swept away into the delightful sensations and the madness of it. We dropped ten years in those crushingly delicious moments. We were young again. We were hot. We were almost in love . . .

         And then a foot-tapping teenager cracked her gum and sighed her disgust at our enrapture. Some of our years came back at the instant. We backed away from each other, embarrassed at being caught "making out" in public. But our hands did not disconnect, and our eyes still stared at each other with a look of hunger and of wonder.

         Without a word we took off our skates and turned them in. Hand in hand we fled to our cars, and there the cold night air brought us back to reality.

         Who was this person I’d dashed outside with? I swallowed hard and started to say “goodbye,” when John pulled me close and kissed me again. It was so much better outside under the stars. My heart beat the rhythm of their twinkles.

         “Next Saturday?” John asked. “Where shall we meet next time?”

         He was laughing gently, his eyes, kitten gray, sparkling like the stars. I knew I must take the next step. It was up to me.

         “Dinner,” I said. “My treat. How about at the Red Locket , that new restaurant over on 'C' Street?”

         John nodded, still watching me, waiting. What did he want? What did I need to say? But, I knew. I knew what his eyes were asking.

         “Is seven o’clock okay?” I managed to get out nervously.

         John’s hand reached up and touched my hair. I worried. Were my curls frizzing in the cool night air? Should I pull out a comb?

         “Your hair is beautiful -- so soft and fragrant,” John said, bending forward. Then he kissed me again. I melted into him. The stars entered me and lit me up inside.

         A teenaged girl came striding out to her car. I thought she couldn't possibly be the same one who'd interrupted us before, but her angry gum chomping sounded the same.

         “Are you two at it again? Get a hotel!” she yelled out. Then she slipped into her car, slammed the door, gunned the motor, and backed away.

         John laughed and opened my door. “Next Saturday," he said. “The Red Locket at seven.”

         I spent a week looking for the right dress. I touched up my hair, highlighting it for the first time. I bought new makeup and tried "alluring" my face in several different ways. By Saturday I was a jittery wreck. Luckily John was as calm as I was. He dropped his fork twice, his water spilled, and he dripped ravioli on his shirt. I loved him for it.

         When we were finished, I paid the check, but John insisted on leaving a tip. He tipped generously. I smiled once again. He’d passed every test I’d never thought to assign. I was ready to get closer, but how does one broach the subject?

         In the parking lot we sang with our lips. The moon dusted us with sweet infatuation. But although we tried, we just couldn’t get close enough to appease all the urges raging inside us.

         “How can I make love to you?” John asked, whispering in my ear.

         My legs buckled. My breath froze on exhale. I stared up at him and couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

         Once more he chuckled gently. “My sweet Carrie. Do you know what that look of yours does to me?”

         If John had let go of me at that moment, I would have dissolved into the ground. I was liquefied passion draped about his chest and thighs.

         “Kiss me," I begged. “Just kiss me.”

         He did, but his kiss made everything worse. It drained my words.

         “Will you trust me to take you to my house?” John asked. His eyes were gray pools of lust. I was lost inside of them. I nodded.

         On the drive, we were buckled in like oldsters. No music blared, no conversation, only silence and those eyes of his, wanting me, needing me. . .

         I discovered that John lived in a residential area, in a house much like mine, over-sized for one person, but well-kept -- cut lawn, nice flowers in front, manicured suburbia.

         John led me into the house. I could see the fireplace, the sofa, a vase full of dried flowers. The colors blended nicely. John had good taste, but I wanted to back out, regardless. I started to say so when John stopped me by pulling me into his arms.

         He kissed me deeply. I felt the same sensations I'd felt in the parking lot, but sanity was still nibbling at my mind. This man was a stranger. How did I know I could trust him? What was I doing there? Jiminy Cricket was twitching inside of me.

         “Darn, I have ravioli on my shirt,” John said abruptly, and he suddenly tried to disengage himself from the arms around his neck. “I’m such a klutz!” he added.

         In that instant, my doubts were gone. I laughed, and then I kissed John even more deeply than before.

         “What was that question you asked me?” I whispered.

         That was all he needed. John lifted me up and carried me into his bedroom. His bed was made; his clothes were all picked up from the floor. I stretched elaborately, provocatively on the old-fashioned bark-brown, corduroy bedspread he’d placed me on.

         “How can I make love to you?” John repeated, staring down at me with a look in his eyes that burned.

         “I don’t know. If I thought about it, it would take all night," I told him flirtatiously. "Why don’t you just show me what you like, and we’ll go from there?"

         I didn’t go home that night, or the next. Our friends called, and we informed them that all was well, but neither of us felt like talking. You see, it takes a very long time to try everything out, and John and I are still sampling.


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