The Last Place She'd Look Read Free

hands behind his head, in charge, in his own bed, taking a deep breath, then another. My head had just hit the pillow next to his. I heard him sigh.
    “You know, I really should walk my dog right now,” he suddenly uttered matter-of-factly. He climbed over me and got out of bed. He walked to the corner of the room, where just moments before he’d shed his jeans and shirt. Ever the minute man, he was dressed again. “Relax. I’ll be right back,” he said, exiting like a talk show host encouraging you to watch the commercials.
    I lay in this almost-stranger’s bed—alone. Now he had to walk his dog? This guy’s a nut. Let’s hope he fucks like a 25-year-old—and doesn’t just think he does. He acts like he’s an award-winner for stud puppet theater. What if I’m not turned on? He won’t know or care. He’ll dive into me like I was just another lap pool.
    I turned on my side. The mattress and pillows were uncomfortable; the worn sheets were rough on my skin. I heard the sound of his dog scampering back into the house, the click as the leash was removed, a chain clattering on the wooden floors. Ack’s footsteps creaked up the uncarpeted stairs. Entering the room without looking at me, he said robotically, “I can’t do this … tonight. I have to get up early in the morning. I forgot I promised to help someone from work move. You’ll have to go.”
    Suddenly, cold sober, I said to myself, “What you really mean is, 'I lost my appetite to fuck you because your body wasn’t as trophy-worthy as mine.'” But instead, what came out was, “You don’t even want me to sleep here? To cuddle?” I couldn’t believe what I’d said. Was I testing the waters for future encounters? With this schmuck? Was I that desperate?
    He turned, gathered my clothes in a ball, and dropped them on the bed, then, spinning on his heel, he left the room, speeding into the bathroom, and closed the door. When I was his daughter’s age, I modeled in local fashion shows. Now, I just lay there, my self-esteem as crumpled as my clothes.
    The air was icy with dysfunctional disappointment as I dressed. Just as I put my shoes on, I heard the toilet flush. I wondered if he’d jerked off.
    He walked me to my car with all the courtesy of a recruiter ending the interview where you both know you didn’t get the job. His lips grazed my forehead with a parental, dismissive kiss.
    My car door closed. I drove away. By the first traffic light, my heart was racing, blood boiling. Was I rejected the moment he saw me naked? Was he too repulsed by my body to even have a one-night stand? Ack was humping on the couch like his life depended on getting laid. Then he deemed me unworthy to worship at the Ack-altar of testosterone.
    This was more of a violation than an attempted rape. He chewed and spit out his desire for me like a stale piece of bubble gum now relegated to a life on pavement until it snuck onto someone’s shoe. He didn’t think my body was worthy of his, Spartacus warrior asshole. Judgmental, cruel bastard.

Chapter 2
    Will Having a Relationship Make Me OK? OR Will Being OK Get Me a Relationship?
    How repulsed does a man have to be to throw a naked woman out of his bed without fucking her? The next morning, feeling every sense of self-worth slipping away, I replayed that thought in my mind a dozen times. I didn’t want to believe Ack could be so cruel or that I could feel so rejected.
    I’d sliced and diced my self-esteem by subjecting myself to too many blind dates, about a third of which turned into second dates, and few of which ever led to third dates, much less lasting relationships. None led to sex. This bewildered me. I approached each date with peppy optimism, freshly washed hair, glossed lips, and as much hope as I could muster. Yet I kept getting things wrong over and over…over 340 times, to be exact. I bit my nails and stewed with regret, disappointment, and defeat —wondering why I hadn’t found anybody.
    Why did I put