Just a Number (Downtown #1) (6 page)

Struggling to get him off of me, in walked my roommate to find her boyfriend pinning me firmly to my bed. Thank God, I thought. He jumped off me as she began to scream: “What the fuck is going on? You fucking whore!”

Screams at me?! Yes, of course I was the one to blame.

The innocent girl he jumped off.

The innocent girl who was struggling.

The innocent girl whose clothing was ripped.

But I was not the innocent one in her eyes. He was innocent. He was the victim. He was the one defending himself, pointing his finger my way. “You know, babe, I love you. She leads me on every time I come around… when you’re not here.”

What
?! I tried to voice my shock at his accusations, but I remained silent as he went on to smooth talk her. Winning her over. I watched her pack a bag and leave with him. I never saw either of them again, in person.

However, come spring semester I did see him on a local news station, sporting handcuffs and being carted away from the college campus. Apparently, I was not the only coed that found themselves violated by him. It took one complaint too many to bring forth other victims ready to state their assault. The attacks, fortunately for the girls, were not violent. The cases were labeled date rape. He led several females on, took them out, but ignored their simple word “no” when he pushed himself on them. No means no. Unwanted sex. Rape. He was found guilty and is still serving time, last I heard. As for Roomie, the rumor was that she had transferred to a distant college before the semester even ended, before he was sentenced.

As for me, I graduated the first semester of my senior year and moved right into a paid internship, ready to soar up the corporate ladder. As for men, I handled them as associates. Colleagues. We were equals in the office, the bedroom, or wherever the act took place. Equals in my mind and in front of me, for the most part. But behind my back, there was the backstabbing, the name calling.

I was fierce in my firm. I wanted to work with fashion. I went after clients of my own. I wanted to be an account manager. I wanted my own office. I heard: “Watch out for the new women, she’ll have your balls and serve them to you. She’s a real bitch.” Not once did I steal a campaign or customer. I went out of the usual realm. Brought in up and coming people and products in the fashion world. The men in my company were respected for doing the same thing. Even our female CEO felt it. She helped me learn to ignore and move past it.

That mentality wasn’t just in the boardrooms. No. It was the same in personal lives. The name calling just got worse. Our favorite
Sex and the City
girls expressed our shared feelings to the masses, but it didn’t stop the finger pointing. If we liked to have casual sex, we were labeled as a slut, skank, or whore.

Why couldn’t we be called a
playgirl
or something appealing? Desirable. “Look at that
desirable
woman commanding the room with a very handsome gentleman at her side. Lucky guy.”
Ha! That would never happen.
Men, on other hand, have always been tagged a playboy, a player, and looked up to by their fellow man, and even by women that were vying to be in their company.

Even in the age and marriage department, we lacked a decent title. Unmarried women beyond thirty still heard the term
old maid. Seriously?! How did that live on?
And if that wasn’t bad enough, those who were over thirty, hoping to marry one day, were told they had a greater chance of them being struck by lightning. Good thing I wasn’t in that group. But they should call us bachelorettes like our equal aged counterparts, eligible bachelors. Headlines scream: “So-and-so, the most eligible bachelor in the country is doing this and that.” As opposed to: “So-and-so, the unmarried, probable multiple cat owner, is doing this and that.” Eligible bachelorette, is that term so hard to use?

Bringing another factor into the mix—age. There was the whole other subjects of age appropriate mates. If I was to date somebody younger, I would be called a cougar. A man occasionally was called “a cradle robber,” “a dirty old man” or Viagra use could be referenced in his pairing with a younger woman. But most of the time, society gave a high-five to the older man lucky enough to have a trophy on his arm.

Why I fretted over these questions and issues, I don’t know. Some things never change. Until the end of time, stereotypes will continue. The fact that I was often given one with my name got old. And, asked why I had no desire to be a mother was perhaps the biggest one of all that was commented on, and puzzled most people.

“What’s wrong, dear, are you not be able to have children?” Then when they received my answer, “I just don’t want to have children. If a woman doesn’t want to have children, they really shouldn’t have them. Don’t you think?” Answers I heard:

“That’s abnormal.”

“Women are meant to have babies.”

“That is a very selfish attitude.”

Or the real slapper on two levels: “You just say that now because you haven’t found a man to marry you.”
Really people?!

Funny, when a man stated that he didn’t want children no one really batted an eyelash or gave two nickels about it. They didn’t condemn them. Women, of course, have said behind their back, “I could change his mind.” Some, unfortunately, have taken the extra step and forced it by becoming pregnant. That was a whole other subject I didn’t approve of, either.

No. All of that was wrong. The truth was, I just didn’t have any desire to bring a child into my life. I planned to work hard, travel, and enjoy my freedom.
Call me selfish, if you want… if you must.

Men were secondary and for entertainment purposes. I tried the dating realm here and there. But where did you meet them? The work place was off limits. Outside work functions, possibly. Bars were not my thing. Gyms produced a few interesting exercise regimens.

Once, I went the friends-with-benefits route. I went to a reunion function. The old crush looked good. He had just moved back into the area. He was pretty fun in school.
Why not have some fun?
Turned out, he was a liar—a married one. The wife was not thrilled about our arrangement, questioning me: “How did you not know? You’ve known him for years.” Guess I didn’t pay attention to his personal status in life, blatantly posted in the reunion booklet with a photo of his wife and kids. My suggestion to her was that she should attend future functions with him.

That disaster sent me or, I should say, Tomasina talked me into signing up with an online dating site. We used fictitious names and a gift credit card to cover the full price for six months. We posted up faux pictures that were similar to our looks, but, nonetheless, not us. We gave out our true photos once we established contact with potential dates. The reason for partial dishonesty was anonymity; we didn’t want co-workers to stumble across our accounts.

Anyhow, we each went on a few dates. Neither of us found any dynamic studs in the bedroom. I didn’t partake in extracurricular activities with all of them, but there were a couple. Not thrilled with the whole experience, we cancelled our memberships early. But I’ll be honest. I put it right out there, on the line, that I was looking for temporary pleasure. I heard the screaming; s
lut.
But hey, I thought it was better to be upfront. Better than shaking my goodies in a bar to take home an even more random guy.

Women have needs beyond their BOBs. And I have to say that I have found that travel sex has, by far, proven to be the best. Distant lands. No one knows you. You can let your hair down, have a good time, and then say your goodbyes. No mess. No fuss. No complications. Straight up fun.

That was what I was looking for on my retreats. Unfortunately, other less than desirables were searching for the same. So far, day one—strike one! I still had three more days. And, at least the tropical location, food, and drink were fabulous. I had yet to experience the massages, facials, and yoga. Bring on the pampering!

Dash

D
arkness was fading, like the miniature light-torches that lit the pathway to the beach, as I made my way to teach an advanced sunrise yoga class. Quiet. Calm. Most of the resort residents slumbered on. Only the early risers were visible along with the hotel staff working behind the scenes to make the inhabitants stay enjoyable. A hint of sweet pastry and hickory bacon seasoned the air.

Toes in the cool sand. I could taste the salty ocean breeze on my lips. The wind blew gently, causing the hair on my neck to take notice. The hissing sound of the waves meeting the shore, like a low pleasant static and the distant crashing on the cliffs, was all I heard. Dedicated yoga participants were waiting, silhouetted as the sun began to rise from the sea. More present by the minute, its warmth kissed my skin. The world was beginning to come alive. Birds were singing, silencing the crickets’ nighttime chirping.

Tranquil. A positive energy began as we flowed through a sun salutation sequence to awaken every part of the body. “Face right. Begin in mountain position. Arch backward. Fold forward. Left leg back. Lunge. Bring other foot back. Plank pose. Remember to breath. Chin and chest lower. Upward dog. Good inhales.” I looked over my pupils. A flash of dark brown hair in the back caught my attention. “Down dog. Left foot between your hands lunge. Fold forward. Feet together, come up, forward bend.”

“Good. Let’s go through the same sequence again before we move into a more strenuous warm up. Exhale. Release all negative thoughts.” Watching. Correcting. I could get a better look at the woman behind. She definitely reminded me of corporate-girl. I was losing it. Every brunette I saw had my thoughts running to
her
. Shaking my head, I joined my students and increased the flow of movement. Keeping my eyes from gazing her direction, I made it through, ending in deep meditation. Disappointment set in when my eyes opened to find she was gone.

Minus the positive message I had incited to my class, I walked back to my room defeated. Showered and dressed in board shorts and t-shirt, I went to the dining room to nourish my spent body. I was pathetically scouring the breakfast room, inside and outside, from where I sat on the patio, in search of a certain dark-haired woman.

Mentally reprimanding myself, I ordered poached eggs with avocado, toast, and coffee. Then attempted to focus on reading the newspaper, but every foreign movement had my head springing up. My eyes darted around each time. No luck. She had appeared in my class and, like the bar, vanished. I hoped she would reappear around the resort. Even if she wasn’t
the corporate-girl
maybe she could fill the void.

Finished with my torturous, but delicious, breakfast, I went to meet with one of the spa managers. I needed to catch up with him; go over my schedule of classes and any last minute changes that may have been implemented since I had been booked my appearance. My third time at this particular resort, I really liked the location and staff. The vibe was dynamic.

“Good to see you, Dash. How was your morning class?”

“Good.” Only a partial fib. My students were refreshed, revitalized, renewed. I was the only one lacking in contentment.

“I’m glad you stopped by this morning. My couple’s yoga instructors have to leave a day early. Do you think could partner up with someone and run a class?”

“I should be able to find someone from one of my advanced groups.”

“Most of the people who signed up have taken some kind of couple’s yoga. It is an intermediate class.”

“Okay I’ll do it. If I don’t have a partner. I could always guide the participants verbally. Maybe use a pair to show some of the poses. I’ll be honest. It’s not my specialty. But, I’m willing. I’ll be sure to attend one of their classes before they have to leave. Do you have a schedule?”

Handing me a service menu, he thanked me. “You have no idea how helpful this is. All of their sessions, like yours, are booked.” Shaking his hand, I said goodbye.

Free for the rest of the day, I packed my sackpack, hopped in one of the hotel’s complimentary jeeps, and headed for one of my favorite beaches down the coast. I needed a little quiet time away from the resort. With all the pending changes about to take place in my life, I had a lot to think through. Not to mention the added yoga poses I needed to review.

Out on the beach, I dropped a towel on the sand, and sat cross-legged. Situated, I pulled out a green veggie shake courtesy of the juice bar, and opened my journal. My hand scripted all of the thoughts that had been playing out in my head. A creative ramble, along with some business ideas. I hoped that, at least, one of them made sense in the end.

Taking a break from the volumes I had written, I stretched my arms. I looked out to the ocean; it appeared to be moving violently off in the distance, getting ever closer to the shore. Into my line of vision, a dark-haired woman with gorgeous curves wandered. Of course, I thought of
her.
Shaking my head, I closed my eyes and when I opened them, she was gone just like the woman earlier.
Was I seeing things?
More specifically, was I imagining her in every brunette I saw?
A woman had been standing there, right?