See Jane Date (25 page)

Natasha took off her sunglasses and blew her nose. She looked at me. “Wow, girl. You deserve a promotion.”

E
loise and Amanda had insisted I wear my new black lace Miracle Bra with the matching itty-bitty panties for tonight's date with Timothy. I was glad I listened. Sex was everywhere in Timothy's apartment. In the kitchen as he spooned his homemade mole sauce into my mouth. Across the dining room table as he refilled my wineglass and told me stories about his first kiss when he was twelve. From Timothy's stereo speakers, softly playing Marvin Gaye. And now, on his living room sofa, where we were sitting so close to each other that I might as well have been on his lap. Which was where I wanted to be.

Was anything sexier than a man in faded Levi's and a white T-shirt?

After the day I'd had, tonight was like a soothing balm. I'd had just enough time to go home and change and make it to Timothy's apartment across town. I'd walked Natasha home from the subway station and ordered her
to take a bubble bath and listen to some great music and think about all the wonderful things in her life now. Granted, she might not be able to change how her parents felt, but she could focus on how good things were for her despite them. She had the baby to think about, and Sam and her career as a writer. I'd gotten her cheered up enough to whip off the sunglasses and smile a tiny smile.

When I'd arrived at Timothy's apartment, a one-bedroom in a high-rise on 87th off Broadway, he'd welcomed me with a bouquet of red roses, a kiss and a glass of red wine. I hadn't been allowed to help with dinner; I was only allowed to “adorn his apartment and look beautiful.” During dinner, I'd told him that Natasha wasn't missing anymore, that my boss was threatened by me, and I'd asked if he thought it was a faux pas to give your cousin money for a bridal shower gift. He toasted me to the first two, and assured me that giving money was never a faux pas. I'd told him he was an amazing cook, which was only half true. Who was I to expect that a doctor who looked like Thomas Gibson and was so sweet and funny and smart and irresistible and available could cook Mexican, too?

I'd relaxed after fifteen minutes in his presence. But I was nervous now. Every time Timothy moved a muscle, I mentally jumped.

“Nervous?” he asked, dimples popping.

“Me?” Coy, coy, coy.

And then he kissed me. Slow at first, then faster, harder. I slipped my arms around his neck and pressed against him. I could hear his intake of breath. He tasted slightly of red wine. He pulled back and looked at me, running a hand down my hair. “You are so beautiful.”

I couldn't say a word. I could only kiss him. His hands stroked up and down my back, and then he pulled back
from me again and opened the top button on my thin black cardigan. He looked up at me to see if I'd stop him. No way. He smiled, then opened the second button and kissed the little expanse of skin as he went down, button by button. I leaned my head back against the cushions and stared at the top of his dark head as he trailed kisses to the top of my stretchy black skirt. My hands were in his hair, stroking back the silky strands. And then he shot up and kissed me so hard, so passionately, I could barely breathe. He slowly took off my cardigan, his eyes never leaving the Miracle Bra. Then he trailed kisses from my stomach up to my neck. His tongue darted over my lips, inside my mouth, back over my lips.

I felt like a pat of butter melting over toast. Timothy sat back and pulled me on top of him so that I was straddling him. His eyes were on my bra. He glanced up at me for a second, then kissed me again. His hands were on the clasp to the Miracle Bra. He couldn't get it open.

He laughed and looked at me. “You'd think I'd be able to open this thing after all these years. Guys have been unhooking bras since they were fourteen.”

“Maybe I should help,” I said.

Timothy leaned back and smiled. “Maybe you should.”

I unsnapped the Miracle Bra, glad my 34Cs would stand on their own. The second Timothy heard the little click, he took over. His hands and mouth were everywhere.

“So maybe we should move this party into the bedroom,” he said.

“Maybe we should.”

He laughed and took my hand and led me topless into his bedroom. I was glad to see a stray sock on the side of the bed; Timothy was humanized. We fell onto the bed,
Timothy half on top of me. I took off his shirt; he took off my skirt. Our hands, mouths, legs, arms were all over each other. He reached a hand over to his bedside table and pulled a condom out of a little wooden box. He looked at me and I smiled, which gave him the go-ahead. I didn't feel nervous. I felt ready. Ready to make love with Timothy Rommely, ready to give myself to him completely. I couldn't wait to feel him inside me, filling me up, his weight and hard body pressed against me. I settled myself flat on the bed, my head nestled on his soft pillows, the top sheet turned over on my chest. And waited.

And waited. Timothy was sitting on the edge of the bed, facing away from me. “Uh, maybe we should just kiss for a little while,” he said, sliding over to me. He lay beside me and began kissing my neck. “Hiding that hot body under there isn't going to help.”

Oh. Oh! Duh. You'd think I'd never had sex before. I'd been with only three other guys. My first was Max. Twenty-two was a little late to lose your virginity, but that was me, queen of the late bloomers. After losing my mom, I couldn't imagine finding comfort in the conversation or arms of some college kid who was more interested in getting in my pants than getting in my heart. Well, actually, the truth was that I'd been afraid. Scared out of my mind. Why like a guy when it meant I might lose him? And then Max, handsome, wonderful Max, had taken the choice out of my control. I'd fallen in love. Next was Soldier of Fortune Guy. I'd slept with him because I was tired of Max being the only one. The sex hadn't been so great with SOF Guy. He'd been too fast and too clumsy and too interested in his own orgasm. Or maybe he'd just been nervous. Back then, I'd written him off as selfish. And then there had been Gorgeous Dumb Guy.
We'd met over lattes, gone on three dates—all at Starbucks—and he'd dumped me over lattes. He didn't think we were sexually compatible. Jerk. Try we weren't intellectually compatible!

Timothy peeled down the top sheet and again his hands and mouth were all over me. But I could feel that there was nothing going on down there with him. Was it me? Was it him? What was it? We'd been so hot and heavy, and now
nada.
I usually skipped all the articles about sex in
Mademoiselle
and
Glamour
and
Cosmo;
I never had sex, so what was the point of reading about it? Now I wished I'd paid more attention. Was I supposed to do something? Try to turn him on? Ignore it?

“Damn,” Timothy said, flopping onto his back next to me.

“It's okay,” I said, hoping that was the right thing to say.

Timothy smiled at me, grabbed my hand and squeezed it. “You sure?”

I nodded. “Maybe it's better not to rush it, anyway.”

“That's true,” Timothy said. “We do have all night.”

That wasn't exactly what I meant, but it was good enough for me.

Ten minutes later, he tried again. Still nothing. And nothing ten minutes after that. Now Timothy wasn't quite as okeydoke about it.

“Maybe I should just take you home.”

“Maybe you shouldn't,” I said, hoping he'd get our little private joke.

“This really isn't funny to me, okay?”

Huh. Now what was I supposed to say?

“Look, maybe I should just take you home.”

“Timothy, it's really no big deal.”

“It is to me,” he said, throwing off the sheet. He handed me my skirt.

There was nothing worse than a guy handing you your skirt with an expression like Timothy's. I suddenly felt very naked. What the hell had happened to my perfect night? So what if we couldn't have sex? Who cared? I just wanted Timothy.

My arms folded over my chest, I followed Timothy into the living room. He sat on the sofa, tying his sneakers. “Timothy, let's just watch TV or something,” I said. “It's only midnight. I had this whole vision of us waking up together, reading the
Times,
eating bagels…”

“Jane, I'm really sorry, but I'm just in the mood to be alone, okay? Here's your bra.” He tossed it to me, and I felt myself blush.

I didn't know if I was supposed to be mad or supportive. I didn't know Timothy well enough to know if he was always like this or if he was truly suffering from first-time-out syndrome. I found my sweater in a ball by the side of the couch.

Dating was costing me a fortune in dry cleaning.

 

“How about a nightcap?” I said to Timothy as we neared my apartment building. He'd been quiet during the cab ride here, but he was the only guy I'd ever been on a date with who had actually “taken me home.” Most guys would hail you a cab and kiss you goodbye at the curb. But Timothy had insisted on taking me home the only way a guy could without a car.

“Sounds good,” he said, dimples popping.

Finally. I'd been afraid I'd never see those dimples again.

“Cute place,” he said as I opened the door to my apartment and switched on the lights. “Very cozy.”

So cozy that three minutes later we were lip-locked on my futon. My cardigan had been flung over my television, and my skirt had tried to join it, but missed and landed on the floor. The Miracle Bra was draped over the Parsons table. Timothy's T-shirt and jeans were on the kilim rug. He had the most amazing body. His New York Sports Club developed chest was tanned and lightly covered with silky, dark hair. And what abs.

Once again, hands, mouths, fingers, arms, legs and breath were everywhere. And once again, Timothy ripped open a foil packet containing a condom. And once again, Timothy busied himself putting on said condom.

And at exactly 12:52 a.m. on Sunday, June 14, Timothy and I made love.

Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.

“Oh! Oh! Oh, yeah! Ohhhhh!”

That wasn't Timothy and me making all that noise. We'd both flopped onto our backs, sated and happy and breathing hard, our eyes closed, when Opera Man's girlfriend started moaning her
oh
s.

Timothy's eyes widened and he laughed. “Hey, that's
Carmen,
isn't it?” he asked, straining to listen to the opera through the wall. “Do you think they heard us?”

I blushed. We had been a little noisy. Well, just at the end, really.

“Oh! Oh! Oh!!! Oh yeah! Oh!”

“Are they married?” Timothy asked, his hands behind his head.

“Nope. He lives alone. I've never seen him, or her, but I think it's the same woman. She always sounds the same.”

“Well, I can't let him put me to shame like that,” Timothy said, trailing a line of kisses down my neck, down my chest, down my stomach.

Did I mention how much in love I was?

 

I was a nervous wreck the following week. Each day I waited for the big speech. The It's Not You, It's Me. Which really translated to It's Not Me, It's You, Because I Don't Like You After All. But one entire week later (it was now late Saturday afternoon, seven nerve-racking days since Timothy and I had done the deed for the first time), no big speech. No big anything, for that matter, but, well, Timothy was a doctor. I hadn't seen him since Sunday afternoon. Yeah, yeah, he'd let me know this past week would be a nightmare for him rotation-wise, but I was dying to see him. Oh, the pun I could make in this lovesick state! But I wouldn't. I had better things to do. Like whoop it up around my apartment because guess who had a date with a doctor named Timothy Rommely for Princess Dana's wedding!

I'd asked Timothy the big question last Sunday morning, after we'd made love the second time (yes, the second time
that morning
). The you-know-what issue that had plagued him the evening before had gone bye-bye. He'd stayed over on my too-small futon, which meant we'd slept cuddled together, our arms and legs flung over each other, our mouths
thisclose
for sleeping kisses. In the morning we'd gone out to pick up the
Times
and some bagels and cream cheese, then went back to my apartment to luxuriate in bed for a couple of hours. We'd had sex in at least three positions. And then Timothy surprised me by grabbing the Style section to read. “Hey, I know that guy!” he'd exclaimed, pointing with his bagel at a photo atop a wedding announcement. “This woman's related to Nelson D. Rockefeller!” was followed by “I can't believe this guy's getting married at twenty-four.” And so it seemed the perfect time and place to mention that my
cousin's twenty-four-year-old face would soon grace those very pages.

“Sure, I'd love to go. Do I need a tux?” was his response to the question I'd been terrified to ask.

It was that simple. One question, one affirmative answer and, suddenly, I had a real date to the wedding. No, not just a real date. Timothy was hardly just a guy to help me save face with Natasha and Dana and Aunt Ina and Grammy.
He
was real. He wasn't some too-good-looking, out-of-my-stratosphere man I could never have. He wasn't
safe.
He was the real thing. And there I was, going for it whole hog, as Amanda would say. I would have liked to smoke my way through how scary it all was—liking someone so much, wishing on stars the way I did when I was a kid that he'd fall madly in love, hoping, hoping, hoping that this little romance would blossom into something beautiful and big and mine, all mine.