Page 29 of Call Out
“I need all the help I can get.” I giggle. “Okay, I’ll hang up now and ask Louise to pop in with a cup of tea for you.”
“Trust he’ll come back to you, Viv. If he doesn’t, then he wasn’t yours to begin with.”
“Fingers crossed. I hope he isn’t hiding something from me. I’ll see you first thing in the morning.”
“Good night, honey.”
“Sleep tight, love you.” I make a smoochie kiss noise.
As soon as the call disconnects, I phone up Louise and ask her to take Wini’s temperature and make her a soothing blend of lavender tea.
What a day. So this is my introduction into the world of dating. My lips vibrate when I blow out a massive gust of frustration. Full speed into sex and togetherness, to this: lonely and full of gassy romaine leaves.
The delivery box catches my eye, sitting on the floor where I shoved it earlier. I used to love slicing open the tape and laying out new lingerie on the floor. I got a buzz from it. A quirky kick of satisfaction. Now I can’t be bothered. I’d rather lie back and recall all the ways he gets me off. Those sensations of euphoria that banish decorum and refined vocabulary. It’s not always about the sex; there’s so much more depth to our new affiliation.
A zany notion pops up from the bad idea portion of my brain. I’ll dress up in the outfit I was planning to wear for him tonight, then send him the newbies and boobies in a sexy picture. Hmm. What if the image pops up when he’s with his parents? There’s no harm in trying a few things to test out the merchandise and check the sizing. If I happen to take a photo while I’m in a kittenish casual pose, then so be it. If I decide to ask his opinion, then that's okay too, right?
With the woven mesh lining my legs, I step into the delicate panties and then slip into a pair of black patent sky high shoes. They were a random online purchase a year ago when I thought they would help me mimic Marilyn Monroe. Needless to say, my sexy strut was more like a penguin with hemorrhoids. However, they do complement my nylons, and I don't need to walk anywhere, other than to the bed to gather my phone.
I adjust the bra straps to make sure my boobs are perky and high, then shake out my hair and cover my lips with bold red lipstick. I’ve always adored feminine lingerie, but knowing this particular style is for a man, thrills me into a tingly hot mess.
I’m sure there are plenty of ladies out there who can take an instant angled headshot picture, then tap send immediately after; I now realize I’m not one of them. Fifty-three photos into the evening and I still haven't mastered a sultry pose. I’ve searched up, “how to smolder for your man” and “how to pose like a pro in lingerie,” but alas, I’m one hundred percent stiff, like a semi-thawed Thanksgiving turkey.
Before I give up and take a shower, I try switching from selfie mode and use the wall-length mirror to help me take a full body snap. With my chin high and my hip dipped, I take the winning shot. Well, it’s not exactly professional, but all the details are there. Applying a flattering soft-focus filter, I attach it to a text and add the message. ‘This was dessert.’
When the cute picture leaves my phone, I exhale and kick off the toe cramping shoes. It’s time to wash off the day and get over myself. I’m a grown woman. If Danny has important things to do, then I’ll support him––and pray he replies to my message. A simple response will let me know everything’s okay.
So when I waltz out of the bathroom, dripping in hope and soaked in a fresh wave of excitement, to find my phone blank, I fling myself onto the floral bedspread and groan into the pillow. Being with a man is like riding on a rollercoaster. Not that I’d ever step foot on one of those thrill-seeking, ticking time bombs. Those tiny wheels are just waiting to unhinge from the track.
I shirk off the towel and roughly dry my hair, then slip under the sheets. My immaturity is running away with me. Nonna reinforced on countless occasions that lust clouds common sense, and it’s only when the heat simmers will I know if a man is truly worth it.
The past few weeks have hurtled to this point. I’ve allowed my life to become saturated in all things Danny Rocco, without coming up for air. I willingly allowed him to be my knight in shining armor with a mighty fine lance. And still, I don’t really know what’s under all that chain-mail, beneath the wonderfully chiseled physique. I’ve been floating on a lust fog for weeks, forgetting all the lessons Nonna taught me. Nonna would be ashamed of me.
I didn’t ask enough questions or strike off important notes on her lists. After all this time, I should know all the nitty-gritty details of his life—his credentials, financial prospects, not just his astounding sexual abilities.
To date, I know his name, the state he originates from, both of his parents are still alive. He drives an Indian motorcycle, and he’s a paramedic with a heart stopping wink and wicked fingers. What else do I need to know?
Do I care if he prefers peanut butter to Nutella, or if he uses a spreadsheet to log all his expenses on a monthly basis? I mean, that’s just standard practice, right?
I turn over to the nightstand and peel a blank page from my notepad, then test the sharpness of my pencil by doodling a heart. Stuffing a pillow behind me, I jot down a few important facts that might be useful to know. It’s like a Danny pop quiz or a boyfriend investigation titled: Who is Danny Rocco?
Preferred sexual position.Favorite color?
Favorite book?
Night out or nights in?
What town did he grow up in?
Did he go to college?
Best friend’s name?
Does he want to marry in the future? (Not necessarily with me, just in general.)
Puppies or kittens?
Bourbon or tea?
