This is an old story. It’s an old story about an old girlfriend who was a bit of a perv. The fact is, a dearth of stories since leaving Vermont left the well dry. The fact is, I was holed up in my apartment with a sex maniac who reflexively kept her hand down her pants. She would periodically look at me from her reclined position on the couch and sing, “Magic pussy time!”
In which David gets a surprise finger on a second date.
You see what I was up against. My apartment looked like the aftermath of a rock star’s hotel-room temper tantrum. This had been going on for three weeks. When we were done trashing my apartment we took the Acela down to DC and did the same to hers. She’s assaulted me in an empty corridor at Union Station. She’s rubbed me johnny under the table at Capital Grille.
So, exhausted, I need to reach back and dig up stories from the past. Since pornographic sex has captured the majority of my attention lately, it’s these kinds of stories that bubble up. Jen offering herself as a prostitute. The foursome starring the PhD candidate in ancient Greek poetry. The second foursome starring the lesbian band leader. But I keep coming back to Nadia, the Croatian girlfriend, who, like all European women, is not afraid to enjoy a good weisswurst. I’m sure that this story will end up as a chapter in the epic novel I’m writing about digestion problems.
It goes like this. We were on our second date, this time in Nadia’s neighborhood. On our otherwise lackluster first date my expectations and hopes grew when I complimented her outfit and Nadia replied, “I wore this for you.”
We met at a suburbanish Irish bar near her place and shared chicken fingers. The encounter felt perfunctory so I expected little from it. I don’t remember a lot of the conversation. There was something about her long-since ended marriage, a little more about her math skills — she had earned a graduate degree in algebra. She noted that her ex-husband was also Jewish. I noted that Croatians were notorious anti-Semites.
Nadia laughed. “You remind me very much of my boyfriend in high school. But he wasn’t Jewish.”
For some reason, when someone says “Jew,” I complain about my stomach. Even on a first date and definitely on a second. The surgery comes up. The digestion issues. I don’t hold back. Many times this costs me a future encounter. But better they know now: that’s how I rationalize it.
“And do you think,” said Nadia, pointing at the chicken fingers, “do you think you should be eating those with your stomach?”
This is what I love about Eastern European women. They are born scolds who deliver their censurings with a big dose of sex appeal.
“You also remind me of Woody Harrelson,” she said.
“Oh, really? Woody Harrelson? That’s pretty cool.” I felt flattered. No one ever told me that before.
“No one ever told me that before,” I said. “Usually people say I remind them of Woody Allen.”
This startled Nadia. “Oh no, but I meant Woody Allen! You remind me very much of Woody Allen,” she said.
We finished the chicken fingers and the warm, thin wine. This had been an inexpensive date, which was relief because most of the dead-end dates I go on tend to cost dearly. My credit card bill for those quiet fiascoes tops six grand a year.
I walked Nadia home, to an upper east side highrise. Under the awning, we kissed in view of Nadia’s doorman.
“Come upstairs?” she asked. This surprised me. Nothing during the course of the evening led me to believe that Nadia had any interest in me whatsoever.
“Oh. Upstairs?” Indecision has always plagued me. But why now? Nadia looked like a Nordic goddess. Tall. Blonde. Slender but with a booty. I had already fantasized about her nipples: tough little eraser heads, I imagined.
So I went upstairs with Nadia. Inside her apartment, she mechanically began to light candles around her bed. Then we went to her couch and kissed. I felt her hand, her long fingers, run down my back.
“Mmmmm,” I murmured.
“Mmmmm,” Nadia murmured.
Her palm reached my belt and then she slid her hand into my jeans.
“Mmmmm,” I murmured. A moment later, it was just her long middle finger crawling down the small of my back. Then she did it. Her sharp finger found its way in. I leapt off the couch.
“Whoa!” I cried. “It’s a little too early for that!”
Nadia quickly pulled out her finger and I immediately regretted the inexcusable display of hysteria. “I mean, look, Nadia, not that I don’t like that sort of thing, but it’s only our second date.”
Nadia’s eyes revealed a trace of scorn. Then she sighed. “Yes,” she said, “you remind me of Woody Allen.”