Three things can happen in a marriage and two are bad. I’m experiencing one of the bad things. It’s called divorce.
What am I doing now? I am now sitting in my girlfriend’s Sunday school class at a protestant mega-church. It’s a class for divorced singles. The speaker is telling them how men don’t understand their wives and moms, and there is one reason for the awful divorce rate -- MEN!
So where did this start? Last night, we made the night club circuit. We danced. We kissed and groped. She came to my apartment; and after a lot of sex, I was exhausted. I took her home at 3 a.m. Let me think … I promised to pick her up Sunday at 8 o’clock for a day of fun. Now, I’m sitting here. … and this is definitely not fun!
***
Where did this this story really begin? I am 36-year-old black man, who went to a well-heeled university and got into a banking career in North Dallas. Then I got married! It was beautiful wedding and honeymoon. She was white. We were married for 11 years. Actually, make those two happy years and nine miserable years. Then I was divorced.
I was determined to make the best of my divorce. The last thing on my mind were women and dating … at first that is.
“This is not good! I really didn’t expect this,’ my twin brother, Gerald said. He lived 250 miles away. He was a devout Christian and the subject of divorce was abhorrent to him. He still lived within 20 miles of our birthplace. While I was determined to leave there and never come back, he would never leave. He married his high school sweetheart. He settled down with a safe government job and had three kids. The youngest was still living at home.
“I just wanted to let you know. I don’t need any help. I’m doing fine,” I said. We continued to communicate about once a week.
I was determined not to let divorce get the best of me. I certainly did want my ****** believe I had turned into a bum. In the ensuing months, I paid off all my debts, saved a lot of money, and bought a two-level condo on Addison Circle. The town of Addison is in North Dallas. Nearby are the fabulous Galleria mall, Neiman Marcus department store and lots of fine dining places. It was near my banking job, too. So life was good.
After work and on the weekends I sat on my patio or sipped coffee in the many sidewalk cafes in the area. I worked out at the gym. I lounged in my spa. I listened to my classical music. I read. I supervised the remodeling of my condo to my tastes. I made acquaintances and chatted.
I made friends with one of my neighbors. Bill was his name. He was a confirmed bachelor. He had lots of advice.
So why you say am I not like all the other divorced men? You know the drill: Every other weekend taking the kids to the park, with the kids to the movies, keeping them on the weekend, and then rushing them home on Sunday. The simple fact is: I don’t have any kids. That was the cause of my divorce. Katherine -- that’s my ex-wife -- never conceived. She blamed it on me! OK! Just relax! This is a really emotional subject with me. I went to a doctor. He said I was fine. One thing led to another …. It’s a long, sad story. It’s was story I wanted to forget.
First, I made a list of things I wanted to do in my new single life. I summarized them into three rules: Rule number 1, do not get into any obsessive behavior; Rule number 2, save money; and Rule number 3, keep my options open.
So here I am. I have met all my goals. It’s time to have some fun. My first attempt was the single bars. That went against my Rule No. 1. The next was dating services.
“Yes! I love evenings sitting by the fireplace. Oh yes! I love candlelight dinners. Absolutely! Children are no problem ….” I lied on all the questions. I figured “they” would too.
My first contact was a surprise. She was Candy, a divorced mom with two kids at home.
“Hi, are you M.D.?”
“Yes,” I said.
She was a petite four-foot-10. Her hair was dishwater blonde, and her eyes were hazel. She had rather thin, but cute, sexy lips. I noticed a slight accent. It was part Southern and part something else. She told me she was a Cajun woman from south of New Orleans.
Wait a moment! How can one be from “south of New Orleans”? I thought. There was nothing but mud, swamps, and ocean south of New Orleans! Well, maybe not!
We met at a coffee shop. She had a beautiful smile. I kept glancing at her body, legs, and feet. I made a date. I went out to dinner and danced. She was a poor dancer. I had two years of ballroom lessons, and she did not measure up. But then again, she had other attributes. Those red lips and a sexy body.
She came over unannounced one evening. I had just gotten out of the shower. I was dressed in a bathrobe. I poured her a glass of red wine. We sat on the couch. We exchanged little kisses. She startled me by reaching into my bathrobe and squeezing my…. It took my breath away! We started kissing and groping. We both undressed in a very short time. I laid her on the couch and spread her legs. I climbed on top. She was good at something – sex! She took my penis and guided, it into her love tunnel. She had two children, but they were delivered C-section. She had a very tight body for a thirty-something.
The next four weeks was like a whirlwind.
We spent a week in the New Orleans. We took in every night club, every jazz spot, and every dining bistro in the French Quarter. Along the way, I got in some fantastic sex. She was especially good as fellatio… while I was driving. It was a first for me!
“I love you!” she said looking into my eyes. I knew if I said anything, I would be violating Rule No. 3. So I ditched her as soon as I could.
Then there was the very cute Latina named Marcella. I still remember those full ruby red lips. She had a svelte body and a sexy Spanish accent. She had those beautiful Latin eyes and dark lashes. We took in the usual coffee shop chat drill. We chatted on the phone. Then I asked her out.
On the first date, we met at an Italian restaurant. You know the type. They bring out a big jug of wine. They charge by the glass. She drank most of the jug. I really didn’t mind paying for wine. Isn’t that what a gentleman should do? Whatever….
We went to a ballroom club to dance. She was a great dancer! We danced the rhumba, the Cha-cha, the Samba, the Tango, and the Salsa. She kept drinking. She was too ***** to drive home. I had to call a taxi. Her ride home was on my dime.
Where else does a woman get falling down ***** on the first date? … only in North Dallas. Whatever….
Then the dating service sent me Maurine. She was a cute blonde with a Southern accent. She was a secretary in a law firm. She was five-two and had very nice breasts. My guess was 36D. She had beautiful hazel eyes, and light brown hair. She had some girth.
We had two coffee shop dates. She talked a lot.
“I’m very concerned about what baggage you are carrying!” she stated it up front.
“I have no baggage other than eight kids and a huge pile of debts and I’m an alcoholic who hasn’t hit bottom yet.” Anyway, that’s what I should have said. It turned out she carried all the “baggage”.
I remember our first date. It was Saint Valentine’s Day. It was supposed to mean something? I bought the dinner, and she provided all the conversation. Her talk was mostly about her ex-husband.
“Oh my god! Will she ever stop?” I thought to myself. She was obviously stuck on her exe whom she met while attending North Texas University. He was an artist and a drugged-out freak. That’s my summary of her description. The walls of her home were plastered with cheap artwork. All of it painted, sketched, scratched, smeared, scrawled or scribbled by “him”!
She loved my condo and loved to drop by unexpectedly.
“You will have to take down that pornographic artwork if I bring my kids over,” she said.
“Excuse me! I don’t want your kids over here. This is my condo!” Well, that’s what I should have told her.
So where else does a woman march into a male’s condo and demand it be redecorated for her? … only in North Dallas! Whatever….
One evening, she unexpectedly called to say she was coming over. I met her on the street. I didn’t want her in my condo. She was happy and giddy.
“I just wanted to come up and see your condo again,” she said giggling. She was drinking whiskey from a can.
“Oh my god! I didn’t know they sold it in cans! Where did you get it? “I asked.
“I got it at a liquor store on the way.” She said it like, “Doesn’t everyone buy whiskey and drink it on the way home?”
She was *****. She was slurring her words. When she climbed out of her Chrysler, she almost fell.
“Aren’t you going to ask me up to your condo?”
“Well I would, but you are so *****, I’m afraid you would fall on your ass before you got there.” That is what I should have said. Instead I drove her home. She was too ***** to drive.
So where is it written that when a drunken woman comes uninvited to a male’s apartment, he must drive her home and return in taxi on his dime? …only in North Dallas! Whatever….
The dating in North Dallas was beginning to wear thin.
I discussed it with by neighbor, Bill.
“This dating is not really working out.”
Bill laughed. He impressed me that he was a pro at dating in North Dallas.
“You gotta hang in there, friend. If you are in for a good time, you won’t find it with the North Dallas girls.”
Was that a prophesy?
Next was Sherry Lee. She was a sexy, trim bottle blonde. She had a Southern accent with a north Dallas twang. She grew up in North Dallas and knew everyone. … it seemed. She was rich. Her ****** was in the petroleum business. That’s pronounced “the ahoyl bidness” in North Dallas. She lived alone in University Park in a palatial mansion with a manicured lawn and tall white Corinthian columns in the front. Yet, she loved my condo. I found out later that it was because I was nearer to the Galleria.
… only in North Dallas. Whatever….
She drove a blood-red Ferrari convertible. She insisted on doing all the driving on our dates.
Our first meeting was arranged by her to be in front of Neiman Marcus, an exclusive department store in the Galleria. We walked and chatted. She window-shopped. We stopped in a café by the ice rink for a latte.
On the first real date, I picked her up at her home. I met her at the door and started toward my Mercedes SL-Class.
“I want to drive my car!” she announced. I opened the door for her. She got in, letting her skirt ride high exposing her hot pink thong. She looked up at me and smiled. I smiled, closed the door, and walked to the other side. As I crossed in front of her car, she started it and raced the engine. The Ferrari rocked from side to side from the powerful torque.
“Oh my god! I hope she can drive and stay sober!” I thought to myself.
She roared out of her driveway, almost hitting my Mercedes. She looked at me with that silly smile that she could do so well. I laughed.
Her skirt rode up exposing her lacy-top hose. Her red platform pumps with eight-inch micro stiletto heels were really not made to drive a Ferrari, I observed.
Then she got into traffic … cell phone traffic that is!
“Hello Cheryl Ann! I’m off to dine at Del Frisco’s. Yes … Uh huh …. Where then? We’re going to Arthur’s for dancing. See you there! Bye.”
Then Bobbie Sue called her.
“Hi Bobbie Sue! Yes! He’s cute. Uh huh … yes! …at Del Frisco’s. Yes … uh huh…. We will be at Arthurs’ around nine.”
She called Joyce.
“Hi Joyce! Yes! He is. Well, we will see won’t we….” She laughed. “Bobbie Sue told you? Yes, I am! See you at Arthur’s at nine.”
“Don’t mind us! We were in the same sorority. We stay in touch,” she said in her sing-song voice.
“That’s fine with me. I enjoy listening you chat with your fiends while I pay for this date.” That’s what I should have said.
“Are you all divorced?” I asked.
“Yes! Joyce dumped her exe. He wasn’t making enough. Bobbie Sue caught her exe with his secretary. And Cheryl Ann … her husband was a doctor. He wasn’t around very much. He was either playing golf or in surgery. She got tired of him.”
Somehow based on the way she told it, I believed every word.
She pulled into Del Frisco’s, an upscale restaurant north of the Galleria. It seemed her entire life was centered on the Galleria. She would not let the valet park her Ferrari. I’m sure for good reason. I’m the same way about my Mercedes. She parked, and we walked in.
We sat down, ordered, and waited for our dinner.
“Excuse me. Do you drive a red Ferrari?” It was the matre‘d. Sherrie Lee’s Ferrari was somehow blocking the driveway. She handed me the keys. I walked to the parking lot.
Out of the blue, someone started screaming at me.
“Hey asshole! Do you know how to park that goddamn car, asshole? Do you hear me, asshole?”
I avoided eye contact the best that I could.
The Ferrari had somehow rolled from the parking spot into the driveway, blocking about 20 cars. All the drivers were standing outside their cars glaring at me! I noticed that she did not set the parking brake. I drove back into the space and set the brake.
“Hey you! I’m talking to you, asshole!” Someone would not let up. Still avoiding eye contact, I walked as fast as I could back into Del Frisco’s. The matre ’d glared at me as I sat down.
“Sir! In the future, I must ask you not to ever come back to Del Frisco’s!” he snipped.
Well, If Sherry Lee was driving; there could be a long list of males who have been banned from Del Frisco’s. So be it!
… only in North Dallas! Whatever….
She finished her $75 salad. I lost my appetite. I only nibbled at my $125 lobster tail, while smiling at Sherry Lee across the table.
“We all went to North Texas University. We were sorority sisters. We all got married right after graduation. We were all brides’ maids in each other’s weddings … blah blah blah blah….”
I learned her entire life’s story from college until now over dinner at my last ever visit to Del Frisco’s.
… only in North Dallas! Whatever….
We walked out of Del Frisco’s to get into her car.
“Hey, asshole! Look at me, asshole!” It was the same insane man. He was still angry that Sherry Lee’s Ferrari had blocked his way. I opened the door for her, and we drove away. Once on the street, she spoke to me.
“What did you say to him?” She shot an accusing glance at me!
“I shot him the finger and waved my forty-five caliber automatic around.” Well…. That’s what I should have said. I just smiled.
… only in North Dallas. Whatever….
Arthur’s Club was a few miles away on Dallas’ Central Expressway. When we got there, it was a crowded, smoky club with lots of hot blonde thirty-something’s dancing with greying fifty-something’s. A band in the corner featured a tall, sultry singer, who Sherry Lee knew personally.
“Was the singer a sorority sister, too?” I thought to myself. It was getting to be amusing.
I couldn’t really dance. Everyone was shoulder to shoulder. I held Sherry Ann and swayed back and forth.
“I thought you could do ballroom dancing?” she asked as If I had lied on my dating questionnaire.
“Do you want to go to a ballroom?” I said half-jokingly. She had a puzzled look on her face. I knew it would be useless to attempt to explain what ballroom dancing was.
During the evening I danced with each of Sherry Lee’s friends. Bobbie Sue was very hot. She pressed her breasts against me. My penis began to grow. She reached down and squeezed my manhood.
“Very nice,” she cooed.
I was shocked, but tried not to express it on my face.
Joyce would not let me touch her. She put her palms out against my shoulder and danced at arm length. I really wanted to get my arms around her. Just before the music ended, she unzipped my trousers and squeezed my penis. I was shocked! This time it showed on my face.
“Don’t be shocked, honey. I always examine the merchandise,” she said grinning.
I would have loved to date Joyce. These women run in a pack, and they are all predators. My chances of dating someone else in this clique were nil.
…only in North Dallas. Whatever….
I had two more dates with Sherry Lee before she came on to me after leaving Arthur’s one night. We stopped at my condo and had a few drinks. She started removing my clothes. After I was nude, she sensually took off her clothes one layer at a time. She looked at me with elevator eyes. I felt like she was purchasing a prized stallion.
We went to the bedroom. I discovered that Sherry Lee was a cowgirl. She loved to ride bareback. Whoopee!
… only in North Dallas. Whatever….
***
So now here I am in Sunday school for divorced singles. I am seated in a circle of chairs. These women are all thirty-something blondes. I don’t believe there was a natural set of breasts in the room. They have all crossed their legs and let their skirts ride up beyond their lacy-top hose. They all were wearing designer shoes which were swinging back and forth. My eyes were like a funny-face pendulum clock, follow those sexy feet.
Since I was the only male in the class, the speaker kept looking at me. I kept thinking that my “salvation” was the clock. It seemed like an eternity before the class was over.
We walked out.
“I’m not going back to that church,” I said.
“Oh! We are going to your place and listen to music.” That is how I ended up entertaining four North Dallas girls all afternoon in my condo. When we got there, Sherry Lee threw her clothes in a heap. The other girls followed suit. They crawled into my hot tub. I could not control my cock. It stood at attention as soon as I looked at them.
The girls started laughing.
I jumped into my spa to hide my erection. We laughed, smoked, stroked, and poked for most of the afternoon. It was a first time for me with group sex. It first time I saw lesbian sex, too. Watching two hot women get it on was really quite spectacular! Before the day was over, they all got dressed and left to go shopping at the Galleria. I felt as if I had been ridden hard and put away wet. That is how they described it.
… only in North Dallas. Whatever….
***
“Hello?”
“Hi! It’s me Kath!” It was my exe, Katherine.
I wanted to feign that I didn’t know her. So I pretended to be glad to hear from her.
“Oh, hi, Kath! I trust you are doing fine. How long has it been? Two years?” I wanted to throw out the hint that I had lost track of time since our divorce.
“Gerald called. Claudia left him. He called me looking for you!”
“I’ll give him a call,” I said in an even voice. I did want to show her my deep concern.
“I just want to let you know, that I am going to get married!” she squealed.
“Great! I am so happy for you.” I was pretending to be happy for her.
“His name is Roger. He’s an investment banker. Do you know him?”
“Oh sure, Kath! I know every banker in the world.” That’s what I should have said.
“Don’t think I have ever met him.” That was no lie.
“We are going to honeymoon in Cabo.”
“That will be just swimmingly,” I said. It was a joke. I knew she could not swim.
“I expect we will not get out of the hotel,” she giggled.
“I’m sure he’s going to knock you up on your honeymoon.” That’s what I wanted to say.
“I’m sure you will be very happy,” I said with a sing-song voice.
“I’m going to send you an invitation.”
“Thank you! I will be delighted to come and be the object of everyone’s stares.” That’s what I should have said.
“When I get your invitation, I’ll put it on my calendar.” Putting it on my calendar and promising to go were two different things. I wanted that to be a hint to her.
“Bye bye!”
“Bye Kath.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. I had just gotten through my first conversation with my exe without feeling beaten down. I clinched my teeth when I thought of Gerald’s plight. Of course having Gerald’s marriage split up was somehow a validation of her side in our divorce. I felt that undertone in her voice. Why did Gerald call her? I felt betrayed. Oh well! I will get her back by not sending her a wedding gift or appearing at her wedding. Then again …. Whatever….
I dialed the phone.
“Hello?”
“Hi Gerald.” I knew he would recognize my voice.
“M.D.! Claudia left me!”
“So now aren’t you sorry for your condescension when I announced my divorce?” That’s what I should have said.
“I’m so sorry! What happened?” I said.
“I came home. She had moved out! She took all the furniture … everything!”
“Do you want my advice?”
“What should I do?”
“Let her go! She moved out. Just let her go!”
“I can’t live without her!”
“Oh yes you can! Just suck it up, brother! You will get by this and be better off. Believe me!”
“I’ve got to find her and get her to come back!”
“Do what you have to do, but my advice is to let her go.”
“Bye, M.D.”
“Keep in touch,” I said.
I hung up the phone, feeling a sudden rush of power and wisdom. Me! M.D. who felt beaten down during those early post-breakup weeks two long years ago was now feeling so powerful. I am the all-wise, all-knowing, M.D. I laughed. Then I felt sorry for Gerald. Poor brother!
I cancelled my dating and drove down on the weekend. He looked devastated and so pathetic. He was a mirror image of me. His face and cheeks were sunken in and his eyes were sad. He had been sleeping -- or rather not sleeping -- on a cot. Empty bean cans littered his kitchen. Dirty clothing were scattered about his bedroom. She had ransacked his bank account. I took him and my nephew, Jim, out to a restaurant. They seemed very appreciative. He was close to tears. My nephew kept looking down at his plate.
I booked them into a hotel and paid for a week’s accommodation. I wrote him a check for gasoline and food. I promised more if he needed it.
“I’ll pay you back, M.D.”, he said.
“Don’t worry about it. I know how you feel, my brother,” I kept telling him. “You will get through this.” I thought about giving him my “Three Rules”, but I decided he wouldn’t stick to them. It’s something one must decide for oneself. Other than meeting my initial goals, I couldn’t boast that my love life had vastly improved. Of course, I was getting sex, but this wasn’t the time to mention that.
I drove back to Addison Circle, worrying about Gerald and Jim. After work on Monday, Gerald called.
“Hello?”
“Hi M.D.”
“How are you?”
“Look! I found out that Claudia ran off with a patient at the hospital,” he said.
Claudia was a nurse and worked in a hospital.
“I’m sorry to hear that!” I lied. I was glad he now had something to hang onto – anger!
“Jim told me she had been meeting him at the grocery store and other places in front of him. He didn’t understand what was happening!” he said. There was anger in his voice. I smiled.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Actually, I was glad to hear it. Now maybe, he will get angry, stop trying to get her to come back. Just maybe he will pull himself together.
“I filed for divorce today. I cancelled our checking account and locked her out my new account,” Gerald said. I heard determination in his voice.
“Good for you! Listen! She’s gone. Just let her go. You don’t need to call her or talk to her. Just play it cool. Why not come up here to Addison for a week?” Suddenly I realized I had made a big mistake. “Oh, my god! Now, I will have to take down my art!” I thought. I was desperately hoping he would say no.
“No! I’ve got to stay here.”
I felt relieved!
“Bye.”
“Keep in touch. Bye” I hung up the phone. I felt relief. He’s on his own, now. Maybe he will come out of it. I can’t be a babysitter to my tough-luck brother. In the back of my mind, I was prepared to be his baby sitter anyway.
I picked up the phone and dialed Sherry Lee.
***
“Hello.”
“Hi are you M.D.?”
“Yes.”
“This is the dating service. I have someone you will love to meet. She says she loves to dance ballroom!”
“That’s great! I’d like to meet her,” I said trying to hide the enthusiasm in my voice.
When I got home the next afternoon, I had a message on my phone.
“Hi! I’m Jane. The dating service gave me your number ….”
I listened to her voice. It sounded sweet and kind of sexy. There was something else. She had an accent that I could not place. She definitely was not from North Dallas. I had my fill of girls who grew up in North Dallas. Dating in North Dallas was turning into a nightmare! Right now, anything would be welcome relief. I dialed her right away.
We talked, and I found out that she recently moved to Dallas from London. He had never heard of the Galleria. That was a relief!
I arranged to meet her at a French restaurant half way between our homes. It was the La Madeleine. They served a delicious black French coffee. La Madeleine had lots of two-chair tables and cozy nooks to talk privately.
“Hi, are you M.D.?”
“Yes! Hi!” She was a petite woman with beautiful red hair. Her eyes were green and wide. Her lips were very full and ruby red. Her makeup was immaculate. She was dressed in a short skirt. Her legs and thighs were like a fashion model. She wore patent leather pumps with medium heels.
“I’m Jane!”
“Hi Jane.”
“No! I’m Jane.”
“Hi again, Jane,” I said. I was really confused. Was she Jane or not? This was not going well.
“No! I said Jane,” she said with a bit of irritation.
“Please spell it for me.”
“Sure! J … E … A … N, Jane!” Oh! My god! It was her English accent. I laughed.
“I am so sorry Jean! I’ve been living in America all my life. I have a problem with REAL English.” I laughed. I wanted to make a joke out of a very awkward moment. She didn’t look amused. I suddenly had a feeling I wanted to buy her the obligatory cup of French coffee, chat with her, and go back to the nightmare of dating in North Dallas.
I decided to start it off by asking all the cliché questions she had heard a million times and was bored hearing again. I found a table in a busy part of La Madeleine’s and held the chair for her.
“So how long have you living in America?” I was sure that question would run her off.
I found out that she had been living in America for less than a year. She was real English and did not like anything French. At that point, I was beginning to believe this “date” was melting down fast.
But then there was something about Jean. It was her toothy smile and sweet accent. We talked back and forth. She didn’t seem to want to dominate the conversation. She was warm and friendly. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her face. Her green eyes were so beautiful!
“Would you like to try a date? Maybe a restaurant – any place besides Del Frisco’s – and the theatre?”
She looked puzzled about the Del Frisco’s remark but accepted my offer.
A year later, we were married and my North Dallas dating nightmare was over.
What am I doing now? I am now sitting in my girlfriend’s Sunday school class at a protestant mega-church. It’s a class for divorced singles. The speaker is telling them how men don’t understand their wives and moms, and there is one reason for the awful divorce rate -- MEN!
So where did this start? Last night, we made the night club circuit. We danced. We kissed and groped. She came to my apartment; and after a lot of sex, I was exhausted. I took her home at 3 a.m. Let me think … I promised to pick her up Sunday at 8 o’clock for a day of fun. Now, I’m sitting here. … and this is definitely not fun!
***
Where did this this story really begin? I am 36-year-old black man, who went to a well-heeled university and got into a banking career in North Dallas. Then I got married! It was beautiful wedding and honeymoon. She was white. We were married for 11 years. Actually, make those two happy years and nine miserable years. Then I was divorced.
I was determined to make the best of my divorce. The last thing on my mind were women and dating … at first that is.
“This is not good! I really didn’t expect this,’ my twin brother, Gerald said. He lived 250 miles away. He was a devout Christian and the subject of divorce was abhorrent to him. He still lived within 20 miles of our birthplace. While I was determined to leave there and never come back, he would never leave. He married his high school sweetheart. He settled down with a safe government job and had three kids. The youngest was still living at home.
“I just wanted to let you know. I don’t need any help. I’m doing fine,” I said. We continued to communicate about once a week.
I was determined not to let divorce get the best of me. I certainly did want my ****** believe I had turned into a bum. In the ensuing months, I paid off all my debts, saved a lot of money, and bought a two-level condo on Addison Circle. The town of Addison is in North Dallas. Nearby are the fabulous Galleria mall, Neiman Marcus department store and lots of fine dining places. It was near my banking job, too. So life was good.
After work and on the weekends I sat on my patio or sipped coffee in the many sidewalk cafes in the area. I worked out at the gym. I lounged in my spa. I listened to my classical music. I read. I supervised the remodeling of my condo to my tastes. I made acquaintances and chatted.
I made friends with one of my neighbors. Bill was his name. He was a confirmed bachelor. He had lots of advice.
So why you say am I not like all the other divorced men? You know the drill: Every other weekend taking the kids to the park, with the kids to the movies, keeping them on the weekend, and then rushing them home on Sunday. The simple fact is: I don’t have any kids. That was the cause of my divorce. Katherine -- that’s my ex-wife -- never conceived. She blamed it on me! OK! Just relax! This is a really emotional subject with me. I went to a doctor. He said I was fine. One thing led to another …. It’s a long, sad story. It’s was story I wanted to forget.
First, I made a list of things I wanted to do in my new single life. I summarized them into three rules: Rule number 1, do not get into any obsessive behavior; Rule number 2, save money; and Rule number 3, keep my options open.
So here I am. I have met all my goals. It’s time to have some fun. My first attempt was the single bars. That went against my Rule No. 1. The next was dating services.
“Yes! I love evenings sitting by the fireplace. Oh yes! I love candlelight dinners. Absolutely! Children are no problem ….” I lied on all the questions. I figured “they” would too.
My first contact was a surprise. She was Candy, a divorced mom with two kids at home.
“Hi, are you M.D.?”
“Yes,” I said.
She was a petite four-foot-10. Her hair was dishwater blonde, and her eyes were hazel. She had rather thin, but cute, sexy lips. I noticed a slight accent. It was part Southern and part something else. She told me she was a Cajun woman from south of New Orleans.
Wait a moment! How can one be from “south of New Orleans”? I thought. There was nothing but mud, swamps, and ocean south of New Orleans! Well, maybe not!
We met at a coffee shop. She had a beautiful smile. I kept glancing at her body, legs, and feet. I made a date. I went out to dinner and danced. She was a poor dancer. I had two years of ballroom lessons, and she did not measure up. But then again, she had other attributes. Those red lips and a sexy body.
She came over unannounced one evening. I had just gotten out of the shower. I was dressed in a bathrobe. I poured her a glass of red wine. We sat on the couch. We exchanged little kisses. She startled me by reaching into my bathrobe and squeezing my…. It took my breath away! We started kissing and groping. We both undressed in a very short time. I laid her on the couch and spread her legs. I climbed on top. She was good at something – sex! She took my penis and guided, it into her love tunnel. She had two children, but they were delivered C-section. She had a very tight body for a thirty-something.
The next four weeks was like a whirlwind.
We spent a week in the New Orleans. We took in every night club, every jazz spot, and every dining bistro in the French Quarter. Along the way, I got in some fantastic sex. She was especially good as fellatio… while I was driving. It was a first for me!
“I love you!” she said looking into my eyes. I knew if I said anything, I would be violating Rule No. 3. So I ditched her as soon as I could.
Then there was the very cute Latina named Marcella. I still remember those full ruby red lips. She had a svelte body and a sexy Spanish accent. She had those beautiful Latin eyes and dark lashes. We took in the usual coffee shop chat drill. We chatted on the phone. Then I asked her out.
On the first date, we met at an Italian restaurant. You know the type. They bring out a big jug of wine. They charge by the glass. She drank most of the jug. I really didn’t mind paying for wine. Isn’t that what a gentleman should do? Whatever….
We went to a ballroom club to dance. She was a great dancer! We danced the rhumba, the Cha-cha, the Samba, the Tango, and the Salsa. She kept drinking. She was too ***** to drive home. I had to call a taxi. Her ride home was on my dime.
Where else does a woman get falling down ***** on the first date? … only in North Dallas. Whatever….
Then the dating service sent me Maurine. She was a cute blonde with a Southern accent. She was a secretary in a law firm. She was five-two and had very nice breasts. My guess was 36D. She had beautiful hazel eyes, and light brown hair. She had some girth.
We had two coffee shop dates. She talked a lot.
“I’m very concerned about what baggage you are carrying!” she stated it up front.
“I have no baggage other than eight kids and a huge pile of debts and I’m an alcoholic who hasn’t hit bottom yet.” Anyway, that’s what I should have said. It turned out she carried all the “baggage”.
I remember our first date. It was Saint Valentine’s Day. It was supposed to mean something? I bought the dinner, and she provided all the conversation. Her talk was mostly about her ex-husband.
“Oh my god! Will she ever stop?” I thought to myself. She was obviously stuck on her exe whom she met while attending North Texas University. He was an artist and a drugged-out freak. That’s my summary of her description. The walls of her home were plastered with cheap artwork. All of it painted, sketched, scratched, smeared, scrawled or scribbled by “him”!
She loved my condo and loved to drop by unexpectedly.
“You will have to take down that pornographic artwork if I bring my kids over,” she said.
“Excuse me! I don’t want your kids over here. This is my condo!” Well, that’s what I should have told her.
So where else does a woman march into a male’s condo and demand it be redecorated for her? … only in North Dallas! Whatever….
One evening, she unexpectedly called to say she was coming over. I met her on the street. I didn’t want her in my condo. She was happy and giddy.
“I just wanted to come up and see your condo again,” she said giggling. She was drinking whiskey from a can.
“Oh my god! I didn’t know they sold it in cans! Where did you get it? “I asked.
“I got it at a liquor store on the way.” She said it like, “Doesn’t everyone buy whiskey and drink it on the way home?”
She was *****. She was slurring her words. When she climbed out of her Chrysler, she almost fell.
“Aren’t you going to ask me up to your condo?”
“Well I would, but you are so *****, I’m afraid you would fall on your ass before you got there.” That is what I should have said. Instead I drove her home. She was too ***** to drive.
So where is it written that when a drunken woman comes uninvited to a male’s apartment, he must drive her home and return in taxi on his dime? …only in North Dallas! Whatever….
The dating in North Dallas was beginning to wear thin.
I discussed it with by neighbor, Bill.
“This dating is not really working out.”
Bill laughed. He impressed me that he was a pro at dating in North Dallas.
“You gotta hang in there, friend. If you are in for a good time, you won’t find it with the North Dallas girls.”
Was that a prophesy?
Next was Sherry Lee. She was a sexy, trim bottle blonde. She had a Southern accent with a north Dallas twang. She grew up in North Dallas and knew everyone. … it seemed. She was rich. Her ****** was in the petroleum business. That’s pronounced “the ahoyl bidness” in North Dallas. She lived alone in University Park in a palatial mansion with a manicured lawn and tall white Corinthian columns in the front. Yet, she loved my condo. I found out later that it was because I was nearer to the Galleria.
… only in North Dallas. Whatever….
She drove a blood-red Ferrari convertible. She insisted on doing all the driving on our dates.
Our first meeting was arranged by her to be in front of Neiman Marcus, an exclusive department store in the Galleria. We walked and chatted. She window-shopped. We stopped in a café by the ice rink for a latte.
On the first real date, I picked her up at her home. I met her at the door and started toward my Mercedes SL-Class.
“I want to drive my car!” she announced. I opened the door for her. She got in, letting her skirt ride high exposing her hot pink thong. She looked up at me and smiled. I smiled, closed the door, and walked to the other side. As I crossed in front of her car, she started it and raced the engine. The Ferrari rocked from side to side from the powerful torque.
“Oh my god! I hope she can drive and stay sober!” I thought to myself.
She roared out of her driveway, almost hitting my Mercedes. She looked at me with that silly smile that she could do so well. I laughed.
Her skirt rode up exposing her lacy-top hose. Her red platform pumps with eight-inch micro stiletto heels were really not made to drive a Ferrari, I observed.
Then she got into traffic … cell phone traffic that is!
“Hello Cheryl Ann! I’m off to dine at Del Frisco’s. Yes … Uh huh …. Where then? We’re going to Arthur’s for dancing. See you there! Bye.”
Then Bobbie Sue called her.
“Hi Bobbie Sue! Yes! He’s cute. Uh huh … yes! …at Del Frisco’s. Yes … uh huh…. We will be at Arthurs’ around nine.”
She called Joyce.
“Hi Joyce! Yes! He is. Well, we will see won’t we….” She laughed. “Bobbie Sue told you? Yes, I am! See you at Arthur’s at nine.”
“Don’t mind us! We were in the same sorority. We stay in touch,” she said in her sing-song voice.
“That’s fine with me. I enjoy listening you chat with your fiends while I pay for this date.” That’s what I should have said.
“Are you all divorced?” I asked.
“Yes! Joyce dumped her exe. He wasn’t making enough. Bobbie Sue caught her exe with his secretary. And Cheryl Ann … her husband was a doctor. He wasn’t around very much. He was either playing golf or in surgery. She got tired of him.”
Somehow based on the way she told it, I believed every word.
She pulled into Del Frisco’s, an upscale restaurant north of the Galleria. It seemed her entire life was centered on the Galleria. She would not let the valet park her Ferrari. I’m sure for good reason. I’m the same way about my Mercedes. She parked, and we walked in.
We sat down, ordered, and waited for our dinner.
“Excuse me. Do you drive a red Ferrari?” It was the matre‘d. Sherrie Lee’s Ferrari was somehow blocking the driveway. She handed me the keys. I walked to the parking lot.
Out of the blue, someone started screaming at me.
“Hey asshole! Do you know how to park that goddamn car, asshole? Do you hear me, asshole?”
I avoided eye contact the best that I could.
The Ferrari had somehow rolled from the parking spot into the driveway, blocking about 20 cars. All the drivers were standing outside their cars glaring at me! I noticed that she did not set the parking brake. I drove back into the space and set the brake.
“Hey you! I’m talking to you, asshole!” Someone would not let up. Still avoiding eye contact, I walked as fast as I could back into Del Frisco’s. The matre ’d glared at me as I sat down.
“Sir! In the future, I must ask you not to ever come back to Del Frisco’s!” he snipped.
Well, If Sherry Lee was driving; there could be a long list of males who have been banned from Del Frisco’s. So be it!
… only in North Dallas! Whatever….
She finished her $75 salad. I lost my appetite. I only nibbled at my $125 lobster tail, while smiling at Sherry Lee across the table.
“We all went to North Texas University. We were sorority sisters. We all got married right after graduation. We were all brides’ maids in each other’s weddings … blah blah blah blah….”
I learned her entire life’s story from college until now over dinner at my last ever visit to Del Frisco’s.
… only in North Dallas! Whatever….
We walked out of Del Frisco’s to get into her car.
“Hey, asshole! Look at me, asshole!” It was the same insane man. He was still angry that Sherry Lee’s Ferrari had blocked his way. I opened the door for her, and we drove away. Once on the street, she spoke to me.
“What did you say to him?” She shot an accusing glance at me!
“I shot him the finger and waved my forty-five caliber automatic around.” Well…. That’s what I should have said. I just smiled.
… only in North Dallas. Whatever….
Arthur’s Club was a few miles away on Dallas’ Central Expressway. When we got there, it was a crowded, smoky club with lots of hot blonde thirty-something’s dancing with greying fifty-something’s. A band in the corner featured a tall, sultry singer, who Sherry Lee knew personally.
“Was the singer a sorority sister, too?” I thought to myself. It was getting to be amusing.
I couldn’t really dance. Everyone was shoulder to shoulder. I held Sherry Ann and swayed back and forth.
“I thought you could do ballroom dancing?” she asked as If I had lied on my dating questionnaire.
“Do you want to go to a ballroom?” I said half-jokingly. She had a puzzled look on her face. I knew it would be useless to attempt to explain what ballroom dancing was.
During the evening I danced with each of Sherry Lee’s friends. Bobbie Sue was very hot. She pressed her breasts against me. My penis began to grow. She reached down and squeezed my manhood.
“Very nice,” she cooed.
I was shocked, but tried not to express it on my face.
Joyce would not let me touch her. She put her palms out against my shoulder and danced at arm length. I really wanted to get my arms around her. Just before the music ended, she unzipped my trousers and squeezed my penis. I was shocked! This time it showed on my face.
“Don’t be shocked, honey. I always examine the merchandise,” she said grinning.
I would have loved to date Joyce. These women run in a pack, and they are all predators. My chances of dating someone else in this clique were nil.
…only in North Dallas. Whatever….
I had two more dates with Sherry Lee before she came on to me after leaving Arthur’s one night. We stopped at my condo and had a few drinks. She started removing my clothes. After I was nude, she sensually took off her clothes one layer at a time. She looked at me with elevator eyes. I felt like she was purchasing a prized stallion.
We went to the bedroom. I discovered that Sherry Lee was a cowgirl. She loved to ride bareback. Whoopee!
… only in North Dallas. Whatever….
***
So now here I am in Sunday school for divorced singles. I am seated in a circle of chairs. These women are all thirty-something blondes. I don’t believe there was a natural set of breasts in the room. They have all crossed their legs and let their skirts ride up beyond their lacy-top hose. They all were wearing designer shoes which were swinging back and forth. My eyes were like a funny-face pendulum clock, follow those sexy feet.
Since I was the only male in the class, the speaker kept looking at me. I kept thinking that my “salvation” was the clock. It seemed like an eternity before the class was over.
We walked out.
“I’m not going back to that church,” I said.
“Oh! We are going to your place and listen to music.” That is how I ended up entertaining four North Dallas girls all afternoon in my condo. When we got there, Sherry Lee threw her clothes in a heap. The other girls followed suit. They crawled into my hot tub. I could not control my cock. It stood at attention as soon as I looked at them.
The girls started laughing.
I jumped into my spa to hide my erection. We laughed, smoked, stroked, and poked for most of the afternoon. It was a first time for me with group sex. It first time I saw lesbian sex, too. Watching two hot women get it on was really quite spectacular! Before the day was over, they all got dressed and left to go shopping at the Galleria. I felt as if I had been ridden hard and put away wet. That is how they described it.
… only in North Dallas. Whatever….
***
“Hello?”
“Hi! It’s me Kath!” It was my exe, Katherine.
I wanted to feign that I didn’t know her. So I pretended to be glad to hear from her.
“Oh, hi, Kath! I trust you are doing fine. How long has it been? Two years?” I wanted to throw out the hint that I had lost track of time since our divorce.
“Gerald called. Claudia left him. He called me looking for you!”
“I’ll give him a call,” I said in an even voice. I did want to show her my deep concern.
“I just want to let you know, that I am going to get married!” she squealed.
“Great! I am so happy for you.” I was pretending to be happy for her.
“His name is Roger. He’s an investment banker. Do you know him?”
“Oh sure, Kath! I know every banker in the world.” That’s what I should have said.
“Don’t think I have ever met him.” That was no lie.
“We are going to honeymoon in Cabo.”
“That will be just swimmingly,” I said. It was a joke. I knew she could not swim.
“I expect we will not get out of the hotel,” she giggled.
“I’m sure he’s going to knock you up on your honeymoon.” That’s what I wanted to say.
“I’m sure you will be very happy,” I said with a sing-song voice.
“I’m going to send you an invitation.”
“Thank you! I will be delighted to come and be the object of everyone’s stares.” That’s what I should have said.
“When I get your invitation, I’ll put it on my calendar.” Putting it on my calendar and promising to go were two different things. I wanted that to be a hint to her.
“Bye bye!”
“Bye Kath.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. I had just gotten through my first conversation with my exe without feeling beaten down. I clinched my teeth when I thought of Gerald’s plight. Of course having Gerald’s marriage split up was somehow a validation of her side in our divorce. I felt that undertone in her voice. Why did Gerald call her? I felt betrayed. Oh well! I will get her back by not sending her a wedding gift or appearing at her wedding. Then again …. Whatever….
I dialed the phone.
“Hello?”
“Hi Gerald.” I knew he would recognize my voice.
“M.D.! Claudia left me!”
“So now aren’t you sorry for your condescension when I announced my divorce?” That’s what I should have said.
“I’m so sorry! What happened?” I said.
“I came home. She had moved out! She took all the furniture … everything!”
“Do you want my advice?”
“What should I do?”
“Let her go! She moved out. Just let her go!”
“I can’t live without her!”
“Oh yes you can! Just suck it up, brother! You will get by this and be better off. Believe me!”
“I’ve got to find her and get her to come back!”
“Do what you have to do, but my advice is to let her go.”
“Bye, M.D.”
“Keep in touch,” I said.
I hung up the phone, feeling a sudden rush of power and wisdom. Me! M.D. who felt beaten down during those early post-breakup weeks two long years ago was now feeling so powerful. I am the all-wise, all-knowing, M.D. I laughed. Then I felt sorry for Gerald. Poor brother!
I cancelled my dating and drove down on the weekend. He looked devastated and so pathetic. He was a mirror image of me. His face and cheeks were sunken in and his eyes were sad. He had been sleeping -- or rather not sleeping -- on a cot. Empty bean cans littered his kitchen. Dirty clothing were scattered about his bedroom. She had ransacked his bank account. I took him and my nephew, Jim, out to a restaurant. They seemed very appreciative. He was close to tears. My nephew kept looking down at his plate.
I booked them into a hotel and paid for a week’s accommodation. I wrote him a check for gasoline and food. I promised more if he needed it.
“I’ll pay you back, M.D.”, he said.
“Don’t worry about it. I know how you feel, my brother,” I kept telling him. “You will get through this.” I thought about giving him my “Three Rules”, but I decided he wouldn’t stick to them. It’s something one must decide for oneself. Other than meeting my initial goals, I couldn’t boast that my love life had vastly improved. Of course, I was getting sex, but this wasn’t the time to mention that.
I drove back to Addison Circle, worrying about Gerald and Jim. After work on Monday, Gerald called.
“Hello?”
“Hi M.D.”
“How are you?”
“Look! I found out that Claudia ran off with a patient at the hospital,” he said.
Claudia was a nurse and worked in a hospital.
“I’m sorry to hear that!” I lied. I was glad he now had something to hang onto – anger!
“Jim told me she had been meeting him at the grocery store and other places in front of him. He didn’t understand what was happening!” he said. There was anger in his voice. I smiled.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Actually, I was glad to hear it. Now maybe, he will get angry, stop trying to get her to come back. Just maybe he will pull himself together.
“I filed for divorce today. I cancelled our checking account and locked her out my new account,” Gerald said. I heard determination in his voice.
“Good for you! Listen! She’s gone. Just let her go. You don’t need to call her or talk to her. Just play it cool. Why not come up here to Addison for a week?” Suddenly I realized I had made a big mistake. “Oh, my god! Now, I will have to take down my art!” I thought. I was desperately hoping he would say no.
“No! I’ve got to stay here.”
I felt relieved!
“Bye.”
“Keep in touch. Bye” I hung up the phone. I felt relief. He’s on his own, now. Maybe he will come out of it. I can’t be a babysitter to my tough-luck brother. In the back of my mind, I was prepared to be his baby sitter anyway.
I picked up the phone and dialed Sherry Lee.
***
“Hello.”
“Hi are you M.D.?”
“Yes.”
“This is the dating service. I have someone you will love to meet. She says she loves to dance ballroom!”
“That’s great! I’d like to meet her,” I said trying to hide the enthusiasm in my voice.
When I got home the next afternoon, I had a message on my phone.
“Hi! I’m Jane. The dating service gave me your number ….”
I listened to her voice. It sounded sweet and kind of sexy. There was something else. She had an accent that I could not place. She definitely was not from North Dallas. I had my fill of girls who grew up in North Dallas. Dating in North Dallas was turning into a nightmare! Right now, anything would be welcome relief. I dialed her right away.
We talked, and I found out that she recently moved to Dallas from London. He had never heard of the Galleria. That was a relief!
I arranged to meet her at a French restaurant half way between our homes. It was the La Madeleine. They served a delicious black French coffee. La Madeleine had lots of two-chair tables and cozy nooks to talk privately.
“Hi, are you M.D.?”
“Yes! Hi!” She was a petite woman with beautiful red hair. Her eyes were green and wide. Her lips were very full and ruby red. Her makeup was immaculate. She was dressed in a short skirt. Her legs and thighs were like a fashion model. She wore patent leather pumps with medium heels.
“I’m Jane!”
“Hi Jane.”
“No! I’m Jane.”
“Hi again, Jane,” I said. I was really confused. Was she Jane or not? This was not going well.
“No! I said Jane,” she said with a bit of irritation.
“Please spell it for me.”
“Sure! J … E … A … N, Jane!” Oh! My god! It was her English accent. I laughed.
“I am so sorry Jean! I’ve been living in America all my life. I have a problem with REAL English.” I laughed. I wanted to make a joke out of a very awkward moment. She didn’t look amused. I suddenly had a feeling I wanted to buy her the obligatory cup of French coffee, chat with her, and go back to the nightmare of dating in North Dallas.
I decided to start it off by asking all the cliché questions she had heard a million times and was bored hearing again. I found a table in a busy part of La Madeleine’s and held the chair for her.
“So how long have you living in America?” I was sure that question would run her off.
I found out that she had been living in America for less than a year. She was real English and did not like anything French. At that point, I was beginning to believe this “date” was melting down fast.
But then there was something about Jean. It was her toothy smile and sweet accent. We talked back and forth. She didn’t seem to want to dominate the conversation. She was warm and friendly. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her face. Her green eyes were so beautiful!
“Would you like to try a date? Maybe a restaurant – any place besides Del Frisco’s – and the theatre?”
She looked puzzled about the Del Frisco’s remark but accepted my offer.
A year later, we were married and my North Dallas dating nightmare was over.
