by Neil Chapman
A few weeks ago, I was meandering around the Web, clicking away on any link that looks interesting, as you do, and I found myself on Amber Lee Easton’s site. She’s an american author who seems to specialise in the not-so-much erotic, more the simply hot-and-steamy. From what I could see that is. Anyway, I was just about to make my excuses and leave when I noticed her blog postings. Apparently she’s widowed and has just made a few tentative steps back out into the dating arena. The thrust of her posts were about the problems of inviting someone back home for the first time, particularly if you were trying to impress. She wasn’t talking about the physical dangers, more the problems she’d had with badly behaved kids, messy animals and the house being a complete mess. Her blog ended with her calling for contributions to her blog from anyone with a similar story to tell.
Guess what? Read on…
Inviting a first date back home? Don’t.
So the Thursday night date had gone well. She was intelligent, funny, had a high- powered job, and she was athletically attractive. She was a widow too. Put it all together and for some curious reason, being a man, that usually works for me. The only slight ‘complication’ was the dead husband. Apparently he’d had some serious London gangland connections, which unbelievably (?) had only come to light after his death. She described his funeral as like something out of ‘The Sopranos’ and a couple of them had told her “ Don’t worry babe, you’re still ‘family’. Any one gives you problems, we’ll take care of it.”
As we said goodnight I said I’d ring her. And I meant it.
Imagine my surprise when she rang me at 10pm the following night and told me that she was in her car, lost, just up the road somewhere, and perhaps I could pick her up? Eh?
Now I’m not what you might call the perfect gentleman but I’d seen enough Cary Grant films to know what to do. As I walked out of the house towards the drive, there she was! Parked behind my car… waving at me. Oh dear. I opened her car door and as she stepped out, she fell. It was an awkward fall not helped by the fact that she was clutching a half-drunk bottle of brandy that she somehow managed to preserve without spilling a drop. I told you she was athletic didn’t I?
It took the best part of 10 minutes to get her into the house, a full 15 yards away. The journey was interrupted regularly as she tottered, kept falling off her heels, clutching onto me, and slurring how much she really, really liked me.
Am I worried at this point? Yes.
I guided her indoors into the sitting room and plonked her on the sofa. (Plonk is an English slang word meaning ‘put’… in case you had other ideas?) I knew Cary would have suggested a black coffee at this point, so I did, and went off into the kitchen to make it. She had gone very quiet, but was that good thing or a bad thing? It was a bad thing.
I carried the tray back into the sitting room and there she was. Still where I had sat her, but now she was naked, totally naked, legs akimbo. And asleep, snoring like my dear old granny used to.
I know I need help but I can’t rely on Cary anymore, this is out of his league, we’re talking obscure Italian porn movie guys here. But Cary won’t be denied. Spoilsport! So I covered her modesty with a duvet. But my problems are only just beginning I reckon. What if her embarrassment, her humiliation, lead her to cry ‘Rape’ when she wakes up?
Then I remember my daughter was due to pop in any time now. What would she make of her dad and a naked lady stretched out on the family sofa where once upon a time she used to curl up and watch ‘The Muppets’?? She was never a fan of me dating but this was something else indeed. It got worse. What if the sleeping beauty woke and called one of her Sopranos?
I turned the TV back on with the volume up loud. She was now snoring so loudly I almost didn’t hear my daughter arrive. I’m out of the chair immediately, closing the door behind me and I frogmarch her into the kitchen. We chat about stuff and to this day I don’t remember a word that was said, and then I frogmarch back outside to her car. “Whose car is that dad?”
“Oh someone broke down outside darling, so I said they could leave it here overnight out of the way.’
Well that was one problem solved. All I had to worry about now was being arrested, a rape trial, or being concreted into the next motorway bridge. I didn’t sleep very well.
She woke me around 6.30 am. She sat on the edge of my bed and we chatted as if nothing had happened. Incredible really, not a word about being blind drunk, naked under a duvet, or finding her clothes all neatly stacked up beside her. I can only think it must have been just another Friday night for her.
She kept in touch, She not me. By now I had morphed into Humphrey Bogart and she eventually got the message. I still check underneath my car every morning for bombs, just in case she might have mentioned it to a Soprano, but so far…
So dearest Amber, with regard to your “Here we go again’ post, please don’t worry about the state of the house, whether the scatter cushions are neatly arranged, none of that stuff. Things could be worse. A lot worse.