146. THE TOWN AND COUNTRY DATE - Part 5

We listen to music until I feel sleepy. “I should go. Will you help me hail a cab?” I ask. Town and Country gets up and grabs his phone. “I’ll call you a car. I have a service…” (of course he does) “…I don’t want you alone in a taxi this late at night.” He dials and adjusts the music.

Feeling confident that the two hours I spent in the drawing room have sobered me up some, I stand and try to move past him. He catches my arm and I stop. He has warm brown eyes, smooth and velvety, like his voice. At some point this evening he removed his tie and jacket. Now he looks absolutely yummy in his white button-down and dress pants. He wraps one arm my waist, keeps the phone in place with his ear, and tries to look down my shirt.

I lightly push him away. “I’m not that kind of girl. Plus, we’ll have to go on at least five dates before I even CONSIDER sleeping with you.” I am deeply relieved that he finds me physically attractive. After five months of dating desi duds and Reindeer, the celibate monk, I am reaffirmed. Town and Country laughs. And sure, I get it, I’m a prude not a nun, men want sex. But I’d like to believe that men respect women who respect themselves. As Town and Country gives directions to the service I walk over to the built in bookshelf and review his selection of vintage books. When he finishes his call, he comes over to me and I glance at him, “Nice collection.”


And just like that we are two uncontrollable forces, jacked up on booze and attraction, colliding into one another. Like wild, unbridled people we are kissing like crazy. For minutes, we don’t need air to sustain us, only lust.

We draw away and head downstairs. We get into the middle of the foyer and again we’re mad kissing like we're on fire. Somehow (probably because we know the car is coming) we part again. As I turn for my jacket, he unzips his pants and it is hello penis!!! While I should perhaps feel horror that he has unleashed himself, I am delighted that he dispels last summer’s BBC article that stated Indian men have small penises. Then again, maybe this is British backlash against India for their fight for freedom.

“What are you doing?” I ask matter-of-factly. He shrugs. Very calmly, though I know I should find this alarming, I say in the manner of a flight attendant. “You need to stow your penis.” Now he seems boyishly amused and says, “You do it.” I tilt my head; give him a slightly bored look and say, “No.” I turn around and reach for my jacket.

Okay. I am drunk. He is drunk. Our inhibitions are gone and we are both clearly fucked up. Another reason why I never did drugs. And I am really tired, is it possible that I imagined his penis. But, if I didn't, does he do this often? And if so, do women really drop to their knees and service him? When I turn around (with my parka zipped up to my chin) there is no sight of his penis. So now I am thinking my overly active imagination is playing tricks on me. This is why I have the two drinks (maximum) per date rule. Nothing good ever happens after Drink Three.

He escorts me from the house and settles me into the car. The driver gives him something to sign; he does, kisses me good night and says, “See you tomorrow.”

Uhm, okay.