Romance:From Fat To Fatale(4)
But a lifetime diet of high-fat, sugary foods with zero exercise were already showing up as a problem in my virginal body. OK. Not quite exactly what you might call virginal. Not in the Biblical sense anyway. I've had my moments. And most definitely not in the back of a Chevy pickup truck! Come on! Some of us have standards.
And I was never really planning to be a nun anyway.
Since you're getting to know quite a lot about me, I might as well own up right now to another little kink in my behaviour. I kind of developed an unusual habit - as you might wish to describe it, summoning every ounce of your genteel grace and politeness - where I'd pick up guys at parties, just for the sake of proving to myself that I was capable of attracting someone, anyone, anything. The most important criterion for me at the time was that they had to have a pulse.
That was about it. OK. I can see your eyebrows arching. Now we already agreed that it was an unusual habit, didn't we? It's not as if I'm saying it was a good habit. But it was a habit. I confess. I'll get on my knees and pray for absolution later. The only time that I can remember one of these encounters with anything resembling an emotional connection was one cold, wet and rainy night when I nearly gave up on the game and headed for home without catching any prey.
Even those silent masters of the hunt, the night time kitty-cats that patiently stalk our gardens in the dark, sometimes come home with nothing hooked on their claws. I was almost at the front door, looking for my coat, when I bumped into a guy who was reeling from the bonhomie and forced friendliness that's secretly hidden in every sixth bottle of Bud. He put his arm round my waist as I was leaving and breathed the beer fumes of welcome in my face, saying Whoa, just like you would to a horse, turning me back inside the house. He was a big guy for sure, but not with muscle.
Wide-faced, stubble, happily buzzing with the beer and, maybe, a shot of red-eye just to keep the party going, He asked me why I was leaving and I said I had to get home before midnight or I'd turn into a pumpkin. I pointed down at myself and whispered in mock alarm - See? It's already happening! He laughed. A genuine belly laugh that produced little tears at the corners of his eyes. And he said I should really be a little kinder to myself. He said I should see how beautiful I was and I wondered if he'd been taking anything stronger than alcohol. Maybe he was one of the guys from the veterinary school and you know what kinds of drugs those little munchkins like to party with on a Saturday night!
Damn.
But he put his arm round my shoulder and drew me away from the door, perfectly happy in my company, chatting like he'd known me forever. And in a darkened corner, music pounding through the walls and the sweet, sticky smell of dope filling the air, he leaned in and kissed me,so gently that I was taken by surprise. No brute force groping. Just a slow, gentle kiss that made me feel warm inside and a little scared too. I was much more used to the frenzied rock n roll of a frantic bout of getting everything over with as quickly as possible. And this guy was in no hurry. Not at all rushed. I recall stepping inside a dimly lit room with him, coats scattered on a bed and a chair wedged against the door to ensure a little privacy.
He wasn't beautiful. He wasn't even especially skilled in the arts of love.
It was all over within about fifteen minutes of closing the door -
which might seem like an Olympic record of endurance for some men -
but the truth is that the whole episode just felt wrong. Do you know what I mean? I mean weirdly wrong. Sometimes the chemistry is so completely wrong, you're filled with a chestful of regrets before the guy's even rolled off you. But that wasn't all. He hadn't even removed the damn rubber, his baggy jeans still pooled round his knees and he looked at me, still sweating from his recent exertions and said - Why in the name of all that's great and good in the world did you just do that? I had no idea what he was talking about.
He shifted his weight and kept looking at me, saying that he knew I hadn't enjoyed any aspect of what had just happened and that couldn't be a good thing. And he reached down for the crumpled rubber and said he was sorry. Really sorry.
He hadn't meant to do something that I'd regret. And I grabbed my things and ran. I ran for the door. I ran out of the house, the hot tears burning my eyes as the cold rain drenched my hair. I had nightmares for three nights running after that little episode. I guess he got a little too close to the truth for comfort and that was the most intimate experience I'd ever had in my life. It was another whole month before I ventured out to find another desperate companion to shore up my insecurities.
Back at the medico's surgical lair, the medical exam showed up a catalogue of problems including wildly-elevated cholesterol - surprise, surprise! - Mineral and vitamin deficiencies, plus a bunch of technical details I'm sure you really don't want to hear about, especially if you happen to be eating. After reeling out the long list of complicated medical conclusions, the old doc's advice turned out to be really simple.
Either he could prescribe a cocktail of pharmaceuticals to deal with my collection of artery-hardening symptoms. Or..... He leaned forwards, those crazy dentures slipping to the edge of his thin lips and steepled his bony fingers as he looked at me sternly over the top of his half-moon glasses. Or..... He shook his head and got those false teeth back into line again. Or we could acknowledge where the real problem lay and start to take some responsibility for what happens in our lives. He waited a few seconds for the message to sink in. The problem with the drugs was that they only treated the symptoms - not the underlying causes.