The First Time Exemption

By
Mike Oulton

Bumper to bumper traffic. Insidious honking. Up one side of the street and down the other, past bumper to bumper pedestrians, around congested corners, disturbing the city pigeon’s afternoon snack of fallen crumbs from fast food sandwiches. 4:30 always seemed to come on like this. The noise. The impatience. God, the insignificance of it all. If you were ever in a rush at 4:30 p.m., during rush-hour, you had better be prepared to be let down, or late.

I couldn’t help but check my watch. Ten minutes in this mess seemed like hours. I had plenty of time. At least 40 minutes. The rush of the rush-hour never trapped me. I always calculated the time I’d probably spend wasting away in traffic into every appointment. Crush hour – in this mess, you had to have at least an hour to crush.

I checked my hair in the rearview mirror for the third time out of sheer boredom. Everything was still in place. I felt secure in the brown turtleneck pullover and black corduroy jeans. Not too flashy, but stylish. The first impression was everything. Everything. Those people who didn’t believe that either lacked a sense of style or lacked self-respect. Of all the things that I’d learned about dating was that women needed a good first impression. They need that wave of comfort from a man when they first meet. The comfort always helps them to relax, and a relaxed woman equals a good date.

All I know is that firsts are a big deal with women. First kiss. First love. First time. Whenever a first occurs, a woman will never forget it so long as they still have the ability to think. They remember every smell, every sound associated with the historical event. They keep journals, diaries, files, documents containing every shred of information associated with the first. They keep the joyous event sheltered in a lock box in the depths of their mind, under lock and key, and when it’s opened, it’s only opened for a good friend or someone they really trust. When the box is opened, adrenaline is shot down a pipeline that protrudes out the back. The line travels down to the eyes, which creates a sparkle, cascades down to the heart, creating a quicker tempo and then rockets back up to the mouth where it explodes out into the air as accelerated bursts of words formulated so that only other equally excited women can understand. And when the words come, they come with great detail. Feelings, sensations, thoughts. They tell about words spoken, smells and how they changed, feelings that manipulated her mind throughout the duration of the first. Her story explodes into the day like the first warm sunrise of spring that catches you unexpectedly in the morning. The birds announce it’s return to the cold bitten world, the trees rejoice, the flowers thank God for the electricity to open their arms for the sweet gift of life. the women of the world get up, put away their winter jackets and greet the pleasant sunshine.

Men? We roll over and go back to sleep.

I checked my watch again.

Only 30minutes to spare. The hands on my watch must have moved more than my car.

This was the first time that I’d dared the 4:30 traffic in my car, but there was always a first time for everything. First kiss. First love. First time. All I know was that firsts were just that – firsts. First of a long line of manys. To most men, firsts were like chicken wings before the meal came. A warm-up. A way to experiment before the actual time came when they needed to look like a pro. The only special thing about firsts in men’s eyes, was the "first time exemption". All men used it. In fact, it’s an unwritten law in the circle of the male species. It was created for a one time use, but men fully abuse the "first time amendment" every time they screw up. It’s who we are. It’s what we do. To us, first times aren’t even that special, but we pretend that they are. If you ever ask a man if it’s his first time, most will probably say no. That’s because the word FIRST is actually an acronym for "For It’s Really the Sixth Time". You’d be hard fought to find a group of men sitting around describing smells and sounds associated with their firsts. We don’t even mention anything we do until we’ve got it down perfect. Until we’re pros. I could never tell my best friend what sounds were around me during my first kiss. It was hard enough trying to prevent from drooling down my chin and banging my head against hers – and all this with my eyes closed. And where women giggled and admired our quirkiness, our awkwardness – we would never admit to that. Men lie. We don’t admit to mistakes. We meant to do it. It was our move.

To men, firsts are like the first day at school. You go in, you get into a fight and beat up some poor kid, and after that, kids either want to be your friend or they keep away from you. We just jump into it and hope for the best.

"Come on!" I screamed out the window.

20 minutes to spare. A blind date, what was I thinking?

The Mustard tree restaurant at 5:00. I knew what I was getting into and still I breached one of the fundamentals of blind dating – no daylight. Strangers love the night. It hides imperfections. That’s why the strangers met in the night in the old song. Actually, the idea was hers. She felt that we should start the date earlier so that we wouldn’t be rushed. Confident. She was probably a looker. I had never been one for an intelligent, methodical woman who preplanned her life. That was probably due to my own insecurities. Really, I don’t know a guy that wants a woman more organized than himself. With organization comes power. With power comes abusing power. It’s an evil chain reaction that, in a relationship, only leads to and argument or a nasty breakup.

Like those first arguments in a new relationship. They’re no one’s fault. They just happen. One person dares to take the first step at testing the other’s patience. It’s a natural occurrence. After experiencing all the other firsts, they become curious to see what would happen if they did… this! It really comes down to getting all the firsts out of the way, good and bad. Once they’ve been dealt with, life can resume as normal.

The cars in front of me moved. I exhaled and put the transmission in drive. My car hit a record high of 6 mph as I managed to get past the lights and around the corner towards the city center. Twenty-five minutes to get around a corner. Unbelievable. Within minutes I had my car parked in the Mustard Tree’s parking lot, and with one last hair inspection, I left my ego in the passenger seat and entered the restaurant.

This was my first time at the ‘Tree’ – as so many of my friends had called it. Everyone I knew had been here. I’d driven by so many times on my way to the gym or work thinking about how I’d like to eat here one day. I’d always thought that it looked like a nice place to bring a date – a first date? It just so happened that when I was introduced by phone to …Samantha that she’d recommended that we meet at the ‘Tree’.

"Samantha, Samantha," I repeated over and over out loud as I waited to be seated.

I had to remember her name. I was really bad at first names. I could never remember, even a minute after hearing it. I glanced up at the ceiling of the ‘Tree’. I’d read somewhere about name association. Something about rhyming, or numbers. The entire restaurant was painted a pale yellow from top to bottom. The ceiling had to be 25 feet high cluttered with bamboo ceiling fans. The entire restaurant was defiled with strange exotic plants. Not a mustard tree in sight. Clematis vines stretched up the sides of the walls, wrapping around framed pictures and following the square pattern of every door in the place. Soft rock played in the backdrop. The smell of garlic and mango chutney spiced up the somber atmosphere.

A set of perfectly set white teeth wrapped in crimson red packaging surrounded by a shiny nest of brunette hair approached me in the entranceway of the restaurant. A warm sensation expanded from the center of my body, across my chest, down the length of my appendages.

"Table for one?"

Her voice traveled euphoniously into my head, disturbing thoughts as to why I was there in the first place. The rhythmic tempo of her words was as pure as silence on a deserted stretch of beach.

"Yes."

It was all I could say. Galaxy blue eyes, generous curves. Her hair, soft to my unfulfilled touch. I wanted to run my fingers down the length of her head. What was going on? Why was I here? I remembered that I needed an extra chair.

"All right."

She turned away and led me to a small square table with a single menu in her hand. I followed her with a hunger so savage, though not for the mango chutney, but for just a whisper of her name.

"Here we are," she said, and placed the menu on the tabletop. I could hear the sounds of the kitchen behind me.

My eyes focussed on her hips as I sat down in the chair. They seemed to sway even as she stood. Maybe it was me. The subtle back and forth motion hypnotized me to the point that my eyes became two round saucers, my pupils, like a birds eye view of a cup of coffee.

"We have mango chicken as our special tonight."

I blinked out of my trance. A lavacious eyebrow accentuated the blue pools beneath. I smiled and nodded that I understood.

"Oh," I said before she left. "I forgot, I’m meeting someone here."

She stood up straight.

"A blind date actually."

Why had I said that? She half turned around and scanned the restaurant. The smile disappeared replaced only by a condescending frown which pleaded to know how I could have forgotten about such an important occasion. I felt like a loser. What an impression. The worst kind too – typical. The last thing any man wanted was to be thought of as "typical".

"Okay," she said. It sounded like a question. "I’ll move a chair over."

I abruptly stood, knocking the table with my knee.

"No. I’ll get one."

Her face stiffened. The warm sensation became a hot flash that surged up my body into my face. Two crucial first impression mistakes – absent-mindedness and chauvinistic. She was an obviously capable woman. Independent. Beautiful. Her job was to move chairs. Sit people down in them. She was empowered. The last thing she wanted was a typical forgetful man dressed in a forty-dollar turtleneck, unable to grasp the concept of equality doing her job. I would not stand out in a crowd of men. Not in this woman’s eyes. What did she think about the whole blind date thing? "What a loser. The guy can't even get a date himself. He’s probably too busy trying to figure out new ways to control women rather than attempting to get to know one. Didn’t even remember why he was here. Typical."

I backed away from the extra chair at the next table and let her slide it over.

"Thanks," I said.

"No problem."

She smiled and left me to wallow in self-pity. My stare remained focussed on her rhythmic sway until she disappeared around a corner of the room. What a woman. Even though I’d made myself out to be a stereotypical man, I think she liked me. I thought I saw a little extra "a" in her sway as she walked away.

I sat back in my chair and exhaled a sigh of relief. I still had the opportunity to play my "first time exemption" card. It was all I needed. I could say that the first time I laid eyes on her, I did things and said things that were beyond my own power. I could say that she made me feel giddy, like a schoolboy confronted in a playground romance. Even if she psychoanalyzed our first meeting, my first impression, she could take my excuse and work with it, apply it to all areas of our brief, yet inspirational, conversation. She would have to; if I even stood a chance with her. I knew that a when a woman sees absentmindedness, the only things that enters her head are all the birthdays, anniversaries and words spoken at tender moments that I’m potentially bound to forget. She imagines all the times that I might be late. Late for dinner. Late for the wedding. Late for the birth of our first child. If I had interrupted her from getting the extra chair, I would have made one of the worst statements that I could have made. First it’s the chair, then I won’t let her drive, or carry the heavy boxes, or pay for dinner.

That’s why the exemption is so important. The mere mention that she had me spellbound and that her aura was making me say and do stupid things, allows me a return. A new start. A second first impression.

Ah, the beauty of being a man.

Another sharp breeze of mango chutney wafted by my face. A sense of nostalgia came over me as I inhaled the sweet aroma in through my nose. The memory of this moment took the long walk towards the back of my mind and into the storage area. Amidst the useless sports information and pictures of women long past, the mango, the soft rock mixed with the clattering of glasses and dull laughter found its place locked away available for reminiscence at any time. A new feeling of importance swept over me. A surge of adrenaline raced through my body. I knew what I had to do. If this woman was going to be mine, I had to let her know. I had to take the time and tell her about myself, use the exemption, and tell her how I feel. If she were ever going to be happy, she had to take a moment to listen to what I had to say.

Silently she returned to my table. She poured a glass of water and placed it in front of me. My eyes traced the outline of her arm up to her eyes.

"Is everything all right?"

Her delicate tone reassured my confidence.

"Yes, yes – fine."

I licked my lips and reached for the glass of water. What could I say? How do I begin? My heart bounced inside my chest. I wiped my palms on my lap. I could feel the damp spot through the thick layer of corduroy. Then, without any sort of control, I blurted the first thing that came to my head.

"So, what’s your name?"

She smiled and stood up straight. A look danced across her eyes. One that comes around while admiring the curiosity of a young child.

"Marney," she said. "I’ll get your server."

And she left.

I cringed. What was I thinking? Here I was, awaiting the arrival of my blind date… I glanced up at the ceiling…Samantha, and I was trying to hit on another woman. Hitting on a hostess of all people.

Typical. Now she definitely thinks that I’m typical. Nothing outside the norm.

I know now what my plan is. I have to ditch the blind date, use the exemption on Mary…Margaret – whatever her name is, tell her how I feel then somehow convince her that she should go on a date with me and lay on the charm.

Sounds from the street pierced the soft rock silence. I turned to see a blonde hair woman with very athletic legs standing alone at the entrance. She glanced nervously around the restaurant before settling her eyes on me, alone in the corner… extra chair… forty dollar turtleneck. She smiled at me. I waved a hand at her. Her walk seemed slow and deliberate. I watched her as she checked the hem of her dress and removed the light jacket she had draped across her shoulders.

Her look was very casual, like my own. A short peach skirt with a matching top twisted snugly around her voluptuous body. Her Swiss alp type features were sharp enough to attract any man, by my mind was elsewhere. Nothing that this blonde bombshell had compared to my Margy…Mable…

"Hi…Mike?"

I sat silent. Up close, she was even more beautiful. Clean in every sense of the word. Her hair, her face. Her smile was as clear as her skin – beautiful. But my thoughts remained on… the other girl.

"Yes, hi…" I glanced up at the ceiling. "…Samantha, please."

I gestured to the seat across from me. I began to stand, but then I remembered my important mission. I let the gesture ride and rested back down. I pushed the chair out with my foot. It stumbled out from under the table, almost hitting her in the leg.

"Argh," she sighed and draped her jacket on the back of the chair. "The traffic is crazy. I can't believe all the rush - and everyone at the same time. You’d think that…"

She stopped. It may have been because I had my head buried in the menu and was paying her no attention.

"…Ah…." she was speechless, absolutely speechless.

I giggled to myself behind the oversized menu. The first impression from hell, no – deeper. I heard her clear her throat.

"Oh," I shook my head. "Where’s my manners?"

I took a sip of the water in front of me, fishing a couple of ice shards out with my tongue. When my mouth was full, I poured half the glass into an empty one in front of her. She watched me with rounded eyes of disbelief. I swallowed the water in my mouth.

"Oh, sorry," I said, and poked a couple ice shards into her glass with my finger all the while crunching the ones in my mouth. I watched her perfect neck ripple as she swallowed a mouthful of shock.

"Ah, thanks," she replied and raised the glass to her lips, then put it back down on the table.

In my head I laughed. I howled like a demented scientist about to unleash his monster on the world. Insensitive, ignorant, crude – words I long to hear before the end of the evening.

"So, Mike," she leaned on the table with both elbows. A smile on her face hid her obvious resentment of my abusive manner. The ole ‘job’ question. Very important on the first date, and very important in the demise of the blind date. Whatever I told her would determine if she came back for another try. Gynecologist – no, too rich. Stripper agent – no, too alluring. Ah, male gigolo – no, too intriguing.

"I’m a writer," I said, leaning back in my chair. Broke and living in an imaginary world, perfect. I suddenly wished that I had worn a dirty white T-shirt.

"Really," she said. A twinkle appeared in her eyes. "What do you write?"

I shrugged and dipped my finger into my glass of water, stirring the ice around.

"Good stuff. Penthouse forum. Porno’s. You know, the "I can't believe it would ever happen to me" type stories."

She nodded her head and leaned back in her chair. I watched one of her perfectly manicured eyebrows raise. Her eyes narrowed, vexing me silently.

"Yeah, it’s okay." I was on a roll, I could feel it. "Pays about $200 a week. Sometimes more. Depends how frisky I’m feeling – know what I mean?"

"Sure," she said. "Whatever does it for you."

An awkward pause ensued. Naturally, the next proper thing to do would be to ask her about her own profession, but not today. Today, I didn’t care. I glanced at my watch then searched the restaurant for my little hostess.

"I’m a teacher," she threw at me. "I teach 5^th grade."

I kept my eyes away from hers. A simple nod and my attention was quickly diverted to a particle of fluff that had found its way onto my $40 turtleneck. I swiped it off with the gracefulness of an eagle flapping its wings on a calm day.

"I like kids," she continued on in a passive tone. "They’re so… natural. They have a sense of innocence that’s so … captivating."

"Yeah," I said, picking up my menu again. "I want to have lots of kids-." My eyes widened. "Actually, I just want to go through the motions. The kid part – whatever. If they come, they come."

"Hmm," she stated.

I knew I had her on the ropes. I could feel that she was about to storm out of the restaurant at any moment. I could feel her loath for me – hot and malicious – from across the table. She had to hate me by now. I’d done nothing even close to gentlemanly. Bad manners, worse comments – terrible first impression. Soon she would get up and storm out the door. I’d then use my exemption on "what’s her name?", we would sit down on her break, have a little mango chicken and we’d live happily ever after.

"You know something Mike-,"

Here it came. I folded my menu on the tabletop and let my most charming smile fly.

"-I don’t meet many guys like you."

"Really," I said with a warm touch of mock-sincerity. A cocky right eyebrow egged her on.

"Yeah," she swiped a lock of golden hair out of her face. "I mean, most guys usually shower me with compliments. It’s so tiring fighting off all those smooth talkers. But you…"

Not me baby. I don’t need you. You’re a necessary casualty; a stepping stone to real heaven. Like a human purgatory.

"…You. You haven’t tried to placate me at all. It’s almost as if you’re not interested. Am I right? Do you even want to be here with me Mike?"

"Does that bother you?" I asked, leaning forward, closer to her, anticipating an open palm across my face.

Her face remained passive. She put both elbows on the table and rested her head in her hands.

"Actually -,"

Her voice lowered to a near whisper. A scent of roses emanated from somewhere deep within her bosom. I inhaled the fragrance, savoring its potency, unconvinced by its seductive power.

" – It really turns me on."

Her top lip curled upwards and she released a low growl. One of her French tip hands reached out and touched mine. I tried to say something, but instead broke out into a violent coughing spasm. Suddenly all the floral air I’d been holding in my lungs, anticipating her act of violence, burst out in a loud barfing gasp, echoing throughout the entire restaurant and circling back hitting me like…like… a slap in the face.

The barfing noise must have thrown her off. My discomfort must have been apparent to everyone in the restaurant, not just her. she leaned back in her chair. A confused grimace crossed her face. I took a sip of my water. It was luke warm.

"You mean it turns you off," I said when I finally stopped choking.

She smiled and licked her lips. Her eyes narrowed almost completely shut concealing the sparkle trapped within the icy blue pools.

"No, not at all. I actually respect men more when they tell the truth. Honesty is a hard thing to find – especially now a days."

Where was she headed with all this talk? who did she think she was? I wasn’t going to fall in to that trap – that… good girl, bad boy…. A flash sensation of urgency shot up from my feet.

"I lied," I yelled and stood up. my chair slid out from under me and toppled to the floor.

The entire restaurant ceased eating and turned their attention towards me. I saw her blush and peer around at all the complete strangers gawking our direction.

"I’m not a writer." My throat felt dry. I swallowed hard and thought even harder. "I’m actually just a street sweeper – actually, I don’t even sweep… I ride around in a street cleaner at five in the morning."

What could I say? I sat back down and picked the menu back up, but when it fell to the floor, I ignored it and swallowed the last of my warm water. When I looked at … her, I noticed that her face had a look of utter confusion.

"So… you lied."

Finally, she was on the right track.

"Yes," I nearly screamed. "I’m actually not a nice guy at all. I’m a complete asshole. I’ve even been to jail, and I’ve hit a woman once, not hard, but she was asking for it."

"Really?"

"Yes damn it. Don’t you understand. I’m not the kind of guy that you need. I’ll only break your heart. Waiting for me to come home at all hours of the night, catching me with other women, hanging out with thugs, drinking, breaking things…ah, I can feel your pain already."

She was very attentive during my entire spiel – along with an old couple at the adjoining table. Her eyes and ears absorbing every second of sight and sound. This had to be it. No matter how desperate this chick was, she would hate me with an acrimonious passion by the end of all this. and if she didn’t, why would I want someone that dysfunctional anyway.

She sat up straight in her chair and began reorganizing the cutlery in front of her.

"Well," she said. The word was stiff.

She tucked a strand of her honey suckle hair behind her ear. Her lips pressed together hard, causing them to turn white, then, slid a tongue out across them, lapping seriously at the cherry colored hue. She had to want to go. Leave. Leave me with my self-righteous shallowness. Leave me in shame to question why the hell I would throw away an opportunity to have a perfectly normal relationship with a sexy woman to pursue another that I hadn’t even met or said a single intelligent word to. Leave me to settle my nerves, order two mango chickens with extra mango chutney, use the exemption over a bottle of Robert Mondavi, get ‘what’s her names’ phone number and still make it home in time to catch the second quarter of the game. god, typical sure is great sometimes.

"If that’s all – I don’t mind."

She stretched her manicured palm across the table and gave my hand a squeeze. I was frozen to the surface of the table. All I could do was stare straight ahead. What was this woman made of.

"No," I said and pulled my hand away. "you do mind. Damn it, you do mind. You’re a good girl. A nice girl. You need a man that can make you happy."

She pulled my hand back towards her. "Oh, I know what will make me happy."

A large swallow of guilt rippled my throat. Something in this woman’s eyes told me that I’d just unleashed a beast more powerful than a mohel at a bar mitzvah.

"Listen, ah…"

I looked up at the ceiling fan. My head was spinning. I had to get her away. Out of the corner of my eye I saw my princess. She danced across the restaurant floor towards a couple sitting at a corner table by the front window. She had in her dainty hand a tray topped with yellow and red fifi drinks with yellow paper umbrellas. Her balance was immaculate. Her body remained straight and poised even as she bent over to place the drinks in front of the patrons. I felt a tremor in my pants. My legs were shaking uncontrollably. And then she did it. I heard myself gasp for breath as she made a half turn in my direction, took a look at…ah… the woman beside me, and winked one of her blueberry cotton eyes.

I couldn’t back down now. I had the woman of my dreams just where I wanted her. we were in pre-flirt mode – and in front of my date. Everything that I wanted in a sophisticated brunette – sassiness, confidence, aggression – I had to have her. I had to eat mango chutney off of her stomach.

"How bout it sexy, do you want to go back to my place? Maybe a little probing for your … stories."

I turned back to my blind date. Blind, yes. Blind to the emotional ass kicking I was about to lay on her. She had no idea what I could do if I thought about it. Nothing.

"Listen, I really like you, but…" I swallowed hard. This was outside the rules of blind dating. The wild card so to speak. If the date ever got to a point where you needed to go, and I mean go, the wild card was the one ticket out the door. Guaranteed. "I can't go with you… I’m … gay."

Her head snapped back and the dove white palm lined with pink tips retracted.

Ah, success. Sweet, sweet, success.

"What?" her voice crackled.

I knew that tone. The crackle was just the beginning of the breakdown. It hurt to actually have to use the wild card, but it was due. Hard nosed women were the worst to get rid of. Some women really need a man and they’ll go through anything just to get one.

"You’re gay?"

A few heads turned our direction. Screw it – play it out.

"Yeah. Gay. Actually, this blind date was sort of an experiment for me. I wanted to see if I was one hundred percent."

"And?" she said.

I held my hands up and shrugged my shoulders. "Sorry."

We sat in silence for a minute while I left her to bask in the powerful ambiance of my revelation. The only bad part about playing the wild card was that she would tell her friends and I would forever be the gay guy whenever we met on the street. It basically took me out of the running with any of her friends, but that was not important. All I needed was my little mango chutney chicken girl to make me straight.

"Totally gay?"

The final reach. I knew it all too well. if she was truly interested in me, she would make that last minute attempt at conversion. But I would have to stand strong and soon I would be free.

"Yeah, I’m actually a single gay man. I’m looking as well. spread the news."

I laughed and flicked my wrist at her. she watched my hand snap in mid air with a look of horror on her face. She leaned back in her chair, spent. I could see it in her face. The champ had been defeated. Down comes the wall, the show is over.

"Well, this is a first."

"Yeah," I reached for her hand. "I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you before."

"Yeah me too," she sighed. "You mean you don’t like women at all. Not even a little?"

I shook my head. "Do brown shoes go with a green purse?"

I had no idea what the hell that meant, but it sounded gay. Right to the end old boy. Follow the trail until you see the sun.

"Actually, I’ve never been interested in women at all. Even in school. I remember watching boys in the change rooms and in the showers after soccer practice."

"Really?" she leaned forward, intrigued – but uninterested.

I winked at her. And the award goes to…

"Sure girl! I knew I was gay the moment I saw my first… wienie. I remember that day as if it were yesterday."

I giggled a little fluttery than usual. That seals this one – bring on the main course.

"Gee…well."

She folded her arms across her chest and took a glance around the restaurant, searching for a way out. For a moment I felt a tinge of pain in my heart for her. The wild card was never easy. I don’t know how I would feel if a woman told me that she was gay.

"Listen, Sam. You can go if you like. I don’t blame you. I’m sorry for getting your hopes up and all. I really do like you. You’re a sweet girl. Maybe one day we could go shopping… or something."

She smiled. What great teeth.

"Yeah. Okay. That would be great." She scanned the room again. "I’m going to go and use the phone." She stood up. "I’ll be right back."

I waved her off with a dainty fingertip slap to the side of her leg. The corner of her mouth quirked downward and she left me alone. I inhaled ferociously. Ah, the invigorating feeling of freedom. How long has it been? Poor Samantha, I hate to see you go, but I love to watch you walk away. It breaks my heart to have to be this way, but I have needs and desires – like all men. I knew, in the back of my head, that my chances with her weren’t totally blown. There was always the ‘I’m not gay anymore’ exemption, used mainly in times of desperation and drastic forlornness. To women, a gay man was like a twenty-something year old virgin who already knows all the moves. It’s like having a VCR that sets its own time. For women, having sex with a gay man was like being his first.

And I know how much women love their firsts.

When she returned to the table, she didn’t sit down. I stood to usher her back to her chair, but she held up a hand.

"Actually Mike, I’m gonna go."

I bowed my head and pursed my lips. "It’s okay. I… understand. I just hope you’re …okay."

She removed her jacket from the back of the chair and draped it across her forearm. I watched with hidden exuberance as the once beautiful smile began to take an awful new shape. The sparkle in her eyes disappeared. The cleanliness had turned to dirty shame. She had a look of shame, probably because of what I’d done. I tried hard not to laugh. Whatever got her out the door. Suddenly I saw her shake and she broke into tears.

"Samantha, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?"

I was more amazed at the fact that I’d remembered her name than the sensitivity I potrayed.

"Oh," she said and reached for the cloth napkin on the table. "I think that I’m destined to be alone forever."

I thought carefully about my next bit of words. Not too sensitive. I didn’t want her to have the urge to stay. I knew how women liked to unload on gay men.

"No you won’t." I moved over to her side of the table. "You’ll find someone."

She sniffled and patted her eyes. "Do you think so?"

"Sure." I put my arm around her shoulders. "You’re gorgeous. You’d make any guy happy."

I removed my arm. She adjusted the collar of her jacket and sniffled again.

"What you need to do is go home and call up a friend and talk about how you feel. That always helps me when I feel down."

Good touch. Good gay touch. I almost had myself convinced.

"Actually," she sniffled. "I’m giving my friend a ride home. Maybe her and I can go out tonight. She’s single too."

"There you go," I said with a smile. "Right back in the saddle."

She bit her bottom lip, then offered me a final goodbye grin.

"You’re a sweet guy Mike. It was nice meeting you."

She offered her hand. I shook it without squeezing it at all. Mere seconds away from freedom, solitude – myself. My real self. Masculinity here I come. Moments until the woman of my dreams walks into my life and away with my heart. I could taste the mango from inside her belly button hole. I could imagine the wooziness of our heads from the Mondavi, our hearts full of wild, unbridled, unadulterated passion. Mango passion. Chicken mango induced passion.

"Okay Sam, I’m ready."

I blinked my eyes twice. My imagination was running wild. I thought I saw my mango lover standing in front of me. She smiled at me and then turned her face away. Then, with the gracefulness of yellow tuna, she put her arm around Samantha’s shoulder and turned her around towards the door. Her back looked just as beautiful as her front…

Her back?

"Bye Mike," said Samantha. She turned and waved at me with just her fingers.

"Wait!" I yelled across the room.

A fork slammed down onto a plate across the room. "Damn it, I’ve had enough!"

I turned to the direction where the noise had come from. An angry older man in a tan T-shirt wiped his mouth and pointed a finger at me.

"Would you sit your gay ass down and shut up. You’ve ruined everybody’s dinner all night."

I swallowed hard. Even the girls had stopped walking away to take in the scene erupting in the restaurant.

"I’m sorry," I said to the man.

"Damn it!" His wife pulled him back down into his seat.

I shook my head. What was happening? Did he say gay ass? The girls turned around and headed back out the door. This wasn’t supposed to happen like this. I was supposed to be leaving with what’s her name, not what’s her name.

"Wait," I called out to them again.

A fork crashed down onto a plate.

Both women turned around, looks of scorn adorned their faces. Adorned their faces, no, more like corrupted. I had corrupted their beauty with my lies. My gay lies. Little white gay lies. No, they were more like big black gay lies. The thought made me shudder.

"If you don’t shut up, I’m gonna shut you up!"

The older man was on his feet again. He had his wife at his side, pulling on his arm to sit back down. A young waiter came out from the back room to assist in the commotion. Every eye in the restaurant was on me.

"But, I…"

I was tongue-tied. I tried to speak, but all that came out was a gurgle and a gasp.

"That’s it!" screamed the older man. "I’m gonna kick your gay ass."

What was my next move? My feet felt hammered to the floor. I glanced over at the older man in the tight tan shirt stomping my way. I looked over at the girls who were huddled together, looks of concern now challenged their faces. There was no exemption for a moment like this. I know, I had written the book on exemptions. My only choice left was the most drastic move of all. There was only one thing that could ease me out of a situation as bad as this. I had to play the trump card.

I fainted.

I felt the hard floor below me and heard the gasps of the restaurant patrons. Footsteps rushed to my side. My eyes were closed. I felt a pair of hands lift my head off the ground.

"Mike, Mike, are you okay? Can you hear me?"

It was Samantha. She sounded worried. Don’t open your eyes just yet. I had to hear her voice.

"Is he okay?"

There she was. I could feel her right above me. The scent of mango chutney wafted into my nostrils. My heart sped up. I needed a grand awakening. Was it her that was holding my head? Her voice sounded so close, like I could reached upwards with my lips and touch her own. The hands under my head were smooth. They caressed the back of my skull as I lied there contemplating my return to the conscious world.

"He’s going to be okay. Everybody get back." It was a man’s voice. "I know first aid."

Ah, first aid won’t help me. The only thing I needed was the soft, supple lips of… what’s her name, on mine. Should I fake a seizure? No, too late. Maybe amnesia. Maybe I could awake and not realize that I’m gay. How perfect. I could wake up and be a straight guy, totally oblivious to my sexual orientation. The good old amnesia exemption. It might just work.

Slowly I opened my eyes to the protruded face of a black man about an inch away from mine.

"He’s awake!"

I looked frantically from left to right. People were crowded all around me, looking down and whispering to one another. The man in the tan T-shirt stood to the right of the black man. Hie fist pounding into his open palm.

"Good, get him up," said the tan shirt man. "So I can knock him back down."

I sat up gingerly to get a look at the rest of the room. Where were they?

"Are you okay?" asked the black man.

I nodded. Where were they? I touched my hand to my forehead.

"You took quite the fall."

I felt his hand rub my bare shoulders, under my forty-dollar turtleneck, then move down my back. Where were the girls? Where had they gone…

"Get him up!" yelled the tan shirt man.

…how could the girls just get up and leave me on the floor like that? How callous could a person be?

"It’s okay cutie pie, you’re in good hands. You’re in Romeo’s hands now."

…what about my exemption? What about the mango and the Mondavi?

"Get him up and his feet god-dammit!"

…this wasn’t supposed to happen. I was in the driver’s seat. I was supposed to be the one walking out the door with what’s her name, not the other what’s her name.

"Settle down tiger. Let Romeo rub your lower back."

…I used the trump card and I was about to use the ‘I’ve got amnesia take me to your house because I don’t remember where I live and I’m not gay’ exemption. Where was my reward for all my hard work and consideration? Where was my retribution for my suffering?

Wait a minute… who the hell is cutie pie?