The Romance Report (4 page)

  
“You’d
better answer. It might be the date that changes your luck with love. I’ll talk
to you later,” Zach said and stood up to walk back inside.

  
Quinn
wiggled her fingers goodbye and punched answer on her phone. “Indie, before you
tell me about the guy, let me tell you about my first day on the job.” She glanced
up at Zach as he entered their building. Had she imagined the disappointed look
on his face when she mentioned her date? Shaking her head at the random
thought, she started to tell Indie about baking bread, chocolate and Guinness.

Chapter Six

  
Saturday
afternoon, Quinn rushed home from Hanrahan’s to get ready for her date that
evening. Although she had sworn off dating, she found herself excited at the
possibility that she might actually meet a nice guy. Indie refused to let Quinn
know anything more about Paul.

  
“If I tell
you anything, you’ll come with a preconceived notion of what he’s like. I want
you to promise me you’ll keep an open mind. From all of my background checks,
he seems like a nice guy. No criminal history. No crazy exes posting threats on
his Facebook. We’re supposed to meet him at a club called Dark Dreams at eight.
He said the club caters to an edgy clientele, so those leather pants Sean gave
you are perfect,” Indie informed Quinn that morning.

  
Now, Quinn
held the leather pants in front of her and considered picking something else
from her closet. Weren’t leather pants retro? Maybe some black capris and a
black lace blouse instead.

  
“No,”
Quinn said to herself. “You promised to try new things and change it up. So
here goes nothing.” She stepped into the pants and pulled them up and stopped.
They were stuck on her thighs. She tugged them off and looked at the tag. They
were a size ten which was her size. She’d actually dropped five pounds from the
heat of working in the kitchen at the restaurant. Leather pants didn’t have as
much give as denim. Maybe she just needed to tug them up harder. She stepped
into the pants again. This time she yanked hard when they got to her thighs.
Although they came up to her hips, they were still a little too tight.

  
“Maybe I
just need to put some lotion on my legs,” Quinn said to her cat, Fat Panther.
She walked into her bathroom and grabbed a tube off the counter. She tried to
squeeze some into her hand. Only a small blob oozed out. Tossing it into the
trash, she dug through her bathroom vanity looking for another tube. “Dang it!
Any other time and I’d have fifty half-empty bottles of lotion, but when I need
it…”

  
Quinn
hurried into the kitchen. Maybe she had some by the sink for when she finished
washing dishes. Aha! A small bottle sat next to the spigot. She pumped the
spout a few times and a dried plug of lotion shot out followed by air. Twisting
the lid off, she tapped it against her palm to eke out the last few dregs.
Nothing but a small smear came out of the bottle. “Desperate times call for
desperate measures.” Quinn opened her refrigerator and pulled out a stick of
butter. “A cook’s best friend is butter and bacon grease. Let’s see if they’re
right.”

  
Quinn
dashed back into her bedroom and unwrapped the stick of butter. She slowly
swiped it from her ankles to her hips. Once she had completely covered her
outer thighs, she tried the leather pants again. This time they slipped easily
over her thighs. She grabbed a bottle of her favorite perfume from her bureau
and spritzed it behind her ears and on her wrists. She sprayed some into the
air in front of her and walked through the mist. “Just in case the butter smell
comes through,” Quinn said to the cat. Fat Panther gazed unblinking from his
perch at the end of her bed. “Fatty, you don’t understand the pressure of
looking good when you’re a girl. All you have to do is lick your butt and wash
your paws and you are Joe Stud with the felines.”

  
Quinn
slipped on a ruby red silk blouse Sean had picked for her and buttoned it shut.
A final critical look at her makeup and hair and she was ready to go. She was
supposed to meet Indie out front at seven thirty, so she still had a few
minutes to spare. She headed down the stairs at a leisurely pace determined not
to mow Zach over again. As she came to the ground floor, she saw Mrs. Garza
carrying two grocery bags and struggling to unlock her door. “Let me help,”
Quinn said, grabbing the bags of food.

“Gracias,
mija
. God did not mean for us to
have more than two hands, but sometimes I wish he did. You look nice. Are you
going on a date with a young man?”

“Thank you. Indie is taking me to a meet a guy.
It’s kind of a blind date.”

Reyna Garza clucked her disapproval. “In Mexico, a
young girl was courted by a man her family knew and approved of. Blind dates.
Girls in my day did not go on blind dates, or if they did, it was kept secret.
Young Americans want fireworks and romance. A relationship should not be about
stars in a girl’s eyes. I might be old, but I know a thing or two about love.
Más sabe el diablo por viejo que por
diablo.
 
A relationship should
be based on trust and friendship.”

“You’re right, Mrs. Garza, but I promised Indie I
would at least meet this man,” Quinn said.

“I have a handsome and single grandson you could
date. He’s a good boy and you’re already friends.”

“Um…but Sean’s not really my type and I don’t
think I’m his,” Quinn protested weakly. She wasn’t going to be the one to tell
her that her beloved grandson was a burlesque dancer who preferred the company
of men rather than women. “Don’t get me wrong. Sean’s a great guy. He’s funny,
smart and handsome.”

“Sean. If his mother knew he’d changed his name to
sound more like a gringo, she’d be crying with the angels. Juan Carlos is a good
name. It’s a strong name for a strong man,” Mrs. Garza huffed.

“Yes ma’am, it is,” Quinn said as she eased
towards the door. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Garza, but I’m going to be late meeting
Indie. I’ll see you later. Have a good evening.”

Mrs. Garza made the sign of the cross over Quinn. “Be
safe,
mija
, and don’t cross Juan Carlos off your list yet.”

  
Quinn
hurried out the door before she said the wrong thing. Her timing was perfect.
Indie pulled to the curb in her 1970 VW. Indie inherited Herbie the Love Bug
from her parents. The commune had a van, so the car sat unused in a barn for
years. Despite his many dents and scratches, he started every time and was
great for parking in the crowded downtown parking lots.

  
“You look
great!” Indie exclaimed. “Between the new hair and the clothes, your own mother
might not recognize you.”

  
“One can
only hope,” Quinn remarked. “I’ve ducked her calls for weeks now. She is livid
over the Tad restaurant incident.”

  
“She’ll
get over it. Twenty years from now.”

  
“If she
doesn’t, she doesn’t.”

  
“Listen to
you being independent and rebellious. You go, girl. We’re supposed to meet Paul
inside the club. Remember, he thinks you’ve been chatting with him online the
whole time. I kept the conversations pretty neutral. He’s allergic to
shellfish, likes 1980s rock music and has a Bassett hound named Theodore.”

  
“Sucks
about the shellfish because I love lobster and crab. I can live with the
musical taste. Basset hounds smell bad. They’re cute, but they smell like dog.”

“Hello? They are dogs. Dogs smell like dogs. Cats
smell like cats. I think they cover these facts in elementary school. Since I
never went to elementary school, I could be wrong but…”

“You know what I mean. Some dogs smell worse than
others. If I end up marrying the guy, my apartment will smell like Basset hound
and be covered with slobber.”

  
“Let’s get
through the first date before you start worrying about pets and living
arrangements, shall we?” Indie turned onto a side street. She whipped Herbie
into a parking spot that in Quinn’s mind should only fit a bicycle. “The club’s
right down the street.”

Quinn climbed out of the small car and checked her
lip gloss in the side mirror. “I’ll keep my mouth shut about the dog, but if he
asks to bring Theodore over to my place, I can’t be held liable for what Fat
Panther does to it.”

Indie laughed. “That cat could probably take down
a grizzly bear.” She walked down the street towards Dark Dreams. Quinn had to
practically run to keep up. As short as Indie was, her little legs moved at a
breakneck speed.

“Slow down! I’m going to be sweaty and out of
breath by the time we get there,” Quinn protested. “High heels are not my
friend, but these pants would look silly with tennis shoes.”

Indie waited for Quinn at the end of the block.
“Quinn, what’s up with that?” Indie pointed at the sidewalk behind Quinn. Quinn
stopped and turned. When she did, two stray cats, who had clearly been
following her, dashed up and began to lick her ankles.

“What the…? Get away!” Quinn nudged the cats away
from her legs. “Ugh. I like cats, but this is ridiculous!”

“What are you? The cat whisperer?” Indie asked.
“They won’t stop trying to lick you.”

“Oh crap on a cracker. You know what? It’s the
butter,” Quinn said. She gently pushed the cats away again with her foot.

“Butter?”

“I couldn’t get these pants over my thighs, and I
was out of lotion. I used butter,” Quinn explained. She tried to shoo the cats
away with her hands. In desperation, she zigzagged down the sidewalk like a drunken
sailor to confuse them.

Indie laughed and said, “I wish I had a video of
that. It puts the butter on its skin. My grandma puts butter all over her
Thanksgiving turkey. When we’re done here, I can find a big oven and roast you
like a Butterball.”

“You’re a laugh a minute. Thanks for reminding me
of Silence of the Lambs right before I get ready to meet a potential date.
Let’s get inside before these cats make me their turkey dinner.” Quinn yanked
open the door of the club. As her eyes adjusted to the colored lights that
pulsed in time with the music, Quinn glanced around her. “Oh, hell no. Toto, I
don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.”

Chapter Seven

http://theromancereport.blogathon.com

A blog dedicated to the pursuit of love and happiness.

The Romance Report

Saturday, September 14, 1:05 a.m.

Here goes nothing. Since I recounted my European
travel in my previous blog, Tales of a French-fried Foodie, I created this new
blog, The Romance Report, to share my dating trials and tribulations.

Dating is not for the weak of heart. If I’d been a
two-pack a day smoker in my fifties on her first blind date since her divorce,
I’d be on the next boat to Alaska where the temperatures hover below thirty
degrees the majority of the year. Clothes are your friend, dear readers! Please
don’t take them off in public and gyrate with others! I imagine the confused
looks on your faces and promise to explain my love of parkas, long johns and
lots and lots of layers.

Due to my dear, dear friend’s (or frenemy after
tonight!) machinations, I went on my first date courtesy of the dating site,
True Hearts. My date, who I’ll call Saul to protect his identity, passed the
vetting process with flying colors. He’s a successful realtor, loves animals
and has no criminal background. A date, sight unseen, seemed perfectly
harmless. Who knew that by the end of the night I would end up chained to a
dungeon wall.

Thanks to a certain writer who shall remain
unnamed, bondage has become quite the craze among the bored housewives and
thirty-something singles here in the city of Richmond. Why, dear readers? I do
not want to ever call a boyfriend, Sir. I certainly don’t want him to spank me
or vice versa. Ew!

Unbeknownst to me, my date’s choice of club, Dark
Dreams, caters to those who want a taste of the lifestyle without taking the
full plunge. Imagine my surprise when my friend and I walked into the club and
our eyes were assaulted by various and a sundry clubbers in leather chaps, bustiers
which failed to boost, and creepy men in leather masks who will give me
nightmares for the next fifty years. To my further dismay, my date, Saul,
recognized me from my profile picture. He snagged me before I could turn tail
and run. I assume he was as handsome in real life as he was in his photograph.
I couldn’t tell because of the leather eye mask he’d chosen as the accessory to
his black leather vest and skin-tight jeans with a pair of handcuffs dangling
from his belt. Gulp! I was waiting for him to go all Zorro and bring out the
whip.

Saul tried to be charming. He really did. He
bought me a Bloody Mary (a portent of things to come? Maybe.) He chatted with
my friend and me about the real estate market, his dog, Peeadore, and his most
recent vacation to Florida. Try as he might, I failed to succumb to his charms
or laugh at his witty banter. Why? Behind him was a lovely couple who were
slightly chunky. They liked to display their bodies like pork chops in a
butcher shop. To top it off, Mr. Pork Chop kept snapping his small whip on his
beloved Mrs. Chop’s derriere which made her giggle and bray, “Oh, Marty, you bad,
bad boy. I live to serve you.”

Feeling slightly nauseous from the sweaty,
half-naked bodies packed like sausages in leather casings, I excused myself to
the ladies’ room. As I fought my way past whips and chains, I made the mistake
of catching some Marquis de Sade wannabe’s eye. He grabbed my arm, slapped it
in a wrist iron hanging from the wall and commanded me to beg. He wanted
submission, but he got a swift kick in the groin and me screaming bloody murder
instead. Fearing a lawsuit, management rescued me and offered free drinks to my
date and me. I graciously declined their offer, grabbed my friend (frenemy) and
slid my buttery butt all the way home (which is a story for another post.)
 
Needless to say, dear readers, my quest for a
life partner will no longer take place online. I’m off to the shower to wash
the butter and the memories of Dark Dreams off of me. If I could only figure
out a way to wash the vision of the Pork Chop couple from my memory. For now,
sweet dreams and goodnight.

COMMENTS:

Britney11: I LOVE Dark Dreams. You should give it
another chance. It allows you to be you without fear.

QuinnieBee: I can be me without being naked and
afraid in a club with whips and chains.

Dreambuilder: I want to know why you had butter
all over you. Do tell.

QuinnieBee: One should always keep their house
fully stocked with lotion when trying to wear tight leather pants. Enough said.

         
Dreambuilder:
 
LOL.
J