The Last Place She'd Look Read online

  Arlene Schindler

  The Last Place She'd Look

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents are products of the writer's imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, events, or locales is purely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.

  Copyright © 2013 by Arlene Schindler

  All rights reserved.

  eISBN: 9781624889363

  Cover design by Scarlett Rugers www.scarlettrugers.com

  Book design: Jackie Hoffman Chin

  Back cover photograph: Dennis Apergis

  www.ArleneSchindler.com

  First Edition

  2013 Extravagonzo Publishing edition

  Acknowledgements:

  A tremendous debt of gratitude to the many who helped make The Last Place She’d Look a reality, especially the following people for many and varied reasons:

  Arlene Phalon Baldassari, Jackie Hoffman Chin, Terry Delsing, Kathleen Fairweather, Julie Falen, Lyn Holley, Debbie Kasper, Bob Keenan, Catherine Leach, Meg Livesey, Janet Lombardi, Mary McGrath, Leslie Parsons, Linda Schwab, Dan Staroff.

  Thank you to my best girls for being funny, kind, constructively creative and supportive.

  Special thanks to Elaine Silver, for her guidance, support, and cheerleading that helped me arrive at the finish line.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Biography

  Chapter 1

  Ack the Hack

  As his muscular leg swung off the sleek mountain bike he was riding, I was excited to see that this guy had a hot body. At first glance my date looked sexy and promising.

  I wanted to believe this blind date would be my last first date. The next week I turned 50. After a half century I wanted to stop the “Hello, my name is…” merry-go-round and actually relate to someone for a significant period of time.

  But I should know better. I’m Sara, and my friends think I’m a dateaholic, just because in the past few years I’ve had 340 first dates. Please note that in my case dateaholism has not meant that I am a sex addict as evidenced by the fact that none of these dates led to sex, most not even a kiss, (much to my chagrin and disappointment). Every addict hits bottom at some point, and 341 was it for me. So let me tell you about my last first date. Let me also tell you about my subsequent surprising journey to recovery (and lots of sex—thank goodness!).

  It was 10 a.m. on a Saturday, early summer. Sitting at an outdoor table at Swingers, a diner/café in a trendy area of Los Angeles, I was eager to meet my blind date from match.com: Karl Acker, an English professor at Occidental College who taught creative writing to freshmen. We’d seen each other’s photos on line, so while locking his bike to a parking meter, he blurted breathlessly before he even sat down. “I bike every day and swim five times a week.”

  “Wow,” I said, smiling, admiring his torso, and thinking about my lazy self, “I wash the dishes every day and take the garbage out about five times a week.”

  “What do you do to keep in shape?” he asked, now sitting facing me, purposefully eyeing me up and down.

  “I take the stairs instead of elevators,” I joked. He looked disappointed. “And,” I lied, “I do yoga a few times a week.”

  “So you’re bendy and flexible?” he said, perking up, hoping this was a glimpse of scenarios to come. “I’ve been up since 5:30 this morning. I’ve already eaten. Just a chai latte for me.”

  Self-conscious on a first date, concerned about appearing ladylike, and not wanting to be viewed as a voracious behemoth, I ordered tea and a small bowl of fruit.

  “What do you do when you’re not biking and swimming?” I asked, trying to find an activity that I could participate in — something quasi-sedentary like movies, theater, or slow walks through museums.

  “I teach. I enjoy my students. Young minds are so fertile, full of ideas. And I’m writing a novel.”

  Now I was intrigued. “What’s it about?”

  “The Vietnam War, how life has been for my buddies.”

  “They were in ‘Nam?”

  “Conscientious objectors,” he declared proudly. Our eyes met. His were a piercing blue, like ocean waves: relaxing, peaceful, mesmerizing. Looking closely at him, I realized his face seemed twice the age of his body; it was fascinatingly strange.

  “And you?” he asked, reaching for my hand. It felt as though he was forcing a connection, but I was willing to play along.

  “I’ve never been to Vietnam,” I said, lightly.

  “What do you do?”

  “I write articles for self-help magazines—relationships, fashion tips, how to get the most out of your IRA. You know, psycho-babble for women’s publications—but somebody’s got to do it.”

  “I wrote pulp fiction before I started teaching,” he replied.

  “What about the 'Nam novel?”

  “I’ve been writing it since I’ve been teaching, 10 years,” he said, laughing. Then there was silence. I sipped my tea, thinking about what to ask next. I felt his eyes exploring my body, trying to X-ray through my denim jacket to my slight shoulders and small breasts. Then he looked at his watch. “I’ve got to meet my daughter. She’s 17. I hope you’ll let me call you.”

  “Karl, I think that would be nice,” I said demurely, like a shy ingénue in a Henry James novel. We both stood up and walked the few steps to his bike.

  “Call me Ack. That’s what my friends call me,” he said self-assuredly. He pulled on my lapel with one hand as he touched my chin with the other and leaned into me for a sweet kiss, but I didn’t feel much chemistry. I dejectedly walked the four blocks home to my apartment, expecting to never hear from him again.

  Three days later, Ack called and invited me to his house for dinner, our second date. He was geographically desirable because he lived a mere mile away from me. Lack of chemistry aside, he offered a hot meal and male attention—two things I was starving for.

  I drove to his place around sunset, a tiny guesthouse on the side of someone else’s property. He and his aging Irish setter greeted me. Ack was barefoot, looking sexy in his well-worn jeans, holding a wooden spoon. “Taste this,” he commanded, moving the spoon to my mouth before I could say hello. “It needs something.”

  I tasted the spaghetti sauce. “Oregano and garlic.”

  “Yes!” Snapping his fingers with the other hand, he gave me a swift peck on the cheek before ushering me straight into the kitchen. “My creation lives! Follow me.”

  In the kitchen, he stirred the simmering pot of sauce, then lowered the flame. “You need wine, lots of wine,” he said, grinning, pouring from a giant jug of cheap Chianti into two misma
tched wine glasses. Giving me one, he raised his. “To tonight.”

  We clinked glasses and sipped. In his kitchen, Ack was genial, boyish, and goofy – he was growing on me. I looked around the crowded, messy kitchen and poked my head into the living room and his office. All were cluttered with thrift store furniture. At mid-life, Ack’s home was not the abode of a thriving college professor; it resembled the studio of a struggling student. In spite of his rundown digs, there was a youthful, endearing charm here too.

  Dinner was served on mismatched plates with paper napkins and silverware that looked like it had been stolen from a school cafeteria. The spaghetti was from a box that was still poking out of the garbage pail, the sauce from a jar that was sitting beside the sink. I got the definite impression that he chose to make dinner because he couldn’t afford to take me out.

  We ate at a rickety kitchen table. Shortly after I sat down, he got up again to reposition the matchbook jammed under one of the table legs. Then he smiled at me. “More wine…you need more wine. Drink up.”

  My fork forged into the mound of spaghetti and sauce on my plate. Although enthusiastic, presentation was not his forte. The strands of spaghetti were so long, I worked to twirl the pasta onto my fork gracefully. That was impossible. The only way to eat this meal was to stab a mound of spaghetti, shove it into my mouth, and bite away. Eating was work. It tasted flavorless. But I was hungry for the companionship of a handsome, intelligent man.

  “Do you cook a lot?” I tried to inject dialogue into the spaghetti challenge.

  “I have to feed my teen-aged daughter. She’s a vegetarian.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “Sleeping over at a girlfriend’s house. She lives with me full-time.”

  “What about her mother?”

  “A flower child who found other things to do. She’s living on a commune in Washington,” he explained, filling my glass again.

  “Are we having a wine-drinking contest?” I asked.

  “I just want to make sure you’re having a good time.”

  “This meal is very … filling,” I replied, putting my fork down.

  “No dessert unless you finish this glass of wine,” Ack insisted.

  “I don’t think I’ll have room for dessert.” I rubbed my stomach and sneakily unbuttoned the top button of my jeans.

  “I made a key lime pie in a graham cracker crust. You’ll find room,” he insisted, quickly clearing the table, tossing the dishes in the sink with the leftover food and forks. “Let’s take our wine and go to the living room,” he continued, ushering me to the main clutter-ateria of his home. The coffee table was brimming with hardcover books, each with a bookmark. There was a wooden rocking chair near a far window. Strewn with mounds of reading matter, scattered mail, and record albums, no rugs on the worn wooden floors, this room was eclectic but less than inviting.

  “Sit on the couch,” he urged, gently stroking my shoulder after putting the wine glasses on the table in between the piles of books.

  “Looks like you read a lot,” I offered.

  “These are books my friends wrote. I’m waiting for mine to be published.”

  “When’s it coming out?”

  “It’s not finished yet. I’m still writing, rewriting… soon,” he said, reflecting. “Now you, you write …? Don’t tell me …”

  “Self-help for magazines,” So thrilled that a man had finally shown some interest in me, I ignored the fact that he hadn’t remembered our first conversation.

  “I don’t read self-help. I try to discourage my daughter, too, but I guess it’s a living, right?” He stroked my back and nuzzled my shoulder, then kissed my neck, working his way feverishly, faux passionately, to my mouth.

  One moment we were sitting on the couch discussing writing, the next, Ack had his tongue down my throat, playing a clumsy boy’s game of tonsil hockey. Ten seconds later, he was using his sexy, athletic shoulders to push me down onto the couch so he could climb on top of me— without missing one second of tongue-probing. Nimble, then more forcefully, he jutted his pelvis against mine, spastically banging his crotch into me again and again. As he hardened, each thrust became more unpleasant. His mouth never paused in its exploration of mine, as if the centrifugal force of the earth in the solar system would be devastated if he stopped.

  I was not aroused—or amused. I tried to remember the last time I’d been touched…was it only two years ago? It felt like forever. That painful realization kept me there, in spite of the aggressive, oppressive foreplay. I wished I had the emotional strength to push him off of me. Finally, I broke free of the Tupperware-hermetic liplock to gasp for air — only to have Ack rally with some swift yoga move. He shimmied his head past mine as he swerved his torso up my body. His head swayed, cobra-like, off the arm of the well-worn couch, and his chest was inches from my forehead.

  Astonished by his animated pushiness, this awkward ballet of adolescent-style seduction didn’t captivate me, but I did feel a bit captive. I kept thinking —a man was finally touching me! — so I stayed put. Maybe this would get better. If nothing else, our desperation was compatible. I wanted to give him a chance.

  Meanwhile, Ack’s erection was moving, slithering up my body like a denim-armored snake—now wriggling between my breasts. He twisted to the side and let out a guttural sigh as he softly maneuvered his hardness into a comfortable spot—for him.

  I winced as his belt buckle jammed into my armpit. Ack twisted again, lifting up, whipping the entire belt out of its loops with one yank and whoosh. Then, no surprise, he unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans. With that same hand, he released his penis from his pants, head bobbing through the zipper, and pressed it against me like a puppy in a pet shop window, eager for attention with the hope of being taken home and cuddled. This same hand five seconds later found my hand and placed it on the aforementioned member. He then moved my hand to show me the way he liked to be stroked. He was, after all, a teacher by profession. Had students been in this same position, as part of their course of study — or maybe for extra credit? If his conquests were a steady diet of post-adolescents, it would explain his seduction style, or lack thereof.

  My behind was now slowly sliding into the space between the couch cushions, sort of a tush-and-sofa sandwich. As I lay there, I heard, “Helplessly hoping his harlequin hovers nearby …” a soft, gentle Crosby, Stills and Nash tune on the CD player. No doubt Ack had been using the same musical selection for seductions since his youth, when the album was a record on his turntable. I recalled a slogan of the Woodstock generation, also on this same album: “Love the one you’re with.”

  Ack writhed and twisted again, until his erection now bobbed near my chin. I knew where he wanted it to go. I turned my head in the opposite direction, non-compliant. This wasn’t desire for me, nor was it any pleasure. It was just a cocksman using my body to get himself off. Half of me wanted to bolt up and run out...but the other half was woozy and conflicted.

  Ack twisted my neck, forcing my mouth to face and greet his cock. This move of his was neither boyish nor pleasant. As the tip of his penis grazed my lips, my inner voice prompted, “Bite it. That’ll teach him.” Unfortunately, the only lesson learned was by me—Chianti and pasta form a lethal, lethargic combination.

  My neck wrenched with a loud and audible crack, like a nut being shelled.

  “Are you all right? You’re not comfortable here, are you?”

  I couldn’t speak with his erect penis in my mouth, so I mumbled, like a mute. He jumped up and off of me, almost looking me in the eye. “Let’s get more comfortable. Let’s go upstairs.” He grabbed my arm and with one yank, pulled me out of the wedge between the couch cushions, up on my feet, half-floating, half-standing.

  Stymied by his speed, too foggy and dazed to think quickly of an excuse not to go up the stairs, the next thing I knew, I was at the doorway of his bedroom. He turned on a small reading light on the shabby night table. The full-size bed had worn, almost-white bed sheets—not crisp, n
ot clean, like a college boy’s dorm room. There were sweat socks lurking near the windowsill.

  Ack smirked, pleased he’d dragged his prey into his lair. He touched my chin with his fingertips, grazing my mouth with his lips. Seconds later, his awkwardly orchestrated dance of seduction continued. He removed his T-shirt, revealing perfectly sculpted and tan biceps, triceps, and a taut mid-section. The only giveaway that he wasn’t 25 was the colony of white hair populating his chest. More pleased with himself by the minute, Ack displayed the coy style of a stripper, slyly slithering his jeans to the floor, revealing the well-defined calves, thighs, and buns of a daily mountain biker.

  Ack in his naked glory was confident he had the hottest, hardest body of any 55-year-old in town. In better shape than even most movie stars, he stood proud, as if I should fall at his feet and fawn at his perfection.

  “This is me,” he said, proudly, lifting his arms into a pose like a circus artist after he’s performed on the high wire, ready to take a bow. I was annoyed by his arrogance, which was escalating to bitch-slapping proportions. I swayed, fully clothed, alien to his self-admiration. His naked reveal had a “ta-da” at the end of it that sickened me; his appreciation for his own physical beauty was pungently distasteful.

  I focused on the moment. Even though he was an arrogant jerk, he did have an Adonis physique. The promise of something good still existed for my sex-starved self. He’d taken me into his home, his bedroom, wined and dined me (sort of). I was primed.

  “Now you,” he said, eager for a provocative performance. He gestured for me to remove my clothes. First my shirt, then pants, bra, finally panties. I was quick and unromantic. The moment felt like a fire drill of nakedness.

  Nude and imperfect, I anxiously wished my dimply, cellulite-ridden thighs were not on display. As he scrutinized my body, his smile faded, replaced with a polite frown. I sensed he’d hoped my form would rival his in youthful tone and beauty. No such luck for either of us.

  Ack ushered me to the bed. He climbed in, too, and covered me with the white sheet. At first, I thought this cozy gesture was for my comfort. He reclined, putting his head on the pillow, hands behind his head, in charge, in his own bed, taking a deep breath, then another. My head had just hit the pillow next to his. I heard him sigh.