Of Poolside Sex, Paranoia, and the Pursuit of Perfection
On a recent, thunderstormy night, I had one of the most sensual, and then insane, dates of my life.
At dinner, the conversation was acceptable, but not thrilling. A take-it-or-leave-it situation, and I might have just called it a night had he not mentioned the saltwater pool at his uptown home.
We stopped at my house to get my dog. It was one of my conditions, and he accepted it, albeit warily.
“He’s not going to mess up anything in the house is he? I’m a little OCD.”
“He’s a very well-behaved little dog.” I said defensively.
“I mean, he’s housebroken, right?”
“Of course!” I said.
This was mostly true. My little pooch had been known to pee inappropriately in new environments. But these were flukes. Or displays of anger. He felt wary in strange men’s homes. If only his mother could exercise such caution.
I stood up, took off my dress, unfastened my bra, slinked out of my underwear and descended the steps into his pool. He followed behind.
“Let’s sit you up on the ledge,” he said, “so I can kiss your pretty pussy.”
I laid back on the mossy brick patio while he licked me, relaxed and luxuriant.
“I love the way you taste,” he said.
“You have a sophisticated palate and a good vocabulary. Try to think.”
Cliché, but I let him off the hook. Apart from the yogic techno music he chose to play, it was a magical and sensual scene. Frogs croaked and the Jacuzzi bubbled. The night sky above framed by giant, tropical fronds. The steam of a summer night after a thunderstorm. The champagne high and the undeniable physical chemistry.
We decided to move inside to his bedroom. I went to open the patio door, but found it was locked.
“Oh, hold on babe. I gotta open that. It’s got a special key.”
A special key? He went to the side of the house, where he twisted off the top of a rock to reveal a secret key compartment.
“Did you just lock us out and put the key in a secret rock?” I received no reply. As he opened the door, a stern, electronic female voice barked “ALERT! PATIO DOOR. OPEN.”
“Don’t be alarmed,” he said. “It’s the security system. Every time a door is opened, it alerts you.”
“Are you in the witness protection program?” I asked, not trying to be funny, just trying to get the facts. “Do you sell drugs?” I might’ve understood if he lived in Central City, but this was rich, groomed uptown. I’d have felt safe leaving my keys in the door and advertising it on craigslist.
“I was broken in to years ago in a different house. I just want to make sure I take every precaution I can. You’re 100% safe in this house.”
“Except you’re in here,” I said.
He took the comment sexually, locked his arms around my waist, and smiled lovingly at me. “And we’re all alone.”
I was too heady and libidinous from sex and alcohol at this point to let this new weirdness disrupt more orgasms.
Early the next morning, we were going at it again when the doorbell rang.
“Buzz kill!” he groaned.
“I have to. It’s the security guys. They’re here to install the cameras so I can see what’s happening around the house.” He hopped out of bed and went downstairs.
ALERT! FRONT DOOR. OPEN.
I thought it an opportune window to make a dash for it and call a cab, but instead, I fell back asleep. Until two fat handymen came bursting into the bedroom. My date, Mr. Safety, pushed past them, apologizing, and threw a blanket over my nakedness.
“I can’t believe this is happening.” I said, but no one paid attention. The handymen acted like they’d seen it all. Like, “We’re professionals ma’am. We’ve been installing surveillance cameras for lunatics for years. We’ve seen it all – freshly sexed naked women, dead bodies, what have you. We just like to get in and do our job, not ask any questions, and get out as quick as possible.”
They were only in the bedroom for a few minutes, and after they left, I threw on my clothes. “You’re taking me to brunch.” I yelled down the stairs.
“Oh dear. Oh dear. Oh no. Oh god no.” he whimpered from his downstairs office.
“I seem to have stepped in your little dog’s accident.”
“Number one or number two?”
“Ha! Serves you right!” Fantastic. The OCD paranoid maniac stepped barefoot in a steaming pile of shit. Life. So beautiful sometimes, so full of poetic retribution. Life. It isn’t perfect. Sometimes you will step barefoot in shit in your own house and no amount of security cameras is going to stop it.
At brunch, our server came by and took our order. Not a minute after our orders had been placed, I had an idea.
“Watch this.” I said. “I’m going to flag down our server and tell him I think we’ve waited long enough for our entrees and that we’d like to speak to a manager.”
Mr. Safety winced.
“It’ll be hilarious. What’s the matter? You feel unsafe, don’t you?”
“I just don’t want to cause anyone any undue annoyance.”
“Well, it’s a little late for that.”
“Why do you need to do this?”
“Because I’m a performance artist. I have an inherent need to create spectacles. And look, babe. You had fat handymen rooting around the bed I was naked in at 9 this morning, so I get to do whatever I want.”
Unfortunately, too much time had elapsed until the waiter reappeared, so that the joke was no longer applicable.
We went back for my little dog and at that point I’d had my fill at the fair.
“Sure you don’t want to stay?” he said. “Here’s $50 for the cab, baby. Here, let me get that door for you.”
ALERT. FRONT DOOR. OPEN.
Alert, front door, closed. I thought. No repeat business here, but thanks for the story, baby.