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July 23, 2009

Blog Romance ???


I don't know what to say. I'm as giddy as a Skidmore coed. Let me explain. I received a message today:
Nickie, I need to talk with you. Since you are in Los Angeles for the week, can we meet? Phone me at - - - - - - ,
Opus #6 (Opie)
I'm only human, and not unfamiliar with the exotic intoxicating courtship dance, so I phoned her. Opie's low breathless voice resurrected memories of warm beaches and cool Tahitian nights. Nickie knows how to set the hook, so I insisted she pick the swankiest joint in town where we could meet for a chop and chowder. Her suggestion was Roger Moore's Olde Worlde Joust House in Hawaiian Gardens, a theme restaurant offering an ambiance blending medieval sport and Chaucerian bawdiness. It was just the ticket!

I arrived a little late thanks to a transmission that, if there were any justice in this world, would turn up one morning, oozing fluid, under the covers on the king-size mattress of Lee Iacocca. But that's another story for another time.

Opie was waiting patiently for me. She had the whole package. Blonde hair down to here. Legs up to there. She was the kind of dame who'd make a vegan ravage a flank steak. Opie was six foot tall and about a hundred and ten pounds of youthful ivory-faced femininity barely poured into a scarlet lycra chemise. Her eyes were bluebirds in flight, her cheeks looked as soft as ripe peaches with just a hint of their color. She was smoking a cigarette in a red holder that was not quite as long as a Mazda Miata. She said:
"Nickie, I need a man!"
I was in the right place at the right time. The evening seemed to fly by. I can only recall it now through the vaseline-smeared lenses of passion and testosterone. It was all going swimmingly until Opie's elderly companion, LL, stopped by the table.

He was white and shaken, like a dry martini. To be fair, LL's a fun old guy, a hairy diminutive elf who freely shares lengthy anecdotes of his 51 years in retail menswear. His knowledge of serge and mohair merchants is encyclopedic. His epic 27 minute long tale of selling Sam Yorty a vented sports coat was made a bit tedious, though, by his heavy stammering and sweating. Tonight's rendezvous ended abruptly when LL felt a stinging shooting creeping cramp in his left calf requiring Opie to fetch the car to deliver him back to his basement bedroom at his daughter's house in Pico Rivera.

As LL wedged himself into the passenger seat of Opie's sporty coupe, repeating an earlier rant about the inability of today's young men to properly wear houndstooth, Opie and I exchanged a fleeting glance that clearly predicted rumpled sheets and country strolls.

Those are my memories of the evening. Have I imagined too much? Have I incorrectly recalled her blushing and eye-batting? Memories are like mulligatawny soup in a roadside restaurant. It is best not to stir them. Tonight I will sleep lightly with her sweet name on my lips.

30 comments:

Rhod said...

Speechless.

Red said...

Guy Noire, Private Eye...

Becky said...

Six feet, only 110 pounds. I'm sorry but she would be on the verge of heart failure! A skinny six feet woman would be about 150-160, then if you like things like breasts she would need to be 170 to have any of those.

LL said...

You want suits?

I got suits...


It's always nice to meet a fellow blogger in person, particularly one who also lived in Great Britain (home of Sherlock Holmes) and has a flair for the dramatic.

Anonymous said...

Becky, don't come around here spouting your vile filth. This woman is perfect. She doesn't even walk... she lopes like a young fawn.

Anonymous said...

Rhod, I know the feeling.

Anonymous said...

Red, the last time I listened to NPR, Bill Clinton had a beard.

Anonymous said...

LL, you're a special vibrant guy, God bless ya...

I enjoyed your war stories, the samba lesson, and especially your generosity.

LL said...

Goomba, the next time we dance: Keep your tongue out of my ear and your hand off my nimble tush. And when we dip, don't drop me.

Note to Bloggers: For those of you who have not danced with Goomba, he's not bad about letting you lead, when it comes time to swap the rose he gives it up and if you get tired, you can rest your feet on top of the size 12 wingtips and let him do all the work.

Anonymous said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Anonymous said...

LL, I didn't drop you on purpose. My fingers slipped. It's not easy performing an intricate Latin step while gnawing a turkey drumstick.

And save your warnings... there are few bloggers who haven't glid across a dance floor with Goomba. I tend not to dance with just one lucky person. I prefer to freely embrace and dance with the room. Sort of a blend of Zorba the Greek and Ruby Keeler.

Woodsterman (Odie) said...

Nickie, I feel cheated ... I'm in the comments section to read what Opie says ... rats! ... I'll be back ...

Opus #6 said...

I am laughing my head off at this post. My version is on the prior post, written before I noticed this one.

Now as long as we are talking about details, Nickie, you failed to mention the best part. The grace and divinity with which you moved me across the dance floor. Dancing is indeed the best demonstration of a man's physical prowess, and I must say your coordination is considerable. I breathlessly await the next turn around the dance floor.

WomanHonorThyself said...

lol...awwwwwwwwwwwww when the moon hits yer eye like a big pizza pie!

Anonymous said...

I yield my time to the gentleman from Connecticut ...

George J said...

I can see it now!

National Lampoon's Bloggers in Love!

(I want a percentage of the movie deal for coming up with the idea! LOL)

USA_Admiral said...

The story was all I wanted it to be and comments are better yet!!!

anon said...

Ditto what the Admiral said.

Absolutely perfect, thanks for the imagery and for the laughs.

Hannah-san said...

and you're following my blog? lol!

Rhod said...

Goomba dancing? The last dance he learned was The Monkey, practiced on indoor-outdoor carpet in his parents' Florida Room.

Bobby Sherman was on Shindig that night and The Newbeats did the long version of "I Like Peanut Butter".

Anonymous said...

Woody, that's why they call you the Terminator!

Anonymous said...

"I breathlessly await the next turn around the dance floor."

Opie, I'm just prayin' that's a euphemism.

It was an unforgettable evening.

Anonymous said...

WHT, all this is truly a dago's dream come true.

Anonymous said...

Wolfman, yours is more a concept than an idea. I'd say you get .5% of the net, tops.

Anonymous said...

Admiral, everybody loves young love and romance.

Anonymous said...

Powdergal, anything I can do to make you happy makes me happy too.

Anonymous said...

Hannah, your blog has that smartass cynicism and poetry found only in the most interesting people. Keep writing.

Anonymous said...

Rhod, you couldn't be more wrong. The indoor-outdoor carpeting was on the lanai.

The Conservative Lady said...

Great post and comments. Made me laugh out loud.

Anonymous said...

Is there anyone more discerning than a Conservative Lady??

I think not.