Relationships

The Hot Chick

When some drive-by sleazeball propositioned me, I was mortified—and also flattered as hell

I'm stopped in typical L.A. traffic on my way to meet my husband at IHOP (nothing beats breakfast for dinner), when a guy coming toward me in a pickup truck (I kid you not) slows down and yells, "Hey chick!" I whip my head around and look in his direction.

"WANNA FUCK?" he screams, his car now at a stand-still, a mini-traffic jam honking behind him. I freeze.

"Guess not," he says and speeds off.

Um, what the hell was that? Was I being punked? He, with tattooed biceps and Grizzly Adams beard, but amazing blue eyes, was a disgusting lowlife and at least 15 years younger than me. I was shocked and mortified—and also flattered as hell.

Did he really want to bang a middle-aged redhead driving an old Mercedes on her way to having pancakes? Did he think I would've just pulled over and said, "Yeah, as a matter of fact, I do!" Would we have done it in my car? Or in his pickup? Or would I have followed him back to his filthy SRO apartment? Or, more likely, to his serial-killer dungeon?

When I get to IHOP, I order my two pancakes, two scrambled eggs and two turkey sausages, look over at my cute husband and think, "Nah, no need to share everything."

So now I'm cheating on my husband with a repulsive fantasy about a nobody who's probably laughing his neanderthal head off while telling his boys about the stupid look on that old broad's face.

I absently pour maple syrup on my short stack, mesmerized by how it slowly melts down the sides, and then dip my pinky finger in and lick it off.

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"What are you doing?" asks my husband. "Are you OK?"

"Um, uh, yeah, I'm fine. Just happy … to have syrup."

He nods, preoccupied by his crispy bacon, as my mind wanders back to Idiot Boy and my ridiculous investment in being sexually attractive to a complete fool. Even in my bad-boy heyday, I wouldn't have hit that. Yet the thought of entertaining the option is completely captivating. This is going to sound a little strange, but it's because he called me "chick." I guess you don't hear too many guys saying, "Hey, ma'am. Wanna fuck?"

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I feel guilty and ashamed, and—not gonna lie—a little turned on. Positive that my feminist membership card will be yanked out of my hand for enjoying the fantasy of a young sleazeball wanting me just for my not-too-shabby middle-aged body, I choose to wallow in confusion.

Don't get me wrong, I fully admit that I'm invested in my looks. My husband says my body looks like it did 15 years ago—and for good reason. I work out religiously and do yoga and Barre classes to keep limber, toned and sane. But secretly, I imagine myself in a thong, bouncing to a hip-hop beat like a middle-aged Nicki Minaj.

The truth is: Even with my big-mouthed, redheaded vibrato, I'm just too insecure to still let my freak flag fly, which maybe explains why the unprovoked sexual flattery felt so intense. The idea of a younger stranger wanting to rip my clothes off just made me feel so vital. I want so badly to think my brains, experience and humor are my magic, but I can't deny how hot and bothered I felt when that sleazeball pushed my button.

And then it hit me—I needed to test my heat factor in the real world. Hell, I've earned it. I wore tighter pants and applied bright red lipstick. I got eyelash extensions that bordered on Vegas showgirl. My husband noticed instantly.

"What'd you do differently?" he asked.

I said nothing. As you probably know, women always keep their maintenance on the down-low.

"Your eyes look nice, but don't kiss me with that red stuff," he said and smiled, lingering closer and longer than usual.

The next day, I wore a low-cut top exposing my cleavage, blew my hair out straight and walked to the 7-Eleven for coffee. I passed a group of dudes leaving the bank when one nearly knocked me over.

"Sorry, miss," he said.

I removed my sunglasses, tossed my hair and strutted down Sunset Blvd., practically hearing the Bee Gees singing "Stayin' Alive."

And then it happened—a young, black delivery guy, carrying an armful of boxes, stepped onto the sidewalk and flashed me a sexy grin. As I passed, I heard him say, "Bless you."

Tags: sex
   
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