He may be a dating expert, but on one first date, Jackie Summers discovered that there is only so much sh*t he can take.
There are few things in life Morgan enjoys more than giving me shit.
One would be belly tickles with her lhasa apsos. Another would be Manolo Blahnik’s personal contribution to a shoe collection roughly equivalent to the GDP of Paraguay. The other things can’t be mentioned here, as they might sear your retinas.
A tsunami in a size two, Morgan is equal parts beauty, brilliance, intransigence and sarcasm. A former nationally ranked figure skater, my best friend is now married to a guy she loves “way more than she should” and is mother to forty seven pounds of blonde-haired, chin-dimpled, testosterone fueled rambunctiousness. Unimpeded by budgetary constraints and settled into domestication, she now lives vicariously through my–sometimes–sordid dating-slash-love life.
Translation: if I ever decide to run for public office, a large portion of my campaign funds will have to be diverted towards hush money, as Morgan knows every detail of my life that is blackmail-worthy.
I’ve long thought meeting for dessert makes for a perfect first date. As it stands I’ve frequented the same dessert place since my early teens. Long before a deal with Beelzebub was struck to put a Starbucks on every corner, you could go to La Coccina de Salvatore, order hot apple cider with a cinnamon stick and a slice of pecan pie suitable for divine consumption, and sit unmolested, with a book or sketchpad, for hours. It wasn’t until after my divorce that La Coccina became my default first date restaurant.
Salvatore, the proprietor of said establishment, practically raised me. Having enjoyed my continual patronage from childhood on, he always knew when I was in a dating phase. “Zhahk” he’d say in his thick Italian accent “wha’ja have tonight?” “Sally” I’d reply, you know I always get the same thing: pecan pie, heated, with two scoops of vanilla ice cream.” “No,” he’d counter, smiling wryly, “wha’ja have? Blonde, brunette, redhead?”
I once even had a date call “shenanigins” on me, mid-date. “This place is amazing” Marcy remarked as she dipped her focaccia in spicy olive oil and balsamic vinegar. “How do you know of it?” Without hesitation I responded “I’ve been coming here since I was thirteen.”
Convinced she had me cornered, a smirk curved its way across her full lips. “This is your first date place, isn’t it?” she alleged. “You take all of your first dates here, don’t you?”
“The owner is sitting right behind you” I quipped without flinching. “Why don’t you ask him?”
Marcy made a quarter turn to her left. “Sir,” she inquired, “are you the owner of this restaurant?” Salvatore—swarthy, statuesque, and stout from a lifetime of air-dried meats, stinky cheeses, and red wine—leaned back in his chair. “Yes madame, I am” he said. “How may I be of service?” Marcy pointed at me without turning in my direction. “Do you know this man?” she asked Salvatore. “Yes, of course I do” Sally replied. “Tell me the truth” Marcy challenged, “does he bring all of his first dates here?”
Salvatore stroked his salt and pepper beard. “I must admit, Zhahk has brought many women here” he reassured her “but none quite as beautiful as you.”
Unfortunately, Uncle Sally’s old European charm isn’t always around to rescue me. The second they told me they were out of pecan pie I should have known that my date with Eloise was doomed to end in disaster.
Which is not to say it didn’t start off in spectacular form. We were dining al fresco on a warm autumn evening, candle light flickering both in her ample cleavage and hazel eyes. Eloise, an RN by profession, displayed both depth and warmth as our conversation meandered across a broad range of topics. She segued from one subject to the next with casual confidence, between bites of her tiramisu. Her index finger turned circles with her golden tresses, as our discourse descended form cerebral to sensual.
We began to compare notes, to see if we had similar likes, dislikes, predilections. Tension and anticipation were building when she leaned forward, and quietly asked me what the nastiest thing I’d ever done with a woman was.
I’ve always considered myself a bit of a libertine. With more than a dash of hubris, I brazenly recounted the bevy of sex acts I’d participated in that one might consider “fringe.” Eloise simply sat there smiling, unfazed and unimpressed. She was refreshing her shimmering lip gloss–as if preparing for a proclamation–when I finally conceded. “If a man and woman are engaged in a consensual act” I confessed “I don’t consider any of what I’ve done ‘nasty’. Tell me,” I asked, now brimming with curiosity “what’s the nastiest thing you’ve ever done…?”
“I like to to poop on people” she whispered.
“No shit” I countered, without blinking.
The molten Mississippi mud cake I’d ordered in lieu of my beloved pecan pie would sadly, remain unfinished.
“Why did you leave?” she demanded. “You always call for the check too soon! Here was a unique opportunity to discover first-hand about the sex life of someone different than you,” she snarked “and you bailed before you could get the details!”
As I absorbed her taunts I reluctantly ceded; she was right, as usual. Speaking strictly from an anthropological standpoint, I’d blown a unique opportunity, and abdicated my responsibility to feed Morgan’s deviant sense of curiosity. In retrospect, some (but not all) of the questions I might have asked upon further investigation, are:
- How did you first discover this activity stimulated you sexually?
- I realize you’re hot but, how many guys actually consent to this?
- Are you strictly the pooper, or do you enjoy being the poopee sometimes as well?
- What’s your diet like? Eat a lot of fiber?
- I sleep on Egyptian cotton 300 count sheets; what kind of bed linens are best suited for scat?
The one question that did not need to be answered was how early in a relationship Eloise felt it necessary to introduce the concept. Bridging the subject of defecation for sexual satisfaction on the first date was both efficacious and practical; there are certain fetishes you need to know your partner is open to, before becoming emotionally embroiled.
“So does this mean,” Morgan snickered, making no attempt to restrain her amusement “that you’re not going to call her again?”
“Fuck you, Morgan” I chortled. “Just because I take your shit doesn’t mean I’ll let just anyone shit on me.”