I walked into a posh, new restaurant in Alphabet City and asked a guy in a black suit (amidst other guys in ratty chinos and un-tucked oxford shirts) about my reservation. Like a gentleman, he laughed and explained in a sexy Aussie accent that he wore a suit because he was a sharp dresser, not because he was a host at this restaurant. Blushing cheeks, a good laugh and I had Jack’s phone number.
Jack the Australian had cool, blue eyes and black hair, and if I need to say more than that, I can. He was an air traffic controller. An extra cool, rom-com worthy job. He quickly racked up bonus points; funny in a dorky way, up for anything, including flea markets and whiffle ball, and actually used dish soap. He even had a continual Scrabble game going with his elderly neighbor.
I was half in lust by the time he came back to my apartment after our first date, where we ate in a restaurant’s private garden while a violin prodigy practiced through an open, upstairs window. It was exactly like Lady and The Tramp’s romantic dinner, minus the mutual strand of spaghetti leading to a kiss. Still,I couldn’t get him to my place fast enough.
As we walked through the door, Junior, my Great Dane-Doberman mix, bombarded Jack with his protective father shtick by sticking his nose straight into the man’s junk. I giggled as I always did when Junior pulled the pee-mail reading exercise. Jack jumped back, and I pulled my pup off, apologizing. Sometimes Junior can be a bit overwhelming since his head is as big as a toaster.
We opened a bottle of Pinot, listened to bittersweet Sinatra songs and necked on the couch. Jack smelled good — a mixture of leather and smoky bourbon. I was more than a little dizzy with desire, which doesn’t happen to me too often. It didn’t take long before I was shamelessly panting, like a woman in one of those fake love scenes in the movies. He was unbuttoning my shirt, and as I was opening my eyes to help him take it off, I saw Jack shove my dog, who was very interested in our wrestling match. Jack’s shove was a little rough for my taste, but I shrugged it off as an accident. After all, I was distracted by the gorgeous man on my couch.
We were getting back to it, doing a horizontal dance move where Jack shifted me beneath his body, when I heard a distinct yelp. I sat up and caught Jack using his foot to forcibly kick Junior away from the space between the couch and the coffee table.
“Did you just kick my dog?” I asked, suddenly not so turned on.
“Yeah,” he admitted without hesitation. “The bloody dog is everywhere in my way here.”
After that, I just couldn’t concentrate properly. I wanted Jack out of there.
Luckily, he had to leave for his graveyard shift in the tower high above JFK airport. As I returned to the living room dressed for Junior’s evening walk, I saw Jack shaking his black sweater, snapping it angrily to remove Junior’s blond fur as he muttered “bloody dog” under his breath.
I pulled the sash on my jacket a little too tight. Sure Jack looked dashing, his cool blue eyes were startling against all the black wool of his sweater. But I was no longer in the mood for dashing. And although I accepted a peck on my cheek, I stashed his number in the poop bag, because after all, no one but a real shit would kick a dog.
[Photo from Shutterstock]