A Boy of Good Breeding, Part Three
“You what!” exclaimed my mother, choking back her sip of Maxwell coffee at the kitchen table the next morning.
“I invited the boy I picked up at the bar last night for Thanksgiving dinner,” I repeated, gulping down my fourth glass of water.
“Well,” she said, flattening out the entertainment section of the Winnipeg Free Press, “I guess we will just have to peel some more potatoes then.”
Three hours earlier...
I had just stepped inside Chord’s hotel room at the Fort Garry and shut the door behind me. The historic railway hotel is one of Winnipeg’s oldest and most luxurious places to stay. With ten-foot high ceilings and a fifty-dollar brunch in the morning, it was obvious I had picked the right guy to leave the bar with.
The Fort Garry Hotel. Picture Credit unknown.From my position pinned up against the inside of the French Oak door, I came to appreciate the interior décor of his room. Furnished entirely in antique, every detail of the century-old space whispered elegance. From the lavish design of the carpet to the sterling-silver service tray with the glass bottle of Evian, there was no doubt in my mind I could be comfortable here.
In the front foyer (alright doorway), the two of us continued our make-out session like thirteen-year old kids at a pre-teen dance. Exhausted, I resisted his several attempts to pull me on to the queen-size bed. I knew as soon as my head hit that fine-Italian duvet cover I would be out like a light.
My breath was heavy when my hands stepped off first in an attempt to steal second. But then, just as they were about to make a run for it, my eyes noticed the time ticking on the bedside table - five-thirty a.m. - and my fingers returned safely back to the plate.
The reality of the day that lay ahead suddenly hit me like two double vodka-crans on an empty stomach. There was coffee and home-baked pumpkin pie with my girlfriend at ten, the wedding at eleven, used-bookstore shopping with my dad at one, and then reception at five followed by the open bar until I could no longer stand-up. If I was nineteen staying up all night would not have been a problem, but my liver is not what it used to be.
“I have to go,” I whispered to him softly, cruelly tasting the bottom tip of his ear.
“You what!” he exclaimed, placing his hand on my chest. I knew this news would not be received well; especially since he had just spent the last six minutes fumbling to undo the top two buttons on my cardigan.
“I have to go,” I told him again, before listing the several reasons why I could not stay. Mid-sentence, I felt his hand begin to slip from my chest and venture where only six men and two girls have gone before. “I have a coffee date with my girlfriend at – oh, why hello – followed by Church at – dear me, it looks like someone’s happy to see you – responsibilities, I have responsibilities, engageMENTS, COMMITMENTS MY HEAVENS FOR A BEGINNER YOU SURE DO HIT THE GROUND RUNNING.”
“Stay,” he said.
My erect penis said yes but my surprising state of sobriety said no.
In my mind I began to laugh again, just like I had done earlier at the bar. I thought about how nice it would feel to wake-up beside him the next afternoon and take the elevator down for breakfast. And then, I pictured every man I have dated on the West Coast in the past year and realized that, in all that time, this was exactly what I had been searching for: a connection.
“I can’t –” I asserted, buttoning up my sweater. “I have to wake up in my own bed.”
Greeting my eyes with his, I watched the most gigantic smile run across his face. “Then I will come back to your place,” he said.
Bursting out into a combination of laughter and horror, I yelped “You cannot come back to my place! I don’t even have a place!” Pacing back and forth across the room I suddenly felt like I was seventeen again but this time I was no longer in the closet. Sure, I had brought girls home in the past and it was never a problem, but a boy? I hadn’t tried it.
Taking a deep breath, I noticed that his smile had grown into a laugh. It was a joke. This was my payback for leaving.
“Very funny,” I said. “Now pass me a glass of still and your Blackberry.” Taking his Curve in my right hand, I started to input my information. “Here is my first name, last name, phone number and website address. I suggest you check it out because it makes me appear hotter than I actually am. Text me tomorrow if you want to come over for dinner on Sunday night and I promise there will be no shortage of meat.”
With that, I kissed him goodnight on the lips and took the elevator down ten floors to the front lobby. I walked passed the day staff reporting for their six o'clock shift and smiled as I jumped in a cab home. Three hours later I joined my mom upstairs for coffee.
Part Four is up next.
