I took the Chef up on his dinner offer as soon as I could and made plans to stop by the restaurant after work. When Dave spotted me entering the kitchen, he invited me to join his staff and taste some California wines. Instead of just sampling a taste from each of the five bottles, I drank an entire glass. One big problem. I hadn’t stopped to eat all day. Dave noticed by inebriated state and suggested he drive me home.
My apartment on Maple Drive in Beverly Hills wasn’t far from the restaurant. It was a small one-bedroom above a garage. I had it furnished with 1950s-style used furniture that I bought from a neighbor who happened to be a high-priced call girl. There was a simple black couch with a black shiny coffee table made out of plastic. I had cheap, over sized framed black and white prints on the wall of some of my favorite celebrities, including James Dean donning a cowboy hat from his famous movie Giant, a close-up photo of Marilyn Monroe from Some Like It Hot, and Marlon Brando straddling a motorcycle from the landmark film about rebellion, The Wild One.
“You are so beautiful,” Dave announced as I opened the door.
I blushed, not able to take a compliment.
“You have no idea how beautiful you are, do you?” he continued as we entered my home. He grabbed me and kissed me gently on the lips; I wanted more. His slow, steady kisses continued as he unbuttoned my blouse. “Your skin is so soft,” he said as we stood together in my living room in our undies. We both frantically tore off the rest of our clothes on the way to my bed.
Once we were lying together, he slowed down. Every slight movement I made was immediately answered by him. I needed no words to communicate, just my body telling him where to go. Dave gazed into my eyes and made me feel wanted. How could this not be love?