I don’t remember when Nooners became formal. It used to start with a cocktail and small talk. Now, I have to fill out piles of paperwork, shave my legs, get a Brazilian, and wait for Mr. Right behind closed doors. The bar atmosphere was replaced by white walls, plastic chairs, and a receptionist sitting behind the desk with a phone receiver stuck to her ear, while she marks my reservation… a table for one.
I’m taken to a back area that looks more like a doctor’s office than the party hotspot I prefer. I should’ve had a margarita before I came here. The wanna-be Clinique counter associate grabs my arm and shoves my sleeve up, bundling cotton in my armpit. She wraps a strap around my upper arm squeezing an air ball until my arm feels trapped inside a bounce house with no escape. I feel my heartbeat in my wrist. If I’m not drinking, I hope there’s at least a happy ending. She takes off the deflating strap, and commands, “Get naked!” Now you’re talkin’.
Ok, she didn’t quite say, “Get naked.” Maybe more along the lines of, “Please change into the gown. The doctor will be in shortly.” The door clicks behind Fakeface Lab Girl.
Let the race begin! Shirt off. I wiggle out on my jeans. Bra, underwear, off. Socks… on. Hurry, the clock is ticking. I tuck my underwear and bra between my folded jeans and top, then place them on the plether chair. I scurry to sit on the paper covered table, adjusting my new lingerie into place. And then I wait.
Why do I feel I have to hide my underwear? One of these visits, I’m going to leave my C cups hanging off a human anatomy picture and lay my tighty-whities over the sink faucet.
This “gown” is a little less than the term suggests. It’s made of cheap paper for a Barbie doll, size two. The paper crinkles when I move. If I move too much, it rips. My back side is bare, open for the world to see. Luckily, there is a paper skirt to wrap my bottom. Why bother? Pride is a lost emotion at this point. Still waiting. Can I get a Chardonnay?
After the knock on the door, the Bradley Cooper, blue-eyed sex machine walks in. He introduces himself, but I could care less his name. I will call him Love Doctor. Buy me a drink?
He’s a typical man. Sitting with my back exposed to my bottom, he puts that cold thing on my back and I breathe heavily, in and out. He asks me to lie down so he can rub my boobs and tell me it’s for science. Not even a shot?
Mr. Love Doctor makes his move. He strolls around the table where my toes crinkle in my socks. Oh my, he’s into the kinky stuff. From under my feet, he swivels two metal devices from the table’s end, one for each foot to rest. I look down across my paper doll outfit and he’s patting the end of the table. “Come closer,” he smiles up at me. I start to wiggle my paper body and paper skirt toward him. “Farther, bring your butt to my hand,” he smiles.
The rest of the visit wasn’t as satisfying. I realize I’m not really into his Fifty Shades moves. Between the cold metal duck bill in places and the noises of plunging a clogged drain, Mr. Love now reminds of a plumber with the crack kills logo from behind. I shaved my legs for this?
I feel so violated and used. He washes off and lets the door close behind him. I lay in my torn paper skirt, humiliated.
Time for the walk of shame. I gingerly put back on my clothes. When the door creaks open, I peek out. Luckily, the hallway is empty. I keep my head down, eyes to the floor, and attempt to sneak past the receptionist. There sits Mr. S&M Plumber Man behind a half wall. He looks up from his computer screen, smiles, and says, “I’ll call you.”
It’s not your typical one night stand. Guys get to bend over and cough. Instead, I get a booty call. With a half smile, I reply to Mr. S&M, “See you next year.”
Nooners aren’t what they used to be; but it’s mandatory to keep my medical insurance coverage current.