Do not feed after midnig.., p.1
Do Not Feed After Midnight, page 1
Do Not Feed After Midnight
An Honest Attractions Book
by
Marilyn Foxworthy
Copyright © 2021 Marilyn Foxworthy
All rights reserved.
Initial Release August 25, 2021
Kindle Edition
Table of Contents
Foreword and Warnings 1
Chapter 1 Image Consulting 3
Chapter 2 Don’t Expose to Bright Lights 16
Chapter 3 Blanche White 29
Chapter 4 Blue Shoes and Jungle Girls 45
Chapter 5 Don’t Get Her Wet 60
Chapter 6 Come with Me 77
Chapter 7 Pigs and Pancakes 92
Chapter 8 Precious 106
Chapter 9 Grey and White 121
Chapter 10 A Pizza Context 135
Chapter 11 Prepping 150
Chapter 12 The Mysteries of Yarn 165
Chapter 13 A Dark and Stormy Night 180
Chapter 14 Working it Out 196
Chapter 15 Patterns New and Old 211
Chapter 16 Retirement Planning 224
Chapter 17 Wedding Plans 239
Chapter 18 Drunken Pact 254
Chapter 19 Treasure of the Andies 269
Chapter 20 Shredded 286
Chapter 21 Needing 299
Chapter 22 Elders 312
Chapter 23 Pastoral 328
Chapter 24 Parts and Parcels 345
Chapter 25 She’s Leaving 359
Chapter 26 Beach Belles 373
Chapter 27 Communion 388
Chapter 28 Commitment 401
Chapter 29 Coalescing 417
End of Book 1 432
About the Author 433
Other Books by the Author 434
Foreword and Warnings
A small round table. Barely large enough for two. At a neighborhood table coffee shop. The guy is already there. The girl will be there shortly. And then our story begins.
Before you turn the page, pay attention to this warning. Then decide if you want to read our hero’s tale.
The story is a fantasy. It isn’t realistic. The Heroes are good guys. They win. The Bad Guys lose. Magic and miracles happen.
There’s a lot of dialog. The abundance of “Dialog Tags” is intentional.
This is a romance. There is sex. That’s part of the characters. Their motivations, longings, emotions, and sensations. It’s portrayed as respectful, consensual, loving, and sometimes philosophical. But there’s no sexual humiliation, sexual violence, bondage, or anything like that presented in any erotic way.
It might be allegorical. We are complex beings. There’s often an element where multiple women are in love with the same man. They usually represent various facets of one relationship. Keep in mind that polygamous elements can be taken allegorically. Or don’t. You can read it however you want to.
This is “eroticism for philosophers.” There are mature midlife themes: longings, disappointments, soul-searching, and inner work. This is mythology and the philosophy behind it.
The story is usually written in the first person, as if our hero kept journals of his adventures. The author was a fan of the great pulp writers like Edgar Rice Burroughs, and it influenced the language and style to some extent.
There are frequent pop culture references. Quoted movie lines, song lyrics, passages from other books. They may be obscure. If something that one of the characters says sounds weird, it might be a quote. You can look it up on the Internet or something if you want to. If you get it, that’s part of the fun.
OK? Still with me?
The story, like so many stories, starts at a coffee shop. Someone is there. Someone walks in. He wants to hear why his buddy, the self-described Image Consultant wants him to meet this six-foot-tall regular who always gets her coffee and leaves without talking to anyone. It could be fun.
Wait, did you read the forward and warnings? Really? OK, then let’s get started.
Chapter 1 Image Consulting
“Jake, I want you to meet this girl. I’ve been working with her for a little while, and I think you should meet her. She’s single, a little younger than you, but not that much. She’s a little odd, too. It took me a while to figure that out. It’s like she’s... well, listen, she’s just a little odd. I think that’s why you need to meet her. I think you’d hit it off... in an odd way.”
My friend was an “image consultant.” He helped people feel better about not knowing what to do with themselves. Sometimes he made them feel worse. That’s how I saw it. He didn’t have any kind of license or training or certification at all. He didn’t know what to do with himself and decided he should tell people what to do with themselves. He was a bit of an idiot, in my opinion. Not too bad, though.
Yeah, maybe he provided a helpful service to some degree. He had a good sense of fashion–for some circumstances. He could dress you for a party or an interview, or even a date if you were going somewhere fancy that most real people wouldn’t even be comfortable in. If you were going somewhere uncomfortable, Nathan was the man to tell you how to dress so that you would be even less comfortable. Going to a bar to try to pick up a girl? Nathan was your guy. I never really told him this, but I didn’t like him that much. But he liked talking to me. It was usually really shallow, but maybe I was a good listener. I was trying to find out who I was at my core–my true self. Nathan made a living, a modest living, helping people detach from any search for their authentic being.
I wasn’t sure I wanted to meet one of his “clients.” Why would I? On the other hand, I wouldn’t mind meeting an “odd” woman. Any woman, but especially an odd one. I liked women. All my best friends had always been women. Well, my best friend had always been a man, but I’d always had several good friends who were women. No, I guess my best friends had been women. Nathan wasn’t a “best friend.” He was just a guy I’d known since junior high.
Nathan said, “So, gotta go. I have a client in a few minutes. Here,” and he quickly snapped a photo of me with his phone. “I’ll send her a pic, so she knows who you are. Oh, hey, a table opened up. I’ll snag it before my client gets here.”
Yeah, Nathan used the coffee shop as an office. Of course, so did I, but I wasn’t using it to meet clients. A few years back, I had written a series of books and published them on a lark–and damned if they didn’t sell. So, now I was a “Novelist.” I actually loved my job now. Sitting here, watching the world go by, making up stories and telling them. It was pretty cool. And if this girl Nathan wanted me to meet showed up, I’d talk to her and hear her story. It happened sooner than I expected.
Fifteen minutes later, one of the regulars walked in and ordered. I noticed her because she was somewhat striking. I always noticed when she came in. I noticed all the regulars. Some I talked to, some I didn’t. They were the ones who ordered, waited, picked up, and left. This woman was one of the ones you noticed because she looked like she had a story to tell if you could get her to tell it.
I went back to my laptop, and a minute later, I saw her out of the corner of my eye approaching Nathan and his client. I didn’t really pay attention, not really, but I did see Nathan appear to point at me and say a few words. I didn’t look in their direction. But the woman walked straight for my table anyway.
>>> Event <<<
Setting her bag on the hook under the table, provided for purses and laptop cases so that they stayed off the floor, she took the chair opposite me.
She sat down and said, “Nathan sent me. You must be Jake, can I call you Jake? I’m a little nervous. So, hi, Jake,” and she held out her hand.
After our handshake, I said, “Hi, let me put away my stuff,” and I packed up my laptop, mouse, and power chord. When I was finished, I said, “So, hello.”
She said, “Hello,” and smiled. I think. Maybe she didn’t. If she did, it was subtle.
I said, “I’m sorry, what was your name?”
She crossed her legs and said, “Oh, Nathan didn’t tell you? OK. Um, how do we start?”
I smiled, but not too much. I didn’t want to look fake like Nathan always did. I said, “I don’t know. I’ve seen you in here before. You come in almost every day, don’t you?”
She said, “On my way to work. Are you here a lot?”
I was there, in this same seat, in this little coffee shop, every morning. I arrived somewhere between five and six and stayed for several hours. At least until ten or eleven.
I said, “Yeah, I’m here most days. I’m surprised you haven’t seen me. I’m always in this same spot.”
She said, “Oh, I guess I just get coffee and leave most of the time. They know people’s names, don’t they? I hear them say hi to people. The workers. And the manager. So, are you one of those? Who knows their names and says hello when you come in?”
I said, “Yep. I know most of them. They are pretty friendly.”
She said, “OK, should I do that?”
I said, “I don’t know. Would you like to? To have people say hello to you when you come in?”
She said, “I don’t know. Maybe. Should I?”
I said, “I don’t know. I don’t know much about what people should do. I don’t tend to care what anyone should do. I try to do what’s good, not what’s obligatory.”
She said, “I like that. Obligatory. You must be smart.”
I said, “Well, I...”
The fact was that I was smart. But this girl wasn’t dumb. I could tell. She was well-spoken and carried her body well, and despite twice asking me what she should do, she seemed more nervous than vapid, clueless, or lost.
She said, “You are. I like that. So what do you do?”
I told her about being a writer and having several hobbies. She was especially interested in the archery, pétanque, and the fact that I was possibly the youngest lawn bowler in the United States. My other hobbies, I tended to have a lot of them, interested her but not as much as the sports-related ones.
She said, “I play volleyball.”
I said, “I played casually in a coed league once.”
She said, “For a living. I’m kind of tall.”
Yes, it hadn’t escaped me that she was tall. That’s what I’d meant by saying that she was striking. I was six feet tall. So was she. Or thereabout.
She continued, “I play for the shoe company as a sponsored player. And um, a model. Is that weird? That I make a living having my picture taken playing volleyball? I guess the stuff we wear for beach volleyball is pretty skimpy, but I never thought about it until people started taking pictures. I’m comfortable enough in it. I mean, I’m really comfortable in it, but is it weird?”
I wasn’t sure what to say. The more we talked, the more I was convinced that I liked this girl and hoped to be friends at some level at least. At least to talk occasionally at the coffee shop, but I wasn’t totally comfortable with her asking me to tell her who she was supposed to be. There was a lot of vulnerability there. And it was very attractive. Not because she wanted me to tell her who to be, but because emotional vulnerability required trust, and it was a sign that she trusted me for some reason, and that was attractive. And it was a red flag that made me want to be very careful.
I said, “I don’t think it’s that weird. Depending on the pictures and how they are used.”
She said, “It’s just action shots while I play wearing their clothes, and they get used in magazine ads and billboards and that stuff. So, you think it’s OK?”
I said, “I don’t have a problem with it if that’s what you are asking.”
She said, “I went to college to be a graphic designer. The volleyball just happened. I got my degree. My folks think it’s OK as long as I have a plan for when I’m not playing anymore.”
I said, “OK, but you know, I still don’t know your name.”
She said, “Oh, Nathan didn’t tell you? We said that already, didn’t we? Darn, I thought he would have told you. That’s OK. But you are Jake. Jake, I’m sort of nervous. What does it mean to be sexy?”
What? Where did that come from?
I asked, “Is that something you really want to know about?”
She said, “Well, yeah. To start with. I guess. Do you think we should wait and talk about that later?”
Why was she asking me this? The girl was six feet tall, a very fit professional volleyball player, currently wearing skin-tight Lycra yoga pants and a tank top, sitting across from me with her long legs crossed and displaying perfect posture–but she wanted to know what it meant to be sexy. It was a topic I thought that I knew something about, but no one had ever asked that question. Ever. No one that I knew ever thought to ask about a definition or a working model. And why wasn’t she telling me her name?
She said, “You can tell me, right?”
I said, “Yeah, I think I can.”
She said, “Good.”
And that was it.
And she waited expectantly.
Then, out of the blue, she said, “Don’t feed me after midnight.”
I said, “OK. I’ll try to remember that. But you really want me to tell you what sexy means?”
She said, “Yes.”
I said, “OK, well, it’s simple. Sexiness is the degree to which someone portrays a perceived availability or desire for sex.”
She frowned and said, “You said, portrays? That’s a term from art. To sit for, or draw, a portrait. To depict a person, event, or emotion. Is that what you meant to say?”
I said, “I did. I didn’t know you would know exactly what it meant. But you were trained as an artist. Sexiness is the degree to which the impression you give tells your interest or availability for sex. But it can certainly be targeted. You’re interested in and available for sex with a specific person.”
She said, “Unless you’re a total slut and don’t care who you have sex with. I’m not like that. So, you can be sexy toward a specific person?”
I said, “Yes. You can even give everyone else the impression that you want and are available for sex but only with one person.”
She said, “Like a boyfriend?”
I said, “Sure. Or a spouse.”
She said, “Cool. Yeah, so, if you go to a party, the picture you draw is about how you like this one guy and... does that mean you are sexy but not to everybody?”
I said, “It can be. It depends on the picture you want to draw. You can be interested and therefore available to one person and...”
She finished my sentence, “And totally not available to anyone else! That’s very cool. So, right now, am I sexy?” and she leaned back in her chair.
I said, “In my opinion, no.”
She said, “But my pants are so tight I might as well be naked, which I’m usually very comfortable with anyway, but I like dressing like this, so I do. But you don’t think it’s sexy?”
I said, “You could be totally naked, and I still wouldn’t have the perception that you were available for sex with me. Some men would call it sexy, but I think those guys don’t see what’s really going on very clearly. I see you in here every day and...”
She interrupted and said, “And I’m kind of sorry about that now. You’re a nice guy.”
I blinked, not knowing what to take away from that statement, and said, “I see you in here every day, and you are very... pretty, but I don’t see anything about you that would hint that you were available for a relationship, sexual or otherwise. You don’t mind talking like this?”
She said, “Um, no. Why would I? I asked you. But you didn’t say I was attractive. Why not? You said pretty, not attractive. But you paused like you had to think about it. For a reason. Is that an important distinction?”
I said, “In a way, yes. I try to be accurate in my language. I’m one of those guys. It’s part of my personality type, I think. But yes, attractive means something specific.”
She smiled and said, “And I’m not attractive? To you?”
I said, “I notice you when you come in. You are a strikingly pretty woman. And most people would absolutely say attractive. But attractive to me means that there is a magnetic pull. I didn’t perceive that a relationship, or even a friendship was available, and therefore there was no magnetic pull. No true attraction.”
The girl, whose name I still didn’t know, and it was starting to bug me that I didn’t, said, “That’s... so... cool. I love that! Hey, let me try something. What about now? Am I sexy now?” and she leaned forward and stared into my eyes. The look she gave me was very open. And I looked closely at her pupils to see if they were dilated. They were. She could fake her expression, but dilation should be involuntary. She looked like she found me attractive. And that was sexy.
I said, “Now you look sexy.”
She said, “Because I drew you a picture that I like you and that gives you the perception that a relationship at some level might be available?”
I said, “That’s how it looks. If I have that wrong, you can’t really blame me for it. Blame me if I do something inappropriate, not because I question my perceptions.”
She smiled and said, “This is so cool. Hey, who else in here is sexy?” and she looked around the coffee shop.
I said, “That couple there.”
She looked where I nodded and said, “The older couple? They must be seventy or something. Oh, but he has his hand on her leg, with his fingers just under the hem of her shorts, and she isn’t pulling it away but is smiling and acting like she wants to flirt. Ooh, yeah, I see it. That’s really sexy. My gosh, that’s sexy! She totally wants that old man, and she wants him to know it. She’s going to drag him off and, I don’t know, have some kind of old-people sex with him. It’s kind of hot. Well, it is really hot, isn’t it? OK, who else. What about her?”
I said, “The slender girl in gray yoga pants? No.”
She said, “Because... let’s see why not. She’s not with anyone, and she doesn’t seem to notice anyone. She’s like me.”
