Just because a man buys you drinks does that entitle him to more?
August and September

I was still not able to remember his name when we said goodbye, but I didn’t care any more. He was a liar, and not someone I would want in my world. I only saw him one more time — in the pages of a paintball magazine. Four months later, I was at a Barnes and Noble bookstore, looking at dating books for research, and I saw the one and only paintball magazine in the periodicals section. I thumbed through the pages and there was Room #104! Well, I’m pretty sure it was him. The man in the photo wore a helmet with a face guard, but a bit of his red hair was visible, and I’d recognize that body anywhere. At least I knew he didn’t lie about that. Along with the dating books and an Italian Vogue, I bought the paintball magazine – the clerk gave me a quizzical look. I now keep it with my research for the book; it’s my souvenir of the day I became a social scientist.

The day I said goodbye to Room #104, I returned home to find my e-mail inbox and cell phone filled with messages from Neighbor Damon. I was unsure if it was best to call him or ignore him, but he did seem like a nice guy. He just lacked girl-skills and was, obviously, eager. I called him back and agreed to go on a date with him that weekend. Thinking back, I tried to get out of our initial date, but he was very insistent. I gave him brownie points for his willingness to fight to have a date with me.

We went to Mr. Chow, one of my favorite restaurants in Los Angeles. He seemed like a kind man; under his gruff exterior is a man looking for love and companionship – aren’t we all. Although he wore way too much cologne and was a little rough around the edges, we had a few thins in common. We talked about his job at the record label and my own connections within the music industry.

Things were going fine until he asked me to feed him. What? Is he kidding? I thought. He wanted me to feed him pieces of the green shrimp, just like a romantic couple in a movie. It was a very awkward moment, and definitely not romantic. I really just wanted the date to be over, but he’d been so generous, I felt it would be rude to cut things short.

After dinner, he talked me into a nightcap at the Ritz-Carlton. We sat on the big couch in the bar area where I sipped hot tea and he a mixed drink. I was wearing a very tight dress, and I consider panty lines to be a big fashion don’t. Even the Hollywood standard, Cosabella, would be visible. As we are sitting on the couch, he slid his hand across my hip and commented, “You’re not wearing underwear.” I nodded confirmation of his suspicion. If the general public knew just how many women “go commando,” no one would be shocked by my confession.

To be continued…