Chapter One: Bite

Cafe Kiss by Ron Hicks

I wouldn’t say I am superficial; however, there is a type of man that I would let run me over with a tractor-trailer.

I am powerless in the face of a man with thick JFK Jr. hair. If he has green eyes? Vroom vroom pedal to the metal all gas no brakes crush my bones, split my organs, eviscerate my brain, flatten me entirely into the concrete.

It had never ended well with these men in my youth, but I remained hopeful well into my thirties. In a world of eight billion people, surely it was possible that there COULD be a gorgeous thick haired tall big dicked financially stable green eyed brilliant man out there who ALSO possesses a kind heart and pure intentions?

I mean I’m not totally delusional. I’ve always been driven by suspicion. I can’t really say much but, I AM a professional spy; more specifically, I’m an intelligence officer of the CIA specializing in counterterrorism operations. Anyway. Is it a CRIME to prefer to be loved by a hot man?

Ever since I was a little girl, it was clear to me that most men added very little to a woman’s life and it seemed to me that, for the most part, men live to drain women of their life force—the LEAST he could do was be devastating to look at.

Anyway, when I first saw Ivan’s message on Hinge, I laughed. He was CLEARLY a catfish; some sixteen year old incel with a semi and Cheeto dusted finger tips. I was supposed to believe that a tall, forty-six year old employed man who lives in my neighborhood and happens to be the most beautiful man I’d ever seen in my life* (*in print) was single? Get real.

Why on earth would this man be single? Well…maybe he’s been waiting for someone like me? LOL. At any rate, I wasn’t going to let my suspicions stop me from chatting with a catfish. I was after all a seasoned catfish, professionally (re: CIA) but also in my youth. Hours spent in AOL chatrooms under the alias CuRiOUsG1999, likely talking to other teenagers pretending to be 26/Tampa/big jugs/horny and VERY experienced. For old times sake, I bit.

Him: I can feel your quirkiness from your photos. I like it.

Me: Oh, that’s not quirkiness. It’s mental illness.

Him: Is that a sext?

Okay. Catfish is funny.

Him: Happy Passover, by the way. How was your seder? What was the highlight?

Me: My eleven year old cousin singing the four questions. And my aunt’s matzo ball soup. Unmatched. You?

Him: There was this passage…

(Ok so he went on to tell me this gorgeous, funny story about his seder…)

Not him being tender and profound! I was impressed by this teenager. Maybe he DOES get something out of playing hours upon hours of Minecraft. So I scheduled a date with my catfish, thinking that the worst case scenario would be that I’d have to neutralize the target and call it a night. Best case? I’d get to fuck this Godly man and or/fall in love.

I suggested The Crypt, a sexy, dimly lit bistro/bar by my apartment. Due to my suspicions, I didn’t plan on going until he texted me that he had arrived at the location. I was dangling from my pull up bar when he texted me at 6:45pm that he was sitting at the bar, “no rush, I’m early :).” I leapt into action, getting ready as if the Nazi’s were in quick pursuit, mere moments to pack for my escape. I was panting by the time I walked into The Crypt and spotted the back of his luscious head.

HOLY SHIT HE IS REAL. My body set aflame, adrenaline pumping outward from the center of my chest. He must have no teeth or bad breath or or or or STOP. Lock in.

I walked up to him and tapped his broad, solid shoulder. Cashmere–GOD I LOVE a man in cashmere. As he turned around to face me, it felt like meeting eyes with a fox in the woods; a rare, surprising. Wow. His eyes, an electric, penetrating yellow green, his lips smooth and full beneath his straight, strong nose, his jaw carved with precision, his wavy dark hair marbled with silver and white.

“Ivan. I’m sorry I’m late. Can you forgive me?” He smiled as he said, “of course. I didn’t even notice. I was chatting with…” he gestured towards the bartender, his teeth–all there, perfect.

“Kirsten. Can I get you a drink?” The bartender asked. I ordered a dirty martini, Plymouth gin.

Strange. Being next to Ivan felt somehow familiar yet like nothing I’d experienced prior, it was as if I recognized him from a dream. Or something.

From a dream? Calm down.

He pulled my stool out for me and I turned around for him to help me out of my coat, which he took and hung on the hook under the bar. I sat down and we faced each other. I could tell he was talking because his mouth was moving but all I was thinking was how hot this man was and how I will PASS AWAY if he kisses me.

Him: Your eyes are incredible. Does everyone tell you that?

Me: Only men who are trying to fuck me.

Him: Oh, I’m not trying to fuck you.

Me: What are you trying to do, then?

Him: You know.

Me: What’s that?

He sat back, took a sip of his whiskey (neat).

Him: To make you my bride.

Me: Say that again?

Leaning in close enough for me to smell his whiskey, the stubble of his chin barely touching my cheek, the heat of his breath on my ear.

Him: (whispering) I’m too much of a pussy to say it again but it feels really good to sit here and look at you.

Me: He is trying to seduce you and it’s working. Lock in. Disarm the ego first. Let him think he’s in control. Tall guys fall harder. Go for the knees first, then the wrists, then an elbow drive straight into his throat. Aim for the finish. Did I remember to put zip ties in my nightstand?

Calm down you freak you / I was just saying, worst case scenario!

Him: Oh no, did I say something wrong?

Me: No, no! Sorry, I was just trying to remember if I unplugged my straightener. I’m happy to be here too.

Kirsten set down my martini. I thanked her as I lifted it towards Ivan. “What should we cheers to?” I asked. He lifted his whiskey and hooked his wrist around mine, our glasses touching as he peered into me and said, “cheers to whatever this night has in store.” We clinked our glasses and sipped without breaking eye contact.

“Would you excuse me for a second? I was about to go to bathroom when you tapped my shoulder.” He stood up. I said, “By all means. But since you’re up, can I get a belated hello hug?” A cover maneuver to discreetly conduct a soft search for potential concealed weapons, naturally.

What? You never can be too careful. Trust me.

He smiled and wrapped his arms around me, firm, his strength undeniable yet somehow comforting, the heat of his skin seeping through his sweater. I pressed myself against his waist and chest, ran my arms across and down his back as I slid my ankle between his, intoxicated by his scent—like fresh snow and Earl Grey tea.

No holstered weapons detected, just enjoy yourself, you are not on a mission / you’re right, just have fun you crazy, spy ass bitch /okay fine I will OMFG I forgot what SIX FOUR felt like.

The pleasure of his embrace felt so otherworldly that I had to snap myself back to reality with a bit.

So, I let my body go limp in his arms, pretending to faint. I let my head fall back, eyes closed. Ivan, alarmed, shook me lightly and said, “hey, hey, are you okay?”

I pretended to come to, disoriented. “Oh my, I think I fainted? Are there any single Jewish doctors in the building?” His laughter boomed. I sat back on my stool, victorious. “Don’t go anywhere,” he said as he sauntered towards the back of the bar and disappeared into the restroom.

Oh, my name is Gretel by the way.

To be continued…